Chapter Text
Alastor stares at his computer screen, nails tapping rhythmically on his desk. The email is still up on the screen, the overly friendly greeting succeeding only in making him roll his eyes. What kind of person starts an email with ‘howdy’ anyway?? The reply he has typed out stares back at him, the mouse hovering over the small icon resembling a paper airplane.
On one hand, going out of state to talk to a bunch of college students about the false pretenses behind his novels sounds awfully boring. On another, he’s been stuck in his house for almost four straight months and despite not loving other humans, is desperately craving human interaction.
The decision is made for him when his phone starts ringing, scaring him so bad he jumps, causing him to hit the button whether he wants to or not.
“Yes?” He answers, still staring at the screen.
“What are you doing?” Rosie’s voice comes out of the speaker of his phone. He pauses and pulls the phone back to make sure he’s talking to the right person before putting the phone back to his ear.
“Whatever do you mean?”
He can hear her sigh, his lips quirking up in a smile with the knowledge that he had annoyed her with one question. Ah, simple pleasures. “I mean, I can feel you being an idiot from four states away.”
“That’s improbable.” Alastor mutters, rolling his eyes, finally moving his eyes away from his computer and standing up. “And this is not me being an idiot. I’m being completely reasonable.”
“What did you do?”
“Why must you always assume I do something wrong?” Alastor asks in mock offense.
“Al, hun.”
“Fair.” He concedes, walking around his apartment. “But to answer your question, I simply accepted an invitation.”
“Why does it have to be a rollercoaster every time I talk to you?”
“Rude. A college professor in New York asked for me to stop by sometime in the next month to treat his English students to a lecture.” He explains, eyes moving over the various awards and five-star reviews scattered on his walls.
“…Why you?”
“Well, Rosie, I am a best-selling author!”
“Well, yeah. But you aren’t a teacher.”
“I’m not teaching.” He points out. “I’m simply going there to talk about my books.”
Rosie barks out a laugh and Alastor rolls his eyes again, at this point his whole head is going to roll with them. “Alastor honey, you can’t go to New York.”
“Why not?”
“Did you forget that your novels are based on a true story?” She asks, still giggling.
“Yes, Rosie! I forgot that I murdered all those awful people and on a whim decided to capitalize on it, completely changing the trajectory of my life without ever being suspected.” He says flatly. In the silence that follows, he can almost see Rosie giving him an unimpressed look.
“You know what I mean, Al. You can’t go to the college and start confessing to dozens of murders.”
“I’m not going to. I’m going to the college to talk about my books.”
“It’s like I’m talking to a wall.” She mutters. “Fine, if you insist on being an absolute moron, I’m not going to stop you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I would never lie to such a degree.” Alastor smirks, ending the call with the normal pleasantries before sitting back down at his desk. He sighs, staring at his computer, the conformation for his visit to New York sitting happily in his inbox. Despite the friendly greeting and the enthusiastic response, he can’t help but feel like he’s staring at his death sentence.
He shrugs and books the plane tickets anyway, he never really believed in ‘bad feelings’ anyway.
-
“He’s the fuckin’ worst!” Angel gripes, collapsing onto his bed in the most dramatic manner possible. “Like what do you mean,” He sits up, making his posture rimrod straight and putting on the most haughty voice he can, “‘Your grades would be better if you learned to speak in a more respectable manner!’ Like, bitch!” Angel deflates again, smashing his face into the cheap pillows the college gives them.
“Bitch, please.” Cherri says from across the room where she’s looking through his clothes. “He can’t make you have a bad grade just because he thinks ya speak funny.” She pauses, her head popping out of his closet. “Can he?”
“Apparently.” Angel sighs, pushing his face further into the pillow. “Mr. Pala wants me dead, I swear.”
“He doesn’t want you dead, you idiot. Just do your work and you’ll be fine.” Cherri responds, holding a dress of his up in front of himself in the mirror. She spins to look at him. “What about this one?”
Angel lifts his head and looks at her, his face lighting up. “TOOTS! That would look so good with..” He stands up and starts rummaging around in his drawer. Cherri watches him, satisfied by her successful distraction from his stupid English teacher.