Chapter Text
Heaven has beautiful sunsets.
There's a pleasant warmth all day. Perfect picnic weather: soft, refreshing breezes amble past, an early Summer sun whispers adorations along your exposed skin.
Then, the sun bids you a sweet goodnight, taking its sweeter time caressing along the surface as it withdraws behind the horizon.
As it leaves, the sky is painted in brilliant hues, sky blue fading to fiery oranges and soft reds.
The colors follow the sun, one by one, leaving behind a midnight blue galaxy full of glowing stars and cosmic dust.
The night retains the easy bliss of the day’s joy, the cooling air urging all of angelkind along to the peace of their homes, tucking them in for a sleep full of saccharine dreams.
The sun sets there a long time before its last parting rays grace the denizens of the underworld. Most angels are already cocooned in dreamland when the Exterminators make their way down.
The red haze of Hell makes the setting sun seem more nefarious, a warm golden glow turned devilish red.
But that perfect moment; where the sun shines brightest before hiding away, bathing itself in rich red, that was your favorite. Both in Heaven and Hell.
For a brief moment, you wonder how many people had seen both. And if they preferred the gentle touch of Heaven’s red, or the dramatic grasp of Hell’s.
You smile, hand leaning on your chin. You were seated at a small table near a balcony window, the blood red of the sun kissing your face. A harsh wind howls outside, amongst a sea of carnage and misery.
But the windows are sealed tight, only a slight tremor of the pane a hint at the nightmare carnival coming to life outside.
You count the passage of time this way, every double sunset marks another year you’ve spent in the afterlife. Every Extermination day grants you one more night of your heart's greatest desire.
Your thoughts give your smile a rueful twist. It doesn't go unnoticed by your dinner partner as he serves the both of you. Setting down both meals, he pours you a glass of red wine and asks,
“You can't hide behind a grin from me, my dear. What seems to be the matter?”
“Just thinking of how much I’ve missed the color red.”
He sits down. Picking up his own glass of wine, he raises it and you copy him.
He winks at you as you take a sip.
“Of course. It is my color, after all.”
How right he was, you think, eyeing him up and down. He was indeed dressed head to toe in deep and bright reds.
“I think I’ve missed what's underneath all that red fabric even more.”
“Slow down, my heart,” He delights, a hand pressing to his chest, “we wouldn’t want to race past dinner.” His voice lowers flirtatiously, the slightest static rumbling through his words, “I want to savor it.”
So easily charmed by your love, you feel your own heart begin to race. You look down, fighting the heat rushing to your head.
Before dinner can be forgotten in favor of passion, you observe the dish in front of you, the savory and tempting smell wafting through your excitement.
Recognizing the dish, you chuckle. “Venison roast? How very unusual, Alastor.”
He laughs, shaking out a napkin with the usual flair.
“I apologize for the lack of spontaneity, my love. Am I to blame for wanting to enjoy my favorite dish, on my favorite night, with my favorite angel?”
He almost purrs the last part, warm familiarity subduing a cheeky grin. The final rays of the sunset sneaking through the curtains glow across his face, softening the sharp angles of the demon before you.
Picking up a fork, you smirk at your dearly departed, but still very much devoted, husband.
“At least it’s cooked this time. I’m thankful you've finally stopped trying to serve me raw game as a meal.”
“While I do believe that there is a certain je ne sais quoi about fresh flesh, my goal is always first and foremost to please you.”
As if proving his point, you bring the loaded utensil to your mouth, and the taste blooms delightfully across your tongue at first bite.
Tender meat full of herbs and spices falls apart in your mouth. Soft potatoes and peppers carry a rich sauce, which clings to every morsel.
It was delicious, and you told him so.
Even after all these years, he still gets flustered when you compliment him; color dusting his cheeks as he tugs at his collar. And your heart still melts at the sight.
Focusing back on the tasty dish in front of you, you try your best not to rapidly shovel more into your mouth. How you’ve missed the spice and umami of good cooking.
“I told you they only serve ambrosia and nectar up above, right? After so much sweetness, this is heavenly.”
“Ah, the innocent angel misses the sinful pleasure of flesh…”
A foot nudges yours under the table and you meet his crinkled eyes. His teasing smile so loving and sweet you could eat it for dessert.
You were once again reminded of the truth of your afterlife: Heaven was overrated. True everlasting joy and warmth was found in the demon eating roasted deer across from you.
“I’ve missed you.”
It comes out, as always, in a rushed breath, like a thought you had tried to keep inside that slips through the cracks, desperate to be known.
You clear your throat quickly and ask what he's been up to down here, taking a sip of wine to hide the slight prickle of moisture in the corner of your eyes.
Emotions were tricky, when you have so many and only one night to share them.
You were lucky to be spending the night with the one person who could understand, the one person who could relate with the lengths of your longing.
He’s still smiling, of course, but the bright eagerness was muted by the reminder of your time apart. Tacitly, you both agree to move on, the fledgling night too young to be bogged down with tears.
“Well,” he gestures about, “as you can see we are seated in a new venue.”
You know exactly the reaction he was hoping for. Working through a large bite, you make a show of looking around the room.
Aside from the physics-defying literal swamp expanding far beyond where the back wall should end, the room was a rather generic, but luxurious. You wonder if all the red draped over every inch of the room was his doing, or just the natural state of Hell reflected in everything it produced.
Tucking back into your dinner, you comment, “the room is lovely, but just a tad lavish for your usual decor. I can only assume this must be the infamous Hazbin Hotel.”
He cackles. “I’m so glad to hear word of us has spread so far! It’s been quite the entertaining pet project.”
“Yes, it's made quite the explosion up above.”
“Oh?” he leans his chin on his hands, looking pleased, “do tell!”
“As you are probably aware, the princess of Hell herself made her way up to Heaven to campaign for the hotel's mission,”
He interrupts you to giggle, a nefarious glint in his grin.
“Her dream…The redemption of sinners is revolutionary. However it was largely overshadowed by the revelation of the Exterminations.”
“How wonderful, all of Heaven is finally aware of the plight of us poor sinners. What do they make of it?”
“While most of heaven remains the same, business as usual, there's a growing group of angels protesting against the culling…”
He remains silent, chewing thoughtfully. The only indication of his concern was a wrinkle slowly forming between his brows and the slightest twitching of his ears.
“…If the exterminations are stopped, I might not have such an easy way of coming down here.” You admit your fear in a soft voice.
“Nonsense, my dear! Heaven and Hell are always operating in the status quo.” He waves his fork around, “it’d take something monumental for them to think about stopping what's been working out so well for them.”
You take a moment to think, and almost begin to disagree, when he interrupts:
“And how are things in the rest of salvation?”
You go back to your meal, dropping the subject for now.
Sharing a conspiring, put-upon look with him, you tell him about your family’s situation.
“The same as always. My brother and father continue refusing to see eye to eye, My sister continues to be praised for passing along the family line.” You chuckle, “My mother still spends every evening watching the newest spawn gallivant about on Earth.”
He laughs, agreeing with you, “The same as always, with them!”
“It’s remarkable how little people end up changing when faced with existing for eternity.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, but the words sit unnaturally heavy in the air.
Alastor fiddles with his utensil for a moment before asking, tentatively: “and how is…”
Maybe nothing changing wasn’t always such a bad thing. In so many ways, the terrifying and violent demon before you was still the gentle and sweet mama’s boy you fell in love with so long ago.
“Your mother is doing wonderful. Sometimes I feel like I spend more time with her than my own mother! Maybe it's our crotchety, widowed ways.”
He puts down his fork for a moment, smile dropping, uncharacteristically somber.
“My love…There’s a lot that I regret not being able to give you—”
“Save the song and dance, mister,” you give him a reassuring smile, trying to convey your sincerity, “it's water so under the bridge it's in another world at this point.”
Alastor says nothing. You yearn to pick apart every thought and feeling running through his mind, clouding his eyes. You suffice with reaching out for his hand across the table.
Of course he readily complies, and you hold his gloved hand in your own, sweeping a tender thumb across.
The moment is warm like a secure embrace, and it isn’t long until his smile returns, filling in the wrinkles and scars of his face.
You smile back, and return to what remains of your meal.
“Anyway, she's mastered crochet and has moved on to lace work. She wants to know if you’ve been keeping your clothes tidy or if she needs to come down here and mend them herself.”
“Even in the afterlife she wants to meddle. You can let her know I’m perfectly capable of visiting the tailor myself. And then—”
“I’ll share your love for her. And remind her to stay up where she belongs.”
Alastor laughs, the message he gives you to pass on to her year after year repeated back verbatim.
Nothing seems to have changed. Decades of the same routine.
But something has changed, hasn’t it?
Up in Heaven, it’s being spoken about in whispered undercurrents, floating into ears on a breeze. It’s being yelled, across courts of those who care even a little about the fate of damned souls.
“What has it been like in Hell? Are there many people interested in the Hotel?”
“Interested in it other than a source of mockery, ridicule, or other forms of entertainment? Not really.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“Quite! I would like to see a good showing of miserable souls attempting the impossible.”
“Do you really think it’s impossible? That a sinner can't atone for their sins and ascend from Hell?”
He hums, considering the question before answering. “If not impossible, highly unlikely. As I already mentioned, Heaven and Hell are not prone to accepting change.”
“…Do you think you could be redeemed?”
“A soul as twisted as mine untangling the thorns of my sins and ascending to virtue?” He laughs, the full bodied and head thrown back kind of laugh, like what you said is the most shockingly ridiculous thing he's ever heard.
He's still chuckling as he returns to his meal. Spearing a chunk of meat, he smirks at you with narrowing eyes, continuing:
“I think it's far more likely that my evilness will finally corrupt you, rooting you to the fiery brimstone of hell.”
His sharp teeth rend through the flesh with ease.
“That’s an idea, maybe I should stay.”
He laughs again, but this time there is no humor in the sound. “Absolutely not. There’s no place in Hell for Heaven’s most darling angel.”
“Don’t try to flatter your way out of it, you were the one to suggest it.” You grumble.
“All in jest, dove,” he offers, placating, while spearing another piece of flesh, “there’s nothing down here except evil, rotten souls.”
“If you won’t let me stay down here, than make your way up there.”
He laughs uproariously again. You frown.
“I’m serious.”
“As am I! It's never going to happen, there isn't an inch of good in my dark and twisted heart.”
“That’s not true, you ARE good! Would an evil man treat me as you do?” Dinner fully forgotten, both your hands are pressed to the table, grounding yourself during your impassioned speech. “Do you think I would love, with all my heart, someone without an iota of good in their soul?”
“You have a skewed perspective of me, my dear. I am only willing to entertain this softness when I can be rewarded by your affection.” He meets your fiery gaze with dulcet charm and calming words, but his smile is straining.
You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms. “If we were together more, maybe the good will finally tip the scale in its favor.”
“Haven't you heard?” He retorts, “it's bad to overindulge in sweets.”
“Being good cannot be bad, that doesn't make sense!”
“No, but evil can so easily corrode good, just as stomachaches and cavities follow an over-consumption of sweets,” He was serious again, setting down his fork and dropping the pretense of a smile, “If you choose to remain in Hell, the roots of evil will entwine you here and transform your angelic soul into something unrecognizable.”
It was the same old tune: Hell was one thing, but he was a selfish, destructive monster that, given the chance; would wrap you in his claws and never let go, keeping you so closely bound to his own soul that his sins would corrupt you.
How you wish he would! How you wish he was as selfish as he describes and would chain you to his side. How you would gladly let him ruin you, if it meant seeing him more than one bittersweet night a year.
“If you still won't let me stay here, then come to Heaven. There's no reason redemption is impossible, if you would just—”
“No!” He growls, snapping the stem of the wine glass.
You can’t stop the tears from escaping this time, rolling slowly down your cheek.
He's kneeling by your side in an instant, careful as he lifts the tears away.
“My apologies, my sweet dove. But this is exactly what I meant, mere hours together and I am already hurting you.”
You grab ahold of his wrist, bringing them down to your lap. “Don't try to twist this into proof we cannot stay together.” You look into his eyes, beseeching, “I miss you so much. And learning that redemption is possible?” you entwine your hands in his, “that you could leave this horrible place behind and come with me—”
He interrupts you, squeezing your hands. Whether it's to comfort you or himself is unknown. “There is no place I’d rather be than by your side for eternity.” the echoes of your wedding vows make your eyes overflow again, but he continues, “I still mean that, I will always mean that.”
“Then come be with me.”
“But it's just not possible. Heaven will never let me in through its front gates.”
“You won't know unless you try.”
“You are always so hopeful…” He says, lifting a clawed finger again to chase another tear away.
But he doesn't agree. “I would never make an impossible deal.”
Your eyes clench and you look down, trying to hide the bitter agony his repeating rejection wrings out of you.
“Please don’t cry for me, my love.” His free hand tucks a loose lock of hair around your ear, trailing gently down your cheek. “I would hate to spoil our evening with a disagreement. Let's move on, shall we?”
He waits for your hesitant nod before standing back up. You don't let his hand go until you absolutely have to.
Even though the heaviness of the conversation affected you greatly, a thick and sickly feeling from swallowing the fight down, you do your best to ignore it.
Alastor didn’t want to entertain the idea of change, and you didn’t want to argue with him. Not when the minutes seem to slip through your fingers.
It takes you a moment to let the grief pass through you. You sip your own drink as he clears the broken glass away, table almost pristine again with a snap of his fingers.
Grief is a funny thing, especially when the source of it sits down in front of you, tucking back into his meal.
It's a weighty stone that you force from your conscious mind, the cumbersome mass moving down your throat and settling heavy in the pit of your stomach.
You won't let the feeling affect you now, not when your time with your love remains limited. But you know it will make itself known later, deep and dark sadness and anger that needs to be released, otherwise festering into something more.
You want to enjoy the now, and force yourself from the rumination of the future.
It helps when soft, cozy jazz clicks on. You catch Alastor watching you surreptitiously, and you smile at his attempts to change your mood.
The meal is a welcome distraction, just as tasty as your first bite, and a light, non-consequential conversation is picked up again between you two.
A while later, your meal almost gone, you savor the last chunk of meat. Knowing you only have honeyed sustenance to return to, you aren’t ashamed of dragging your fingers through the lingering juices at the bottom of your plate.
You moan, appreciative, around the final taste, sucking your fingers clean.
Alastor watches you with hooded eyes and a hungry grin.
For a second you think he’s about to pounce, table, dinnerware, and manners be damned, but he simply disappears in a swirl of shadows.
You don’t startle when he manifests behind you, strong hands settling themselves on your shoulders. Folding your napkin neatly and setting it on the table, you toss a look to him over your shoulder.
“It can’t be all that exciting to continuously try to spook me. I’ve known you for so long your scare tactics hardly affect me anymore.”
He whispers right into your ear, sending shivers down your spine, “it’s a good thing I know other ways to make your pulse race.”
How right he was; the low timber of his voice, clear from any radio clipping did wild things to your heart.
“Now, darling wife of mine, can I invite you on an after dinner promenade?”
You place your hand in his awaiting one.
“Why, my beloved husband, I would enjoy that immensely.”
Your hand fits easily in his, and he can't help but bring it up to his lips to kiss before pulling you out of your seat.
It’s only a few steps into the swampy marshlands, but it feels like stepping into another world.
Something so different from the whites and soft blues of Heaven, divorced entirely from the blood reds you associate with Hell.
The greens of shimmery pools of moss and algae and browns of trees and cattails remind you of Earth.
Not just the colors, but the soundscape! A wind whistles through trees and twirls about your dress. Birds so uniquely different than the ones that perch on clouds up above, frogs and alligators croaking and snapping in turn. Even the stagnant ponds of mud and slime buzz with activity.
And with Alastor by your side, arm linked in his as he hums along, you feel more at home than anywhere else.
For a good while the pair of you amble along deeper into the winding trails of solid land between the marsh, a peaceful tranquility you bask in happily.
But there was only so much quiet you could both handle, your mind brimming with unasked questions about the year you've spent apart.
“Aside from the princess, I’ve heard there's a few other regular guests…”
“Pests is by far a more aptly suited word! But yes indeed, we have quite the cast of characters.”
He's biting at the chomp to air his grievances about his fellow hoteliers, and you are more than happy to listen.
“—And Charlie invites her father over, as if I couldn't handle everything myself. And what a sham he is! Much shorter than you would expect, from the greatly feared and unwisely worshipped King of Hell. Let me tell you, this man doesn't know a thing about song construction, let alone building construction—”
“Was your radio tower not up to snuff?”
“Ha! Far from it! I had to recreate the entire thing. Luckily I know a thing or two about radio.” He winks at you, helping you step over a log.
“And how is your radio show?”
“As lively as ever! Just the other day there was a hell of a broadcasting battle!”
“With your rival?”
“I’d hardly call him my rival. More of a pesky annoyance that nips at my tailcoat every so often. You should have seen the look on his screen when I turned the tables on him…”
You trade a few more stories back and forth, a year's worth of events to recount and share.
It was a story of celebration in Heaven that you cut yourself off with a sigh.
“It was a lovely ball, but it only reminded me of how much I miss sharing dances with you.”
He regales you with a dashing smile and an open palm, “that can be easily remedied, my dear! Would you let me have this dance?”
Did he even need to ask?
You place your hand in his before he even finishes the question, and with a snap of his other hand, a dance floor opens up beneath you.
Shadowy souls and marshland critters suddenly outfitted with suits and instruments (and the remarkable ability to play them) begin to play a fast and jazzy tune.
Just like riding a bike, one never forgets how to dance, and you easily fall into the pace Alastor sets.
Your feet move with the pounding of your heart, the rush of blood matching the rush of wind when he twirls you out and then back into his arms.
You laugh at the look on his face when you attempt to spin him, your height proving disadvantageous for the move, forcing him to duck under your arm.
Even with only an audience of you and a band of enchanted creatures, Alastor is first and foremost a performer.
The song picks up a faster rhythm, and you match him step for step on a complicated and dizzying journey full of twists and dips and tosses.
Unfortunately, neither of you are omnipotent, and end up dancing a little bit too close to the edge of the summoned floor.
It's Alastor’s hold on your hands that keeps you from sinking ass first into swampy mud-water, the band screeching to a sudden halt with a record scratch, both of you looking at each other with wide, shocked eyes and open mouths.
Once you realize what's happened, he's already pulled you to stable footing. You laugh, eyeing one of your shoes stuck in the mud and sinking slowly.
“It wouldn’t be our anniversary without some shenanigans, would it?”
“Does it need to be?” he huffs, handing you his coat so it doesn't get muddy.
“Well you certainly set the precedent at our wedding. Do you remember, with the cake—”
“Of course I remember, love,” he snipes, ears pinning back with his ire, “you weren't the one with frosting in places it shouldn't be.”
He’s on his hands and knees at the edge of the flooring, trying to fish your heel out of the mud its sunk into.
You do enjoy the view, enraptured by his twitching tail, and just as you are inches away from touching it, he jumps back up.
“Aha! One shoe rescued for the damsel in distress!”
It’s soaked in mud, dripping dirty water and muck.
You both cringe at the mess.
Alastor pulls you into his side (holding the muddy shoe with his other arm as far as possible) and quirks a wiry grin down at you.
“Much like after our nuptial disaster, let's run away, you and I.”
Darkness surrounds you, encompassing every sense until it unwraps itself from around you, revealing you to be back in the center of the hotel room.
He deposits you into one of the chairs before adjourning to the bathroom.
You sigh at the dirt that had splashed onto your leg from the mishap. As you peel off your other shoe so you feel slightly less ridiculous, your husband returns with a bowl of soapy water.
He doesn’t say anything, but a small, private smile graces his face as he kneels before you. Your heart bubbles with affection when he begins wiping away the mud with a washcloth, a quiet cheerful tune crackling from elsewhere in the room.
Despite the tender warmth of the moment, there was something bugging you.
“Alastor…”
“Yes, my angel?”
“Why didn't you just teleport my shoe out of the mud? Or have one of your shadows fetch it?”
It was rare to catch him off guard and speechless, and you luxuriate in it. He’s frozen, stilling his ministrations, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
For all his masterminded machinations, you love the innocuous moments when he fumbles, the times when his heart acts before his brain.
“I’m sure it was all part of your plan,” you take pity on him, wiggling your free toes, “an elaborate and chivalrous ruse to get my shoes off.”
“Why, yes! Anything to get at these little piggies!”
You giggle hysterically, trying to wrench your foot away as he pretends to try to eat your toes.
(You’re pretty sure it's pretend, at least.)
The moment passes, and you settle back against the chair, letting him gently wipe away whatever grime he deems to be marring you.
He removed his gloves and rolled up his sleeves somewhere between returning to the hotel and rubbing your feet. You admire the way his red tipped claws fade into gray skin, and feel the passing urge to kiss along every scar that trails up his arms.
You don't want to stop him, not when he's given up the act of cleaning your egregiously dirty leg and is instead kneading circles into the bottom of your feet.
Your brain has turned to mush with such care and simple pleasure, and it shows when you open your mouth and non-sequiturs fall out:
“You’re still wearing your shoes and I feel underdressed. Take them off!”
Alastor laughs, eyes crinkling as he looks up at you, “I didn't expect that to be the first article of clothing you request me to remove.”
Your face flushes with indignation and you pout, but you stand by what you said.
He continues chuckling, even as he stops to pull his own shoes and socks off, making a show of it much to your embarrassment and amusement.
You don't expect him to, but he returns to kneeling in front of you, careful clawed hands rubbing the oft forgotten muscles in your feet and legs.
It's so sweet, and so warm, so it’s unexpected when he breaks the comfortable silence with sorrow.
“I am unworthy of such a heavenly treat as you,” he whispers it against your skin, face pressing against the soft skin of your leg. “but I am greedy enough to take far more than I deserve.”
Before you can retort, always ready to launch into defense of his goodness and remind him exactly why he does deserve your love, he's standing, an open palm extended in a mirror of his earlier invitation.
“May I have another dance?”