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When one had made a decades long habit of always wearing the same coat (or newer, identical copies when one simply couldn’t be salvaged), it really shouldn’t be a surprise that to be seen without said coat might invite questions.
As though Alastor walking around the hotel in his shirtsleeves was the most interesting thing that had happened since Adam was defeated.
“Good morning, Al!” Charlie chirped from her seat behind the breakfast bar, cheerfully demolishing a bowl of cereal. A recipe even she couldn’t get wrong, sugary flakes of something wheat-adjacent - and milk. She had managed to spill some of that milk on the counter, but it was a sight better than the smoking mess she’d created when trying to cook French toast the other morning.
Alastor nodded his own greeting, his mind already on the broadcast he had scheduled for that afternoon. He was planning on taking listener calls for the first time in years, and was already doubting the wisdom of that decision. After all, he’d ended it precisely because certain people couldn’t resist sharing their personal depravities on air, and he simply couldn’t see the point in indulging them.
Still, ‘audience engagement’, as Lucifer had put it. Advertise the hotel and let people call in to ask questions. ‘What could possibly go wrong?’
Alastor had kindly offered to make him a list.
He was already digging around in the fridge, scooping up two eggs and slab of bacon, when Charlie spoke up again.
“Hey – um? Where’s – where's your coat?” she inquired, giving him a bright, friendly smile when he straightened and closed the fridge door, turning to her with one brow raised. His lids hung low over his eyes, a somewhat weary expression on his face despite his ever-present smile. Close lipped, now, mouth only slightly turned up at the edges instead of splitting his face in half.
Deftly unhooking a pan from the wall, Alastor set the stove going and deposited his finds on the counter, taking down a knife and starting to slice into the bacon, cutting off nice, thick slices of the meat and sliding them into the pan, where they started sizzling gently.
“Ah. Niffty took it to the dry cleaners for me – too much blood spatter for her to get out herself, you see,” he explained easily, waiting until some of the fat had started dripping from the meat and coated the bottom of the pan before he cracked each egg in one hand and simultaneously added them in. He dropped the shells to the floor, a tendril of shadow darting out to catch them before they landed and whisking them away to the compost bucket Charlie had insisted they all start using. Humming, he fished a spatula from the drawer and slid the slices of bacon around to ensure they weren’t burning, before flipping them.
It seemed his explanation was to Charlie’s satisfaction, as she returned to her breakfast and left him to it, pulling out a notebook and adding a few notes to her plans for the therapy schedules.
And that was that.
* * * * * *
The next person to comment on his apparently oh so fascinating change of attire was Angel, stumbling down to the lobby around lunch. Alastor was sitting at the concierge desk, resolutely going over the names of recently checked in guests and cross referencing them with the therapy sign in sheets.
It wouldn’t do to have a sinner staying at their hotel simply to enjoy the free room and food, now would it? They had to at least pretend to make an effort.
Alastor looked up with an irritated buzz of static when the lanky spider demon draped himself over the top of the desk, trilling a wolf whistle into the air. He had one set of arms folded under his stomach, the others propping his chin up while he rested on his elbows. The actor raised an eyebrow with a suggestive little wiggle, giving him a smirk.
“Damn. What’s the occasion, Smiles? Lookit you, showin’ off those shoulders and snatched little waist. Y’know, if you ever get tired o’the king…” Angel grinned, his gold tooth glinting as it caught the light. Alastor rolled his eyes, refusing to rise to Angel’s bait.
“My shoulders are perfectly covered, as is my waist - snatched or otherwise,” he replied dryly, taking the opportunity the interruption granted him to remove his monocle from his face and wipe it on his sleeve, stifling a yawn as he did so. The effort made one of his lids twitch, and Angel must have mistaken the expression for budding annoyance, as he removed himself from the desk and stood up with his hands raised in the air.
All four of them in an exaggerated gesture of surrender, which Alastor might have taken more seriously if he wasn’t still staring, a considering grin on his face.
“Hey, woah, no harm meant. Just ain’t seen ya without ya coat much before. You finally startin’ to join us in the twenty first century? Cause if you are, might wanna lose the suspenders,” Angel added, pointing one hand at the aforementioned item of clothing before cocking his hips to the side and placing his lower hands on them, his upper pair crossing over his chest as he raised one hand to tap thoughtfully at the side of his face.
“Y’know, we ain’t that different in size. Reckon I could do up one o’my jackets for ya, if you’re interested?” he offered, sounding as though the idea was positively delightful, and not something out of one of Alastor’s personal nightmares.
“That shan’t be necessary. My coat is merely… undergoing some repairs - at the tailor - and will be back on my person soon enough,” Alastor declined, having already forgotten the explanation he’d given Charlie that morning. He hadn’t been sleeping well, you see, and his usually sharp mind was somewhat blunter than usual.
Angel shrugged, apparently losing interest.
“Alright, your loss.”
Alastor wasn’t certain it was, but he decided not to add anything more for fear it might encourage the man to stay and chat longer, and he was already heading towards the bar. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Alastor saw it was already nearing two – high time for him to get his broadcast underway.
He underlined a name in the ledger, scrawling a note beside it to the effect of ‘freeloader!’ and packed the books away before pushing his chair out and getting to his feet. It took him a matter of moments to roll out his shoulders, casting a quick glance around to make sure Angel was no longer around to watch – he didn’t particularly feel like giving the spider demon an eyeful of something he’d already commented on – before sinking into the shadows and snaking upstairs, each radio in the hotel soon crackling to life.
* * * * * *
“In addition to your own private room, each suite comes with extremely effective sound proofing. You can scream and wail to your heart’s content, and nobody will be any the wiser! And trust me – this has been thoroughly tested,” Alastor added as he rattled off the benefits of checking into the Hazbin Hotel. “Now, if you’ve any questions about the residences, the lines will be open for the next five minutes. Please try to keep your degeneracy to yourselves, now!”
He wasn’t holding out much hope that this would go well. He resolved to give his callers three chances, and if they couldn’t behave themselves after that, calls would no longer be permitted.
‘Do the rooms come equipped with sex swings, or do we need to bring those ourselves?’
Strike one.
‘Does Angel Dust ever walk around the hotel naked?’
Strike two. And yes, once, before Charlie had hastily put a stop to that sort of behavior.
Alastor was more than ready to cut the lines when the phone rang a third time, answering it with an enthusiasm he had to drag from the very depths of his tattered soul to maintain even a modicum of professionalism.
“Greetings, sinner. You’re on the air! What question do you have about our charming little hotel?”
There was a shuffling at the other end of the line, a very brief sound of movement, and Alastor wondered whether he might be the victim of one of those demons who liked to phone people whilst doing unspeakable things to themselves. Finally, a timid voice spoke up.
“Um – can you check in to the hotel and start trying for redemption, even if – if an Overlord owns your soul? Will you – will the princess – keep them away from us?”
Alastor blinked, having not considered such a question. Not wanting to let the dead air continue for too long, he hummed thoughtfully before answering.
“Anybody is welcome, regardless of who you work for or what deals you’ve made in your afterlife so far. Though the matter of keeping your Overlord away from you is a rather more delicate matter, and would largely depend on the nature of your agreement. If you have an arrangement to only work for them for a certain number of hours per week, then by all means, their entry may well be refused. Depending on your circumstances, that is. If, however, you’ve sold your soul in its entirety, then nobody here will be interfering with their claim to you. It would simply be a case of bad manners, you see,” Alastor explained, trying to consider the question with some level of impartiality.
Whilst he, personally, may consider a soul seeking to hide from the person they’d sold themselves to in bad taste, Charlie would want him to answer it as professionally as possible.
When the voice spoke up again, it was even smaller than before.
“Okay. Thank you.”
And the line went dead, the dial tone buzzing for a moment before Alastor disconnected the call. He played a jazzy snatch of music into the air, cutting off incoming communications entirely.
“And that’s all we have time for, today! I shall leave you in the capable hands of ZZ Top – this is ‘Sharp Dressed Man’,” Alastor announced, slipping the record from its sleeve and setting the needle down, the lively beat carrying across the airwaves to end his show. Descending the spiral stairs to his suite, he found Niffty dusting over his collection of skeletons. She hadn’t bothered changing his sheets – it wasn’t as though they saw much use, these days.
“Hi, Alastor! I liked your show – the joke you told about the beheadings was great!” Niffty beamed, evidently having been listening to his broadcast using his own antique radio, sitting on his coffee table.
Her eye narrowed, confusion turning her mouth down at the corners. “Where’s your coat?”
Repressing a sigh at being asked the question for the third time that day and already suspecting it wasn’t going to be the last, Alastor waved a hand carelessly.
“Oh – I must have left it downstairs. It’s no matter of great importance – I’m certain it will turn up eventually,” he dismissed the question, stepping hastily back when Niffty’s eye widened, her attention caught by a bug skittering across the floor in front of him. Even a remodel hadn’t helped get rid of the pest problem – the things had moved right back in along with everyone else.
The day was getting on, past four now, and Alastor cast a quick glance along the hallway to see Lucifer’s door still firmly shut, not a speck of light shining from under it. He swirled into shadows and made his way to the bar, seeing no reason he shouldn’t treat himself to an early afternoon glass of whiskey. After receiving those first two questions, he rather thought he deserved it.
* * * * * *
It took Husk longer to comment on than the others, the man busily pouring drinks for those guests who also considered that ‘nearly five’ might as well be five, at least when it came to getting started on the heavier liquors. Already a reptilian demon in a heavy duster coat was swirling a glass of bourbon, a flat faced woman with an unfortunately pig like nose giggling as she recounted the mishap she’d had in art therapy class that afternoon.
But comment he did, automatically reaching for a glass of rye and pouring out a few fingers of the smooth golden liquid before sliding the glass across the bar top to his boss. Alastor had been waiting patiently, perched on a stool with his legs crossed and his cane planted on the floor, tapping the microphone absently with one hand. His static droned in a dull buzz, his smile blank as he stared at nothing.
His poor sleep was catching up with him, it seemed.
“Lookin’ a bit underdressed there, boss,” Husk stated, one feathered brow raised as he replaced the cap on the bottle of whiskey and stretched up to put it back on the shelf. Alastor blinked, once, and slightly out of time. Raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip before deigning to answer, he cast a pointed glance over the gambler.
“I hardly think you’re one to be giving fashion advice, Husker. Particularly when it comes to the topic of being underdressed,” Alastor responded, only a touch snippy. Husk snorted, not even bothering to follow Alastor’s gaze as it looked disapprovingly at Husk’s usual choice of clothing. Trousers, suspenders, a bow tie – and nothing else on his torso.
“Hey, when you start payin’ me enough to get my shirts tailored for these stupid things, maybe I’ll update my wardrobe,” the bartender shrugged, his wings rustling to emphasize his statement. Unimpressed, Alastor’s eyes slid off him and focused instead on a space just to the left of his face as he continued sipping at his drink.
“Seriously, though. I ain’t seen you without that tattered thing in years. What gives?”
He wasn’t letting up, and Alastor thought briefly about snapping his fingers and sending Husk straight to the roof of the hotel for being so irritating. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t be able to get down, after all. It seemed like more effort than it was worth, though, particularly considering he’d only complain about it for the next month.
“It’s upstairs. I decided I could do without it for the day, though it seems I was mistaken. Honestly – have all of you nothing better to do than to comment on the state of a man’s dress?” Alastor huffed, draining his glass and setting it back on the counter with a sharp clink. Husk shrugged.
“Guess not. Things’ve been pretty quiet around here since the battle. Why’s it upstairs?”
The idea of sending Husk to the roof was looking more appealing by the second.
“Because I simply didn’t feel like wearing it, Husker. Is that really so difficult to believe?” Alastor answered back with exasperation. At the rate he was going, he thought he might be best served retreating upstairs and joining his oh-so-cherished coat. Though the residents likely wouldn’t remark on his absence as much as they had on the article of clothing's.
“Yes,” Husk deadpanned, turning away to hide his smirk when Alastor’s eyes narrowed and his ears pinned back in annoyance. The legs of the stool scraped against the floor as he got to his feet so abruptly it was in danger of teetering over, snatching his cane up and catching it with one hand.
“Well. Fascinating as the subject of my attire is, I think I shall see if anybody else is capable of a halfway decent conversation,” he announced, straightening both his ears and his smile.
Underdressed, indeed.
As far as Alastor was concerned, he was already wearing the most important aspect of his outfit, anyway.
* * * * * *
He truly thought he’d found a reprieve – minding his own business in the staff parlor, going over the notes he’d jotted down during his broadcast and adding a few ideas or comments on what he felt had gone well, and what hadn’t landed. He’d just started to lose interest, unable to concentrate for overly long after having been woken up so many times the previous night. Doodling in the margins, he added a sharp V to the center of Husk’s forehead, granting the bartender an exaggeratedly grouchy expression.
His pen scratched across the paper, giving Husk an eyebrow that was miles longer on one side and ventured all the way up to tickle Angel’s skirt when the door to the parlor slammed open.
“Alastor!” Vaggie’s voice, as always tinted with a slight stain of distaste for him. Perhaps it wasn’t even meant to be directed at him – maybe that was how she just naturally sounded. “Where’s-“
“My coat?” he interrupted sharply, deciding to get in early. “On an adventure of its own today, it seems, the star in everybody’s thoughts. Why, I ought to make merchandise featuring the thing! Compete with VoxTek – get your Radio Demon replica coat, only twelve payments of twenty-nine ninety-nine!” Alastor played his canned applause, adding in a drum-roll for good measure.
He scowled at the messy line scrawled across his notes, his grin pinched on his face.
Vaggie paused, her gaze darting to Alastor’s shirt and up to his face again. She crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eye.
“Why the fuck would I care where your coat is? I wanted to ask where the king is – Charlie said she hasn’t seen him all day, and she’s starting to worry. Figured I’d ask you before bothering him - if he’s in his room,” Vaggie muttered, avoiding looking him directly in the eye as she did so.
Still somewhat disbelieving over the news that had so recently become public, and clearly uncomfortable about the idea of Heaven’s most beautiful creation lowering himself to such a level – a lowly sinner like Alastor, sharing his bed? Her sensibilities must be reeling.
“I’m afraid he’s terribly busy today. Please tell the princess he’s merely bogged down in paperwork, and in danger of nothing more threatening than a paper cut! Though I am sure that, should the worst occur, we will band together as a group and defeat the form or letter which so wounded him!” Alastor played his laughter again, flicking his wrist in her direction as he sharpened his grin. She grit her teeth, waiting until his canned audience applause faded away.
“Fine. You could’ve just ended that at 'busy'. Asshole,” she added for good measure, stomping from the room. Alastor glanced down at his notes, tucking them back into his pocket dimension alongside his cane. Before anybody else could find him and interrogate him about his fashion choice that day, he collapsed into the shadows, a smear of darkness racing up the stairs.
* * * * * *
The king’s suite was as dark as possible, hints of crimson light filtering in at the edges of the curtains, when Alastor slipped under the door. His sharp smile softened as he sank onto the edge of the bed, reaching out a hand to delicately brush a few strands of golden hair out of Lucifer’s eyes. Eyes which were wearing heavy shadows, the unfortunate result of being plagued by terrible dreams several nights in a row.
He hadn’t moved from where Alastor had left him that morning, his arms wrapped tightly around the demon’s coat, legs curled up until he looked even smaller than usual. His breathing was slow and even, his face relaxed – a decided improvement on how things had been the previous night.
Alastor had returned from his shower that morning to find him like this, asleep without muttering for the first time in days, and decided that reclaiming his coat wasn’t worth sacrificing the fact that Lucifer was finally, blissfully resting.
Well acquainted with the effects of insomnia himself – and rather hoping this marked a break in the recent pattern, considering his own nights had also been interrupted rather unpleasantly – Alastor had let him be. It was only when he withdrew his hand that the other man’s eyelids fluttered open, a strip of yellow showing under heavy purple lids.
“Alastor?” Lucifer muttered, clearly still mostly asleep. Alastor hummed an agreement, confirming that he was, indeed, the person present.
“Who else?” he asked softly, his radio echo faint. The king gave him a bleary-eyed look, brows furrowed as he took in the demon in his shirtsleeves. He relaxed his arms slightly from their vice grip around the tattered red coat he still held.
His eyelids slid closed again even as he muttered; “Put your coat on.”
Alastor’s lips quirked as he inclined his head, leaning down to unlace and remove his shoes.
“Yes, sire,” he agreed, his static barely more than a slightly amused hum crackling around him. He once again gave up the shape of his body for a moment, shadows drifting over the bed to coalesce inside his coat, filling out the fabric and Lucifer’s arms as he solidified. He felt the king press his face in between his shoulder blades, rubbing it back and forth a few times until he found a spot he liked.
A soft piano melody started up, notes drifting around the room as Lucifer’s breathing deepened once more, his body determined to repay the sleep debt he’d accrued. Alastor took the opportunity to balance his own ledger, too.
~fin~