Chapter Text
It was nearly noon, and the Hazbin Hotel had seen everything except a certain deer demon.
Angel was sprawled across the lobby couch, one leg kicked over the back, idly flipping through a magazine. “Where is Radio Daddy anyway?” he whined, tapping his foot. “He’s usually up by sunrise, terrorizing us with his freakin’ jazzercise soundtrack.”
Charlie glanced up from dusting picture frames, smiling with a soft shake of her head. “I’m sure he’s fine! Maybe he’s just… taking his time today?”
Angel snorted. “Alastor? Taking his time? Nah. He probably got sucked into his antique little-man rituals. Radio polishing. Antler buffing. Summoning the ghost of the Charleston.”
Charlie giggled. “Angel!”
“Well, am I wrong?”
Before she could answer, a sudden, sharp crackle split through the silence—like a burst of lightning trapped in a speaker. The walls vibrated faintly. Paintings rattled.
Then—
BWAAMMMMM—
Alastor’s old radio roared to life somewhere upstairs, blasting at full demonic volume.
Angel yelped, nearly falling off the couch. “OH MY GOD—it’s like a bomb went off in an abandoned Sears!”
Charlie perked up instantly. “Oh! That’s his radio! That means he’s awake!”
Angel slapped his hands over his ears. “Awake? Babe he’s gonna wake the dead.”
The music finally steadied through the static—bright, jaunty, unmistakably old.
Angel groaned so hard it sounded like a dying foghorn. “Greeeat. Fantastic. He’s in one of those moods.”
Charlie actually smiled wider. “I like this one! It’s catchy!”
Angel pointed dramatically toward the ceiling. “It’s catchy at a normal volume. This is like being trapped in an evil carnival run by a Disney vault ghost!”
Upstairs, there was another loud crack—the sound of something being smacked, maybe even kicked—followed by the radio spiking even louder.
Static shrieked. The melody wobbled. Then Al Jolson’s voice blasted through the walls like he was trying to physically break into Hell.
Angel screamed over it, voice cracking, “HE’S GONNA GET US SUED FOR NOISE POLLUTION!”
Charlie clapped her hands to her cheeks but giggled anyway. “We can’t get sued, Angel, we’re in Hell!”
“That’s not the point!”
She was halfway to the stairs when the door at the top creaked open, and Alastor stepped out—slowly, almost casually.
His antlers brushed the doorframe, dust clinging to the tips. His coat was slightly rumpled, vest unbuttoned at the top. One ear twitched lazily. And the radio under his arm was sparking softly, throwing off thin ribbons of smoke.
But his smile?
Soft. Pleased. Almost sleepy.
He hummed along with the blaring chorus—perfect pitch, old-radio smooth—as though nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
Charlie called up to him, cupping her hands. “Good morning, Alastor!”
“Is it morning still?” he called back, voice melodic over the blare of Swanee. “How curious. I appear to have slept through half of it.”
Angel hollered, “YA THINK?!”
Alastor blinked down at him, grin widening. “Ah. Angel Dust. Lovely to see you awake! Though you look rather… disgruntled.”
“TURN. IT. DOWN!”
Alastor glanced at his radio as if noticing the chaos for the first time. He tapped it delicately with one claw.
A spark shot out. The volume surged higher.
Angel collapsed onto the couch with a dying wheeze. “I’m gonna be DEAF. I’m gonna have tinnitus shaped like a tap-dancing chorus line.”
Charlie, still smiling, stepped up the stairs toward him. “Um—Alastor? Is it… broken?”
“Oh, quite!” He replied cheerfully, his voice somehow cutting clean through the roar of big-band brass. “A slight malfunction due to some… spirited morning adjustments.”
Angel muttered, “Translation: he kicked it.”
Alastor’s grin didn’t falter. “I motivated it.”
“Dollface, it sounds like it’s motivating the entire building to collapse.”
Charlie reached the landing, gently touching his sleeve. “Do you need help fixing it?”
Alastor paused—just for a heartbeat—expression flickering softer, something tired beneath the showman veneer.
But then he chuckled, low and vintage. “Your concern is kind, my dear. But quite unnecessary. I find the volume rather invigorating!”
“MY SKIN IS VIBRATING!” Angel screamed from downstairs.
“Wonderful acoustics in this place,” Alastor mused.
Charlie leaned in, voice softer. “Are you okay, though? We didn’t see you all morning…”
Alastor tilted his head. The grin held, but his eyes softened a fraction. “Ah. I simply… overindulged in sleep. A rare occurrence.”
Angel shouted, “So he does sleep!”
Alastor ignored him entirely, lifting his sparking radio with both hands. “But worry not! I am quite myself today.”
The radio popped violently, belching out a puff of black smoke.
Angel dove behind the couch with a shriek. “MYSELF TODAY? YOU’RE ABOUT TO BLOW US TO KINGDOM COME!”
Charlie laughed, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Maybe we should… um… unplug it?”
Alastor blinked down at her, then at the mangled cord dragging behind him.
“Oh, it’s no longer plugged in.”
Angel: “WHAT?! THEN WHAT’S POWERING IT?!”
Alastor’s smile sharpened with quiet delight. “Why, me, of course.”
Angel thrashed on the floor. “NO NO NO THAT IS NOT BETTER—”
Charlie simply giggled, gently taking Alastor’s wrist. “Come to the lobby with us? We can help you fix it together. And Angel can… uh… handle the volume from a safe distance.”
Alastor’s shoulders eased—just slightly. Enough for those with perceptive eyes to catch it. He bowed his head politely. “Very well.”
Charlie beamed.
Angel only peeked out from behind the couch like a traumatized ferret.
As Alastor descended the stairs with Charlie, Swanee still blaring wildly, he hummed along, unfazed by the chaos he’d stirred.
And if his hand lingered just a little closer to Charlie’s than usual—if his smile relaxed a fraction more—no one commented on it.
Not even Angel.
Mostly because he was too busy screaming at the radio.