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Hell is filled with glaring contradictions – roaring hellfire that never seems to dispel the darkness, human connection even amongst the deepest of sinners. Irony lies thick upon the foundations; how can it not, when it was built on the blood of a fallen angel? Love and longing were embedded in the bedrock, and Charlie knows it can be tapped, can be brought out. Redemption isn’t impossible, if the very beginning of sin was made out of joy.
The Hotel is dark despite the best efforts of candles and chandeliers, and perhaps that might be a discomforting thing – she has gotten used to it. Found it oddly comforting, if she’s being completely honest with herself; it helps to know that she’s never really alone in the void. The others find it nerve-wracking, but they don’t have quite the same rapport with the dark as she does. They wonder what’s lurking, worry what it sees and hears; she knows exactly what waits inside.
It's late in the night when the shadows under her bed coalesce, twisting and churning slowly into shape. She’s gotten used to that, too – personal space has become a luxury as of late, but Charlie can’t quite bring herself to care. The piles of notes and ideas spread across her desk have kept her attention most of the evening, and she doesn’t even blink as the tendrils slip up over her arms, lingering over her shoulders, and form into crimson-tipped hands.
“Was knocking invented after you died?” She asks absentmindedly, entirely without heat. The body behind her chuckles.
“I thought it better to minimize distracting you from your work. To interrupt the thoughts inside your head …” And here, those long claws danced their way up the sides of Charlie’s neck, curling lightly around her ears, and sliding up across her temples. “Why, that seemed too great a crime.”
She hums at that, scratching out something on the paper in front of her, and jotting something else to take its place. It used to be jarring, how easily Alastor invaded her space, touching and pressing without a care in the world. More than once, she’d watch those claws wrap around his cane, and wonder if he was picturing them tearing into her throat instead. She’ll likely never know exactly what the Radio Demon was thinking, but she’s grown to trust he has no desire to hurt her.
Implicitly, at least.
As if noting her attention wandering, Alastor presses his fingers a little harder against her skull. The pressure takes away some of the headache that’s been brewing for hours now, and Charlie sighs in relief as the pain in the base of her skull dissipates. Noting this, Alastor chuckles – a soft sound that crackles through the feedback of his radio.
“Dearest Charlie, I do hope you haven’t been working yourself too hard.”
She shrugs, still with her head bowed towards the table, still with her eyes screwed up to read the scribble of her own notes. Rehabilitation has always been a lofty goal, and she’s learned enough to know she’ll never bring it forth with the superficial tactics she’s been using. She longs to dig deep into the souls of her patrons; to rip past their defenses and examine what hurt they’ve got hiding. She wants to tear them down, and build them up anew. “We’ve all got our drug of choice. I guess work is mine.”
His hands have moved to stroke through her hair, in long, slow pulls. The tips of his claws barely brush against her skull before he trails it down a lock of golden blonde, and she can hear nothing but the faint static of his breathing. She feels a little like a kitten being groomed, or else a lamb being primped for the slaughter – it’s impossible to distinct between the two, whenever Alastar is involved.
“So what would you say mine is?” He asks, and his voice is silk in her ear; he’s leaned closer, nearly cheek to cheek as he continues playing with her hair. “My addiction of choice, my drug, my tie that binds?”
The huff that escapes her might be a laugh, or a sigh; she closes her eyes and focuses on the rhythmic pull against her scalp, of the heat radiating off Alastor’s body. Hell runs hot at the best of times, but there’s something in the inferno that Alastar brings, a blaze that always seems to leave her wanting more.
Killing, perhaps, or violence – certainly, he wouldn’t be Alastor without the tinge of blood in his eyes, the threat of despair in every smile. He’s in Hell for a reason, and he revels in the destruction he brings, but she imagines it’s not what keeps him coiled, not what sinks into his bone marrow and forces him to comply. Control, or power? For sure, he longs for it – Charlie has no doubt that part of the reason he even indulges in her dream is because he wants to find a way to access her power, keep it for himself. She may be nothing but a potential tool for him, and maybe it stings to think that. Maybe she does her best not to think of it at all.
“I can’t figure out if you do have one,” she admits, and her head tilts back to catch a glimpse of his expression. The wide, ever-present smile is fixed in place, and the muted light in the room throws Alastor’s face into a soft gold, emphasizing the redness of his eyes. His gaze is on her, and she watches as his lips twitch, as something unspoken seems to settle in the shadow of his brow. “But then again, you’d consider that a weakness, right? And you’d be loathe to tell anyone your weakness, even me.”
His smile widens; his hands return to their place on her shoulders, brushing lightly against her neck. For a moment, they stare at each other – the room grows heavy with a kind of pause. Charlie fancies Alastor leans closer.
“Well, ma belle,” he says at last, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “Thank goodness for that. Being twisted up in knots is such a vulnerable thing, don’t you agree?”
The shadows curl around him once more; she feels them slither across her body, up to where his hands still rest on her shoulders. A whisper across her cheeks, her lips; she opens her mouth to speak, but the darkness has swallowed him up, and she is alone once more.