Why yes, I'll take your soul

Alastor clambered down the ladder of the radio tower, an indignity that had become far too familiar as of late. The metal rung bit into his palms. His shoulders complained with each careful drop. It used to be he would just slip into the shadows and arrive where he wanted.

‘Soon.’ He promised himself. Soon he would rid himself of this detestable, blessed rot. Soon he would stop measuring his life in hours. Soon he wouldn't need to prop up a facade of strength.

He didn’t have time to wait. He was going straight to his room and cracking open some dusty tomes. He knew the answer lay somewhere in those profane texts, buried under other things occult.

And he could already feel his strength failing him.

Even after Charlie’s aid, even with that borrowed vitality humming in his veins. It didn’t sit right. While he’d been cleaning up the mess he left in his tower—by hand—vertigo had hit him out of nowhere. His head had spun. His knees had wobbled. For a brief, humiliating second, the floor had seemed eager to meet him, and he’d nearly collapsed into his own pooled blood.

Charlie may have flooded him with power, with magic, but it was her magic, not Alastor’s. The magic didn’t settle within him. It churned and roiled under his skin. It resisted him, desperate to escape.

Alastor spied a familiar face down the hall. The third most irritating presence to reside in the hotel, and unfortunately one of the loudest.

Angel Dust was strolling down the hallway, Fat Nuggets cradled in his two lower arms, his phone in the right upper hand and a cigarette in the left, a trail of smoke curling lazily behind him.

Angel noticed him at the same time. He glanced up from his screen, took a lazy drag, and blew out a puff of smoke with a grin. “Hey, Jeff the killer.”

‘The what now?’ Alastor’s smile stayed in place, but his eyes narrowed a fraction, patience already thinning.

“You got that paperwork emergency sorted out yet?” Angel asked.

Paperwork emergency?

Ah. Yes.

While the question threw Alastor for a bit of a loop, he quickly deduced what was going on.

Charlie had presumably barged into his radio tower a few hours ago to collect him for the dance competition, which he had assured her he would attend.

He didn’t know why it had been so important to her that he show up for this specific event. But it had clearly mattered to her. Enough that she’d come to fetch him personally, despite her general respect for his privacy.

When she returned without him, it must have drawn questions.

As the deal precluded her from telling the truth, she most likely fumbled for an excuse, ultimately land on a paperwork emergency.

In short, she lied.

Alastor’s eyes lit up with mirth while his smile relaxed into something more amused than sinister.

These were the simple joys that made the afterlife worth living. Not just the slaughter, but watching someone scramble and bend beneath you. 

He wondered if that was the first time she had lied. Probably not. The first time she had lied to Vaggie, though… that sounded plausible.

Reigning in his glee, he let out a breathy sigh before finally addressing Angel’s question.

He leaned in close and half-shouted in that radio-announcer tone, loud and cheerful, “Afraid not, my good man! You know what they say, nothing’s certain in life but death and taxes.” His smile widened a fraction. “Well, apparently not even death spares us from an ungodly amount of paperwork.”

He snickered at his own joke. “Especially when Charlie insists we play nice.”

Best to keep the paperwork excuse open for now. He and Charlie could corroborate their stories later.

“So, what’s the big deal?” Angel asked. “What paperwork is so important that you need to handle, it personally?” he added, voice turning deliberately suggestive as he leaned forward almost ninety degrees, until his head was right at crotch level with Alastor.

Alastor might have to re-think his internal rankings. Angel Dust was quite possibly more annoying than Lucifer himself. 

No. He was not. But it was close.

Alastor pushed Angel out of his personal space with the butt of his staff, causing Angel to stumble backwards and land on his ass with a surprised guffaw. Fat Nuggets let out a shrill “Oink!” before wriggling out of Angel’s arms and sprinting off down the hall on tiny hooves.

Angel opened his mouth to fire back some quip, but no sound came out as Alastor stepped forward, planted his staff in front of him, and leaned in until their eyes were level and their noses nearly brushed.

“I handle quite a bit of the day-to-day paperwork,” Alastor said, "in between accommodating Charlie’s strange requests, and ţ̸̟̙͓͆͂ĥ̵̖̈́ḯ̷̯s̴͇̱͊—” The lights buzzed and flickered as Alastor hissed that last word, “—matter is far too important and complicated for someone of your standing and intellectual capacity to concern themselves with.”

Angel glared for a second then thought better of it, backing up, hands rising in surrender, posture loosening into exaggerated compliance. “Jeez, Daddy. I get it. Sea cucumber, sea cucumber.”

Mollified and eager to be gone, Alastor straightened his back, twirled his staff, and walked off. Before he got too far, he snapped his neck a full 180 degrees with an audible crack, lifted a hand in a cheerful little wave, and chirped over his shoulder, “Too-da-loo!”

It was late into the night, and Charlie found herself staring at the dark oak of Alastor’s door, thumbs twiddling in a nervous loop. The hallway was quiet in that way the hotel got, no music, no voices, just the soft, empty hum of the building.

It was different this time. She wasn’t barging in unannounced, wasn’t running on adrenaline and panic, forced to act before she could even think. She was just… here. Waiting outside Alastor’s door. On purpose. To tend to him. 

It was nerve-wrackingly intimate. Her palms were a little damp. She wiped them on her pants, then immediately regretted it when it left greasy smears along the thighs.

And on top of all of that, she was still overwrought with guilt.

Last night, she’d been forced to lie to Vaggie. She’d never done that before. Their relationship was built on mutual trust. Something that was hard to find in Hell.  It's true that Vaggie somewhat broke that trust by keeping her origins a secret, but Charlie had some time to think on it, and honestly? Charlie could hardly blame her.

When they met, Vaggie had been freshly stranded in Hell. The last thing she would’ve wanted was to tell the princess of Hell, who had taken her in, that she’d slaughtered hundreds, maybe thousands of her people.

And after that… time passed. Their relationship deepened. The weight of it grew heavier. Bringing it up later would have been awkward at best and cruel at worst. It would cause pain. It could jeopardize things. It was easier to leave it buried.

But now Charlie had lied to her. Not once, but twice. And the worst part was that it didn’t feel like it was going to stop. It stood to reason she was going to have to lie again, and again, and again. Until Alastor is all healed, because she is under no delusions that Alastor will let her tell Vaggie. He is too stubborn in his pride.

Charlie had told Vaggie she was going to go work on the paperwork with Alastor tonight before bed. Vaggie wasn’t happy about that. Her face tightened and shoulders went stiff. If Vaggie had her way, Charlie would never interact with Alastor at all. Actually, if she really got her wish, Alastor wouldn’t have any part in the hotel, period. 

Vaggie complained, asking why Alastor couldn’t handle it himself. If he needed help dealing with paperwork, then maybe he shouldn’t be a manager in the first place.

Charlie had pointed out, carefully, that he was the “Facility Manager,” and wasn’t even technically obligated to do paperwork. That took a little wind out of Vaggie’s sails, but only for a second. She’d just pivoted and muttered that maybe it was time for a demotion, then.

Charlie hadn’t wanted to keep trying to convince her. She’d already felt stretched thin, and arguing about Alastor on top of everything else made her want to crawl out of her own skin. So she’d broken down and told a lie that sounded responsible instead of defensive. 

She knew that as long as she framed it as her taking control, Vaggie would agree. Charlie implied she wanted to know exactly what was going on with this “paperwork.” Just because she didn’t fully understand it didn’t mean she was comfortable letting Alastor deal with “Overlord politics” without her hovering nearby.

That did it. That flipped Vaggie instantly. 

“I suppose,” Vaggie said. “Can’t trust him not to double deal.”

Honestly, it was the ease with which Vaggie believed her that made it hurt the most. Anxiety and a thick, sticky shame had been wrestling in Charlie’s chest ever since, leaving her a little nauseous. She hadn’t really considered the toll it would take when Alastor demanded “discretion.”

Not that she’d had much of a choice, anyway.

Charlie scrunched up her face in determination, wiped a tear away, and softly knocked on Alastor’s door. A muffled clap came from behind the door, then the door opened. 

Alastor filled the frame, staring down at her with that trademark grin stretched into place and eyes that looked… wrong. Tired, yes. But more than tired.

It was a small detail, hard to notice if you hadn’t spent as much time around him as her, but staring into his red gaze, Charlie could just barely make out the angry red veins spidering through his bloodshot eyes. 

Her guilt didn’t vanish, but it got shoved to the side by a sudden, sharp rush of concern. 

Alastor looked absolutely fucking awful. Nearly as bad as last night.

She hadn’t expected him to deteriorate this quickly. She’d thought that the boost would buy him more time than that. If she was being optimistic, she kept telling herself he might have the strength to recover if she just kept him topped up.

Seeing him like this snapped that fragile hope in half.

He stepped back and waved her in. “We really should sync up our schedules, and our stories, for that matter!” he said, almost managing to sound enthusiastic, like this was a casual get-together.

“Now,” Alastor said, voice bright in that performative way of his, “I’ve gathered from Angel Dust that you told a little fib. Oh! You naughty girl!” He chided mockingly, wagging a finger at her like she was a misbehaving child.

Just as quickly as her concern had shoved it aside, the guilt came crashing back to center stage. Her throat tightened, and her vision blurred as tears threatened to overtake her.

“I really must commend you,” Alastor continued, grin unwavering. “It’s a good cover. Easily explainable as taking multiple days, requiring the both of us, and not being solvable by others. Buuuuut, it’s only useful if we can keep our stories straight. I haven’t expanded on the lie yet, so why don’t you tell me what you told the others, and we can take it from there.”

The worst part was that he almost sounded… proud.

Charlie racked her brain, trying to recall her exact wording. She’d been trying not to think about it, because thinking about it meant reliving it. The guilt, the shame. But Alastor was right. If they slipped, if their stories didn’t match, everything’d go to shit twice as fast.

“I just said you were busy with some… overlord politics things,” Charlie admitted, voice small despite herself. “And then I told Vaggie I was going to help you with paperwork, I didn’t understand it, but I wasn’t going to let you do it without me.”

Alastor’s grin sharpened into something predatory. “Wouldn’t let me?” he repeated.

A low rumble rolled out of him, not quite a growl and not quite a laugh. Charlie’s stomach did a traitorous little flip. Heat crawled up her neck into her cheeks. She opened her mouth to apologize, to take the words back, to—

Alastor cut her off with a lifted hand, smile relaxing, then continued in a cheery voice, “See! It’s a good thing we’re getting our stories straight now, before things spiral out of control.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “I propose this,” Alastor said. “Due to the recent battle with the exorcist army, we have attracted attention from rival powers. We need to cement ourselves now, before people try to displace us.” He got a hungry look in his eyes, “It’s a doomed endeavor, of course, but sinners aren’t known for their brains.”

He gestured vaguely, “Right now, we are working on officially demarcating this hotel as my…” He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, then corrected himself with exaggerated generosity. “Our territory. That should appease your lapdog somewhat.”

Charlie bristled, eyes flaring fiery red. “Don’t call her that!” she snapped.

Alastor put a hand to his chest—right over the place his wound sat beneath his jacket—as if he’d been struck. “You wound me more than an exorcist’s blade,” he said woefully. “I’ve never heard you jump to my defense like that when Vaggie uses a less than savory moniker for me.” He dabbed at his eye, wiping away a non-existent tear.

Charlie’s anger sputtered. She deflated a little, shoulders dropping as the point landed.

‘That was fair.’

She couldn’t really expect him to be cordial with Vaggie when Vaggie has openly hated and disparaged him for over a year. She’d made her opinion painfully clear every chance she got. Charlie was just… feeling extra defensive of her tonight.

“You’re right,” Charlie admitted begrudgingly. “I’ll…” She trailed off, “Anyways, that cover makes sense, but that’s not really why we’re here. Are you ready?” She just wanted this to be over.

“Yes, I supposed we should get to business.” He said as he lowered himself into one of his armchairs by the empty fireplace.

Charlie took the moment to breathe. She let her eyes wander around the room, partly to ground herself, partly because she couldn’t help it.

It was mostly as she remembered—somewhere between an antiquated hunting lodge and a bayou cabin. Dark wood. Old-fashioned decor. Hunting trophies mounted on the walls. The far end of the room opened up into an impossible stretch of muggy swamp, water and moss and distant trees pressed up against reality. It smelled like swamp.

Her eyes briefly lingered on a stack of ominous looking books and scrolls on his desk. Those definitely hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen his room.

Charlie sat in the other armchair across from him and, before she could overthink it, reached out and took Alastor’s hands in hers. 

She could feel tense immediately, he didn’t pull away, that would have caused a scene, but he was visibly uncomfortable. There wasn’t much she could do about that though. This was the minimum amount of contact they could manage and still make this work.

“I’m going to go slower this time,” Charlie said, “It’ll be easier on both of us.”

“Mhm,” Alastor replied

Charlie began pouring her magic into him. Slowly this time, not the desperate deluge she’d channeled when she found him yesterday. Even at this careful pace, she could feel the drain on her reserves, a steady pull that left her limbs a little heavier with each passing moment.

It suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t even know what was actually happening with his wound. She knew Adam had inflicted it. She knew it had nearly killed him. She knew golden threads spread from it. Beyond that, nothing.

“So…” Charlie started, choosing her words carefully, “What are the symptoms?”

He just glared at her for a few seconds while Charlie thought about how to approach this tactfully, before finally just deciding to be blunt. It’s a conversation they’re going to need to have.

“I need to know if I’m going to find a way to treat you.” Charlie said, forcing confidence she didn’t have into her voice, then looked him dead in the eyes. “I know you don’t like being vulnerable, but it’s not like I can use anything you tell me against you.”

“You own my soul,” she said quietly. “And you’ve already forbidden me from talking about it with anyone.”

She didn’t like mentioning it. It still didn’t really feel real, and it was easier to ignore it.

Alastor relented, but he looked far from happy about it. His smile thinned at the edges, the corners dragged tight. For him, it might as well have been a frown.

“Well,” he began, “It started off like a normal angelic wound. Nothing special, just slow to heal.” His fingers flexed faintly in Charlie’s grasp, “It wasn’t until the first week or so that it started acting… differently. Traces of golden power tainted my blood, as I’m sure you noticed yesterday. Disinfecting it with alcohol helped slow its progress. Beezlejuice worked best.”

Charlie made a mental note to order beezlejuice for the hotel. Multiple bottles. Enough to stock the bar and then some.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charlie said, voice softening just a fraction. “When did you last redress the wound? Should we do that tonight before I leave?”

Alastor lifted his chin slightly, “I can handle that part on my own, Princess.”

Charlie’s stomach sank a little. A quiet, stupid hurt, because even now, even with her hands on his and her magic keeping him upright, he didn’t trust her.

She didn’t respond, and after a beat, Alastor continued.

“Then came the pain,” he said, tone turning slightly flatter. “An intense burning pain in my core whenever I called upon my magic.” His eyes narrowed, “If I recall, that first presented when you asked me to rid the hotel of some vermin that made a nest in the hotel.”

Charlie remembered.

She’d asked Alastor to remove some birds that had made a home in the chimney. She’d been about to clarify that she wanted them safely relocated, but before she could, he had flooded the chimney with a sudden gout of green flame. Then immediately doubled over coughing.

He’d waved it off afterward with an excuse, ‘Never been much of a smoker.’ And Charlie easily accepted it. Just another notch in her belt of willful obliviousness. 

Alastor’s voice pulled her back.

“After that,” he said, “it was just progressive feverishness, weakness, and tiredness. “It continued to get worse, of course. Rapidly.” His smile somehow tightened even more. “But the list of symptoms was rather narrow.”

Alastor hated this. Detested it. Far more than he’d expected. He’d known he wouldn’t enjoy it, but knowing and feeling were different things. He was sitting here with Charlie’s hands around his, letting her pour strength into him while he narrated his own decline. He was being vulnerable.

Even if he owned Charlie’s soul, no deal was absolute, especially this one, as he deliberately left an exit clause.

Still, it was necessary.

Once he was healed, she wouldn’t be able to use this against him in any meaningful way. Not really. If she spilled the tea someday, it would be an annoyance, a bruise to his reputation and pride, nothing more. He’d survived worse, he survived this after all.

“I’ve never heard of symptoms like that,” she said in that infuriating mother-doe tone of hers. He’d expected her to be more recalcitrant after he’d summoned her chains, more resentful. Almost have preferred it too. It would grate on his nerves less.

Only his cold practicality reminded him that her having a favorable disposition towards him was a good thing.

So he decided to tune everything else out and focus on the sensation of her magic filling him. The slow, steady feed. The way it pushed under his skin and met the lingering gold. The way it churned and resisted and then finally settled, threading through his own power in uneven lines. Who knows, maybe he could learn something from it.

And it was different.

Her power tasted like nothing he’d experienced before. Every soul had a flavor if you paid attention, overlords especially. Each with itsown sharp notes and bitter edges. Yet beneath those differences, most of them shared the same underlying palette.

Charlie’s didn’t.

It did have that pleasant, familiar burn of Hell, but fresher, a sort of airy energy. Like waking up well-rested and going for a jog on a brisk day.

It was… oddly intoxicating.