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One would think that a place that has existed since almost the dawn of mankind would have plenty of literature about breaking soul contracts, but apparently– and unfortunately, predictably– one would be hard-pressed to find any tasteful literature in hell at all, let alone the useful kind. Perhaps the other rings of hell have a more sophisticated selection, though Alastor will never know unless Lucifer happens to put in a good word for him with someone outside the Pride ring (not likely).
There’s a mediocre stack of books next to his feet on the dashboard table, and another one in his hands, open to a chapter on ‘creative loopholes throughout the ages’. So far, nothing. A whole three days of non-stop searching, and nothing. Alastor hates nothing. He loathes it. There’s nothing so boring, so predictable, so… nothing as nothing. It’s driving him up the wall; any higher and he’ll blow through the roof of his broadcast tower.
“Hey, boss.” Husk enters with heavy footsteps– and even if he hadn’t been purposefully stomping around, the creak of the trapdoor would have alerted Alastor to his presence.
“Husker!” he snaps his neck over the back of his chair to stare at the cat, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
The man of the hour stands on the opposite end of the room, a tense set to his shoulders and a bored look on his face. He may be one of the few individuals in hell who suits a frown better than a smile.
“Just checking in. You haven’t annoyed me in a while and I was wonderin’ if you’d gotten bored of me.”
“Bored? Of you?” if he could throw his head any farther back, he would, but as is he’ll have to settle for a less dramatic round of laughter. “Husker, you slay me!”
“Only in my dreams.”
“And dreams they’ll stay!” Alastor assures him. Husk scowls.
“Listen, Charlie was asking–”
“Ah, and the truth is revealed!”
“--Charlie was asking if you’re…” he glances back at the stairs out of the tower, no doubt debating whether this may be a waste of Alastor’s time, “eugh…”
“Come now, spit it out, long awkward pauses are horrendous audio material.” Alastor informs him. Husk has a voice for radio, but not the knowledge or personality for it.
“...Okay.” He cringes. He has an air of expectancy that doesn’t match the lack of information, so the two are left staring at each other for a beat too long.
It is, of course, an uncomfortable position for Husk, whereas Alastor’s grin simply widens. His feet sweep from the dashboard to the floor as he spins to face his cohort properly, book still open on his lap as if the sight of it will make Husk realize that his boss is busy. A twinge of pain across his abdomen reminds him of why he had been so obsessive with scouring these books in the first place.
“If you’re not going to talk, you might as well do so behind the bar where the patrons will be more appreciative of your listening skills.” Alastor invites Husk to leave with a bit more bite than necessary, practically flashing a neon sign at the exit.
“No–” yet he misses all of Alastor’s cues when his eyes pinch shut, a choked, frustrated noise rumbling up his throat, “ghhh, you really gotta make me spell everything out, huh–”
“Clarity and diction are important virtues!”
Husk huffs, and with effort, regains some of his cynical composure. “Charlie’s asking if you’re okay.”
Alastor snaps his book shut. It makes Husk flinch– which is a passing observation at most, because apparently Charlie believes that he and Husk are close enough to be confidants, which is an adorable, hilarious thought. Charlie is strange in many respects, and most of all in her misplaced empathy. ‘Okay’? Is he okay? Nobody ever asks if the Radio Demon is okay. They ask him for a second chance, they ask him for mercy, they ask him for a quick and painless death. They do not ask after his well-being. The mere idea is ridiculous.
“Tell Charlie her dear old dad is a scoundrel and a rube, and I will not be seen in the same room as him.” An easy enough lie, in that it is completely true, and not the whole truth. Husk lets out a snort.
“Great, ‘cause his room is on the opposite side of the hotel, so I guess there’s nothing stopping you from coming down for a drink.” He says pointedly, unimpressed.
“It’s too big a risk, I’m afraid!” Alastor tosses his book onto the dashboard table with the rest of them, trying to appear nonchalant. Husk’s cat eyes follow the action keenly.
“You’re not afraid of him.” He misconstrues the phrasing of the lie deliberately, the sly dog, “you antagonize the poor guy to hell and back.”
“Well, that’s not very far, is it?” Alastor misconstrues Husk’s words deliberately in return.
“Shit– you know what I mean.”
“I know that I’m getting tired of this chatter!”
“You look tired.”
To his credit, he doesn’t shy away when Alastor stands up. On the other hand, Alastor doesn’t remember standing up. On the third, severed hand from an unnamed donor, some credit should be afforded to Alastor as well, for not letting it show when the world tilts slightly at the sudden motion on his near-healed wound.
Husk has always been frustratingly good at reading people, given his penchant for gambling and all the acquired skills that entails, and it seems that bartending has honed that skill. Alastor is frustratingly good at making himself impossible to read, stumping both linguists and self-proclaimed empaths– usually. Not today. Not for the past three days. The snap of his mic brought age to his grin, and the years under his belt weigh in his gut. Or maybe that’s the sinner he ate the other day.
“It’s rude to comment on a fellow man’s appearance so blithely.” Alastor scolds, adjusting his collar haughtily. The action is light, yet Husk’s next words lack both bite and wit.
“Just saying.”
“So many words, and so little value.” Really, they only have so much airtime before it all fades to static. He can’t stand the thoughtless employment of time and the exchanges that spend it. He has already wasted too much time.
In his waning confidence, Husk grumbles something incoherent, and his eyes avoid Alastor's as they take to wandering the room. Alastor catches the moment that his gaze lands on the broken staff, tucked away on the floor next to the dashboard, and he tenses. Even Husk isn't careless enough to comment on that, surely.
“Y’know, I thought this hotel was a sideshow for you.” He doesn’t comment on it, not directly– still, ever the wet blanket, he does not finish his sentence.
“But?”
Husk raises a brow in lieu of answering. Drat. Miscalculation. Better to let things stay unsaid than imply there is more to be said in the first place. Too late now, always a little late. Alastor must be falling into a pattern, and it’s not even a pleasing one: checkers instead of pinstripes. Or maybe they’re playing chess, and he’s a pawn instead of the king.
“You have an uncanny ability to abandon your thoughts before they learn to walk.” Pins and needles. His eye twitches first at the lingering pain of his near-death experience, then at the reminder of his limits, and finally at the growing ache in his head. Maybe he does want a drink, after all; his bartender certainly appears like he needs one.
“Don’t want to overstep, boss.” The last word holds as much sarcasm as Husk probably dares to put into it, though his expression is changing slowly from hesitant to wary. Excellent.
“You seem to have no trouble stepping over the caution tape at the front door. You’d think, maybe, that my broadcast tower would be off-limits. But I suppose ‘The Radio Demon’s Radio Tower’ doesn’t mean anything to you?” Push, just not too hard. No need to pull out the chains yet; it’s not like this conversation bothers him. The chains are a convenient way to silence his pet, and there’s nothing to silence, because there’s nothing here of note.
“‘Course it does.” Husk's glare is on the floor, a sign of submission so very fitting for his animal form.
“Yet our dear Princess of Hell sent you up, and all that is thrown to the wind– what, because you take her word over mine?”
His glare whips back up, and he cries, “what? No!” in a mix of horror and genuine bafflement.
“Then why do I feel a distinct lack of respect in my circle of hell these days?”
“Probably because you’ve barely shown your face in the past few days.” Husk snarls, bristling and cornered, a threat display.
“I am the Radio Demon.” Alastor’s shadow crawls up the wall behind him, its limbs popping and stretching as he advances. “I don’t need to show my face in order to show my power.”
“Maybe some of us–” Husk takes a step back, then glances behind him to make sure he won’t fall through the trapdoor, “not me, you overgrown antlered asshole–” then he refocuses with the audacity to look at Alastor head-on, “but maybe some of us’d like to see your face anyway.”
“Maybe I have more pressing matters at hand than babysitting the residents of this establishment.” They’re not important, not in the long run, even though they think they are and they sometimes feel like they are. Alastor has to remind even himself, once in a while, because Charlie has everyone so expertly fooled. Husk is certainly growing soft– frankly, he was probably predisposed to sentimentality.
“Maybe it’d help if you’d picked a less sappy bunch for your personal entertainment.” He leans forward.
“Maybe they’re merely bit-roles in a bigger show!” the shadows encroach.
“Maybe you should start treating them as people instead of actors.” Husk stands his ground.
“The world is a stage; we are all actors.” Alastor towers above all of hell.
“You’re not a very good one.” And it is still hell.
Alastor thinks for a second that his wound has reopened, before he realizes that the constriction of his chest is a symptom of panic. He wonders, in the split-second after that ultimatum, whether his smile has somehow slipped. In the next split-second, where he completely stops to assess this point of concern, he finds that the smile is exactly where it should be– and can’t decide whether he’s relieved or not. Instincts tell him to snap Husk’s traitorous neck. Luckily, Alastor does not rely on instincts; they would have rendered him catatonic a long time ago.
Case in point, Husk notices Alastor's deer-in-the-headlights pause. His ears are pinned back and his body is coiled to spring, but those ever-watchful eyes observe Alastor's face and seems to see something in it. Alastor blinks. He heaves a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. The shadows recede.
“As much as I love a good back-and-forth, I think it would be in your best interests to leave.” He turns his back to him and heads for the dashboard so that he can resume his reading. For a good minute, there is no noise; then Husk makes the wise choice to stop pushing the issue, and moves away to the exit.
“I’ll tell Charlie you’re beefing with her dad. Even though that’d probably make her come up here herself.” In hysterics, no less. Still, Alastor would rather comfort an upset Charlie than thwart a prying Husk. He sits down, careful not to jostle the wound.
“I’ll deal with that–” he doesn’t falter, he just finds a more precise choice of words. “I’ll take care of that when it happens. One thing at a time.”
There’s a grunt and the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Alastor only hears a few paces before the sound stops again; he cranes his neck over the back of the chair to find Husk halfway through the trapdoor, that familiar hesitant expression haunting his features.
“What’d you mean, ‘bit-roles in a bigger show’?” he asks. The concern there is absolutely endearing. Alastor believed cats were supposed to be asocial animals, but this one has become attached to the lot of them in a way that is oh-so-easy to exploit. Friends are a liability, and it’s irresponsible of Husk to implicitly announce who his friends are so explicitly. Alastor laughs and opens his book.
“Maybe I’ll join you for a drink later.”
Finally, Husk takes the hint. The trapdoor creaks shut, the shadows cling in the corners of the room, and Alastor is alone again.