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Something small and significant had shifted in Alastor since the battle; Rosie had clocked that much the very first time she’d seen him then. Her gaze, black and vacant though it were, could never have possibly missed the feral flutter of each of his ears at every sudden noise, their constant and unsubtle swivel in entirely different directions, as though scanning the heavens for some threat unseen, unshaken. Neither could she readily ignore the uncharacteristic way that he seemed to hang back from all action, fixed in point and posture like bone and socket, nor how he always hovered a thread closer to her side than he had before, his claws often resting protectively on the puff of her sleeve. When she had chanced once that day to ask him why, he had answered, plainly, enigmatically, with eyes like slits, a grin gold and cheshire:
“Only to have something to hold on to, darling!”
He chuckled after he said this: a sound that was sharp: strained, as though the razor-tip of his laugh was impaling him. His touch tightened, cool and stiff, and Rosie darted a look to his other hand, nestled out of sight into the red folds of the coat he wore. Oh, stars, that was right…
Well, that was one more thing to worry over…
… his radio staff was nowhere to be found.
…
What with all of his twitchiness, Rosie had half a mind to expect him not to come round for quite a while again. Hell, it would make her no-one’s fool to assume him to have run off on another seven-year sabbatical, as peculiar though it had been the first time it had occurred. Some very strange things had been happening to Alastor in these recent years, and, as it seemed, another sort of happening was happening again, and what he would do within its wake was truly anyone’s guess– Rosie’s included. This had been the very first thing she’d come to discover about Alastor– that he was unpredictable, capricious like rain; as strange as a blue moon over a bloody horizon. But even a wild man had his habits– indeed, every creature, hellish or human, that slashed and danced beneath the world possessed some silent, instinctual place that could be loosely defined as home.
And so, of course, it came only as unshocking surprise when one azure evening not long after their last reunion, Alastor arrived, unannounced and overdue, delivered as though he were some wayward red envelope to the steps of her porch, slipping soundlessly right behind her door like a stray pet and as if walking through a dream.
Although the days following the Victory had been big and bright and beautiful, filled with music, flushed with celebration, the nights since were always hushed, reverent. Very nearly mournful. A collective reach for a past, gruesome though familiar, that was dead and gone, with it a hesitance for a future more uncertain than it had ever appeared before. Alastor, as it seemed, had taken with him a piece of the night when he had entered into the pink of her parlor. Silence tailed him like a dog; it hung heavy like brimstone and smoke over both of his shoulders.
Things were quiet. Loudly quiet, in a way that they hardly ever were with Alastor by. The ticking swing of the antique clock in the corner. The rustle of lush fabric with every little move she made. The languishing bee-hum of the radiator, old and rickety, from the corner where Alastor sat, solitary, in the armchair that had once belonged to her third late husband (before she had eaten him a second time and looted his wretched house, of course). Never had she known him to sit so far from her. Usually he preferred a seat right at her side whenever they were together. The fact that he was there now gave her every indication that something was terribly amiss. Before, at very least, Alastor had been acting odd in a way that was… decidedly Alastor. Today he was hardly a man she knew at all:
His eyes were empty, devoid of all the mischievous starlike luster they usually held; he said nothing and stared at nothing, and the way he had his arms crossed stiffly over his sternum like a corpse at a funeral made it seem as though he had something there he felt he needed to hide. His face was a pale and porcelain smiling mask– one that threatened to shatter with each whistle of breath that he took, and Rosie found herself willing it to break; to allow her to see beneath, to see beyond the grin that could never have deceived her for a minute. The fact that he had not told her explicitly what was wrong– had not at all spoken but a few mumbled niceties to her since he had entered here– told her, clear and simple, that he was sorely ashamed of whatever it was. Already she was beginning to speculate the reasons…
Her wish was granted, wickedly, mere moments later, in the form of a few chesty coughs, exploding like gunfire from his body ex nihilo, leaving him gasping for a few dizzying seconds before, with a swift shake of his head and a flick of an ear, he was back to perfect composure, as though nothing particularly out of the ordinary had happened at all.
From the moment she’d accepted him in until now, she’d been content to allow him to have his silence, figuring that he needed time to settle himself down before telling her– directly or otherwise– what was the matter, but Rosie found that she could wait no longer. If he was ill or injured, she needed to know at once.
“Alastor, darling, I–”
Her words were interrupted by another noise from Alastor, a stifled sort of sizzle that toed the line between human and machine; the sound of a radio short-circuiting, of façade fracturing simply, suddenly, all at once:
“Hshh–HZZzt!”
Ah. She’d caught it, now. Had he been sat in the company of any other demon beau or belle, they were likely to have surmised that he was glitching out– or perhaps that they had caught him mid-transformation into something grand and grotesque, but Rosie knew better, much better. She recognized this sound because she had heard it before, understood well what it implied. There was no longer any linger of question left in her mind– he was surely and soundly sick. This was only further confirmed when his eyes began to flicker mistily in and out: black, then red, then black again, quite like the headlights of some old locomotive simmering out of steam, before they shut wholly another time as he bent into another few sneezes:
“Ehh–HZSHT! HZZT!”
When he emerged, nose buried deep into the hard crux of his wrist, for a harrowing moment the smile on his face was bitter enough to kill: a sharp wolfish snarl of ‘don’t mention it’ was burned into every one of his features before he had any mind to adjust his face for her again. Dull and pleasant. Deliberately unperturbed.
“Oh, Al…” Rosie sighed without fully thinking it through, biting back the urge– some lingering little remnant of life as a lady– to bless him earnestly, knowing that it would serve for nothing but to anger him further. They were in Hell, after all, and a blessing was no longer of any sentiment; Heaven knew their souls had wandered far beyond the scope of saving long ago. And, at any rate, she’d been in such a situation, rare though it were, enough times to gain some tact. When handling a man as volatile as Alastor could be in such a vulnerable position, it had always been best practice to act delicately, to sneak him into relinquishment, into comfortability, and then to strike upon him all at once. She needed a diversion, clearly, to buy her some time until her real plan was fully flowered.
After all, any scheme to get Alastor to rest, no matter how cunning or clever, would only ever work exactly once and then never again. To outfox a man like him was always quite a challenge– a challenge that, judging any by the growing plague of pinkness that was quickly descending over his nose and cheekbones and the heavy tremble his fingers had begun to take on, she was just going to have to accept if she wanted him to do anything other than slink right back out into the darkness and fall, inevitably, face-first and half-double-dead, into the street. Clearly he had come to her for help, whether he really and fully knew of this or not, and, as she had always sworn to do, she would deliver. She cleared her throat pointedly:
“It isn’t very polite to keep a lady waiting, you know!”
Alastor blinked slowly. His ear swatted at some invisible fly. “What did you say?”
She held tight to a smile, warm and white. “Well, now, clearly there must be some reason you’ve decided to grant me the pleasure of your presence tonight! Hm, let me guess.” She set a hand to her chin, miming a thought that had really come several sentences before. “I bet you’ve got a thing or two to spill about some goings-on at that adorable little Hotel of yours! That precious spitfire Charlie Morningstar must have been keeping things quite lively since I’ve seen the place! Whadayya say, hun? Was I right?”
At this he brightened, body whirring, finally, back to some small semblance of life, his shoulders sagging into a familiar, relaxed sigh as Alastor cozied again into himself. An opportune chance to vent about his Hotel with her was an offer Rosie knew that he would never refuse: even here, even now. Indeed, he crouched like someone’s grinning housecat on the edge of his seat, and, all at once, he broke into a second coming of that barking laughter she’d heard from him that time before:
“Ah, but of course, my dear! My stars, where are my manners? How cruel it would be of me not to offer you up even a morsel of what is certain to be delicious conversation! With you around, how could it not? Now, I’ll admit, it has been quite some time since I’ve set foot in that marvelous old mess–”
Interesting, Rosie noted with a fond bite of sarcasm. I couldn’t possibly imagine why.
“–Buuut, the last I heard, they were partaking in some major renovations. Hah! It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if the whole thing is destroyed completely once more before it ever gets close to finished! Why, they’re at quite the disadvantage in my absence, to be sure!”
“I believe it, dear,” Rosie echoed with a chirp.
“You know,” said Alastor with a twitch to his nose. “Our dear Charlotte herself has nearly set the place to ruin on a multitude of momentous occasions already! Those ridiculous bonding exercises are far more trouble than they’re worth, I say! Every time she… she– hh-HhZhT! Pardon, darling, there must be something in the air tonight…”
So, is that your story, then, hm? She thought with an amused smirk. Things had been remarkably calm since the Angels had all gone. The only thing that the wind had carried by these days were those ever-present distant shrieks and wails of the damned and a few spontaneous bouts of acid rain now and again; nothing that could ever hope to elicit such a reaction from him.
“You were saying?”
Alastor gave a final inconspicuous swipe at his nose. “Each time she plans on some wicked scheme involving the oven, I take it as my cue to begin a careful vigil from the upstairs balcony. Popcorn for those wretched Friday movie nights with that infernal picture box always seems to go south, and were you even aware that water could catch fire? Thank Hell I was around to put an end to that one!”
Rosie feigned a gasp of surprise. “Well, I’ll be! Do my ears deceive me, Alastor? Because it sounds to me like someone’s been quite busy making some friends!” She teased, a frolic of entertainment and a soft smattering of applause leaping into each one of her words.
Alastor’s eyes narrowed scathingly into twin shards of wine-red glass. “They are not my friends, Rosie.”
“That’s what you think, Alastor, I know it is. But I also know that the Radio Demon doesn’t cavort around rescuin’ just anyone. You’re beginning to feel for them. You don’t have to admit it– I know you won’t– I see it all the same: your actions have a voice of their own, and I sense that change brewin’ in you. Never thought I’d see the day you started going all soft on me! I’m circling around to believing that maybe there was a dash of rhyme and reason to all of that moxie talk about demons and rainbows after all. Who’d’ve thought it?”
“It’s a business strategy,” he hissed vehemently. “Nothing more.”
“That’s always been your excuse,” Rosie reminded. “Hell, it’s how you used to talk about me, once upon a time and back a ways… You weren’t always the shadowy little sweetheart of a man I know today– but don’t get me wrong, darling, I think it’s nothing short of wonderful that you’re…”
Her gaze ghosted over the space above his shoulders; that frail and flighty way he held himself. If she squinted she could just about see it– a thin warble to the air around him. A shiver up and down his spine like static– he was cold. Her mind raced at rabbit speed even as she spoke:
“... warming up to them!”
Alastor rolled his eyes, seeming to sink into himself ever deeper at even the barest mention of heat, grouching something to himself that she could only half-hear. She tapped a slender finger to her temple. Now, there just had to be some way of keeping him warm and relaxed without ever letting on a thing. Serendipity reared its beautiful head as a noise from the hall rose up like an Angel's song: the soft chime of her dryer, announcing that a cycle had finished– the tablecloths of her Emporium had required a good washing after the Feasts had finally concluded. By now, surely, they were clean, fluffy, and ready to be folded and put away– and just like that, Rosie had found the perfect ploy.
“Say, by the way,” she drawled, slow and sugar-sweet. “Would you care to lend me a hand with something?”
Alastor beamed. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Always knew I could count on you! Wait here,” she instructed.
…
“All of these tablecloths need to be folded. I’d not normally ask such menial tasks of my favorite guest, but, well… with the Feasts over, there is so much washing up that still needs to be done before the customers come pourin’ on back in droves… You know how they are.” She gave an affectionate shudder.
Alastor crossed the room soundlessly before settling on the sofa right at her side. “It’s no trouble at all, really! I’ll have you know, Rosie, that I am always happy to assist– I mean that, truly!”
“With your help, the work will go twice as quick, and– ooh, feel this, Alastor! They’re all still nice and warm from the dryer!”
This elicited an immediate sound of disgust.
“Ugh, the dryer, you say? I can’t believe you,” he answered as he reached for the basket. Had he any mind to use his magic for the chore, surely, he would have chosen to do so already. “What a proper waste of perfectly good electricity! Pardon my preaching but, back in my day…” Alastor’s breath hitched into a sudden set of sneezes. “Excuse me; the room is a mite dusty. Back in my day, people knew better than to let a machine work in place of nature– why, a sunny morning and a pleasant breeze can do the very same thing as that ridiculous invention for a mere fraction of the cost! It’s only the commonest sense, dear, I’m just looking out for you.”
“Mm-hm,” Rosie hummed. She’d heard this exact spiel from Alastor many times before and she had anticipated that she might hear it again tonight. Alastor was very particular about exactly which modern inventions he welcomed into his world with open arms and which ones he shunned. Washing machines were fine and dandy by his shifting standards, but even the mere mention of an electric dryer granted a grumble from him– it was quite entertaining to see how far he would go to avoid accepting new things. She was not about to remind him that they were very nearly from the exact same day and age. Change affected them each differently.
“Might you be forgetting, though, that we are in Hell, darling? Sunshine can quickly turn sour– heat from down here can burn a crisp to your entire clothesline quicker than you can even hope to hang it. This is just easier.”
He flicked his wrist, setting down the cloth he held momentarily as he looked her eye-for-eye.
“Just a matter of good timing, really! If you lean into the patterns of the weather, you can still make it work in a pinch– My mother made it work, and our home state was a Hell of its own innovation, what with all the storms! Really, Rosie, there is no excuse to have that–” he spat, as though the word were a piece of bad meat. “–in here.”
In spite of what his frenzied lecture might have one believe, Rosie could tell that Alastor was winding down; the words he spoke had long lost the tinny sheen of his usual transatlantic filter, and had loosened, gradually, into something much mellower: the returning honey-sweet twang of his actual voice. His eyelids drooped visibly as he pulled another tablecloth from the basket, spreading it over his lap almost without thought and as though it were a blanket. Rosie could scarcely suppress a snicker as she looked over to the pile he’d begun to form on the other side of the sofa and saw that, even after all this time, he had only managed to successfully finish folding one.
“Well, now, a clothesline’s good and plenty for a family of few, mind you,” Rosie argued playfully. “But I’ve got a business to uphold here, and you must consider me crazy if you think that I’m about to–”
“– And I’ll hear none of that, thank you!” Alastor grinned through a sniffle. Rosie had noticed that he had begun to do that more and more as of recent. “You know as well as I that you’re not short on help, either.”
She sighed. “Maybe you’re right, Alastor,” she conceded– though, truly, only to humor him. “Maybe newer isn’t always better. Even if it is awfully convenient. And even if the warmth does last considerably longer on the laundry this way,” she added in a melodic lilt. He rubbed at an eye.
“Never mind the warmth!”
Rosie hummed. You’ll be eating those words soon enough, I’m sure.
“Someone’s certainly turned talkative quickly,” she teased. “And yet we haven’t even touched upon the most pressing matter of all.” Alastor’s head tilted curiously.
“And which subject would that be?”
“You, Alastor. You’ve been different since the Battle. Don’t think I haven’t heard my share through word of mouth about what happened. But I wanted to hear it from you before anyone. Your silence earlier says something’s wrong. I so wish you’d tell me just what.”
His posture stiffened immediately, gaze circling the floor. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”
“You know I don’t buy that for a minute.”
The only response this garnered from Alastor was a few stifled coughs. It seemed he wasn’t ready yet to speak of this; that was all right. She was starting to suspect she had all night– and, if she played her hand right, all of tomorrow, too, to make him talk. For now she would set her sights elsewhere. At very least, she could sort out that shivering that he was still doing.
“Alastor?”
“Hm?”
“Which way do you fold a tablecloth, could you show me? Do you make it into a square or roll it up?”
“Ah, well, there’s only one correct way to do it, chère!” He leaned over as he reached at his side for his folded example. Rosie took this opportunity to slip a few pink tablecloths over top of his shoulders, lightly caressing the tender points at the small of his back as she did so. “See, what you’re meant to do is divide it into three equivalent– oh… What… What are you doing?”
“These ones have some wrinkles in them! So I’m using you to help me crease them out. See?” She brushed his back gently in a subtle sweeping motion.
“I look ridiculous.”
“No one’s here to see. And this is working wonderfully. So hold still.”
Alastor heaved a heavy sigh, the edge of which quickly devolved into a languid yawn. “These are quite warm. It’s rather pleasant, I think…”
She arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve switched sides so quickly. Going to start using the dryer for your laundry at the Hotel, now, after all?”
“Of course not,” he protested. “That would be prep… preposterous,” his jaw creaked as he was overtaken once more by a second, larger yawn that shuddered through his entire body. “I wouldn’t… dream of it.” It was as though a switch had flipped in him, the ruse of his energy and enthusiasm buried deep and dead under the shroud of the moment that held him now. Rosie watched furtively as he nuzzled himself closer into the heat of the cloths, wrapping them over his chest like a cloak, his nose lost somewhere under a fragrant sea of pink. Then, she smiled as he scooted an inch closer to her side.
“You’re lookin’ awful sleepy all of a sudden, there, Allie.”
“Hm? ... Don’t call me that,” he murmured. “And I can assure you that I am no such th-hh-ing… HzZzsH! HHZT-SHU! HSSZT-CHUU!” He sneezed violently into the waiting folds of fabric. I’ll make note to wash those another time, Rosie thought dimly.
“... And you don’t sound so peachy, either.”
“I’m fine.”
“Very well. Have it your way.” She resumed the motions of folding, if only to appear occupied. Alastor did not follow; he merely looked her way with a fuzzy deerish glance, his smile askew and his eyes like two half-moons. “You could take a little catnap, though, if you wanted. Shut your eyes; I won’t tell your employer that you’re sleepin’ on the job.”
His ears wilted; Alastor seemed not to have heard her at all. “Mm… R-Rosie?” He asked with a sway and in a staticky sort of sigh.
“Yes, sweetie?”
“What kind of perfume’s in this detergent? Smells lovely.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Um…” His brow creased as he struggled to think through the effects of whatever illness now cradled him in a perfect drowsy grasp.
“It’s a type of flower.” Alastor paused but came up empty. “Like in my name.”
“Ahh…” he breathed. “Roses.”
“You got it.”
“That’s nice,” he purred. “Very nice… Would you mind so much if I…?” He moved nearer still, the point of his chin hovering just above the tip of her shoulder. “... put my head right there?”
“You go right ahead.”
He leaned into her, totally and completely, lashes fluttering as he sniffled slushily into his fist. His forehead nestled smoothly against the nape of her neck, and from it she could feel a profound heat moving beneath; he mumbled a sleepy something that she could not make much sense of.
“What was that?”
“‘Said ‘m not goin’ to sleep,” he slurred adamantly. “Jus’ resting my eyes for a few.”
“Whatever you want, Alastor. You’re in control.”
“Laundry,” he murmured around a yawn.
“The laundry can wait a while longer. You settle in and rest.”
Alastor said nothing more; he slumped into her side, pillowing his head snugly against the satin fabric of her dress, a sound sleep eclipsing him immediately as though it had been waiting in the wings all the time, listening faithfully for its proper invitation. A wisp of breath escaped from his upturned and parted lips– at the end of it, her name. Things were quiet once again, but, this time, not uneasily so or uncomfortably so. This was a silence as warm and as natural as was his weight on her arm, as was the domestic shape he took when he rested there; when he dared to doze, to dream. All was well and wonderful. A perfect little noise emerged like music from his chest, a steady crackle-and-rumble that could only readily mean one thing.
“Alastor,” Rosie sang softly, playfully. “You’re snoring!”
She stole a precious glance down at his face, awash with total bliss and deliciously unguarded. One of his cheeks was smushed clumsily into her sleeve, and his adjacent ear had flopped incorrigibly over like a puppy’s. He slept awkwardly and gracelessly, and in the sticky kind of way a toddler might nap over his mother’s shoulder after having exhausted himself thoroughly with play; yes, Alastor– formidable, dangerous Alastor– looked quite like a child dozing here now. The spot where his mouth met in close conversation with the collar of her blouse had long begun to dampen.
“And drooling,” she marvelled. She touched the corners of his lips with a bit of cloth.
Soon she reached to scratch at that sagging ear, and Alastor did not stir at all beyond a content huff of his approval, he was fully at her mercy and fully at his rest, and for many long minutes afterward, she was still and silent as he slept there shamelessly, serenely. His arms were still crossed protectively over his chest, and, craning her neck to see over top of him, Rosie nudged them gently aside, lowering the scruff of his lapel just slightly to reveal the worst wound she’d seen on him to date; the wound she’d knew he’d been hiding but could hardly have imagined:
Golden, gilded, and festering, crudely held together with spidery strands of green stitching. An injury that would have surely killed any sinner even half as stubborn as he; one for which she felt completely powerless to do much else above watching and waiting. A noise like a gasp and a cry escaped her throat, her heart:
“Good gracious, what happened here? An Angel’s doing, for sure, but–”
Alastor made a sound in his sleep– worried, disturbed, and she covered his chest again, tsking lowly as she rubbed slow, smooth circles into his back until he relaxed once more, still as a toy and limp as a doll against her side. He’d raise hell, she knew, if she ever said a word about how cute he looked when he was asleep.
“We’re talking about this later,” she chided in a hiss. “Like it or don’t, we are talking.”
He slept on a while longer without interruption; the clock in the corner tolled its song, deep and melancholy, announcing the start of a new hour. Thirty minutes had passed with him this way, and Rosie had very rarely ever succeeded in getting him to rest like this any longer than that. If today he had chosen his predictability after all, he was likely to awaken soon. Gently, she moved him from her shoulder, handling him like a piece of fine china as she lay him down carefully along the length of the couch, lifting his shoes from the floor and his head to a pillow. His monocle slid from his face, and she slipped it securely into a pocket as she tucked a few more tablecloths around his body. His eyelids cracked open a fraction, revealing sclera that were dull, dim and grey; he leaned into the hand she kept under his cheek as he murmured something sad and sweet, a delicate amalgam of dream and reality:
“Just about finished hangin’ the clothesline, Maman. Then, I’ll help you fold…”
Rosie shook her head tenderly. It seemed he always spoke of his mother at times like this, moments when he was here with her alone. She did not, could not know exactly the reason why. It was a subject that, despite the depth and breadth of their relationship, he had only ever mentioned in quiet passing or in drunken abandon.
“Just rest a minute more, Alastor. I’m going to make you tea.” She dialed the radio to life on her way out, filling the room with the warm kick and canter of swing music. And everything slowed.
…
In all the length of time it had taken Rosie to boil the kettle and steep the brew, Alastor had not bothered at all to awaken, but he greeted her anew with a soft and easy shift in position. He had turned, haphazardly, onto a side, a clawed hand flung beside his cheek as though reaching in fondness for the ghost of someone he had met in the dream he was having. One leg was extended, the other bent, tucked close to his chest; in his drowsy commotion he’d kicked off the covers and was presently shivering once more. She moved to place them back, studying his form closely as she did– the mirthful twitch of his lips, the sigh he let fly, loose and heavy, as he nosed his way under layers of textile– under her scent, once more. His expression tensed as she watched, eyes squeezing shut as though the low light bothered him, and she took her wide-brimmed hat and set it over the top of his antlers. Reduced to unwitting innocence beneath her care, below her vigilant gaze he was modest and fragile and animal– a small forest thing nestled in a burrow all his own, draped like the pelt of some prey, humble and hunted, across her sofa. No longer a cannibal or a killer at all: just a man, only a man asleep and waiting on his tea.
She set his cup down on a coffee table beside the couch with a tiny clink, and, as though the noise had summoned him straight back from death and oblivion, he stirred with a groan and a hazy hum, stretching as he slowly sat up and blinking blearily as though he had no earthly idea where he was. He squinted as he fumbled blindly for his monocle, meeting her gaze when at last he could see things for what they were again.
“Feeling better, sweetie?”
“What… What happened?” Her hat, askew and dangling from one horn, fell over the front of his eyes; he slipped it off, holding it perplexedly to his chest. He looked with disdain at the blanket of pink that still bloomed over both of his shoulders.
She grinned impishly. “I think you know the answer to that yourself somewhere.”
A crease of protest shadowed his brow. “No, I don’t, and I do not much appreciate the– oh…”
He stared down muzzily at the mug of tea she had just pressed like a flower into his waiting hands. “...This was your doing, wasn’t it?”
She shrugged. “Only partially. You made it come easy, darling! And, really, it was the oddest thing. We were just doin’ some laundry, having a lovely chat, then you dozed off on me like you hadn’t had a proper sleep in years,” she narrated, feigning unintention if only to watch his reaction.
He cleared his throat skeptically. “Just how long was I… incapacitated?”
She checked the clock with a coy smirk. “A very calm and uneventful forty-five minutes. Call me cocky, Alastor, but I’m going to consider that a personal record.”
He took a long and shaky pull of drink. “I do so apologize for that little display; I’m sorry–”
“–I’m not!” She chuckled. “Admit it or don’t, you needed that. I didn’t meet you yesterday; I can read between the smile lines. And, sure, I never quite finished medical school, neither, but I can sure as shit recognize a bit of rheumatic plague when I see it.”
His smile wavered, softened. “Well, at any rate, I’m quite fine now, so I think I’ll take my leave and–” He made a move to rise to his feet, an action she immediately countered.
“– Nah-ah-ah! I’ll hear none of it. You’ve not yet run your course. Slow down a smidge, sit. Have some tea.”
He clicked his tongue with a note of disapproval. “I’m fine, Rosie! I… I… HSZzHT! EHZzT!” He sighed, running a blackened claw over the back of his neck. “... Perhaps I might stay the night.”
She beamed. “That answer suits me much better. If you’d intended to fool me, Alastor, you ought to have tried harder,” she added teasingly. “I know all of your tricks.”
“Indeed, it… it appears as though it is I who has been tricked.” He hummed. “Well played.” With some second, smaller voice: shy and stubborn and sweet, he murmured something that sounded suspiciously akin to a “thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, darling,” she echoed. “Welcome as you are.”