Why yes, I'll take your soul

Alastor was on his way to his room after a particularly long broadcast when he noticed a familiar little angel outside his door, foot tapping an irritated staccato against the floor. The hallway lights caught the edge of her wings as she leaned against the wall. He slowed to a stop, smile twitching.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, darling?”

“Cut the shit, Alastor,” Vaggie snapped, arms crossed tight. “You’ve been sketchy as fuck lately. We almost never see you anymore, and when we do, you’re either dead quiet or being a total asshole.”

She pushed off the wall and stepped closer, her single eye unblinking as it raked over him.

“So you need to either, and I re-iterate, cut the shit. or…” She threw her hands up, muttering under her breath, “Puchica, no puedo creer…”

“Or at least tell Charlie what the hell’s going on, because this,” she gestured broadly to him in an encompassing sweep, “this is tearing her apart.”

“My, my, someone’s been keeping a diary! How flattering to know you’re so invested in me. I’ve simply been busy, and if I've been a little curt, well... like I said, I’ve been very busy. Now if you’ll excuse me”

He made to step past her.

She didn’t move.

“I don’t give a fuck about you or what’s going on!” Vaggie snapped, her voice sharp with fury. “But Charlie does! She’s hurting, because despite everything, she still cares about you.”

She paused to collect herself, drawing in a few steadying breaths before continuing, more quietly but no less firmly. “She’s scared. Scared that something’s wrong with you, or that she’s done something to upset you. She doesn’t know what’s going on, she just knows you’ve become distant. You need to talk to her. You owe us that much.”

Alastor had been nothing if not magnanimous. He’d honored his end of their deal to the letter. All he’d ever asked of her was discretion. That was it.

“I don’t owe anyone anything.” He said with a measured voice. “Least of all you.”

“Nothing?!” Vaggie shot back, disbelief turning her words sharp. “Nothing?! I’ve kept my mouth shut about your deal with Charlie. Do you have any idea how easy it would be to let that slip to Lucifer?”

Alastor didn’t flinch. He didn’t let his smile fall. He didn’t even blink. But his fingers flexed once at his side, slow and controlled, then stilled again. His gaze fixed on her eye, steady and bright. 

Vaggie stepped forward, hands clenched. The space between them narrowed, close enough that Alastor could hear the tension in her breathing now, could see the faint tremor in her shoulders

“And Charlie. She’s done everything she can to support you through this!” she said, gesticulating wildly, nearly trembling with frustration. “Even after you swooped in at her lowest moment and… did what you did.”

Her voice finally broke off. The fury seemed to drain from her all at once, leaving her still and quiet. She held his gaze for a beat longer, then turned away.

“Think about it,” she said over her shoulder as he entered his room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did he allow the smallest shift in his posture. Slumping ever so slightly to ease the tension in his ribs. To calm the searing pain.

Charlie was compelled to keep the details of their deal secret. He was certain that was the only reason Vaggie had kept her mouth shut this long. Vaggie isn’t loyal to him. She didn’t do it for him.

And Charlie? 

She’s not the one slowly falling apart as a result of their deal.

So no. He didn’t owe them a damn thing.

It was late. Past midnight. Much later than when Alastor usually checked on Chum, but he’d overslept.

Sloth wasn’t a sin he usually attributed to himself, but then again, it was difficult to muster initiative when one's body felt like it was actively trying to die. He’d gone down hard after the broadcast, intending to shut his eyes for a moment, and then the ‘moment’ had swallowed hours.

The instant he’d seen the time, he’d lurched upright with a sharp inhale, suppressing a hiss of pain. He'd scrambled to the kitchen, working quickly to prepare a large pot of shrimp gumbo. 

Now he was creeping out of the hotel. The spear felt heavier than it should in his gloved hand. Hopefully—

“What the fuck are you doing?” A familiar voice demanded.

Alastor turned, freezing mid-step.

Charlie and Vaggie were seated in the hotel’s modest garden, a recent addition Charlie had insisted on during repairs. It looked oddly pleasant at this hour, soft lantern light, damp soil, a few stubborn flowers fighting for life in Hell’s air. Charlie sat forward on the bench, alert despite the hour, while Vaggie sat rigid beside her, arms crossed, expression already set on “argument.”

He offered a tight smile. “What are you two doing out so late?”

“I asked first, shitfuck.”

“I am going on a late night stroll,” Alastor lied.

“With that?” Vaggie asked, pointing to his angelic spear, unimpressed. “Since when do you use a spear anyway?!”

Before he can respond, Charlie steps between Alastor and Vaggie.

“Alastor, I know it’s none of my business what you do in your free time,” she said, then clasped her hands under her chin and hit him with the full force of puppy dog eyes, “but I’d rrrreally appreciate it if you didn’t kill anyone.”

She offered a nervous laugh, but her eyes were serious.

“We’re trying to redeem sinners,” she continued, talking faster now, “and that’s hard to do if they’re dead, and no one’s going to want to stay here if you go out and slaughter people.”

“Oh contraire,” Alastor said, and booped Charlie on the nose before she could lean away. “If I truly went on a rampage every night,” He placed a dramatic hand to his chest, smile brightening into something theatrical. “sinners would flock to the hotel just to be spared my wrath!”

“We’re not letting you go on a bloody rampage,” Vaggie said.

Alastor’s eye gave a twitch. ‘The sheer impudence. She doesn’t have any say in what I do.’

“You have no control over my actions,” he said tightly, the edge in his voice unmistakable. 

Then he turned that edge away from Charlie, smoothing his expression back into cheer and aimed it at her.. “But fret not, my dear. You’re absolutely right. It’s none of your business how I spend my time. That said…” He lifted the angelic spear in one gloved hand. “I have no intention of using this.”

Charlie stepped back slightly, her uneasy expression lingering. “Oookay…” she said slowly, clearly unconvinced.

“Well then,” Alastor said, “I’m already quite behind schedule, so ta ta!” And with that, he rushed off into the night.

Alastor arrived at the warehouse with his head held high, doing his best to hide the weight dragging at his limbs. This was wearing on him. Something caught his eye. Something small. Mundane. But bad enough to make his blood run cold.

Chum is sitting quietly, playing chess with himself.

His arms are free.

Alastor had forgotten to rebind them. A simple, stupid mistake. It would have been trivial for Chum to slip the rest of the restraints and vanish into Pentagram City.

But he hadn’t.

Chum’s attention stayed on the board, brow furrowed in concentration. He moved a piece, paused, then moved another with a quiet little sound of satisfaction.

Did it not occur to him? Or did he simply trust Alastor?

Alastor exhales through his nose, brushing it off with a faint scowl. All’s well that ends well.

“Surprised to see you up, Chum,” he calls out.

Chum looks up from his chess set. Chum looked up from his chess set. There was a faint shadow under his eyes that hadn’t been there when Alastor first dragged him in here. His face looked narrower. His cheeks sat a little closer to the bone. “Oh, well uh, I don’t really have a, like, sleep schedule anymore, you know?”

After escorting Chum to the bathroom, Alastor packed up the chess set and began preparing the meal. He served them each a generous helping of gumbo, steam rising thick and fragrant in the stale warehouse air.

Chum’s lost weight. Noticeably. 

He was no longer the burly specimen Alastor had originally abducted. The thick neck and broad shoulders were still there, but the mass around them had softened and shrunk. That is to be expected, but still, it can’t be healthy to only get one meal a day. Hence the full pot of gumbo. Plenty enough for Chum to have a second or even third helping.

A knock at the bathroom door.

Alastor doesn’t speak. He simply opens it, guides Chum back to the chair, and binds his legs once more.

Chum dives into the gumbo like a man starved, because he is. Between greedy mouthfuls, he launches into his usual flurry of praise, and the tone is familiar… until the conversation takes a sharper, more curious turn.

“So what’s the deal with you and Vox?” Chum asked, speaking around a mouthful of gumbo.

“Pardon,” Alastor said, tilting his head with feigned nonchalance. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean why’s, uh… why’s Vox hate your fuckin’ guts?”

Alastor arched an eyebrow, then gave a light chuckle. “Ah. That.”

He swirled his spoon in his gumbo, took a bite, and chewed slowly before continuing. “He begged for my help. Wanted to be ‘partners.’” He let the word sit there for a moment, then let his smile sharpen. “I declined.” He tapped the side of his bowl with the spoon. “But Vox, he took it... personally.”

Chum nodded, listening attentively, food forgotten.

“And you know how much of a drama queen he is,” Alastor went on. “The posturing, the shows of dominance. He kept escalating, trying to provoke something, until eventually, he declared me his rival, his archenemy.” He let out a scoffing laugh. “I suppose it gives him something to do.”

He shrugged one shoulder, hiding a wince as it pulled on his bandages painfully. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never really thought much of it. I have plenty of self-proclaimed rivals.” He gave Chum a sly grin. “One of them’s staying at my hotel.” He gave Chum a sly grin.

Chum belted out a laugh before returning to his gumbo.

Truthfully, Alastor thought about Vox more than he cared to admit. He’d been almost respectable once. A kindred spirit. Sure, his infatuation was a little pathetic, but he’d had talent. He’d had ambition. Then he had to go and ruin it.

It just went to show, you shouldn’t let anyone get too close. They’ll always let you down.

They turned back to their meal. As expected, Chum devoured three bowls of gumbo without hesitation, scraping the last spoonfuls from the bottom with single-minded focus. 

When they were done, Alastor cleared the dishes, set up the chess, then reached into his coat and produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Alastor poured them each a glass filled three quarters.

Chum picked his up, eyeing the amber liquid thoughtfully. “Should I really be drinking this? I mean… in my condition?”

“I’m drinking it,” Alastor said, raising his own glass and taking a slow sip. The burn hit his throat and settled warm in his chest. For a moment, it drowned out everything else. “And I’m in far worse condition than you.”

Chum nodded at that. “Alright, checks out.”

He took a mouthful and immediately coughed, eyes watering. “Strong stuff,” he sputtered, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Top shelf,” Alastor remarked, swirling his glass. “From my personal supply.”

No point in saving it. At this rate, he might not live long enough to enjoy it all.

They finished their round of chess in silence, the only sounds the soft click of pieces and the occasional clink of glass against steel. The whiskey went down in measured pulls. Chum sipped slower after the first cough, still making a face each time. Alastor drank with practiced ease, a lethargic enthusiasm.

By the time the last of the whiskey sat at the bottom of their glasses, the game had come to a close. Alastor won. Barely.

Then he set his glass aside and stood.

“Alright, Chum. Before we continue, shirt off.”

Chum smirked, loosening his collar. “Wow,” he drawled, “one drink and you’re already trying to get me naked?”

“Hah. No.” Alastor said flatly.

He leaned in to inspect the wound. No gold-tinged infection. No strange marks. No creeping thread of anything unusual. Just an angry, healing gash doing exactly what a normal wound inflicted by angelic steel was supposed to do.

‘Normal. Useless.’

Frustration prickled behind his eyes. He kept his face smooth, kept his hands steady as he adjusted the bandage, but his jaw tightened until it threatened to crack.

Alastor didn’t have long left. Two weeks, maybe, if he was generous. Less if he pushed too hard. Not long enough to begin again.

For a brief moment he considered stabbing Chum again to hurry things along, but quickly dismissed the idea. Chum would never survive. Sure, he's healing well, but he's also been chained to a chair for nearly a week, only getting one meal a day.

It said a lot about Chum that he could still be as chipper and friendly as he was. That he could still make jokes.

Alastor stuffed his frustration deep down, tamped it into something smaller and colder, and locked it away.

“Shall we?” he asked, nodding toward the chessboard.

“Gladly,” Chum replied, already sitting up straighter.

Chum won for the first time in the third match. Alastor wasn’t surprised.

The boy was a natural. The more time he spent across the board from Alastor, the sharper he got. He learned fast, adapted faster, and didn’t panic when a plan stopped working. He shifted, improvised, and kept coming. 

Alastor, by contrast, had studied the game. He knew the theory. He’d memorized strategies, openings, little traps. Despite this, he lacks the skill to innovate. And… if he’s being honest, he’s slipping. The infection is taking its toll. Thinking hurts. Sustained focus is a luxury he no longer has.

While packing up, he hesitates, glancing at the Chum. He didn’t try to escape last time. And honestly, he’s been... civil. Almost pleasant.

Trustworthy, even.

With a faint shrug, Alastor leaves Chum’s arms unbound, and the chess set within reach.

Alastor sat slouched in his favorite armchair, slowly sipping whisky while half-listening to Angel and Husk bicker over their card game. Spite and Malice, if he recalled correctly. Fitting, really.

The lounge was warm in that stale, overused way. The faint scent of smoke, and whatever nonsense Angel had sprayed on himself hung in the air.

He took a sip. It burned, momentarily distracting from his agony, and if he was lucky, everything would dull a little. He’d been drinking more lately. More often. More openly. Enough that even Husk had taken notice, if the wary glances and the twitch of a furrowed brow were any indication.

Whether Husk is concerned by, or for Alastor… well, if Alastor were the betting sort, his money would be on the former.

Still, the drinking helped. Blunted the pain. Took the edge off the constant irritation of being trapped in a body that refused to cooperate. It didn’t fix anything, but it made the hours easier to sit through.

And the pain, that strange, lingering throb, hadn’t been quite as sharp these last few days. A mercy, in theory.

But Alastor didn’t see it that way.

He feared it was the symptom of a greater problem. Namely, everything had been duller lately. Not just the wound. Everything. Sounds didn’t carry the same crisp bite. Colors didn’t feel as clean. He has been plagued by a creeping, suffocating heaviness in his bones. His mind, once sharp and sparking with thought, now moved like it waded through syrup.

And the worst part was that there was nothing he could do about it. No cure. No countermeasure. No clever trick to pull from a sleeve. He simply didn’t have the strength. Not for the kind of work it would take. Not anymore.

Even with all his knowledge, all his infernal cunning and esoteric tricks, he was powerless to rid himself of this detestable wound.

He was...

It was...

He……

CRASH

Alastor jolted upright with a sharp gasp, breath catching as a lance of pain shot through his ribs. He hissed between clenched teeth, body jerking with the effort, one hand flying to his chest on instinct. His heart hammered once, hard, and the ache answered in a hot pulse beneath his bandages.

‘What happened?’

He strained to remember. He’d been ruminating bitterly, mulling over his own helplessness... and then?

Something shattered.

Then, apparently, he’d dozed off.

He must have dropped his glass.

Alastor tried to glance at the floor, but something got in his way. Fabric shifted across his lap. He looked down.

Someone had draped a blanket over him.

Alastor seethed.

Heat crawled up the back of his neck. His claws curled into the wool and tightened, knuckles stiff. Someone had seen him like that. Passed out, vulnerable, pathetic.

Worse, they’d pitied him. Draped a blanket over him like he was some poor, feverish child. A kindness. A mercy. An indignity.

His fury boiled over.

With a snarl, he lurched to his feet and flung the blanket from his shoulders. The movement tore at his ribs and he ignored it. A blaze of green fire engulfed the blanket mid-air, eating through fabric in a hungry burst.

Thud

He dropped to the floor. His chest heaved. His vision swam, then tightened. Gold-tinged blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and spattered the floorboards

‘Fucking moronic.’

He lay there for a beat, teeth clenched, swallowing down the nausea and the reflex to cough.

He can’t use his magic so flippantly. Not anymore. Not like this.

He can’t use his magic at all really, not unless it’s life or death.

Alastor forced his eyes open and quickly surveyed the room to make sure there were no witnesses to his humiliation. Grinding his teeth, Alastor planted a hand on the floor and pushed himself up inch by inch. The motion made his chest scream, he pushed on anyway. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his glove, smearing gilded blood across the leather, and kept his head down as he hauled himself to his room.

Alastor’s eyes cracked open, the world behind them a blurred smear of shadows and ceiling beams. He didn’t move. Not at first. He let himself lie there and breathe, waiting for the worst of the ache to settle into something he could endure.

When he finally shifted, his joints protested immediately. The weight of his clothes tried to drag him back down. A deep ache pulsed under his ribs, familiar by now\. He swallowed, tasting old whiskey and something metallic, then fumbled into his coat with stiff fingers and dug out his pocketwatch.

2:07

He stared. Then blinked in confusion.

A burst of angry static hissed through the room. That was the extent of his power now.

He’d overslept. Slept through most of the day, in fact.

Alastor dragged himself to his feet, pausing once to steady his balance, then trudged down to the kitchen. He threw together something quick and easy with the last scraps of energy he could summon.

By the time he reached the building, his patience was already thin. He threw open the warehouse doors and dragged himself inside.

Chum was once again playing chess against himself, though he paused to watch Alastor’s approach.

“I have to piss,” Chum said.

Alastor moved to unfasten the chains. “You can manage from here, I presume,” he said with a flippant wave of his hand.

Chum gave him a strange look. “Uh, yeah,” he murmured.

While Chum meandered toward the bathroom, Alastor began setting the makeshift table. Eggs, venison, and collard greens. Nothing fancy.

Chum took his seat just as Alastor finished pouring their whiskey. He watched the demon carefully for a moment, studying him.

“You, uh... you don’t look so hot,” Chum said.

“Funny. I feel very hot,” Alastor replied dryly, wiping sweat from his brow. He really was burning up, fever radiating off him in waves.

Chum let out a low, dark chuckle and dug into his food with his usual enthusiasm. Alastor, drained, didn’t bother keeping up appearances. Instead, nearly matching Chum's pace.

As they finished their meal, Chum leaned back with a grin. “Damn, that was good. I wasn’t sure about this green shit, but fuck if you can’t cook.”

Alastor’s beleaguered smile reached his eyes, just for a moment. The praise hit harder than it should have. It always felt good to be appreciated.

“All right. Time to check that wound, catalogue your progress, so on and so forth,” Alastor said lazily.

Chum peeled off his ratty shirt without comment, exposing the wrapped mess beneath. He sat still, letting Alastor get to work.

Alastor sliced through the bandages with deliberate care, though his hands weren’t as steady as usual. Each wince from Chum betrayed a slip, small, but telling. The fever was catching up with him.

Alastor downed a glass of whiskey to still his shaking hands. The burn snapped him into focus for a breath. Not enough, but something.

“Apologies,” Alastor said flatly once he finished.

“It’s fine. What’s a little pain between friends, eh?”

‘Friends?’

Alastor stilled. Just for a breath, then hummed something that could be perceived as agreement.

Still nothing. The wound was perfectly banal. Minimal swelling, no infection, no trace of festering angelic energy.

Alastor's face sagged. His shoulders slumped. His smile almost slipped. The tension drained from him all at once, leaving only bitter exhaustion. He deflated, sporting the barest of smiles.

Either Adam’s axe carried distinctly potent and lingering energies that could not be replicated with a mere angelic spear, or Alastor’s distinctly resilient constitution allowed him to survive and progress beyond what a common demon could withstand. 

Perhaps both.

But the conclusion was the same. This experiment had been a waste. 

With a weary sigh, Alastor moved. The motion was swift but labored, powered by the last scraps of focus and strength he could summon. He spun, seized the angelic spear, and drove it clean through Chum’s eye.

Alastor sat alone in his radio tower, sipping whiskey straight from the bottle.

He was slipping. Even the bottle felt impossibly heavy in his hand now.

Everyone had noticed something was off. Thankfully, most had chalked it up to a bad mood. That won’t last. He can’t hide this pervasive, bone deep fatigue. And, when he caught his reflection in the bottle, he noticed the gold had begun to creep up his cheek. ‘Can’t hide that.’

His stomach turned. Anger rose, hot and sharp, because fear was not an emotion he allowed. He tilted the bottle back and drained it in one long pull, swallowing through the burn, through the nausea, through the sour metallic taste that came with too much whiskey and not enough time.

Then he hurled it at the door.

The bottle shattered on impact, glass exploding outward in a loud, hollow crash. The sound echoed through the tower and died quickly, leaving the room silent again. 

The outburst didn’t fix anything. It didn’t even feel satisfying. Just noise. Just a brief flare of impotent rage.

Chum had been a shame. He’d been cooperative and respectful. All around pleasant, in his blunt, simple way. But he’d known too much.

Alastor let out a long, weary sigh, and stared at the scattered glass for a moment

He supposed he should tend to the festering wound, not that that was helping much.