Chapter Text
"Why the sad face, darling?"
I look up. It's Alastor, not much more a blur of red as he breezes around me. Great. I don't like him coming around when I'm like this. Feels like I'm inconveniencing him.
"I'm just in a bad mood."
"From being in bad company?" he asks, running a nail along my shoulder. Must have taken his gloves off. Bastard. He knows I like that.
"Yeah," I mutter, remembering the uncomfortable dinner with my family, ending as it always did.
They were insensitive. I was sensitive.
"Would you like me to -"
"No," I interrupt, tiredly. "I don't want you to murder them all."
He leans over my shoulder, fingers gripping with a wonderful pressure, and gives me a wounded look.
"I wasn't going to suggest such a thing."
I shoot him back a raised brow and he smiles ever wider.
"You know me too well, dearie. Alright then, would you like me to...cheer you up?"
"You can try," I dare him, arms crossed. "I think I need to drink to be honest."
He's still heavy against my back, hands sliding down my arms.
"Oh, please don't cry. I so hate to see you upset."
He's being genuine now, his smile is even a little down turned. He can see the tears already gathering in my eyes. I close them, knowing having attention drawn to the fact that I'm about to cry just makes me more likely to cry. A sharp nail trails gently down the side of my face.
"Now, now. Don't hide those beautiful eyes away from me. They're so beautiful. It's a shame every second they're hidden from the world."
"Okay that was kinda cheesy," I chuckle, downing the last of my drink.
"Ha ha!" he declares, sliding smoothly onto the stool beside me. "But it made you laugh. Even just a little. And that's my prerogative."
I shake my head and signal the bartender for another drink. "I know you never say yes but I'll ask you again anyway cause it's polite. Would you like a drink, Alastor?"
"I never say yes, that's right, but I'll peruse the menu again anyway because it is polite," he says, a menu sliding into his hand as he spoke.
I watch him leaf through wines and whiskies, noting dates and details. It's a comfortable silence, but then it always it between us. After an ~appropriate~ amount of time, of course, he sets it down and it takes itself back to the menu stand.
"I'm quite fine without a drink, thank you. What are you drinking this evening, anyway? It doesn't look like your usual poison. Feeling adventurous tonight?" he asks, in a way that might have held sexual insinuation if someone else had said it.
"That's cause it's not my usual poison. It's double poison with extra cherries and a lil umbrella. Rather the opposite of adventurous, this is my depression drink," I add glumly, picking out one of the skewered cherries.
He plucks it deftly from my hand. I smile, already knowing what he's about to do. He sucks on the cherry for a moment and then leans in and opens his mouth. The stem's tied in the shape of a heart.
"Y'know you needn't pretend it's possible to actually do that, I know it's magic," I complain, bitter in a playful way. I can't even do a regular knot let alone a heart.
He pokes me. "Absolutely no prestidigitation here, darling. It's perfectly possible for you to do, you simply don't possess the oral skills."
He watches with pleasure as I smile again. He knows I find innuendos particularly funny. Especially puns. God it's a matter of moments before he moves onto the puns. I need a way to distract him otherwise I'll really lose my shit. Laughing is good, but it just makes me repress rather than deal with stuff. And if I don't deal with it soon I'm guaranteed to feel it all twice as much later on at a much more inconvenient time. He can sense this in my shoulders drooping and the sigh not even crawling its way out of my mouth yet.
"After this drink you might call it a night. You might...enjoy a nightcap with me?"
That's our code phrase. God yes. I wade through whiskey clouded thoughts to the code phrase I'm supposed to say back.
"A nightcap would be lovely, thanks."
He grins. I mean he always grins. But this isn't a grin to hide his true thoughts. It's a proper grin. Mirth and madness right there at the surface.
"Right then," he murmurs, tapping the table.
Always adorable when he gets nervous, even just a little. Nice to know that I only I get to see it, too. Precious, in all the ways. He's not a mind reader (God he'd be a smug unbearable git with that) but he can still tell what I just thought.
"Oh behave," he says, nudging me. "Or I'll do my British impression."
That makes me laugh, hard. "Oh god, no, not again. It's literally the worst I've ever heard, please don't do it."
He sighs goodnaturedly. "Fine, fine. But only because you said please."
"That's my line."
I always say that. I have a weakness for begging. He says it back at me sometimes. We mean it in different ways. He has a weakness for good manners. Watch this.
I down my drink, sighing at the glass hits the table.
"Alastor," I begin, in that tone he knows means I'm about to ask for something.
"Yes, darling," he says in that tone that I know means he's about to give me whatever the hell want.
"Would you take my glass back to the bar, please?"
He stands over me, takes the glass and leans in.
"Are you taking advantage of my inability to resist politeness?"
"Yes," I smile up at him.
He kisses my forehead. "Wonderful."
That shocks me. "Al... What if someone sees?"
He nearly snorts. "I think in your drinking session you may have forgotten your surroundings. We're the only ones here. It's 4am after all."
My eyebrows leap and I remind myself to ask the bartender to leave the empty glasses next time so I can keep track of how long I've been here. The encounter with my family must have shook me more than I thought. Seeing my discomfort, he moved faster than my eye could follow and was back immediately, arm out all gentlemanly like.
"A walk to our carriage, Your Grace?"
"Of course," I answer, standing. Another thing I can't resist. Petnames. Especially ones like that. Standing doesn't last for long. As soon as both feet hit the ground I start to wobble and nearly topple over altogether. But he's there of course, before I fall even an inch.
"I rather think you need some water," he says, with as close to a frown as he gets.
"There's a 24/7 around the corner," I mumble as we exit the bar.
"No need. There's bottled water in the car."
'The car'. Like Alastor would ever be seen dead or alive in anything close to what the average person would describe as a car.
The seats are leather, red of course, and oh so cool on my cheek when I let myself topple onto them.
"Come on, up, up," Alastor whispers, helping me sit up.
Plastic presses against my lower lip.
"Drink up, dear. You're the one who told me this is how you cure a hangover before-"
"Before it even knocks on the door in the morning," I finish, and then go back to sipping.
The car's moving, I barely noticed. Alastor's driver is used to me by now, otherwise I'd say hello and apologise for the state I'm in. It's not the first time. I'm not an alcoholic yet, but we all know I'd better find a new coping mechanism soon. Interestingly enough, Alastor's been helping me with that. Speaking of, his hand is snapping in front of my eyes.
"- hear me, darling?"
"What's wrong?" I ask, taking his hand out of the air and holding it.
"You were in and out there, for a moment. Have some more water."
He looks worried so I let him give me the rest of the water.
"I'm alright," I say, honestly. The water is already clearing my head a little.
He's not convinced. "There's coffee, tea, whatever you might like inside. You ought to eat something too."
I pull a face. "I think I want some mouthwash and bed for the night."
I can tell he'd prefer me to have something more but he doesn't push it.
His hand curls around my leg. "Almost there. I'm glad we're spending this time together."
I put my hand over his. "Same. I'm always glad."
He takes this opportunity, while I'm still conscious and listening, to ask me a loaded question.
"Do you need to talk about your family? Or would you rather sleep on it til morn?"
I grimace, and for a moment I'm not sure why I want to be sick - the mention of my family or the whiskey making an enemy of my innards.
"I'm just tired of them. Everything they say is.. I'm never enough."
I must have had more to drink than I thought. I don't get sad-drunk until pretty far in, so I must have burned a hole in my wallet as well as my liver. Alastor's waiting to see if I'm done talking. I stutter sometimes and being polite like he is, he likes to wait an extra moment or two just in case.
He tips my face up to look at him. "It's not possible for me to be perfect, because true perfection only happens once. I happen to think you're exactly enough. Perfectly enough," he adds, smoothly.
I giggle into his shoulder. "You're so cheesy, Al."
He brings out the big guns next. "You don't think I could bree any cheesier?"
That gets me ugly-laughing. "Al, that's terrible. That's a dad joke, like the worst I've ever heard."
"I can do better," he all but threatens, leaning in closer.
I turn away. "Ugh, Al, I've got like - not just whiskey breath but puke breath. You don't wanna be near this. Maybe after I see a toothbrush and some mouthwash, minimum."
A sharp nail pokes my neck gently, trailing up to trace my lips.
"I just want to distract you from those..." he inhales, eyes flickering darkly. "Sorry, darling, all the words I want to call them are far too impolite to be uttered."
I put my head to the side, smiling. "You're not killing them, Alastor."
He, again, gives me that reproachful look, as if he'd never do such a thing. I don't have to tell you, he'd love to do such a thing.
I know he's not a good man. Or I guess a good demon, if there even is such a thing. But nobody here is. This is hell. We're all here because we did something shitty up there. It's not really my place to judge him. If anything cognitive dissonance is easier down here than ever. Morally, I don't agree with what he's done. But when he comes around all smiles and sly comments I can't help but smile back. I've only heard rumours anyway. I haven't asked him what he's done and he hasn't asked me why I'm down here either. He'd probably approve, knowing him and his opinion of my family. Thinking of my family again, I feel another drunk rant climbing up my throat.
"They're the villains in their own movie and they don't even know it. How many layers of irony is that? I guess that makes me the mopy protagonist, huh? What are you, the slick sidekick?"
He nods politely, as usual, as I drunk-rant about whatever I'm saying and then chuckles at that last bit.
"I rather think I'm more like an omniscient voice of reason, in your story at least. For example. I think you're spending a lot of yourself on waiting for these people to change."
He said people like it was a dirty word this time, one he wouldn't usually say.
"What if they never change? Are you going to stay trapped listening to them forever? How many years will you spend bending to their twisted will before you take control and do what you want? What you love."
"Woah," I slur, a little stunned. "Where the hell did that come from?"
"I've been concerned for a while, but it wasn't my place to say. I waited until I worried you would never see it yourself. To be polite, you see."
I try to focus my eyes on the carpeting. "I see."
I'm going to speak again. He can tell. Two of his fingers dance on my knee.
"I suppose you're right. That really is something a voice of reason would say. So what, like I should just yeet them out of my life?"
He looks confused and I'd honestly rather die again than hear him say the word yeet, so I speak again.
"Cut them off? Just like that? Can you do that with family? Anyone can break up with you, unfriend you, slowly drift away. But family's family, yknow? You can always expect a place set for you at Christmas. It's not much but it's home, you know? If I got rid of them... It'd be like being untethered in the world. Cutting the chord. I - I've never done that. It's that unconditional love bullshit, isn't it? I wish I could hate them."
Alastor looks introspective. Maybe he has his own family drama. I think maybe everyone does.
"Perhaps it's what you need. Who's to say, really, darling. I, certainly, am no authority on matters of this kind. What I do know, absolutely, is this is a decision best made soberly."
I nod heavily, almost careening onto the floor. "Yeah, sure. I guess that's my daily dose of logic from the voice of reason. Thanks. Really. I don't talk to anyone about this shit. Thanks."
His mic appears in his hand. "Why you're welcome, sweetheart! Nothing but the responsibility of a gentleman escorting a special somebody home!"
"Awww," I coo, falling against him with the gravity of the car turning. "I'm a special somebody?"
He steadies me, tipping my chin up again with his mic this time.
"Very special."
Anybody else hearing this conversation might mistake it for flirting. I don't know how we got here but it's beautiful. I kinda wish I had this bond with more people but it's nice in its uniqueness. I'd like to playfully steal his mic but it somehow doesn't seem to leave him. Like at all. It's like an extra limb or something. He likes to walk with it. I guess that's part of why it's materialising now - for the walk from the car to the door.
We're almost at his street, just a couple of turns away. I'm glad the heavy conversation is out of the way. I don't like coming home with more sadness to talk about. I guess that's why I kept drinking and drinking. It just wouldn't go away. If Alastor hadn't shown up, I would have spent not just the rest of the night in the there, but well into the next night too. Wouldn't be the first time I'd napped my way to the next happy hour.
Alastor steadies me again. "You're slipping, dearest."
"Dearest," I repeat, letting him wrap an arm around me. "I've never been anyone's dearest. Maybe dear. Just a bit. Not dearest. I think I need more water, Al."
He hands me the bottle and kisses the top of my head. "Dearest," he repeats, his voice little more than a whisper.
I tighten my grip on him a little, afraid if I don't focus on what he smells like, the exact shade of his suit, how the light glints off his eyes, maybe he'll slip away altogether.
We don't speak again until we're already folding open the sheets and climbing in. The time between was mostly spent concentrating on not spilling mouthwash. It's strange to be wearing pyjamas, I usually sleep naked. Even the small layers of shorts and a vest seem like too much fabric.
"Big or little," he asks, hands clasped behind his back expectantly.
I grin. "Big. Always big."
We're spooning, although he isn't particularly fond of that term. He smells great this close, probably much better than I smell. I should've showered.
"Shall we begin?"
I nod. "Ready when you are."
We're touching. It's something we've been doing since the first night we met. We lie together and just let our hands wander, giving pressure and rubbing in circles. Back, shoulder, neck, sides, over and over. It's not weird. It never is with Alastor. We usually do this til we fall asleep. It's nice. Mutually. He's learning that it's possible to have emotional and physical intimacy without romance or sexuality and I'm unlearning years of abuse-induced aversion to physical touch. It's a neat little system.
He's old school, been in hell for a while now, but I just got here recently. There's so much he doesn't know about. It's tempting to sit him down and just tell him all the exciting, wonderful things happening for people like us in the modern world. But there's something just so charming about how set in his time he is. I don't want to ruin that. It'd be like exposing an oil painting to bright light. I like hearing corny American phrases. Watching him slow blink in confusion when I speak in my 'new fangled lingo'. Letting him show me silent movies and teaching me old style dances. It's precious to me. Besides, if Alastor wanted to catch up with the human world he would. He's eccentric by choice. It's the way uh huh uh huh he likes it. So when I make a reference he misses or talk about an event he hasn't seen, we just glide right past it.
"Sobering up yet?" he whispers, his nails making a home at the small of my back. I've turned around to face him now.
I sigh into his chest. "Yeah. Thanks. Thanks for finding me there. I needed it."
"You're quite welcome."
Another forehead kiss. His favourite. Mine too, when he's the one giving them.
"You're getting better at that," I whisper, reminiscing. "The first few were...wet. And not in a good way."
He laughs quietly, a deep sound with my ear pressed against his chest.
"Well I'm sorry, my dear, I hadn't kissed many foreheads before yours and they didn't exactly leave a review in the paper to let me know I was a bad kisser."
I pull his chin down so I can kiss his nose. "I didn't say you were a bad kisser. Just inexperienced. Besides you don't have any problems with it now."
"Far from it," he murmurs and kisses my lips.
It's chaste, they all are. It took him a while to start doing that. I guess because of pop culture and stuff he still saw lip kisses as a romantic thing. I didn't push it. But he did come around eventually. I think it was when I pointed out the lip kisses between parent and child are far from romantic that he wanted to try it. Personally, I'd go as far as to say licking someone is entirely platonic - animals do it all the time. It's nice to groom someone and have that intimacy. But I know he wouldn't like that - saliva.
"I'm still not used to that," he adds, his smile soft. "The sound...it's peculiar."
I understand. He's repulsed. Not by me. By certain physical and emotional things. He hasn't explained why, I don't expect him to. And after all there isn't always a reason; sometimes you are who you are. And I like who he is, whether I understand or not. I usually let him initiate lip kisses for this very reason.
I feel around under all that cherry red hair for his ears and run my fingers over them. They're sensitive, so I don't go crazy, but I know he likes when I scratch a certain spot.
"That's unfair, darling," he almost growls, playful. His ears can be ticklish and we both know if a fight breaks out I'll lose almost immediately. I mean, I'm generally not very ticklish but his nails are a force of nature that somehow ignite my skin with every touch.
"Alright, alright, I'll stop," I concede, already feeling his nails dragging over my ribs in threat.
His grin widens. He loves to win. Bastard. I call him that a lot, but he knows I mean it affectionately. You'll know if a British person is really trying to insult you. We tut and sigh and roll our eyes. Swearing is a vocabulary of endearment. I've called my mum "the c word" as he calls it more times than I've called her mum after all. He'd probably be upset though. Like I said, he's got a thing for good manners. If not swearing is good manners, I'm happy to tone it down a little around him. He's still a bastard though.
I can't see him too well in the dark but his smile, as always, is like a bloody neon sign. This is my favourite part of our times together. He starts to drift off, and as he does his face relaxes. He doesn't always stop smiling, not completely. The teeth slowly hide away behind ever relaxing lips. His eyes uncrinkle. He doesn't look sad, far from it. After all these years of fixing his expression, he's got resting smirk face. The lips curl up at the sides ever so slightly. Even his arms, so commonly folded neatly behind his back became awkward, gangly limbs clasping me. My thigh. Wrapped around my shoulder or side. Like he was afraid I'd leave and he'd wake up alone.
As if. Alastor was the best cuddler this side of limbo. Don't tell him that. Smug bastard. I love him. He knows a lot, but I'm not sure he knows that. Maybe I'll tell him someday. Right now I lean forward and kiss his nose.
"Good night, Al."
He can only be on the edge of sleep, because his eye cracks open.
"Good night, darling," he whispers back, and presses his forehead to mine.
More awake than I thought, but it shouldn't really surprise me. After all, he'd never fall asleep without saying 'good night'. He has a thing for good manners, you know.