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Something was definitely not right.
The shroud of silence with which Alastor seemed determined to surround himself on this particular day had been Charlie’s first indicator.
No. No, scratch that. The first indicator had been him appearing late in the morning.
She never expected to see Angel or Husk up and about before eleven. She would be worried if she had. She’d be equally worried if Pentious, Niffty or Alastor failed to make appearance before eight. And it so happened that this morning Alastor walked through the lobby door at 8:47.
Not that she paid attention, of course. But it was weird.
It was also weird that he didn’t manifest out of the shadows, as per his usual creepy custom. He walked in. Like a normal person. Which was an unsettling thought to have about Alastor.
It was, in retrospect, Charlie’s second indicator that her facility manager was either hungover (unlikely), insomniac and exhausted (though he proudly bragged to her once how he can go days without sleep), distracted (with what?) or sick.
Every speculation was more unsettling that the one before, and if someone would have asked her why, Charlie wouldn’t know how to explain the unease at the thought of Alastor not being invulnerable or indestructible. It felt… wrong. It failed to compute.
His stiff ‘ good morning ’ was expectedly cold since Vaggie and Charlie were watching TV, each with a bowel of their favorite cereal in hand, and while Alastor’s manifestation of his weird revulsion of screens seemed to fluctuate between giving them a wide berth, ignoring their existence or -rarely- facing them with a taunting expression that made sense to nobody but him, it was unusual to see him stop dead in his track and squint at the ‘picture box’ as if he expected a freight train to jump out of it an run him over.
“Morning, Al”, Charlie chirruped. The second her voice rang through the lobby, Alastor’s ears pinned back and his complexion took on a greenish hint that had nothing to do with his magic. The shadows under his eyes were deep and grey. Immediately, Charlie lowered her voice. “Eh… slept well?”
“I expect you haven’t forgotten that we’ve agreed to go through the annual expense monitoring and budget plan?”, he said instead of the answer.
That had been another indicator. No ‘ splendid, my dear ’ (even when Angel had seen him materializing on the front yard at two in the morning covered in blood, with entrails adorning his enlarged rack of antlers like a horrific garland). No ‘ fine, darling, and yourself? ’ with a slight tilt of his head and narrowed eyes every time she had absolutely not slept well, if at all. No ‘sleep is ridiculously overrated, Charlie, dear! ’ when he’d spent the night making it everybody’s business to hear his newest impromptu broadcast lasting from midnight to five, blasting it from every radio in the hotel and Pentagram city in general. Maybe even the whole Pride ring.
None of that now. Curt, short, quiet.
“I didn’t forget”, Charlie said softly. “Just give me a moment to finish my breakfast and I’ll join you in the office! Did you eat yet? If you didn’t, I’ll wait for –”
“Let’s have it done and over with”, he cut her off and turned his back to them, walking away from the lobby in the same stiff gait he’d entered.
“Did he seem… odd to you?” Charlie asked Vaggie after a full minute of companionable silence filled with sounds of their spoons clattering in their bowls.
“Who, Alastor?” Vaggie chuckled. “Babe, did you only just noticed that about him?”
“Not his usual odd”, Charlie protested. “A different odd. Not like him.”
“Different how?”
“Well, he’s late. And he walked here instead of poofing in.”
The eyebrow above Vaggie’s good eye traveled way up towards her hairline. “I remember seeing him walking before. A lot, really.”
Charlie’s elongated fang caught her bottom lip and she fell silent, slightly embarrassed. There was a good chance, of course, that she was just being her usual dramatic self and Alastor had been his unusual assholey self and that was all there was to it. She’d be wiser to stop overthinking and making a fool of herself, and get her hands on that budget plan Alastor insisted on having.
Finding the office darkened at nine in the morning, with shutters creaked open barely enough to let enough light for managing around the room and some strained reading, made Charlie rethink their morning schedule.
Perhaps she should point out that budget plan and expenses weren’t high on her list of concerns. Perhaps she should remind Alastor that her dad was covering all the expenses, and she had yet to voice a financial request her dad wasn’t eager to fulfill. Perhaps she could remind her facility manager there was no need for him to sit at the desk in semi-darkness, his head clawed at by his both hands, ears flat against his skull, eyes shut, teeth bared to his blackened gums, every breath hissed through them deep and slow.
But if she as much as mentioned her dad, it would only cause Alastor to stubbornly stand his ground. He insisted that any responsible business owner – including royalty members who had nothing to worry when financials were concerned – absolutely had to have control over their expenses and an approximation of future investments and spending. If you do something, be the absolute master of it – or don’t do it at all, he’d say.
He didn’t hear her enter, it seemed. She slid inside quietly, and with his eyes shut and ears flattened, it wasn’t that surprising. But his shadow, dark against the darkness but visible for its luminescent red eyes, unsmiling and pained of expression on its incorporate face, lurched forward to greet her, and Alastor’s eyes flashed open at once before squinting again. His clawed hands untangled themselves from his hair and came to rest on tom of the ledger that lay open on the desk; his back straightened.
“Ah, there you are”, he said in a voice crackling with static. “I have to say, my dear, the lack of ‘income’ entries in our financial statistics is enough to give any businessman a splitting headache.”
“You know what else gives one a headache?” Charlie’s attempt at sounding nonchalant was sabotaged by a sickening bout of anxiety when she got a better look at Alastor’s misaligned left eye, which seemed to float sideways in its socket entirely out of rhyme or reason. That lazy eye of his was sometimes imperceptible and more noticeable at other times, but this complete lack of congruence with its right counterpart was alarming.
Swallowing the dryness in her throat, she continued cheerfully: “Reading in a dark, stuffy room! How about some light and air?”
“ No!” Alastor’s static-laced voice cracked through the room before Charlie’s reaching hand could touch the window, and she immediately stopped in her tracks. Alastor seemed to have startled himself with his own voice, because he gripped his forehead with both hands and groaned. His shadow wrapped itself around Charlie’s feet and tugged at her trousers, and if Charlie could read its expression correctly, it seemed to be conveying a distressed plea.
Before Charlie could do anything, the shadow was pulled back to Alastor’s side and melted into the surrounding darkness. Static in the air clung to Charlie’s skin and clothes, sending bursts of needles and pins down her back. The panic she was barely containing wasn’t helping.
I was right. He’s sick; he’s actually sick. What the fuck do I do now?
“How about...” her mind reeled, trying to remember what her mother used to do when her headaches would hit. Unfortunately, just like Alastor, Lilith preferred not to let anyone know she was in less-then-perfect condition, but there were signs for Charlie to see. “... how about fresh air without light?”
She rarely called for her magic to perform mundane tasks unless it was for a performance of some sorts; everyday life had a certain flavor of charm when one did things in step by step, slowly, like humans did-- humans which she found so fascinating and intricately connected with, so much more than with her own hellborn kind.
But desperate times... with a flourish of her hand, thick, long drapes moved and covered the windows. A flick of her finger, and the shutters behind the drapes creaked open. The amount of light in the room increased just barely. A gust of fresh air reached her after a moment.
Alastor yet had to remove his hands from his face. Strands of his hair stuck to his sweat-slick neck.
“Get out”, she heard him whisper behind his hands.
And for a moment, she cowered and almost obeyed, like she was prone to do. But then a stab of determination, hardened by concern, turning to anger, stiffened her posture and she stood there, unmoving, timidness giving way to resolution, with a singular thought in her mind.
You idiot .
When she moved, it was to stride closer. She picked up a trash bin next to the desk and placed it at Alastor’s side, bumping his leg in the process so he’d know it was there.
“I think you’ll need it”, she added.
“Get...” he begun again, but didn’t finish. Instead he kept breathing laboriously. Thick close, Charlie could feel his scent – earth, iron, musk, sickly sweat.
“Have you taken something for the pain?”
Alastor’s fingers spread apart just enough to show one irritated red eye, the right one, with a pin-prick pupil. His monocle was nowhere in sight.
“I don’t need ... I’m perfectly fine.”
The crown of Charlie’s head started to itch, which was a tell-tale sign of her horns just about to jut out.
You idiot .
“This is how it’s going to be”, she said very softly. “You are going to tell me exactly what is wrong with you, and then, we’ll see if there’s any help. Or I’ll call Belphegor, the Sin of Sloth and the Mistress of Healing in all Hell, and she’ll come here to examine you and poke and prod at you, and that will attract a lot of attention, and imagine my dad getting a whiff of that story.”
The eye which glowed between Alastor’s fingers widened, then narrowed in helpless fury.
“You would not .”
“Call my bluff then. See what happens.” She crossed her hands at her chest and narrowed her eyes right back at him. “I’m going to the Heaven with Vaggie tomorrow and I refuse to leave you in this state . I refuse to leave any of my friends in this kind of state. Whatever it is, at least tell me if I can help. You don’t have to share the details, just... just let me help.” Her voice wavered from firm resolution into the more typical concern and eagerness. She could play the bad bitch only for so long, after all. She wished so often it was in her nature, but... it wasn’t. If only she could be more like her mom. Or her dad. Or any of the Sins. Or anyone who wasn’t a constant source of disappointment and embarrassment to her oved ones.
No, we’re not doing this now, Charlie. Not now . “Al, anything that gets shared in this room, stays in this room. I swear to you.”
Despite his suffering, his semi-visible grotesque grin twitched. “As a princess of Hell?”
“As a princess of Hell. And as Charlie.”
“Mmh”, he muttered, and Charlie wondered for a moment if that was an affirmation, but realized it was simply a nauseated moan when he quickly picked up the trash bin and stuck his head in it. Charlie winced with sympathy at the sounds of dry retching. Helpless to do anything else, she gently took his sweat-drenched locks of hair (it felt more like fur than hair to touch, she had to notice) and kept them out of the bin, even if it sounded that there was no danger of soiling them because there was nothing in his stomach to soil them with.
“...apologies...” Charlie heard him echoing from the bin, and it made Charlie’s spine stiffen again.
“You won’t apologize for being sick”, she said. Who was she angry at? Not at Alastor, no. But she was angry at someone she didn’t know to exist, as ridiculous as it was, and the anger fueled her determination to issue orders. “Let me take off your coat. It’s so hot in here, it’s making my head hurt. Here.”
She conjured a box of tissues and shoved it into his hand when he lowered the trash bin down. Just as she though – nothing in his belly at all. His coat was so drenched with sweat that she barely peeled it off his arms even if he gave in without protest, which was not what she expected at all by the by, and she wondered if she should summon Niffty to bring him a change of clothes, but decided against it. He was mortified enough as it was.
“So”, she sighed as she draped the coat over the sofa to dry, “do we have a deal?”
That got his attention. She felt both of his eyes, and misaligned as they were, boring into her neck as she conjured a pitcher of iced water and a lemon.
“... agreement ...”, he whispered, head still lolling above the trash bin, eyes shut again, ears flat back. Charlie’s heart clenched and she realized her hands were shaking a bit while she was pouring him a glass of water and squeezing some lemon juice in it. To see someone in such a sorry state was always heartbreaking to Charlie, but to see someone who was usually an untouchable embodiment of self-control and strength...
His hands trembled too, she saw when she handed him the glass, and he brought it to his lips greedily. He was thirsty. Again, Charlie’s chest felt a size too tight, uncomfortable. But she knew she mustn’t show it to him, no. He wouldn’t know how to tell sympathy from pity. She couldn’t risk him bolting on her now.
So she busied her fidgety hand with a pretense of doing something objectively useful and, without thinking, she reached for his hair again to push it away from his face, only this time she caressed his bangs back and mimicked what she remembered to be a thing to do when someone was sick – she held her hand to his forehead, having no idea how she’d be able to tell if something was wrong, but deciding that he felt unquestioningly, almost unpleasantly warm.
It was only after she’d done it that a though – fuck, Charlie, careful, he might NOT fucking like that! - flashed through her mind, but a heartbeat passed, and Alastor made no effort to remove her hand nor himself. He did stiffen – froze – she did too – and then his shoulders sagged, and he exhaled a slow, deep breath.
“Is this all right?”, Charlie asked so quietly that she hardly heard her own voice.
“Yes”, Alastor answered, equally quiet. “Cold. Good.”
Of course her hand felt cold on his scorchingly hot skin. She made a mental note to conjure some ice and make a cold compress, but before that, she asked again: “I really think a painkiller is in order, Al.”
“Do you think...” he breathed through clenched teeth and that artificial, unwavering grin that didn’t leave his face for a second. “...I wouldn’t think of it...?”
“I take it you took it and it didn’t work?” she pressed, ignoring his biting tone and her own desire to remove her hand from his forehead and slap his ungrateful face into oblivion instead. His answer was a long growl from his chest.
“Worked. Enough.”
Charlie wondered in what kind of condition if they hadn’t worked. With every short, staticky-hissed word he uttered, her heart would clench uncomfortably against her ribcage. Her mind refused to connect her usually verbose, smooth-talking, creepily energetic maniac of a business partner with this barely verbal wreck. It felt like watching a majestic old house being demolished and shredded into firewood.
“Tell me”, she urged softly, replacing her now-warm palm with the colder one. The small sigh and the sag of Alastor’s shoulders were tiny, but precious little victories. “What is it, Al? It all stays in this room, remember? Promise. Cross my heart.”
Alastor’s lazy eye swam east again. The good one fixed on Charlie with expression unreadable through the fog of pain and nausea.
“And what a... lot of heart. To cross.”, he formed each word with stubborn deliberation. Not knowing what to answer to that, Charlie kept silent and waited.
“Headache”, he elaborated further. “Just that. Silly. Ha-ha.”
The attempt of a chuckle colored his face green again, and Charlie panicked he was about to lose precious water she’d just gotten into him. She grabbed a fistful of tissues and doused them in icy water, then pressed it to his forehead.
“Doesn’t seem silly”, she whispered when his breathing evened out.
“Happens. Time to time. Will pass.”
“Does it last long?”
He lifted up three fingers.
“Three...” Charlie guessed. Oh, there was a light at the end of this tunnel. “...hours?”
“Days.”
“ Fuck !”
Her genuine despair rang too high in the register. Alastor’s eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared and grating.
“Fuck” , she repeated, hushed this time. “Sorry... sorry.”
Three days. They were only on day one. And she was going to Heaven tomorrow. He’ll have to manage alone. Nobody to bring him cold water of make him cold compress or...
Stupid, she chastised herself. Stupid, silly woman. He'd obviously gone through this many times. And who says he’d be alone? How delusional she was to think that a glass of water made some significant difference to him. For all she knew, she was pestering him instead of making him feel better, and he couldn’t wait for her to fuck off.
But then. That sigh when she held his head. That relieved droop to his rigid shoulders.
“It’s where the bullet hit”, he added unexpectedly. “Starts there. Now and then.”
It took Charlie a moment to put two and two together.
“The bullet from... your... death?” she inquired sheepishly.
“Mh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Charlie kept her voice as low as possible, not only for the sake of his headache, but because she felt like she’d just been given – maybe accidentally – a rare and precious view into a well- hidden mystery. She couldn’t recall Alastor even speaking about his first life other than his radio career and his speakeasy days, but something as intimate as his death? She wasn’t sure even Husk knew of it.
(Well, he probably did. But in this particular moment, it made her feel special to think he didn’t, and she allowed herself that little bit of vanity.)
“Loosen up your tie”, she suggested, wanting to hide the ridiculous sense of self-importance which probably had no grounds to stand on. Alastor only let this slip because he was ill, not because he valued her. “Might give you more air.”
Wonder of wonders, he obeyed without complaint. While his fingers fumbled with the tie, Charlie’s mind raced to remember what else her mother used to alleviate her agonizing headaches, other than withdrawing to her quarters and leaving Charlie to worry? (And really, why did fates decide to cross Charlie’s fates with the similar infuriatingly independent persons twice ?)
Ah. There was one thing she remembered.
“Is there anything that helps?” she asked, even if she knew the answer. If there had been something, he’d have applied it already.
“Time.”
“Uh - huh”, Charlie hummed. She thought that much. “May I try something?”
Suspicion and unease flickered in his slanted eyes. Charlie made another makeshift compress and pressed it gently against his forehead, then wiped his temple. This, at least, continued to have an immediate relaxing effect on him, as brief as it was. Charlie had to rein in the silly flicker of pride very tight.
“Let me just rub your back a little”, she took the opportunity of the moment. “I hear it helps sometimes. We got nothing to lose.”
His look told her how much of a ridiculous idea he judged this to be, but he didn’t voice it. Either he was too much in pain to waste energy on pointless argument, or he kept silent out of – should she dare – gratefulness for her assistance, she couldn’t tell, but she was surprised – although she should have seen it coming, really, when he said: “Not... appropriate.”
“Al, it’s just a back rub, not a lap dance.”
She had a feeling he’d have rolled his eyes if he could synchronize them, or if it wouldn’t make him go for the trash bin again. “No. I’m... dirty.”
Charlie tilted her head incredulously. This from a guy who swallowed people whole, guts and assholes and genitalia and all, and prided himself for it? Ah, but that was on his terms, with him being the one having the upper hand, him in complete control.
“It’s just sweat. I’ve touched dirtier, trust me.”
“Disgusting.”
“Well, eyeball muffins are disgusting to me , but I wasn’t complaining when--”
He raised his hand and produced a growling static-laced sound from his throat.
The lack of any further objection encouraged Charlie to slowly stand and position herself behind her. When he didn’t flinch, hiss, growl, bare teeth at her, grow antlers, dug his claws into the desk or produced more static, she lay her hand gently on his left shoulder. He was right; his shirt was drenched in sticky sweat more than his coat was, but it was just a fleeting observation. What caught her attention was the jutting shoulder blade anchoring stiff, lean, wiry muscles. It felt like touching a wooden mannequin doll.
“Okay?” she asked, not only for his comfort, but safety of them both. As downtrodden as he was, she couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility of him snapping and lashing out, and then she’d have to flare up her fire and her horns, and she’d still be hesitant about hurting him and he’d probably end up hurting her , and then her dad would -
“Go on”, Alastor said in a tone of someone expecting to have his healthy teeth pulled out, interrupting her spiraling thoughts. Somehow, some naughty little part of Charlie found the situation at least a bit... funny. The infamous Radio Demon, notoriously evil and terrifying, sitting before her – beneath her, even – all tied up in knots over a headache and a prospect of a back massage.
She placed her other hand on his right shoulder and found it similarly rigid. It was impossible to say where bone ended and muscle begun. She made an experimental squeeze, gently – she knew she was much stronger than people usually imagined her to be – and found the muscle beneath her palms unyielding. She might as well be kneading a stone gargoyle.
But she knew better than to tell him to relax. Knowing him, it would only make him stiffen up more, and could she blame him? Trust is earned with time and effort, not words. Instead she moved her hands closer to his spine, her thumbs willing the flesh to give. She thought she felt furry texture close to the spine, but couldn’t tell for sure. She found the spot where his trapezius muscles met the shoulder blades and run her thumbs along the ridge.
“Goodness, Al... you’re all tied up in knots”, she diagnosed. “No wonder your head is killing you.” She tilted her head to take a peek at his face and searched for any indication he wanted her to stop, but she didn’t know how to interpret him burying his forehead into his hands again. “Eh... you okay there? Am I... making it worse?”
“No”, she heard him mutter.
“Eh. No to ‘ are you okay ’ or ‘ am I making it --’”
“Second.”
“Oh. Yay!” It wasn’t much of an incentive but it wasn’t pulling the plug on it either, and Charlie was anything if not optimistic. She took off her own coat and tossed it aside, rolled up her sleeves and wiggled her fingers before really getting to work. She was going to kick those knots goodbye!
This time, she started from the top, where the skull met the spine. She almost giggled at how soft the short-trimmed fur-hair was there. He would be mortified if Hell ever heard anything about him being so soft. The muscles there, however, were anything but soft - thin and wiry and strung like a crossbow, she had to coax them again and again until they softened some, revealing lumps of knots all the way down the column of bone. Reaching the spot where his neck disappeared inside his sweat-soaked collar, she glimpsed a view of his uppermost back, and indeed there was a dorsal stripe of red and brown fur which would have continued into his hair if he hadn’t kept it shaved. She wondered where it ended, and if it ended in a cute little tail. Now that would be a sight of the fearsome Radio Demon.
Her thoughts were redirected when Alastor groaned, and she stopped all motion at once. “Oh! Fuck, sorry – am I hurting you?”
“ No! ” he groaned again, with an almost-desperate edge to his voice. His hands fell from his face and his head tilted back a little. “Do it --- again .”
The high of self-satisfaction, Charlie decided, probably trumped any kind of substance high ever invented by man or demon. If there was a flow of heat running from her chest down her belly and lower, she immediately attributed it to the fact that it was no small physical feat, employing enough strength into these ossificated muscles.
“Told you it would help”, she chuckled and did as requested. When her hands moved lower to attack the junction of his trapezius muscle with his backbone, she saw his claws digging into the desk, leaving marks.
“Too hard?” she asked, and Alastor cocked his head just enough for her to see his eyes were wide, and so were his pupils.
“What?” he whispered, sounding halfway between alarmed and groggy.
“Am I going too hard?”
“No... no. No.”
“Good!” she perked up and continued to run her knuckles along his spine, first one side than another, careful not to pull at the fur beneath the shirt. Goodness, those knots were horrible. How tense was he every day, all day, for him to get into a state like this? She had to really press to soften them some. Under her knuckles, she could feel the knots creaking and crackling. Sweat started to break out over her own back.
Alastor’s head tilted back some more, and she heard another moan tear away from his throat. Naturally, she though, that it seemed to trigger another wave of heat in her belly; how could it not? With all the effort she was putting, she might as well tick her ‘exercise’ box for today.
And the low rumble of his inarticulate relief was pretty fucking delicious to hear. The ever-hidden, naughty part of her reared its head again, and she could swear it made her horns pop out a bit. So that’s what can tame the Radio Demon, fearsome and enigmatic horror of Pride ring. A vigorous back massage.
A creaking sound like breaking bone accompanied Alastor’s deep, shaky exhale of air. Charlie almost jumped back in surprise when she realized her field of vision, as semi-obscure as it already was, was filling with his growing, branching antlers. Her decent night vision was making it possible for her to see they were subtly ridged, onyx black and sharp at the tips. Frozen with her hands clawing at his back, Charlie stared and all she could think was: Holy shit. They are fucking beautiful.
And then she remembered why she was there and what she was doing and she blinked away her stunned surprise, tongue untying enough for her to ask: “Alastor, as impressive as those are, please don’t poke my eye out, he-he.” The nervous chuckle at the end made her want to smack herself across the head and she hoped he wouldn’t think she was mocking him. “I... take it you want me to stop?”
“No... yes!“
“I know it hurts, but when the knots are all done in, I bet you’ll feel massively better”, she soothed him. Without thinking, without planning, without fearing, her hand went to his right ear and caressed it gently, caution be damned. It was softer than the shaved fur on his neck, soft like velvet. She scratched behind it for added reassurance. “What do you say? Just a bit more? We got this far. Just... a bit more?”
Alastor breathed deep and raggedly. Charlie scratched behind his ear again, refusing to think, refusing to analyze that she had the Radio Demon quite literally in her palms, scratching his ear as if he was some tame beast, her head casually framed by his deadly antlers. She was helping him – that was all. She was helping her facility manager. She was helping him to get better and she was not drawing any kind of ego boost or pleasure from his unexpected and utter surrender.
“More”, he echoed at last.
She resumed her ministrations, emboldened by the way his movements were no longer stiff and pained, his eyes no longer squinting or squeezed shut. His ears changed position too – no longer pinned back, but tilted sideways. And whatever his suddenly enlarged antlers signaled, one thing was certain: his pain lessened very quickly and very effectively. Because of her .
I guess I’m not useless every day of the year , she allowed herself a smug grin.
“Char...”
Alastor’s claws dug impossibly deep into the desk, leaving deep, irreparable gashes. His whole frame shuddered, rigid again, and Charlie slowed down for a moment, fearing a chance that she’d somehow triggered his pain again. Even though another part of her mind told her that chance was pretty damn slim. His frame bent forward, then arched back again, and the back of his head came to rest against Charlie’s belly, making something lurch inside of her. Maybe indigestion, she reasoned as she ran both her hands, uninvited and unbothered, along the length of his antlers which now crowned her belly and chest.
Seconds ticked by. The passed in silence. They connected into minutes. Nothing could be heard except for Alastor’s slowing, jagged breaths and Charlie’s heartbeat in her ears.
“Did it help?” Charlie broke the silence first. It felt like a sacrilege, as quiet and soft as it was.
Alalstor didn’t answer at once. He only spoke when his antlers finally receded, liberating Charlie’s frame. She gave them a wistful glance before they assumed their usual latent size and shape.
“Remarkably well, my dear” he licked his lips. “But if I may, I’d like to take a day of medical leave tomorrow.”
“Sure thing, Al”, Charlie took a careful step back, not wanting to face him for the life of her. “If you promise to actually rest. And work on those knots.”
“Without you, my dear”, he avoided her eyes as well, slouching back in his chair, “hardly. But I can promise to try.”
“You think you can go back to your room now? Feel, eh, good enough?”
“...in a moment.”
He finally turned around enough to look at her sideways. She didn’t know what to expect in those crimson eyes, but whatever it was, she couldn’t place it.
“The arrangement stays, Charlie, dear, is it not?” he asked, and she connected the expression with the question.
It was the look of someone on her mercy.
The initial spark of thrill immediately gave way to much more familiar warmth. If she could, she’d run to him and hug him right then and there, but both of them were safer as they were.
“Of course, Al”, she smiled, chest burning with all the affection that had nowhere to go. “What happens in this room, stays in this room.”
His twitching ear gave away his lingering uncertainty.
“Cross my heart”, she assured him, meaning it.
He observed her as one would a peculiar and interesting life form, unknown to Heaven, Hell or Earth.
“But promise you’ll take it slow tomorrow!” she insisted. “Rest in your room, and try to work on those...”
Just like that, without warning, he vanished in a rush of shadows. Charlie’s hand reached out instinctively and found nothingness.
“...knots”, she muttered.