Chapter Text
It started as nothing, he swore to himself. This was nothing, and it would remain nothing. Alastor’s taken down things tenfold his size, he’s toppled the status quo more times than he can count, he’s done it all. He will not let a bit of fatigue get to him. Or a lack of appetite. Besides, rotting corpses have a nicer bite to them, maybe this anorexia will give him a tasty treat later on. He could enjoy that delicacy later, he assured himself. It’s just a little bump in the road…
“Put this here, and that there and - yes, perfect! Just like that,” Charlie squealed out.
If only her zest were more contagious. Alastor peered over the balcony in the hotel. How curious. Niffty zipped across the floor of the lobby, needle in hand, with a maniacal grin on her face. She was probably hunting more roaches for her puppet shows. Good for her! Alastor walked across the balcony to the stairs, heading down them at a leisurely pace. Perhaps he should shorten his outing today. No need to bother with overdoing things. With a quick hell-lo to Charlie and Vaggie, he walked right out the hotel doors. Ah, fresh air. Well, fresh air with the smell of burning flesh, but it was fresher than the mustiness of the hotel!
Alastor took a shorter path than usual. He skipped his go-to cafe, and even cut short his usual stroll through the Doomsday district; though he wouldn’t dare leave out Cannibal Town. Around noontime, he arrived back at the hotel, utterly exhausted behind his smiling face. He even skipped out on dinner, which caught the attention of Husk and Niffty. Rather, he opted to go back to his room. He practically collapsed on the chair the moment the door shut.
He muttered after a sigh, “I’m fine. This is nothing. It’s just the weather getting to me.”
A deep part of him knew that wasn’t really the case, but he ignored it. He glanced around. This room was awfully quiet, the sound of his own oddly labored breathing the only thing that filled the air. He walked over to his Victrola—a beautiful, 1910’s Victrola that only accepted Shellac records, or, the proper kind of record—and put on Smile, Darn ya, Smile by Billy Cotton. Ah, a classic. His mood instantly lightened at the sound of it. Despite himself though, as the song finished, he was just as tired as he was before. A hiss of static rang out in his annoyance. He turned on his heel and walked out of his room. Before he knew it, he was in the kitchen, making himself a cup of coffee with his typical all-natural blood creamer. This’ll do, he thought to himself. This will fix his predicament, and he will be back to normal in no time.
He walked over to a more proper dining area, and sat down, using a bit of magic to summon the daily newspaper. Almost like normal, he thought. Just like normal. What was he thinking, even? This was completely normal. He was just fine and dandy! It took not even 10 minutes for him to finish his notably large cup of coffee. He resigned to reading the rest of the paper without refilling his drink. That would chip away at the better half of an hour, maybe two, and it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do.
🎶📻🎶
30 minutes. It took 30 minutes for Alastor to set the paper down in annoyance at his own lack of stamina. He felt weaker than usual. Maybe he should rest; rest his eyes, at least. That would give him a bit of a boost, that kick he so desperately needed. Even his permanent smile was at threat of drooping the rate he was going. With a flick of his wrist, the newspaper vanished in a flash of green light, and he stood, meandering to his room. Every moment that passed made a nap sound less and less terrible.
Click.
The door shut behind him quietly. He didn’t have the energy to change… This was unlike him. But that was the least of his concerns. This shouldn’t be long enough to mess up his clothes. For now, he’ll take a nice, short nap. He laid down on the bed, shut his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Knock.
Oh for fucks sake. How long did he lay there? Only a few minutes? What now? He swung his legs off the bed and stood, and with a quiet gasp, immediately sat back down. He couldn’t remember the last time his vision blacked out like that from standing too quickly. He thought he’d lost that loathsome habit.
Knock, knock, knock!
“One moment!” He hollered, refraining from adding ‘you loud, persistent little prick’ in his annoyance.
He stood again, slower this time. Alright. Lovely. He could stand just fine. Because he felt just fine. He opened the door to one very annoyed Vaggie.
”Where have you been? Charlie’s been looking for you for ages. I can’t believe you forgot the memorial with—“ Vaggie cut herself off after a second look at Alastor.
“Her… Shit, man. You’re almost as pale as Charlie is.”
Alastor laughed, “Oh, please. I’m already dead; can’t get much paler than this!”
“You still have blood down here, that doesn’t- Okay, whatever, sure. Where have you been?”
“In my room, tending to my own business. Why do you ask?”
“She was looking for you, and you haven’t responded to anything for the past 20 hours. What the Hell have you even been doing?”
Alastor paused. 20 hours? He gave them a hell-lo only a few hours ago, before he left. That counted as a response in his book, and that was nowhere near outside of a day. But sure, he could play along.
“Perhaps I just lost track of time. Where is she?”
“Downstairs.”
“Wonderful.” Alastor summoned his microphone and promptly started walking down the hall, leaving Vaggie at his door with one very unanswered question. He didn’t feel like talking to her any longer than necessary, anyhow. It’s like talking to Susan…
His shoes tapped on the floor in a rhythmic pattern. Tak, tak, tak, tak. This walk to the lobby had long since become routine for him, and yet, he felt a little short of breath. No matter. 20 hours, hah! What a nonsensical joke. Vaggie probably just wanted to get him to go and help her delusional little girlfriend. Tak, tak, tak. Finally, he reached the balcony area. He caught a glimpse at the clock. 11 am. Wait, 11? That’s not right. He attempted to take a nap sometime around 1. That’s two hours before he… Ah, shit. Well, he can call it beauty rest. That’s what kids these days call it, right? He just… Slept for 22 hours. Like a rock. Dead to the world. No big deal.
“Alastor! There you are!”
His head snapped to the sound. Charlie. Wonderful. Probably.
“Ah, hell-lo, my dear. It’s a pleasure to see you this morning. You needed me?”
“Of course! You… Missed out on our little memorial last night. I saved this for you, since you weren’t there.”
Charlie held out a cupcake decorated with grey and gold frosted scales and a small egg boi. Ah. He might have appreciated that when he was 10 years old and still had the stomach for a rare treat, but right now, the thought of it nauseated him.
“Hm. Leave it in the refrigerator. My appetite for sweets has been lacking these days…”
“Really?” Charlie said. She knew him enough to know that his appetite knew no bounds. Even if he didn’t eat sugary things as often, he would never turn down a small treat, especially something Niffty helped make.
“Really. Is that all you needed me for?”
“Er… Yes. But, wait. Are you okay?”
Okay? He almost choked at the absurdity of that question. Of course he was okay! He’s always okay.
“Of course I am! Fit as a fiddle, if I do say so myself.”
“Riiight. Well, if you need anything, don’t be afraid to let me know.”
He spoke with a laugh, “Don’t worry yourself, my dear. I feel just fine.”
And with that, he walked off for some fresh air. He sorely needed to move after that nap-turned-into-coma. With as much pep to his step as he could muster, he walked down the streets with Doctor Jazz by Jelly Roll Morton playing through his microphone; A strange perk for a microphone to have, sure, but what’s he to argue? Who doesn’t enjoy a good song from time to time! By the time he reached Cannibal Town, he was thoroughly winded. Alright, fine. Maybe something small was wrong.
He decided to take a seat on a bench to catch his breath and think. First, he lost his appetite. Then he felt a little weak, which led to him sleeping for an unholy amount of time. Now he was getting winded not too long into a common walk he takes. What was going on with him? Did he eat something bad? Was this some sort of trick, was he drugged? No, that wouldn’t be it. No one at the hotel would dare do that. Well, whatever the cause, he felt this way now. Best to go back to the hotel… This wasn’t how he wanted to be seen in public. To take the chance of being caught weakened by whatever this was, in any way, shape, or form.
As he walked back, his mind wandered. This moment truly highlighted how nice it was to have a permanent smile. Folks wouldn’t suspect a thing from a cheerful, smiling face. No one would know how run down he felt. At least there was one silver lining.
🎶📻🎶
The quick walk from the entrance to his room was largely unbothered. He thought he figured out what this was, and he did not enjoy the prospect. Sickness, seriously? The last time he got sick—he doesn’t even remember the exact date! Long enough that he assumed that sinners simply didn’t abide by such loathsome forces. Even still, it sounded like he was talking moonshine; yet everything he felt so far pointed to some kind of illness. It was, well, a lot of things that would be unbecoming for a radio host to say. He felt inclined to blame Adam. Maybe that attack a week ago messed with him, somehow. Was light sickness a thing? He was already taking great care to keep his wound from getting infected, surely… He shook his head. This was stupid. He was trying to find answers to stupid, and stupid’s notoriously bad at complying with logic. Maybe he was being stupid? No, well... It had been so long, perhaps he just wasn’t used to the brain fog of being sick. But this didn’t change the fact that he was still at square one, and that he was still dealing with this blasted thing.
A chill ran down his spine. This was one thing after another, wasn’t it? He walked over to the wardrobe in his room, pulling his coat off in the process. He hung it, then reached for his neck to untie his bow and take off his collar. For how suffocated he felt, a softer collar would be much preferred. It took a few moments of rummaging till he finally found one that fit what he was going for. It looked like any old collar in these modern times, and contrary to his shirt's bright red color, it was a pristine white. He put it on, alongside his bow-tie, before reaching for his old cardigan sweater, buttoning—
Achoo!
Deer lord. He was sneezing now! The Radio Demon, reduced to a sneezing, shivering, sickly mess? What had he become? He had perfected his image for the public ear, Hell, he was a model of perfection himself. Yet now he could barely speak through a microphone without sounding like a scratchy, nasally child. He wasn’t a child. He didn’t get sick . The follies of men shouldn’t be able to touch him, but, he mused, this was Hell. And Hell wasn’t exactly known for being a kind place.
He sat on one of the plush armchairs near the fireplace. The flames flickered in a captivating way; his now fog-ridden brain couldn’t take its attention off of it. He ought to plan, he figured. Who would be capable of aiding him, should he want it… Charlie would help him in a heartbeat, but she would fawn over him like a worried mother, and he never cared enough for her to even give her the chance to play that role with him. Angel would more than likely attempt to act overtly sexual with him, which would make him an easy no. He could always force Husk or Niffty to aid him, but he can’t help but give himself a bit of fun… Perhaps he could convince Vaggie, should the want arise. He did it once before with that frivolous television nonsense, and it’s not like she’s difficult to sway by any means.
Alastor glanced at the clock. Two minutes had gone by. He could have sworn that more time had passed, for how much his thoughts looped and swirled, but maybe this illness hadn’t yet gotten a true grasp on him. Or, and something he figured was much more obvious, he was simply better than the rest.
His eyes wandered back to the fire. It was entirely unpredictable. The wood sputtered and popped, glowing with vibrant greens. It billowed dark, ashy smoke up the chimney, yet the mantel itself was clear of soot. Fire never stayed constant. It always flickered and bent in every which way at its own whim, solely following its own hand-carved path. It had its weaknesses, as all things do, but it was free. He couldn’t say the same for himself…
He huffed. What a depressive mess to swirl into. With a snap of his fingers, his gramophone sputtered into action, playing Dance of the Knights by Sergei Prokofiev. It wasn’t exactly a usual choice for him, but it did match well with whatever this rut of a mood was that he found himself in. He listened to the triumphant, gothic ups and subdued downs of the song with interest. It went from each like waves in the ocean. It finished just as bombastically as it came, and with a snap, he switched to a new song; Waltz of the Snowflakes by Tchaikovsky. He leaned his head on his hand as he listened. What an energetic song, he thought. He had never really listened to the Nutcracker before, so this was new, even for him. So much for being alive when it debuted. The cymbal crashed, snapping his tired eyes open in mild surprise. And again. And again. Crash, crash, crash! If he wanted noise, he would have gone to the kitchen. Despite his annoyance, he let the song play through to the end. He stood, and walked over with weaker legs to manually remove the record. He was close to falling asleep there. What had he become these past few days?
Alastor’s body was yelling at him to sleep, and for once, he followed his better judgment for the sake of his health. He switched off the lamps—though he kept the fire burning as is—and snapped his fingers for an outfit change. He was strong enough to do it manually, obviously, he just wanted to speed things up. Obviously. He collapsed on the bed and pulled the covers up somewhat.
The smoldering fireplace served as background noise to Alastor’s tossing and turning. He couldn’t sleep. Christ, was he actually sick? He glanced at the wall clock. He’d been flopping around like a fish for a while, but it couldn't have been more than an hour. However, the clock read 3:35. So he did sleep? Oh, this was bullshit, he thought. This was one of those nights where you recall no dreams, no sleep, all the while stuck in some kind of hellish purgatory between the waking world and the mind. He flipped the covers off of him, and sat up.
He took a breath in. His vision was speckled with static and darkness. The headrest wasn’t doing much to help him here.
He breathed out. The static started to fizzle away.
He took a breath in. The dizziness was calming down.
He breathed out. He was starting to feel normal again. Well, aside from his head, which he could feel was on the cusp of a soon-to-come headache. And his lungs, which he could feel painfully stretch in and out following his breath. And his now feeble body… He was, well, would be fine, he reassured himself. This pesky sickness couldn’t hold him back. He threw on his favored robe with villainous might—that is to say, weakly—and opened the door.
He was taking in gasps of air by the time he reached the kitchen. He crumpled down on a nearby wooden chair, catching his breath.
He whispered, rather short-windedly, “Fuck.”
As he thought. His throat was on fire, and his voice crackled and wheezed despite the noticeable lack of a radio filter. Water. He needed water. Or hard liquor. Maybe both. With a clumsy hand he took a glass and downed a cup of tap water in hardly a second. He was going for a second cup, when—
“Smiles?”
He flinched in surprise. Shit. He didn’t even hear him come up. He spinned the knob of the tab quickly, shutting the flow off, but he only bothered to glance Angel’s way. He was hoping that the static in his voice would cover how hoarse it was.
“Hm? Is something the matter?”
“… No. Just surprised. I didn’t expect you to be in the kitchen so late goin’ for tap water of all things.”
Alastor took a sip from his water. Angel sure had knocked it out of the park for the worst time for conversation yet.
“Ditto! I figured you would still be busy petting your tender-hearted bartender.”
Alastor took another sip as the phrase registered with Angel. He seemed more shocked that Alastor even knew shit about sex.
“What? No no no, we ain’t there yet. We’re not there at all. He’s just a friend.”
Alastor nodded along, not believing that for a second.
“So what have you been doing all this time?”
Angel huffed as he walked over to get himself a glass—and a drink.
“Val had me, how about that.”
“Really!”
“Yeah. More of his weird kinky shit. I’m used to it, but…” He sighed, “Man. Still wipes you out after a day of fuckin’ nonstop.”
Angel reached over for a bottle, before pausing. Alastor took notice.
“Need a bit of help there?”
He reached over and snagged the bottle by the neck, setting it down in front of Angel. Angel looked down at it for a few moments. He took it and put it back on the shelf.
“Eh, screw it. I’ll live.”
Angel deciding to not have a drink? Was Alastor finally dreaming? Granted, he never did pay much attention to Angel’s ‘progress’ as Charlie so kindly put it. Maybe this hotel was having an effect on him. While he was thinking, Angel was getting a glass of water himself. He probably needed it after today. Alastor finished his own cup and set it down in the same speed it took Angel to down his. Alastor couldn’t help but muffle a laugh.
“It seems someone is still looking for their fix!”
Angel rolled his eyes, “Please. I bet you couldn’t do half the shit I do in one hour without something hard.”
He was right. Alastor was not one to engage in that behavior if he could help it, but he wasn’t about to let Angel get one over on him. The problem? He couldn’t think up a good comeback. There was too much fog in his brain. Fuck.
“Perhaps, perhaps. But even you can’t deny how quickly you drank that.”
Angel chortled as he set his cup down in the sink, “Whatever. I needed it.”
Alastor shrugged. He thankfully wouldn’t know. Not in that way, at least.
“Well, my friend, I’m off to bed. Have a good evening.”
This was the difficult part. He stopped leaning against the counter, and managed to walk out of the kitchen without much trouble. Angel was not going to see him in such a state. Unfortunately, though…
“Wait up, Smiles!”
A fizzle of static rang out.
“Pardon?”
Angel ran up to walk next to the deer. Since when was Angel so cordial with him? He didn’t address it, rather, he continued to walk. His focus was on keeping up appearances, however, after many moments of walking in silence, he spoke up.
“Why are you following me?”
Angel shrugged, “We’re just walking in the same direction. I gotta get to my room too, strawberry.”
Alastor willfully ignored the petname Angel just used, “… Your room is on the other side of the hotel.”
“I’m taking a longer route. So what?”
Alastor’s patience was thinning. He knew Angel was looking for something, he just didn’t know what, and he wasn’t in the mood to find out.
“‘So what’ is that you have no reasonable excuse to walk with me, so I advise you to head to your room without bothering me again.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Angel looked more defensive, “I know you’ve got your whole creepy mystery shtick goin’ on, but I know shit when I see shit. ‘N don’t act like you haven’t been exhausted this whole time.”
“I am fine, and you would be wrong to think otherwise.”
“Really? Because the Alastor I know doesn’t shut up when he has a chance to shit on the Vees. And he sure as Hell doesn’t go out of breath from walkin’ down a hall.”
Sure enough, he was somewhat faint of breath. However,
“That means nothing. Have you ever caught my appearance at this hour before?”
“No, but—”
“Then you have no reason to be making assumptions about my mood. Good night.”
Alastor disappeared into the shadows. Angel was left in the dimly lit and eerily quiet hall, alone.