Work Text:
The snow in Hell never pretended to be pure.
It drifted past the tall windows of the hotel in dull, ashen flakes—gray-white, heavy, falling slow as if even gravity itself was tired. It muffled the world all the same, though. The streets below were quieter, sounds swallowed whole beneath that cold, powdery hush.
Alastor stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight, eyes narrowed faintly at the sight.
Snow.
Hmph.
An overrated inconvenience. Cold, damp, disruptive. It clung to shoes, soaked hems, and served no purpose other than to make existence mildly more irritating. Hell had been perfectly tolerable without it.
He did not voice this opinion. He rarely did, these days.
A sudden weight collided with his spine.
Her.
She rushed up behind him with barely contained excitement, pressing herself against his back before slipping past him entirely, face immediately flattening against the glass. Her breath fogged it up in a soft bloom as she laughed, palms braced on either side of her cheeks.
“Oh, I love it,” she breathed, eyes shining. “I used to love the snow when I was alive. It’s not the same here, but—still! Look at it, Al!”
His irritation evaporated like mist under heat.
Alastor hummed low in his throat, a fond, musical sound, eyes softening as he looked down at her. The way she smiled at something so simple—so childishly delighted—never failed to undo him. Snow, of all things. He could hardly begrudge it when it earned that expression.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured lightly, amusement curling through his tone. “I can see it’s made quite the impression.”
She barely heard him.
Already, she was pulling away from the window, practically bouncing on her heels as she hurried to the coat rack. Her movements were quick, clumsy with excitement—she flung her coat on, nearly missed an armhole, looped her scarf around her neck with reckless enthusiasm. The knitted fabric snagged briefly in her hair as she tugged it free, static already crackling faintly.
Alastor blinked.
Once.
Her hair puffed, rebellious strands sticking out where the scarf had dragged through them. The cold air near the door only made it worse, dark strands lifting and tangling together as she wrestled with her mittens.
He cleared his throat pointedly.
“My dear,” he said, voice warm but edged with mild reproach, “if you intend to go gallivanting about in this weather, I suggest you put your hair up. Unless you enjoy spending the evening wrangling knots the size of rats.”
She waved a dismissive hand without looking at him, finally managing to tug her mittens on. “Ugh, I’ll deal with it later. I’m too lazy. I wanna go now.”
Too lazy.
Alastor clicked his tongue softly.
Before she could reach for the door, his hands were already on her shoulders, gentle but firm, turning her around. In one smooth motion, he slid her coat back off her arms and began unwrapping the scarf from her neck.
“Al—!” she protested, half-laughing, half-whining. “Hey! I was ready!”
“You were a disaster waiting to happen,” he corrected pleasantly. “Do sit still.”
He guided her toward the bed despite her dramatic sighs, easing her down onto the mattress. She plopped onto it with exaggerated reluctance, shoulders slumping as she glanced back at him.
“I want to go outside,” she pouted.
“And you will,” he assured her, smile softening as he moved behind her. “After I prevent you from suffering entirely avoidable misery.”
He reached for the brush resting neatly atop the dresser—already there, of course. He had the foresight for such things. Always had.
As he settled behind her on the bed, positioning himself with careful precision, he gathered her hair in his hands.
Right.
Braiding.
Easy enough.
…Surely.
He hid the brief flicker of uncertainty behind his usual confidence, fingers already combing through her hair with practiced gentleness. He had no intention of admitting ignorance—not when this moment was his to savor. The warmth of her so close, the quiet room, the snow tapping faintly at the window.
He would learn.
One way or another.
And she, blissfully unaware, leaned back into him with a contented little sigh.
He began with confidence.
That, admittedly, was his first mistake.
Alastor gathered her hair neatly at the nape of her neck, smoothing it once with his palm before dividing it into three even sections. Simple. Elementary. A child’s pastime, really—he’d seen it done countless times. How difficult could it possibly be?
He crossed one strand over another.
Then another.
The sections slipped.
His fingers paused.
He frowned.
The braid loosened immediately, collapsing into something shapeless and frankly offensive. A few strands slid free entirely, brushing against her shoulder.
Alastor stared at it.
…Hm.
He cleared his throat and, with forced nonchalance, started over.
This time he was more deliberate—slower, more precise. He adjusted his grip, long fingers trying to coax obedience out of hair that suddenly seemed determined to defy him. It went marginally better for about five seconds.
Then static crackled.
A section slipped through his fingers again, tangling where it shouldn’t have.
His smile stiffened.
“Charming,” he muttered lightly, though there was a distinct edge beneath the cheer. He unraveled it with care, combing his fingers through to smooth it back out. “Your hair appears to have developed a rebellious streak.”
She shifted slightly, shoulders relaxing as she leaned back against his chest, entirely unbothered. Her voice came soft, drowsy with comfort.
“You’re overthinking it.”
His eye twitched.
“Nonsense,” he replied smoothly. “I simply refuse to do things incorrectly.”
He reached for the small bottle of oil he kept nearby—something light, faintly scented. He warmed a drop between his palms before working it gently through her hair, fingers slow now, reverent in their movements. The static eased almost immediately, strands settling beneath his touch.
“There we are,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Can’t have the cold mistreating you. Winter already takes quite enough liberties.”
He tried again.
This time, his hands moved with measured patience. He watched closely, adjusting as he went, learning the way her hair wanted to fall rather than forcing it into submission. When a strand slipped, he corrected it without irritation. When the braid loosened, he tightened it carefully.
Gradually—quietly—it began to take shape.
The plait formed clean and even down her back, each cross more confident than the last. His shoulders eased. His smile softened, no longer forced.
By the time he reached the end, he tied it off neatly, fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
He leaned back slightly, examining his work.
Perfectly aligned. Smooth. Secure.
A masterpiece.
Alastor hummed, unmistakably pleased, chest warming with a ridiculous swell of pride. He brushed his thumb gently along the braid once, approving.
“There,” he said, satisfied. “Presentable. Practical. And entirely immune to your earlier laziness.”
He bent just enough to press a brief, affectionate kiss to the top of her head.
Now.
She was ready to face winter—
and so, apparently, was he.
She practically vibrated with excitement as she twisted on the bed to peer over her shoulder, fingers immediately reaching back to touch the braid. Her face lit up, eyes wide as she traced it with gentle awe, as if it were something far more impressive than a simple plait.
“Oh—Al, it’s perfect,” she said, grinning up at him. “Thank you!”
Before he could so much as respond, she was off.
Alastor straightened just in time to watch her snatch her coat from the chair, shrug it on with reckless speed—only the coat—and make a beeline for the door.
His smile vanished.
She barely got two steps from the handle before the air crackled.
In a sharp burst of red static, Alastor appeared directly in front of the door, blocking it entirely. His arms folded over his chest as he looked down at her, expression patient but immovable.
She skidded to a stop, nose nearly colliding with his lapel.
“Absolutely not.”
Her shoulders slumped immediately as she looked up at him, eyes narrowing into a pout. “Alastorrrr,” she whined, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “I just wanna go outside for a minute.”
“With one coat?” he replied mildly. “My dear, you’ll catch your death. Again. And I’ve no interest in repeating that particular chapter.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already steering her away from the door.
“Now hold still.”
What followed was an entirely one-sided affair.
He shimmied another pair of pants onto her with practiced efficiency, added an extra shirt over her long sleeves, and this time took his time buttoning her coat properly—each button fastened with meticulous care. He wrapped her scarf around her neck once.
Paused.
Then wrapped it again.
“There,” he said approvingly. “No drafts.”
He eased her gloves onto her hands, tugging them snug over her wrists, and finally reached up to place a pair of earmuffs over her head, adjusting them until they sat just right.
Only when he was thoroughly satisfied did he step back.
She was bundled to the point of absurdity.
She looked up at him, cheeks already pink, eyes bright and smiling so wide it made his chest ache.
“Will you come outside with me?” she asked softly.
Alastor blinked.
Once.
Then again.
Outside.
Out there.
In the cold.
His mouth opened. Closed. His mind immediately supplied a dozen perfectly reasonable excuses—he loathed the cold, detested the way it seeped into bone and fabric alike, the way it lingered long after you escaped it—
Her eyes grew larger.
Her lips pushed into a pleading pout.
She stared up at him like that, wordless and hopeful, and his resolve crumbled spectacularly.
He sighed.
“…You’re incorrigible,” he muttered.
With a snap of his fingers, red static flared—and suddenly he was dressed for the occasion. A deep red coat settled over his shoulders, tailored and warm without being cumbersome. A loose scarf draped around his neck, the fabric soft against his throat.
He shot the door one last dubious look before opening it.
“Very well,” he said, stepping aside with exaggerated resignation. “But if I freeze solid, I expect sympathy.”
She didn’t wait.
The moment the door opened, she bolted outside, laughter already spilling into the cold air.
Alastor followed more slowly, shaking his head as a fond smile tugged at his lips.
Snow be damned.
If it made her this happy—
He supposed he could endure it.
The cold bit sharper once they were truly outside.
The forest behind the hotel lay blanketed in that dull, gray snow, the trees standing like skeletal silhouettes against the overcast sky. The flakes drifted lazily, clinging to branches and settling into soft mounds that muffled every sound. Even Hell, it seemed, knew how to go quiet in winter.
She, on the other hand, did not.
Alastor remained near the edge of the clearing, hands clasped neatly behind his back, posture immaculate despite the chill seeping through the soles of his shoes. His breath curled faintly in the air. He watched her with a faint, indulgent smile as she bounded ahead, boots crunching through snow that reached nearly to her calves.
She laughed—bright, unrestrained—as she dropped to her knees and rolled onto her back, arms and legs flailing to carve an angel into the snow. She sprang up again moments later, scooping a double handful and tossing it straight into the air, head tipped back as she watched it rain down over her hair and shoulders.
She looked… radiant.
Alastor’s gaze drifted past her for a moment, toward the dark line of trees, the quiet stretch of forest swallowed in pale gray. He inhaled slowly.
Well. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely—
BAM.
Something cold and compact struck him square in the face.
Snow slid down his cheek and clung stubbornly to the bridge of his nose.
There was a very brief, very dangerous silence.
Alastor lowered his hand, brushing the snow away with deliberate calm. His crimson eyes focused forward again—and there she was, only a few steps away now, doubled over with laughter. Her shoulders shook as she giggled, already crouching down to scoop up more snow, packing it clumsily between her gloves.
She had just thrown a snowball at him.
At him.
He blinked once.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
It was a rich, delighted sound, spilling from him with genuine amusement as his smile sharpened into something playful and wicked. “Oh,” he said lightly, static crackling faintly at the edges of his voice, “so that’s how it’s going to be.”
Behind him, shadows stirred.
From the snow at his feet, dark tendrils unfurled, writhing eagerly as they scooped up handfuls of snow with unnatural precision. They packed it effortlessly—perfect spheres forming in seconds.
Her laughter faltered.
She looked up just in time to see the shadows at work, eyes widening,
She stared for exactly one horrified second before squeaking and scrambling upright.
“Oh no—WAIT—”
Too late.
The first snowball sailed past her ear.
She yelped, scrambling to her feet and spinning around to run, boots slipping as she tried to flee through the uneven drifts. Alastor stepped forward at a leisurely pace, laughter still humming low in his chest as his shadows launched another volley.
Snowballs flew in rapid succession—dozens of them—pelting her back, her shoulders, exploding against the ground at her feet. She squealed, shrieking with laughter as she tried to zigzag away, arms raised uselessly to shield herself.
“Unfair!” she cried, breathless. “You’re cheating!”
“Cheating?” Alastor replied pleasantly, strolling after her as another snowball burst against her hip. “My dear, you started this. I’m merely responding in kind.”
She nearly slipped again, catching herself just before falling face-first into a drift. Alastor snapped his fingers, shadows withdrawing at last as he closed the distance between them in a few long strides.
“Now then,” he said, looming behind her with mock severity, snow clinging faintly to his coat. “Shall we call a truce before someone suffers a humiliating defeat?”
She turned to face him, cheeks flushed, hair dusted white, laughter spilling out of her in breathless bursts.
Alastor looked down at her like that—wild, joyful, alive with the simple thrill of play—and felt something warm settle in his chest, far stronger than the cold around them.
Snow, it seemed, had declared war.
And for once…
He was more than happy to oblige.
-------------
Time slipped by without either of them noticing.
The laughter faded into softer giggles, her steps slowing as the cold finally caught up to her. She leaned into him as they wandered back toward the clearing, breath puffing out in little clouds, cheeks flushed pink beneath her scarf. The sky above them had darkened fully now, the gray snow faintly luminous beneath the dim wash of night.
She tilted her head back.
Then stopped.
Alastor felt it before she spoke—the way her fingers tightened around his sleeve, the way her whole body seemed to go still.
“…Al,” she breathed.
He followed her gaze upward—and the sky had changed.
Great ribbons of light unfurled across the heavens, slow and fluid, like silk caught in an unseen current. Pale greens bled into soft blues and hints of violet, shimmering and folding over one another in silent waves. Even Hell’s sky, muted and strange, had surrendered to something breathtaking.
She gasped.
It was a quiet sound, barely there, but it struck him harder than any shout could have. Her mouth parted, eyes wide, reflecting the colors above as if the stars themselves had taken residence in them.
“Oh,” she whispered, reverent. “I’ve always wanted to see this.”
Alastor’s attention drifted from the sky almost immediately.
He watched her.
He watched the way her breath fogged the air in front of her lips, the way the aurora’s glow painted her features in soft, shifting light. How utterly still she stood, as if afraid the moment might shatter if she moved.
Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and spread it across the snow, then guided her down with gentle hands. They lay back together, coats beneath them as a barrier against the cold. Snow crunched softly beneath their weight.
She reached for his hand instinctively.
He laced their fingers together.
The aurora danced on, brilliant and vast above them, but Alastor found he could not bring himself to care. He turned his head slightly, eyes fixed on her profile as she stared upward, lips curved into the faintest, most awed smile.
How curious, he thought.
Hell’s sky could perform its grandest spectacle, and still it was her that held him captive.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a murmur meant only for her. “You realize,” he said softly, “the sky is putting on quite the performance in a desperate attempt to compete with you.”
She turned her head, startled, and met his gaze.
Her cheeks darkened instantly.
“Alastor,” she whispered, embarrassed, squeezing his hand gently. “You’re impossible.”
He smiled, thumb brushing slow circles against her knuckles.
“And yet,” he replied lightly, “here you are. Lying in the snow with me. Enchanted.”
She laughed under her breath, eyes drifting back to the lights above—but her hand never left his.
Alastor remained still, content to let the cold bite at him if it meant memorizing this moment. The way her eyes shone. The quiet rise and fall of her chest. The simple, undeniable truth that her happiness had become his greatest indulgence.
The aurora shimmered on.
Alastor watched her.
And in that moment, he knew—
there was nothing in any sky, damned or divine, more beautiful than the woman at his side.
----
By the time they made it back inside, the cold had finally taken its toll.
She was tucked close to his side, steps a little slower now, smile soft and satisfied in that way that only came after a day well spent. Snow clung stubbornly to the hems of her clothes, her braid dusted white, cheeks flushed from the cold and lingering laughter.
She looked up at him, eyes bright and tired all at once.
Alastor’s chest warmed in a way no fire ever could.
“That’s quite enough winter for one evening,” he said gently, leaning down to press a swift, affectionate kiss to her lips. It lingered just a heartbeat longer than intended. “Go on now. Hot bath. I’ll have something prepared by the time you’re finished.”
Her grin widened. She nodded eagerly, already shrugging out of her coat as he helped her, fingers nimble as he unwound her scarf and eased her gloves free. He slipped her coat from her shoulders, careful and attentive, as if she might shatter under rough hands.
“Don’t peek,” she teased, retreating toward the bathroom.
He chuckled softly. “No promises.”
Once she disappeared, Alastor set to work.
He hung her winter clothes neatly to dry, smoothing fabric where the snow had dampened it. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the fireplace roared to life—warmth flooding the room, golden and inviting. He arranged pillows and thick blankets on the floor in front of it, positioning each just so.
Next came the hot chocolate.
He approached it with confidence.
That confidence lasted approximately three minutes.
By the second attempt, the milk had scorched.
By the third, something had exploded.
Alastor stared at the resulting mess in stunned silence, expression frozen in something between offense and disbelief.
“…Absurd,” he muttered, adjusting his bowtie as if it were at fault.
With a sharp huff, he snapped his fingers again.
Perfect mugs of hot chocolate appeared, steam curling upward, topped generously with whipped cream and far too many marshmallows. A plate of sugar cookies followed, golden and flawless.
He eyed them suspiciously.
“…There. Adequate.”
He was just setting everything into place when he heard soft footsteps behind him.
She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in warmth and comfort, hair slightly damp, face relaxed and glowing. She paused in the doorway, eyes lighting up at the sight before her.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, smiling wide. “Al…”
She skipped over without hesitation, settling beside him on the blankets and leaning into his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He stiffened for only a moment before relaxing, arm lifting to rest around her shoulders.
He handed her a mug carefully. “Careful. It’s warm.”
She took it with both hands, eyes widening at the mountain of whipped cream and marshmallows. “You spoiled me.”
“Of course I did,” he replied lightly. “It’s my prerogative.”
She laughed, taking a sip, then sighed contentedly as she curled closer to him. He watched her over the rim of his own mug, attention fixed on the way her shoulders eased, the way she practically melted against him.
The fire crackled softly.
Alastor leaned back slightly, letting her rest fully against his chest. He hummed low and quiet, an old tune that vibrated warmly through him, feeling her relax further with every note.
Devotion, he thought, did not always need grand gestures or declarations.
Sometimes, it was warm drinks, poorly baked cookies, and a body leaning trustingly into yours after a long, happy day.
And Alastor—smiling softly, utterly content—would choose that every time.