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"There you go, all patched up!" Rosie smiled, finishing the last wrap of bandages around his torso.
Alastor let out a grateful hum and leans back into the couch. His most recent battle with an overlord had gone sideways, but he couldn't skip seeing his friend for their weekly tea. Rosie, observant as ever, immediately knew something was wrong.
Despite priding himself on being able to obscure his feelings, Alastor would never trust anyone as much as he did Rosie. She was the only soul in all of Hell who could read him, whether he liked it or not. With only a healthy amount of chiding, he allowed her to tend to the injuries. They would have healed well enough within a few days, but he decided to humor Rosie's antics anyway.
Now they sat side by side in the plush cushions, jazz quietly drifting through the air. Alastor was down to just boxers, a rare occurrence even around her. She had changed into her nightclothes, both overlords allowing themselves to be vulnerable for a brief moment.
Alastor was just about to go slip into something comfortable when Rosie took his hand in hers. He saw her eyes locked onto the dark scars on his forearm.
The jagged lines that mar his skin were almost always covered, hidden behind layers of clothing and protected by the infamous knowledge that the Radio Demon never tolerates unsolicited touch. Very few souls in Hell would dare to come within a few feet of him, even less so who would reach out a casual hand for something as simple as a tap. Alastor prefers things this way, of course. Nobody could know how vulnerable a simple touch might make him. Especially if it happened to brush over one of his death marks.
A spike of embarrassment runs through Alastor as Rosie's dark eyes bore into his... imperfections. Not because she was the type of person to judge, but because he hates the feelings of weakness and shame that come along with allowing her to see his past failures written so plainly on his skin. But the tension in his body ebbs away when Rosie speaks.
"Do they hurt?" She asks softly, tracing the edges of his scars with a gentle touch.
Alastor hesitates, feeling the urge to lie but knowing Rosie would see right through his facade. "Yes," He admits.
Her hands retreat slightly, but he leans his shoulder into hers in silent request. "But not all the time. Not like this." Alastor reassures her- he isn't ready to lose her close company just yet.
Most of them have faded over the years, flattening out and becoming easier to ignore, but there were a handful that went deeper. Beneath the discolored ridges, thick scar tissue nestled in layers that would never break up. Certain sudden movements still sent twinges of pain reverberating from the scars. Sometimes the very friction of his clothes was too much to bear.
Alastor looks down to his lap, where a large crescent shaped scar cuts through his thigh- the very wound that sealed his fate so long ago.
He remembers the first hound that brought him down, latching onto his thigh mid-sprint and sending them both crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he couldn't even let out a scream when it began to shake his leg in its jaws.
Alastor kicked out wildly with his other leg, stunning the dog long enough for him to scramble back to his feet despite the waves of pain. But the hound simply shook off the blow and lunged for his throat instead. Alastor threw up his hands to defend himself, unable to stop the cry that escaped him when teeth closed around his forearm. The force threw him onto his back, the dog now standing over him.
In the distance he heard barks crackling through the air like thunder. The rest of the pack wasn't far behind. Desperately, his other hand scrambled to find something of use- a thick branch or jagged stone. His fingers closed around something solid and without even looking, his grip tightened and he shoved it as hard as he could into the hounds ribs. His arm released, Alastor spun around to stand only to be tackled down again. Teeth sunk into his shoulder.
The growling in his ear was pierced through by barking- closer now. The pack had caught up. Through the buzzing of adrenaline came terror- the realization that he wouldn't survive this. Trapped, helpless to stop the dogs pinning him like just another deer that wasn't fast enough. New sets of jaws joined their leader and the pain began to blur together, drowning out his other senses until he couldn't even feel the ground beneath him. Just teeth.
He couldn't run, he couldn't stand, couldn't stop them from mauling him to death. He was going to die-
"Are you with me?" Rosie's voice cuts through the memory like a knife. Alastor blinks, tearing his eyes away from the scar on his thigh and the history that comes with it.
"Apologies," He says flatly. "Sometimes the scar tissue acts up, nothing horrible. It's just a dull ache from time to time." He waves nonchalantly. Sometimes, they're so sensitive it feels like the dogs are tearing into him again.
"My dear, you don't need to pretend with me." Perceptive as always.
"I know. On the rare occasion they do flare up, it's merely a tolerable inconvenience," He replies with a tone of finality.
Rosie looks at him with a face that says 'I know you're lying, but I won't push you.' She knows how he ended up in Hell. She knows about his... dislike of canines. Now she knows the bites still hurt, years later. But she doesn't press him further.
Suddenly overwhelmed with weariness, Alastor shifts to lay his head in her lap with a sigh, hooves hanging over the other side of the couch. Rosie doesn't even flinch at the sudden movement, just smiles and leans back so she isn't hunched over him.
A gentle hand begins to card through his hair, slowly and leisurely. Alastor closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding, relaxing into the touch. The signature toothy grin that all too often was more akin to a predator bearing its fangs is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a tranquil smile covers his face. His ears soften against his head, a rare privilege granted only when he knew he didn't have to be hypervigilant. Rosie pets them at the base, drawing out a content bleat from the deer demon.
She chuckles at the noise, her laughter filled with affection. Alastor flushes slightly, but doesn't stop himself from leaning into her touch.
Her other hand gingerly borders the thick scar on his shoulder, fleeting touch an unspoken request for permission. He tenses, an ear twitching nervously. "It will be alright Alastor," She promises him. "I'll stop if it's too much. But a massage could do you good."
After taking a few calming breaths and a brief moment of deliberation, Alastor gives her a small nod. Eyes still closed, Alastor feels Rosie begin to trace the raised lines on his shoulder. A pleased hum escapes him when the touch doesn't alight his nerves with pain.
His friend methodically repeats simple motions, gradually working up to direct pressure. The massage actually feels good on the scar tissue, soothing the stiffness around it. Tension bleeds out of him, and he barely notices when the other overlord drapes a soft blanket over his lower half.
Slowly, Alastor's grip on consciousness fades away as Rosie continues, humming along to the music in the background. Memories temporarily silenced, he lets himself drift off into a peaceful slumber.
A few days later, Alastor receives a package bearing Rosie's signature. It's a special balm made for scars, crafted by a specialist. His perpetual smile softens at the hand-written note inside: 'For the aches.'