Chapter Text
Alastor would say the pain in his chest is going to be the death of him, but he isn’t in the business of tempting fate.
More so than he already has.
The writhing, prickling burn under his skin doesn’t agitate when he moves, but he’s still careful as he slides his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. He tries not to look in the mirror, but his glowing wound is so bright it’s impossible to ignore.
Leaning against the sink, he glares at his exposed chest. He’s examined it dozens of times already. Poking and prodding at the edges of his torn, illuminated skin, searching for a way to cut it out like a tumor. So far, he’s as successful as a palooka trying to pop a shadow.
As a fan of subdued lighting—and how soft it is on his eyes—it’s a design choice Alastor uses for most of his rooms, like his bathroom. But now, it makes his wound more eye-catching, glowing like a fire had been lit inside his chest. A line of flame that stretches from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribs. It’s such a stark, blinding white it hurts to look at for too long, much like the glare that shines off Charlie’s rose-tinted glasses.
Alastor tears his eyes from the mirror, blinking away the white spots peppering his vision until all he sees is the burgundy tiled floor.
His claws leave tiny tink, tink, tink’s as they drum against the rim of the porcelain sink. It’s a strangely soothing sound. Sharp and solid enough to fight off the heavy silence. He barely snaps his fingers to turn on the radio sitting on the vanity, when his breath hitches and the energy nestled in his chest punches outward, hitting his lungs so hard he curls over the sink with a gasp.
The threat is as obvious as a gun at his temple.
When the room stops spinning and he’s no longer scrambling for air, Alastor tears his claws out of the sink with a growl and paces in front of the mirror. These attacks against his… him, his entire being, is getting tiresome. Any time he uses his abilities, no matter how benign (shadow traveling, manifesting his cane, conjuring a teacup) it leaves him doubled-over and gasping like he’d been sucker-punched.
Something he discovered quickly when he first tried using his healing magic on it. Charlie kept first-aid kits stashed throughout the hotel, which is what he turned to when his power failed, but no amount of cream, balm, or bandages had any effect. The energy just… sits there, festering like an infection he can’t get rid of.
He turns his snarl to the floor, chin in his fingers, and racks his brain for the hundredth time. He can’t be stuck like this. Isn’t there a spell or ointment or hell-fire pill he can take to purge this from his body? Holiness isn’t meant to survive down here. Not in a landscape designed to be its opposite.
When nothing comes to mind, he runs a frustrated hand down his face. But all that does is draw his attention to his skin and his stomach clenches uneasily.
Scars, small and thin, pepper his knuckles. He follows them up his arm where they litter his black, peach-fuzz fur in a clustered mass of pale slashes that disappear beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Just the sight of them makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He clenches his fist, like the pressure might pop them right out of his skin.
It doesn’t.
He rolls his sleeves down instead and finishes buttoning up his shirt. The glow is still partially visible, but once he adds his jacket, it’s hidden completely. The sleeves reach his wrist, leaving the scars on the back of his hand still visible. They’re thinner and harder to see than the rest, but atop his dark fur, they’re easy enough to spot if you’re looking for them. He only ever wore gloves when he was alive, dealing with his victims, but maybe it’s a fashion trend he’ll pick up.
“There we go,” he says to himself, straightening his shoulders in front of the mirror and tugging on the bottom of his jacket to smooth out lingering wrinkles. He brushes down a stray hair near his ears, observes himself from side to side, and brightens his smile.
“Perfect.”
Spinning on his heels, he retrieves his cane, where it’s propped against an armchair by the fireplace, and gives it an experimental twirl.
“Holding up, then?” He asks, bringing it up closer for inspection. He eyes the hair-thin fracture in the middle of the black metal shaft.
He’d done his best to fix it up, but even with all his abilities—and recently acquired chest pain—he couldn’t mend it completely. It works well enough.
But for how long?
One strike. One hit a degree too strong and it’ll break again.
The memory of the snap it made almost makes him wince. He’d felt it. The moment that wave of white energy struck him. When the solid material under his hands caved, it felt like a piece of himself snapped along with it. A bone broken. A muscle torn. A string in his sternum that’d been pulled so tight that once cut it left him staggering. The pain was as tangible as if he’d been cleaved in half.
It did its job. It saved him from the brunt of the attack, but…
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Alastor gave it another spin and dropped the bottom onto the floor, tapping the ferrule against the dark wood floorboards a few times to make sure it’d hold.
“Well then,” he says this to his shadow, where it’s stretched across the wall, having been following him during his morning routine. “Shall we see what the others are up to?”
It grins, wide and toothy, and fastens itself to his heels as he locks his bedroom door behind him.
While not especially eager to face everyone after yesterday's…incident, it’d look infinitely worse if he avoided them. He ignored Lucifer more than he should’ve already. They should’ve interacted at least once last night, to prove that there was nothing “special” going on between them. But every time he looked at Lucifer, Alastor’s nerves prickled and his blood boiled. His grip on his cane became so hard he had to force himself to relax in fear of snapping it again.
He can still feel Lucifer’s hands on his skin, fingers as white as carved marble, but feather soft as they pressed against his chest. How cool they were compared to the searing heat eating Alastor inside out. He’d been trembling so badly that his muscles ached when he dragged himself out of bed this morning. Trying to hold onto his demon form had been like trying to hold a boulder over his head, and all it’d taken was a few minutes for him to drop it
He's only been at someone's mercy like that once before, and it's the kind of memory he handles with thick, padded gloves, unwilling to touch it directly.
The minute he had stepped into Hell, he'd refused his fate to crawl at the Overlord’s feet. He would've sooner painted a bullseye on his chest and strolled through the streets on Extermination Day than allow himself to be stepped on. It just so happened that the higher he rose in rank, the more he had to watch his back. All it took was one good swipe from repurposed angelic steel to topple the mightiest in their twisted hierarchy. Vulnerability is dangerous, especially in Hell.
Especially for Overlords.
Especially for him.
The tail hidden beneath his coat twitches and Alastor takes another controlled breath, urging himself to calm. For his frustration to level out. For the searing, bone-deep humiliation to tuck itself away and out of sight.
Thankfully, the infection isn’t as active today. If Lucifer was right about one thing, it’s that Alastor needs to be more careful with his abilities. No shadow traveling, shadow puppets, tendrils, or conjuring. He had to go a little extreme during the reopening, to remind their guests who he was and the consequence of their actions should they cause trouble, and fortunately, all it took was a few demonstrations to keep them in line.
But at what cost, he grouses as he steps onto the second-floor mezzanine overlooking the lobby. The room’s deserted, which is a rare stroke of luck. Normally, everyone would be out and about, doing whatever frolicsome things they did while he was gone. Charlie told them there’d be no activities today, so it’s likely they’re taking the opportunity to sleep in and burn away the day.
“But who has the time?” He sighs to no one as he descends to the first floor.
The Overlord meeting is in an hour. A bit earlier than Carmilla typically scheduled, but he was expecting this little caucus to happen soon.
“There’s no point going on an empty stomach, though,” he chirps to himself, propping his cane on his shoulder.
He’s halfway down the hall to the kitchen when his ears twitch forward, picking up voices. His lip curls as he recognizes them and, for a split-second, contemplates turning back.
No, he decides, strengthening his stride. What would it say about him if he shied away every time he heard Lucifer’s voice? He could pass it off as an annoyance for a while, but they’d notice, eventually. His hackles rise with each step, but he forces his shoulders to unwind and puts on a pleasant smile. Just another morning in Hell. Nothing more. Nothing less.
He opens the door with good-natured flourish and a warm, sweet smell washes over him.
“Well, well, well, what’s on the menu today?” He asks. “Smells delightful.”
Charlie looks up from the batter she’s fiercely whisking, hair mused, apron stained, and a smudge of flour on her cheek. She straightens, smile brightening as she waves at him with her wire-whisk.
“Good morning, Alastor!” She adjusts her hold on the bowl. “Hungry? Dad and I are making breakfast for everyone. To thank them for all their hard work yesterday.”
“Pancakes,” Lucifer says over his shoulder, barely sparing Alastor a glance as he dumps batter into a pan. He’d exchanged his normal white suit for a pair of slacks and a simple, soft pink button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
Alastor can’t help but linger on his hands. One curls around the handle of the pan and the other holds a spatula. The memory of his cool touch presses against his mind and the prickling in Alastor’s chest becomes an itch.
“Freshly made,” Lucifer needlessly adds as he flips over the pancake he’s currently tending.
It’s…strange seeing him outside of his usual apparel. Golden hair mussed, like he’d run his hands through it once before deeming it fit. Shirt wrinkled, pants smudged with flour. He’d forgone shoes for a pair of blue socks decorated with little ducks. If not for the strange, ethereal aura surrounding him, and his lack of common demonic features, one might mistake him as any other demon.
“Here, I already got a plate out for you,” Charlie says, migrating the bowl to her hip to grab said plate from the stack on the counter. “They’re really good. Just like I remember as a kid. You’re going to love them!”
“Oh, I would love to Charlie, but I’m afraid I’m already on my way out,” Alastor says, rounding the counter with a sorrowful shake of his head. “The other Overlords are so sensitive about time. A real bunch of flat-tires, if you ask me.”
“Oh. Right. That.” She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face, tapping the whisk against the bowl. “Well…good luck! I guess…” Nervousness crinkles around her eyes. “You’ll let us know what they say, right?”
“Of course,” he says, striding over to examine the stack of pancakes near the stove. “I’m just here to pick up a snack for the road. You don’t mind, do you?” This he asks Lucifer with a broad grin, fingers hovering over the plate.
Lucifer doesn’t look at him this time, just flaps a hand dismissively, and Alastor chuckles, grabbing one from the stack.
“I’ll be on my way then,” he says, turning on his heels. “Wish me luck!”
“Good luck!” Charlie calls after him as the doors swing shut.
He takes a bite of the pancake and hums. It’s not the worst thing he’s tasted.
It’s as nice a day as it ever gets in Hell.
Still plenty hot, always leveling at a temperature a few degrees too uncomfortable, but it’s not as severe as it can be. Alastor takes a deep breath of torrid, sour air, and lets it out with a pleasant sigh.
Strolling through the city is his favorite part of these meetings. It’s plenty interesting seeing what the other Overlords are up to, idea farming for potential problems, discussing growing population risks, and pitching new methods to maintain order of the city. But walking around on his own two feet, visiting Rosie, sniffing out new butcher shops, and getting lunch at his favorite cafe, is what he looks forward to the most. There’s something about slowing down and smelling the roses that makes one appreciate the terrors and torments of Hell.
It beats sitting in a stuffy car and watching it all pass by through a window.
He waltzes through the streets, parting crowds and watching demons stumble over themselves to get out of his way, delighted that most of the population is still smart enough to be wary of him. Seven years is a long time. Millions of souls will have passed through and entered Hell since then.
That’s millions of people who wouldn’t have heard of him outside of an occasional headline, story, or passing mention. An issue he’ll rectify in due time, just as soon as he figures out his…other situation.
It’s amusing watching people trip over their feet, cower behind dumpsters, and nervously peep at him through windows, but the longer he walks, the more it pricks at him. He’s no stranger to prolonged looks and hushed whispering, but there’s something different about it this time. It takes a few more blocks for him to pin-point what it is. While the city-goers on the street scurry out of his way, they’re not actually leaving. They avoid his gaze, but still watch him. Their whispers go quiet as he walks by, but burst to life as soon as his back is turned, enlivened and rushed.
It’s less like being regarded and more like he’s being gawked at.
That is…strange.
Subtly, he turns his ears, honing in on the closest conversation.
“—the news?” A demon is saying down an alley Alastor passes. She’s whispering, low and muffled, like she’s talking behind her hand. “About him and Lucifer?”
Alastor’s shoulders stiffen.
“Weren’t they caught, you know, getting it on in one of the roomsss?” Another demon asks with a slight reptilian hiss, his voice not as hushed as his friend’s.
“Yeah! Right there in his daughter’s hotel.”
“That’sss so ssick,” the reptile laughs, delighted.
“Right? What I wouldn’t pay to see that video.”
Alastor clenches his jaw, reflexively calling on his powers as his mind comes to life with all the ways he’ll flay their hides and give them something truly sick to talk about. It’s been a while since he’s done a proper broadcast and a bunch of nobodies off the street will be the perfect warm-up. But the holy energy pulses, sending a burst of pain through his chest that almost makes him stumble, and his magic obediently recedes, crawling back into the nooks and crannies it’d been bullied into.
Eyes are still on him, tickling the back of his neck, hungry for a show. Eager for the smallest bit of information they can cleave from him about that night. Just the implication that he and Lucifer had done anything in that room makes his skin want to turn itself inside out. He’s not surprised by the assumption—it’s hardly the most creative conclusion people would come to—but a deep, wriggling discomfort still settles in the pit of his stomach.
A few people had seen him and Lucifer, other than Charlie and Angel Dust. Alastor didn’t get a good look at them before Angel Dust herded them away—he was a little busy covering all evidence of his injury—but even though they’d only gotten a peak, it was more than enough kindling to stoke a fire. Slanderous stories like this were common in Pentagram City. Not a week went by without someone's affair brought up during a talk show, and just about every magazine and newspaper had incriminating pictures plastered on their front pages. It was as much a part of the city's personality as the constant gun-fire and cracked pavement.
But he’s never been the subject of one.
Suddenly, the stares and whispers take on new meaning. Sinners didn’t bother to hide their opinions on such matters, and Alastor’s overheard plenty of them over the years. Opinions that trickle to the forefront of his mind.
“ I always knew she was a slut.”
“ I can’t blame him for tapping an ass like that. If I had the opportunity…”
“ Just another gold-digging whore, if you ask me.”
“ She’ll open her legs for anybody.”
“ Who hasn’t he fucked at this point?”
Is that what they’re saying about him? Is this why they keep dragging their eyes up and down his body? Still wary enough to keep their distance, but bold enough to fantasize? It put an uncomfortable itch deep in his spine.
He wasn’t a pure little lamb, by any means. Inhibition doesn’t exist in Hell, and it’s not uncommon for people to get frisky right there in the street. He wasn’t a stranger to people being attracted to him. Pentagram City was ripe with an abundance of body types, of all shapes, sizes, colors, objects, and animals. Deer demons were surprisingly rare, and of the few that he’s come across, well…he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to eat something both human and venison. That was two times the cannibalism! And they tasted so, so good.
But there has been undeniable interest in him before. It could be because he’s what’s commonly referred to as a “prey animal,” and in a city where a vast majority of the population resembled grittier, meaner things, the contrast was enticing. Or maybe it’s because he’d risen to Overlord status, and power was an attractive quality. People always want what they can’t have. Whatever it was, Alastor wasn’t blind to heated looks and flirty banter.
It’s just been a while since he’s had to deal with it.
He expected rumors, but this…
The infection prickles again as his magic threatens to rise. He grips his cane, fighting it back down. It’s humiliating enough that Lucifer found him last night, doubled over and incapable of standing on his own, he can’t afford to be caught in the same position, especially out here—no matter how much he craves to double back and waylay those two gossipers. If nothing else, he’d get in a proper meal before the meeting.
If the general population—or worse, the other Overlords—found him like that, it’s not something he’d bounce back from easily.
Hell, if Lucifer was what Alastor expected him to be, his reputation would already be in shreds.
At least he can take comfort in knowing that their “esteemed” ruler’s long absence has left him horrendously out of date with the city’s inner-workings. He can barely talk his way through a conversation with a common demon, to say nothing about navigating a politically charged discussion without falling back onto his royal status. Even Charlie, who fumbles most of her interactions with her subjects, has a better understanding of the political systems at play.
He’s still the most powerful being in Hell, Alastor muses bitterly. But raw power isn’t the only thing that keeps your head above the water.
As he passes a store window crammed with VoxTek TV’s, he pauses, turning to listen to the airing broadcast as the 666 News channel flashes on screen.
“— and isn’t that just the crux on the crucifix,” Katie Killjoy is saying, her red lips pulled wide as she spouts off rapid-fire commentary. “It seems there’s more going on in the princess’s recently reconstructed hotel of redemption than anyone ever anticipated.”
“ Looks like the Radio Demon is seeking redemption of a different kind, aye, Katie?” Tom Trench says, leaning across the table and waggling his eyes.
Without breaking eye-contact with the camera, Katie Killjoy lifts a heeled foot and propels her co-host’s chair (and him) off-screen with a violent kick. “Stick to the fucking script, Tom.” Without looking down, she grabs the short stack of papers in front of her and aligns them with a single, solid thump against the table. “According to several ass-to-mouth rumors, our top daddy of Hell, Lucifer Morningstar, was reportedly found in a scandalously risqué state of affairs with our very own recently returned Radio Demon. You know, the one who fucked off out of nowhere and hasn’t aged a decade in the seven years he’s been gone.”
“ Evidence of this claim?” She lifts her hands. “Well, we have none. But we’ve got multiple sources claiming they were ‘getting it on’ and who are we to doubt the delusions of Hell’s proletarian population?”
She pauses, head tilting so violently to the side that the crack in her neck is audible over the TV speakers. “This just in, it looks like one half of our royal scandal is unfortunate enough to show his face in the light of day.”
Alastor hears the drone before it comes into view. He senses where it hovers in the air above him, the hum of its rotor blades are like a pesky insect in his ear. Eye twitching, he glances up, giving it a wide, sharp-toothed smile usually meant for his dinner. Through his periphery, the image on screen glitches. The footage breaks, becoming a janky, staticky mess barely able to capture the gleam of his teeth.
He keeps it subtle. Using as little of his power as he can. The infection throbs hard, nearly knocking his concentration, but he narrows his eyes, willing the damn thing to overheat already.
The drone lurches, shuddering. His gaze narrows as he focuses on its gears, wires, and frequency. It shudders again. Whines. Tips to one side as smoke rises from its joints. With a loud POP and a burst of electricity, it plummets and scatters into pieces as it smashes into the road, sending two cars veering into each other and a third into a pole.
The screen cuts back to Katie Killjoy. “Well, it looks like our vintage venereal vixen doesn’t want to be filmed today. But does he ever?” A laugh track. “Don’t change the channel folks as we wait for more unsupported claims of Hell’s latest scandal. Until then—”
Alastor walks away, tuning out the ensuing commercial. His chest tightens, clutched in the infection’s grip as it attempts to wrangle every last breath out of his lungs. For the next few minutes, he narrows all his focus on maintaining his smile and keeping his legs from buckling out from under him. It takes a few more minutes before he can take a full breath without it feeling like he’s inhaling needles. His tail twitches, adding its input to this debacle, which only makes his mood worse.
The rumors spreading to larger news stations isn’t surprising, but it’s still not an outcome he’s happy with. Straightening out the facts with Charlie and her friends already revealed more about his condition than he liked them knowing, he isn’t even going to consider doing the same to the wider public. His seven-year sabbatical and his association with Charlie and her hotel already has him under enough scrutiny as is.
He’ll need to put a cap on this before it overflows.
The Carmine Enterprise building comes into view as he turns the corner and he hums, tracing the large, curved structure with his eyes. Well, who better to start with than his fellow Overlords? They’ll all have seen the reports by now. After bumping elbows and squabbling with them for nearly a century, it’s unlikely this meeting will stay on the subject of Charlie’s hotel.
They’ll have more questions than a hounding journalist—and the status to get away with asking them.
He straightens his bowtie as he steps inside one of the exterior elevators. Just as it’s rising, Zeezie and Vephar turn the street-corner, undoubtedly spotting him, but he pretends not to notice as he turns and faces the door, fixing the cuff of his sleeve.
It’s just another task on his to-do list. He’s here to discuss the Hazbin Hotel, nothing more. If they have questions, then let them guess. People are naturally prone to their own predispositions, anyway, and at the very least, it’ll give him time to come up with a reasonable explanation.
The elevator slows, giving his stomach a swoop of butterflies. Gripping his cane behind his back, he takes a breath, relaxes his shoulders, and pulls on an amiable smile.
The doors slide open and he steps out to greet the rest of Pentagram City’s sovereign Overlords.