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The Hazbin Hotel had never tried to be warm before.
It was an old, creaking building peeling with age and weather. Velvet curtains and brass accents hung over bad decisions made layered over decades of hellish history.
But today it was trying.
Pine garlands drooped along the banisters, shedding needles onto the red carpet like green confetti.
Paper chains colored in various shades of red and green hung from above the great chandelier in the lobby. Paper snowflakes woefully bent, cut too sharply, some uneven, some perfect, all of them catching the light from flickering bulbs that buzzed like tired fireflies.
Somewhere throughout the lobby, a record player crackled through an instrumental carol that kept slowing down, warping over and over again, just enough to make Charlie’s eye twitch.
The air lingered with the vague scent of cinnamon, pine sap, and something slightly citrusy.
Charlie stood in the center of it all, hands clasped tight in front of her chest, surveying the scene like a general on the battlefront.
“Okay—no—no, Husk, the tree is crooked!” wiping the blonde hair from her forehead, “It’ll throw everything off! The lobby just needs to feel like Christmas,” she said more patiently, voice strained but hopeful. “Like… when you walk in, you should know. You should feel it in your chest.”
“Does acid reflux count,” Husk leaned against the front desk, arms crossed, ears flat, glass of amber liquid sweating onto the wood. “Cause’ the only thing I’m feeling in my chest is a case of heartburn.”
Charlie didn’t look at him. “That’s not helpful.”
“I’m just sayin’ blondie. It still smells like death in here. You can’t just slap a wreath on shit and call it jolly.”
Angel Dust was halfway up a ladder near the chandelier, draping tinsel with theatrical flair. “Speak for yourself. I look great in seasonal lighting.”
“You’re putting it inside the chandelier,” Charlie said, craning her neck. “It’s supposed to go on the outside!”
“Yeah, so it sparkles from the inside out. Like a twink. If ya’ think about it, we’re the true meaning of Christmas.”
“Angel, that is not a thing.”
“It is if you just believe,” Angel said solemnly, then immediately lost his balance when the ladder wobbled. “C’mon where’s that good ole’ spirit a’ your’s?”
“Oh my—“ Charlie gasped. “Oh my god, Angel! Be careful!”
“Calm yer’ tits, doll face.” he said, one hand out of his four barely clinging to the ladder. “See? Slap my ass in a barn n’ call me baby Jesus cause that right there was a damn Christmas miracle.”
A loud pop echoed through the lobby as one strand of lights fizzled out.
Her red eyes darted to an extension cord with far too many things plugged into it’s outlets than the old building’s electrical wiring could possibly handle.
Surprised the cord didn’t go up in flames, only half the Christmas tree went dark.
Still, Charlie’s shoulders slumped.
The tree itself stood proudly. Way too proudly near the fireplace, its star listing dangerously to the left. Ornaments clinked together whenever someone walked past.
A handmade paper angel hung near the bottom, clearly Niffty’s work, its smile far too wide and teeth unnaturally sharp.
“It looks creepy,” Charlie whispered to herself.
Nifty was dusting a corner when she looked over to the little angel and squinted at it.
“I think it adds character.” Eye softening in an attempt to make her friend feel better. “I made each one to look like all of us!”
“Thank you, Nifty. I love them—But I know Mom and Dad won’t.” Charlie patted the smaller woman’s head kindly as she continued tidying up around the tree. “It’s just, you know…they might think this is all stupid and that’s why I need everything to be perfect—“
From the hallway near the bar the sound of something wooden hitting the floor interrupted her thought, followed by frantic scurrying.
“I told you we shouldn’t stack them that high!” Sir Pentious hissed.
“Don’t touch anything!,” Niffty darted over to Pentious, yelling at him to put everything down before he breaks it beyond fixing.
Charlie spun around. “Nothing too important is broken, right?”
Niffty popped her head out, holding a nutcracker missing its jaw and left leg. “Define broken!”
Pentious slithered into view, scarf tangled around his coils. “My princess, this establishment looks like a festive nightmare! I fear you may have went a teensy bit overboard with the hostile decor.”
Charlie laughed so she wouldn’t scream. Ready to pull her hairs out by the root, she let out a short, breathless sound that surprised her.
So instead of lashing out, she decided to press a hand to her chest and count to ten.
Thinking to herself: I know they don’t understand, I know I’m being a little bit of a perfectionist-control-freak. But Mom and Dad haven’t stayed under the same roof together in years—no, decades! Everything has to be absolutely perfect so they won’t think I’m a total failure and everything I worked for is pointless—
Charlie. Stop. Get a fucking grip.
Smoothing her overcoat and adjusting her little bowline at her neckline, she heaves in a few more deep breaths.
“Okay. Okay,” she said. “We’re fine. This is fine. We just need to breathe.”
She clapped once, sharp and decisive. It was loud and echoed throughout the lobby.
“Alright everybody!” All talking ceased and every eye was tuned in on the princess. “Christmas reset!”
No one moved.
“Angel, I want every ornament fixed—nice ones go in the front and the uh...not so nice ones go in the back.”
Nifty let out a defeated huff and Charlie mouthed her a little ‘sorry’.
“Pentious and Husk, you guys are team light bulb duty! And Nifty, you’re on operation ‘clean up whatever anyone breaks’.”
Charlie smiles at the demons standing before her, putting her thumbs up and forcing a too wide smile across her rosy cheeks.
“Everybody got it? Good! Let’s get to work people, we need this place to sparkle more than a stripper in vegas!”
Everyone nodded, almost terrified at the princess’s newfound confidence to command.
The record player warped again, dragging the melody into something slow and mournful.
Almost in mockery of her current state of anxiety.
Then, from the staircase, a familiar voice cut in. Smooth as velvet and whiskey on ice, edged with static.
“My dear, perhaps you should be the one to breathe.” Alastor’s figures warped into vision, festive little tinsel strands stuck to his overcoat. “You are positively overworking yourself, darling.”
Charlie froze.
Alastor stood at the base of the stairs, hands folded neatly behind his back, red eyes bright with interest. He looked entirely untouched by the chaos, coat pristine, bow tie straight as if the disorder bent itself away from him out of respect.
“I’m fine,” Charlie said quickly, not turning around again. “I got this, Al.”
“Mmm,” Alastor hummed. “You say that with all the conviction of someone standing on a fault line. You’re going to make yourself sick with all this menial worrying.”
Husk leaned over the railing, Pentious on the other side untangling a strand of multicolored lights. “Don’t make me agree with Mr. rude as shit over here. But he’s gotta point, Blondie. You look mad enough to rip off an elf’s jingle balls.”
“I am not stressed or overwhelmed!” Charlie snapped, horns branching out from her head as her face turned devilishly toward the cat.
She then winced at her own words before mouthing an apology to the fuzzy demon. “Okay. Alright. Sorry, maybe a just a little.”
She turned to face Alastor. He was closer now. Not invading her space—but present. Watching. Always watching.
“I’m sorry guys, I just need everything to go right,” she said, quieter.
Alastor tilted his head before putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder.. “Ah.”
That single syllable carried too much understanding.
“It’s just…you know, Christmas matters,” Charlie continued, words tumbling over each other now. “It’s the first one since I was really little where my mom and dad are even willing to be in the same room. And mom hasn’t ever been here. Not once. And I want her to see that this—“ She held her arms out to gesture all of them. “that this place, you all, and think it means something. That I’ve built something good. Something that reminds them of family again.”
Her gaze flicked to the tree, the lights, the handmade decorations.
“I guess I just want it to feel like how it used to,” she said softly. “Before everything…you know, broke.”
The room was quiet now. Even the record player had stopped.
For a fleeting moment, Alastor’s smile wavered, just enough to show something old beneath it.
“Charlie, darling. You are attempting to recreate a memory,” he said gently. “But past events cannot be replicated, the ones you have are merely unintentional. If you spend more time dwelling on old memories, you will have no room to create new ones.”
Charlie swallowed.
She knew he was right. And she wanted to make new memories surrounded by all the people she cares about, but she also wants her mother and father to be happy.
“I know. I know. But I have to try.” her breath shook and eyes squeezed shut. “I just want everything to be perfect for them.”
“Sometimes it can be the little imperfections that make things most memorable of all.” Alastor stepped closer, voice lowering. “Relax, my dear girl. You are far from carrying this alone.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” she snapped, frustration bubbling over. “But Vaggie’s gone, everyone’s miserable, and—”
She stopped herself.
“Shhh.” Alastor placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding her before she spiraled into a fury of paranoia. His voice, still pleasant as ever, was now gentler, warmer. “Why don’t you head upstairs, I will handle things down here while you decompress.”
She exhaled hard. “Are you sure, Al?” Charlie flashed him a strained smile. “There’s just so much to do, I should show you how to string the lights, where to arrange the decorations how dad likes them. Not to mention ice the cookies— Fuck! Fuck! Jesus Christ, they’re still in the oven! Oh my god—“
Pulling at the roots of her hair, the princess almost laughed to herself so she wouldn’t cry.
Grabbing fistfuls of blonde locks from her now messy braid, she nearly sunk down to her knees, feeling like she was being crushed under a hydraulic press.
“Fret not, sweetheart, I will have it all taken care of.” Alastor held a gloved hand out to help her up from her knees.
When Charlie didn’t give him her hand, he gently slid one of his own under her elbow so she had some support before he slowly eased her up from the ground.
“Boss’s got a point. You look like you belong in a mental institution.” Husk chimed in from behind them, earning a hard glare from Alastor who extended one of his phantom appendages to slap him firmly across the head.
He looked back at the blonde princess, still holding her arm, and brought another hand to gingerly brush the sweat-soaked bangs from her face.
Charlie looked up at him with an expression akin to someone that just whitenessed a car run over a puppy.
“Go rest now, princess.”
No clatter of dishes. No arguing over décor. No music warping through old speakers. The lights in her room were dimmed low, casting her bedding and pillows in soft gold shadow, garlands drooping down from the vaulted ceilings—they hung almost like the memories of nights she spent with Vaggie, curled up beneath the covers, both doing separate things, but still together.
Charlie flopped on her mattress with a sigh.
She missed those quiet nights. In fact, they were once her favorites.
Vaggie sprawled out across their bed, tapping on her phone while choking out a small giggle as she laughed at a funny video. Charlie at her desk, hair still damp from a shower, fuzzy robe tied loosely around her waist as she’d finished up the last of that night’s paper work.
She didn’t realize how much she missed those little sighs, giggles, or huffs until the silence of her empty bedroom replaced all noise.
In a way, the cruelness of the quiet seemed to haunt her the most. No longer did she hear breathing beside her as she settled under the covers, not even the soft snores Vaggie would let out while she stirred in her sleep. Something that used to grate on her nerves in the past, is now something she realized was impossible to live without.
How pitiful it truly was. How pitiful she truly was.
And she took it all for granted.
Groaning and stuffing her head into one of the many plush pillows, the princess’s eyes welled in frustration.
Christmas is supposed to be a time of cheer, to spend with the ones who care for you. Her parents were spending the holidays with her and all of her friends, all under the same roof, baking cookies, watching movies, and having a big Christmas dinner to celebrate their togetherness.
It was supposed to be the happiest time of the year—so why didn’t Charlie feel like it all was worth commemorating?
She didn’t know. So, she just dragged herself under the covers, threw them over her head, and curled into a vaguely demon-shaped ball on her mattress.
The spare bedroom at the end of her floor by the elevator was to be Lilith’s room.
Charlie figured it was better if her mother and father stayed on separate floors, just as an extra precaution to ensure no conflict arose between the two.
Being the only other master bedroom in the hotel, she took extra care in preparation for her mother’s arrival. She could only assume that a private bathroom would be best suited for the queen.
Deep red curtains hung from the gilded rods, freshly pressed. A small artificial tree stood in the corner, decorated tastefully, by none other than her daughter of course, with gold ornaments and thin ribbons instead of anything tacky.
The bed smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen. No dust. No clutter. No reminder that this was a hotel in Hell.
Just simple luxury. Perfect simplicity.
Charlie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, nearly startling her.
She froze.
She knew who it was without looking.
But, the princess pulled it out anyway.
Dad flashed across the screen. His contact photo was an old one, Lucifer grinning too wide, arm slung around a much younger Charlie who had been little enough to still sit on his lap in front of their grand palace fireplace.
A careful thumb hovered over the screen.
Her internal monologue ran wild: Answer. Just answer. Tell him what to pack. Remind him they’re staying a few nights. Separate rooms. Casual. Normal.
The phone buzzed again.
Charlie swallowed and flipped it face-down on the nightstand.
“Later,” she whispered. “I’ll call later.”
She turned back to the bed, tugging at the pillowcase. It wasn’t sitting right. The embroidery faced the wrong direction.
She fixed it.
Tugging the edges again and placing it slightly to the left, she took a step back to look at it from afar.
No. Still not right.
So, she fixed it again.
Then, spotted a single stray pine needle on the floor. Green sharply contrasts from the pale red of the room’s carpeting.
Charlie’s eye twitched.
She crouched, plucked it up, and stared at it in her palm like the tiny little needle had personally betrayed her.
“I told Nifty nobody should be in here. Unacceptable,” muttering under her breath while she threw the tiny object into the waste basket with too much force than she meant.
As if the universe wanted to irk her even more, ears twitched while the old wooden door creaked open behind her.
Charlie stiffened instantly. “I’m busy.”
Alastor’s reflection appeared in the mirror before his voice did.
“I can see that.”
He leaned casually against the doorframe, hands folded, red eyes taking in the room in one sweeping glance—cataloging every detail she had obsessed over.
“It’s for my mom,” Charlie said quickly, standing. “She’s never been here, you know— wait no. How would you know? Nevermind, she’s—she’s just very particular.”
“So I’ve heard.” static came before his voice did in a way that made a chill crawl up her spine. “The Queen as quite a reputation of being rather…picky.”
“She notices things,” Charlie continued, already moving past him to straighten the nightstand. “Everything. It’s worse than picky, she judges the way things are arranged, the vibe. If it feels careless and sloppy, she’ll think I’m careless and sloppy. And that is the last thing I need on my plate right now.”
Huffing, the blonde demoness turned back to the nightstand, toying with the lamp shade.
Alastor watched as she adjusted it by a fraction of an inch.
“You’ve adjusted that three times,” he noted mildly.
“I know.”
“You’ve also changed the sheets twice.”
“Those ones didn’t feel right.”
“They are sheets, darling.”
“It’s the fucking symbolism, Alastor, the pattern doesn’t match—“ Charlie snapped, then froze. “Oh my God. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“You’re unraveling,” Alastor said gently, reaching out for her elbow in an awkward effort to still her restlessness.
Charlie turned away to the dresser before he could protest. A sharp and humorless laugh erupted from her throat, strained and devoid of any actual substance. “No, I’m managing.”
She moved to assess the drawers, opening and closing them, checking what was already perfect.
“There’s so much left to do, Al—like, I still need to prep Dad’s room,” she said rapidly. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he does. He hates drafts. And the pillows can’t be too soft because then his neck—”
She stopped.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, Mom.
Lilith.
Charlie stared at it like it might explode.
“I should call them,” she said faintly. “Just to make sure they’ve packed. They’re staying a few nights. Separate rooms. Obviously. I should make that clear. Not that they’d assume see otherwise but—”
She didn’t move.
Didn’t pick it up.
Alastor’s smile thinned.
“Charlie,” he said quietly, stepping closer, “you cannot prepare your way out of this.”
She shook her head, eyes shining. “I just need time. If everything is perfect, if the rooms are perfect, if the hotel feels like Christmas. Real Christmas—then maybe they’ll remember. Maybe they’ll stop seeing each other as mistakes.”
Her voice dropped.
“And just maybe they’ll remember us.” Charlie sighed finally, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in. “Remember what family and togetherness feels like.”
Alastor said nothing.
He reached out—not to still her, but to gently flip her phone face-down on the dresser.
“You are avoiding them,” he said softly. “Because if you hear their voices, this stops being theoretical.”
Charlie hugged herself. “I don’t have time to fall apart.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
“You’re acting like if you stop moving, you’ll shatter,” he continued. “So you keep fixing. Folding. Polishing.”
Alastor leaned his cane against the wall with a surprising amount of care.
He brought an arm up to Charlie’s thick, blonde hair and gave it an affectionate ruffle like he’d done many times before.
She laughed weakly as his finger tips touched her scalp, his claws just grazing the skin even through his gloves.
It felt warm.
Nice even. Like she had something to lean back on both literally and figuratively.
Her business partner kept his hand on the crown of her head, sensing the ease in her body, the way her shoulder blades untensed and head dropped back a few inches.
“I’m sorry. I know I must sound insane to everybody.”
“No no no,” Alastor clicked his tongue and wagged a finger at her, not condescendingly, but in a way that made her feel smaller than before. “Maybe a bit high strung, but that simply attests to your measure of care as their spawn. Better to be overprepared than under, sweetheart.”
The word hit too close. Well, rather two words.
High-strung.
Was she really that anxious?
That was a stupid thing to ask. Of course she was, Charlie was driving herself fucking mad with all this obsessing over perfection.
She wasn’t anxious, no. She was terrified.
“Look, I know I’m having a bit of a compulsive cleaning frenzy…” Charlie turned away, blinking fast. “But I just want one good Christmas, Alastor. One.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and intimate.
Outside the window, snow drifted past the glass, soft and indifferent.
Down the hall, someone laughed. Somewhere else, something broke.
Alastor finally spoke, voice low.
“Why don’t you allow me to monitor downstairs,” he said. “You will finish these rooms. Then you will eat something, perhaps rehydrate. And when you are ready… you will call.”
Charlie hesitated. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” he replied smoothly. “But you look positively dreadful, darling, so I will.”
She looked at him then, really looked. Noticing the way he stood too close, the way his attention never left her, the way his protectiveness had sharpened into something almost possessive.
And more notably, how the tips of her ears began to flush under his watching eyes.
“…Okay,” she said quietly and finally.
He smiled. Not wide. Not sharp.
Just enough. Just…there.
And when he turned to leave, Charlie picked up her phone again—heart pounding, hands shaking, and set it back down, losing her nerve.
Not yet.
Later.
Charlie barely registered the knock at first.
She was folded into herself beneath layers of blankets, cocooned so tightly that moving felt like too much effort to justify. Her body was heavy in a way even sleep couldn’t fix.
Muscles sore, head aching, thoughts running on fumes. Christmas lights blinked lazily along the wall, casting warm shades of red and gold across her room, but even they felt distant, out of place.
Another gentle knock rang through the silence. Not loud. Careful. Respectful.
The princess groaned, voice muffled by her pillow. “The Charlie line is currently down. Hotel’s closed. Manager’s asleep. Please come back never.” Her face pressed back into the cotton warmth of her pillow with another grumble.
There was a pause. Then—
“Miss Charlie?” Niffty’s voice floated through the door, gentle but insistent. “Sorry if I woke you, but I brought cookies.”
Charlie sighed, long and tired, and turned her face toward the door. “Niffty, I love you, but I genuinely do not think my body can even handle sitting up right now.”
And the door opened anyway.
Niffty slipped inside, careful and quiet, holding a small plate with both hands like it was fragile. She padded over and sat right on the edge of the bed, setting the plate down atop the blankets.
“I’ll just put this here for whenever you’re ready.”
Charlie’s eyes cracked open.
The plate was familiar instantly and nostalgia hit her like a bullet train. Her breath caught before she could stop it.
It was a ceramic snowman plate. Well, crudely resembled what used to be one anyways, the edges uneven, hand-painted, glazed chipped with age, and the smile a little crooked.
Something she’d made when she was young, back when Christmas meant fingerprints in paint and her parents’ laughter echoing through the corridors.
It was a fond memory she’d painted centuries ago, Charlie could still hear her parents in the palace kitchen together, as her father dipped her artwork in a glaze and a little blonde princess watching in awe.
Niffty beamed. “I found it in storage! It has your name on the back and I thought you’d like it.”
The small woman reached out and gently patted Charlie’s head, fingers smoothing through her blonde hair.
She brushed the lose strands away from Charlie’s face, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbing the little bit of drool from the corner of the princess’s mouth.
“You gotta eat, I decorated them myself! You’ve been running around like your bones forgot they belong to a body.”
“Thank you, Niff,” Charlie swallowed hard. “But I’m not really all that hungry.”
Niffty frowned and lifted a sugar cookie decorated like a moravian star to the blonde demon’s lips. “That’s what people who need cookies say.”
Before Charlie could protest further, the door opened again.
“Did she eat them?”
Alastor’s voice was calm, low, threaded with subservience, he for once, didn’t bother masking under preformative cheer.
He had shed his coat and rolled his sleeves, leaving a peek of greyish brown colored flesh visible along his forearms.
The Radio Demon did not look like himself, usually so put together, practiced, articulated.
The man in front of her now looked soft, holding a glass of wine between his long fingers as if he was the perfect image of a true gentleman.
Charlie groaned softly. “You’re both coordinating. I know it.”
Niffty looked up at him and shook her head. “Not yet.”
She gave Charlie’s hair one last affectionate ruffle, then hopped off the bed as Alastor stepped closer.
He set a glass of wine carefully on the bedside table, the clink barely audible.
“Thank you for bringing these up for our dearest,” he said to Niffty, patting her on the head kindly. “The cellar was…less cooperative than anticipated.”
“Ooo, is that the fancy wine?” Niffty asked, eyes lighting up.
“The very same.”
She gasped and hugged his legs without warning. “You’re the best, Mister Alastor,” Then she turned back to Charlie. “Eat them, Charlie! Feel better. I need to make another batch of frosting, the butter should be soft enough by now!”
And she was gone, already halfway down the hall.
The room settled into quiet again.
Charlie stared at the plate for a moment, then at the wine, then finally at Alastor. He stood there, posture relaxed, eyes steady, like the world hadn’t been weighing on her shoulders all day.
Her voice came out thin. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I know,” he replied gently. “Perhaps all this menial holiday cheer has worn me soft.”
“Yeah, maybe,” She blinked, eyes stinging unexpectedly. “and hey, I’m sorry for being such a control freak the last few days. I guess Christmas isn’t bringing out the best in me this year. ,” she admitted, sighing as her gaze dropped to the floor. “I just… I just wanted everything perfect. For them. For everyone. And it still, you know, feels like I’m missing something.”
Alastor sat down on the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her as the mattress dipped under his weight.
“You are not missing anything, my dear. You are exhausted.”
Charlie picked her head up to look at him as he plucked a piece of lint from his dress shirt. He leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands on his knee.
“I told you that you mustn’t fret. The lobby looks beautiful. The lights are strung, no tangles, no flickering. More cookies are cooling as we speak; Niffty decorated them with alarming enthusiasm. And our lovely residents?” He smiled faintly. “They are enjoying your cocktail list immensely. I believe Husker referred to one as ‘dangerously festive.’”
“Really?” Charlie let out a weak laugh, then pressed her sleeve to her eyes. “You’re not just saying that?”
“I would never insult you by lying about your efforts.” Alastor picked the wineglass up by its stem and swirled it around with a little dramatic flair that made Charlie smile. “Now, do have some. Have as much as you’d like.”
She picked up the wine glass with shaking fingers, her fingers brushing his for the briefest of moments, and took a sip.
The dry warmth spread slowly through her chest, loosening something tight and painful.
“But we have to save some for mom and dad. Mom only likes sauvignon blanc, dad hates it and prefers red—“
Static flicked throughout the room when he pressed a finger to her lips, shushing her before she could continue her rambling spiral.
Alastor watched her for a moment, paying extra care to making sure she did not spill any of the red wine on her painfully festive comforter.
“Darling, there is plenty more in the cellar. I am sure her highness will appreciate the many varieties we have to offer downstairs— And as for your father, well, if his taste in wine is anything like his taste in women, I can assume he’ll settle for whatever is left.”
Charlie shot him a dangerous glare that quickly dissipated as soon as she saw a smirk break the composure of Alastor’s usual poised expression.
And she couldn’t help but let out a snort, spilling a little liquid from her glass onto her red blazer.
“Sorry, sorry,” Charlie managed to get one last giggle out before clearing her throat and regaining herself. “Al…”
Then, he snapped his fingers, interrupting whatever she had to say next. It was most likely a lecture in a similar vein of the ‘meaning of Christmas’ and being nice to thy neighbor. Truly bullshit if you asked him, he can't comprehend why the girl thinks he’d put his vendetta with the tiny king aside for one measly day out of the year.
But, on cue, a robe appeared in his hand—thick, plush, and comfortable looking.
“My dear, if you would kindly shed your coat and replace it with something a bit more suited for comfort,” He held it out to her. “I will toss this through the wash after I draw you a bath.”
Her brows knit together. “You don’t have to—”
“Ah ah ah,” he tutted, wagging a finger in Charlie’s face as if he’d been scolding a child. “You are to rest. That is not a suggestion, you are going to stress yourself sick.”
She hesitated, then nodded, pulling the robe to her chest, feeling the fuzziness between her fingers.
It still smelled like laundry detergent, a fresh and clean scent that somehow soothed her nerves.
“One condition,” he added, rising from the bed. “You may only enter the bath once your wine is finished and those cookies are gone.”
She sniffed, managing a small smile. “You’re bribing me.”
“I am simply encouraging productivity,” he corrected.
Charlie picked up a cookie at last, biting into it slowly. Her eyes closed as the sweetness settled, and when she opened them again, they were glassy.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
Alastor paused at the door, looking back at her. “You carry far more than you should, Charlie. Tonight, allow none other than your hotelier to hold it.”
Charlie stayed seated on the edge of her bed, robe wrapped around her like a cocoon, while the bathroom transformed just beyond the door.
The steady rush of water was constant now, layered beneath the low hum of music. Soft and soothing, unhurried and warm.
The rich, soulful voice of none other than Etta James. A bit past Alastor’s time, yes, but he found the sultry tune of “At Last" to fill him with a sort of nostalgia despite never being alive to hear it through the radio.
He chose Etta because he’d noticed the way Charlie tapped her heels to the rhythm, how she mumbled the words under her breath as the woman’s voice rang through the hotel’s speakers, and how the princess tended to sway with her previous angelic partner to the song while the others groaned about how mushy they were.
It was the small, seemingly insignificant things, Alastor was able to pick up on when he chose to listen close enough.
It drifted under the crack of the door and into her room, mingling with the faint glow of Christmas lights and the lingering sweetness of cookies and wine.
At last,
My love has come along
Upon hearing the instrumental, a strange tug at her heartstrings plucked painfully inside her chest.
My lonely days are over,
And life is like a song
It wasn’t a physical reaction Charlie had, not really. But it’d felt like someone round-house kicked her square in the gut, and the blow had landed permanently across her heart.
A fond memory leaped to the forefront of her mind, bittersweet, and disturbingly real.
Too real.
An image of Vaggie’s face lingered, greyish-purple fingers intertwined with her pale, far less unique ones. The smile playing across her previous partner’s lips when Charlie had spun her around the kitchen, and dipped her with this old-fashioned flare.
It’d been late at night and neither could sleep, the pair crept down into the kitchen and danced together into the early hours of the morning. Her girlfriend adorning Charlie’s favorite pajama set and matching fuzzy socks.
Oh, at last,
The sky’s above are blue
She couldn’t understand the way those little moments, so seemingly insignificant, made her chest ache so deeply now. The princess never truly recognized how precious those little glimpses were until it stuck to her that she’d never experience them again.
How much comfortability can easily make you take those memories for granted—how love can slip through your grasp like grains of sand, mingling with a sense of grief beyond any reason. And remembering just how much—love and grievance—go hand-in-hand.
That was the blow which landed the hardest.
My heart was wrapped up in clover,
The night I looked at you
Stifling her weeps against the sleeve of her robe, big eyes beginning to well up, she drew in a deep breath to prevent the hot globs of tears from falling past her lashes.
So instead, as if to ground herself, she’d focused on the scent which came through the door.
Lavender first. Clean, floral, familiar. Followed by something warmer. It was vanilla, maybe, softened by candle smoke.
It filled the room slowly, gently, like an invitation rather than an announcement.
Charlie leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes.
“You know,” she called quietly, “for someone who claims to hate sentimentality, you’re being very… thorough.”
Alastor’s voice carried easily from the bathroom. “I do not hate sentimentality. I simply prefer it curated.”
She smiled.
“I didn’t think you even owned bubble bath.”
“You really think I do not dabble in the realm of herbal scents, dear?” he replied smoothly. “I am a man of callous dignity, not savagery.”
She opened one eye. “Ah, thank you for that very insightful clarification”
“It is my pleasure, princess.” Charlie could hear the humor in his smile, even though she could not see him behind the door.
There was a pause, then she laughed—soft, tired, but real.
The water shut off.
Charlie hesitated, fingers worrying at the edge of her robe. “Hey, Al?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“It’s Christmas,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“So it is.”
She rolled her eyes so far back she could’ve seen her skull. “Andddd…I know you and my dad have your…differences. But while they’re here, can we just—keep things calm? Just for a week.”
The door opened slightly, steam curling into the hallway.
“I can promise you,” he said after a moment, “that I will not antagonize first.”
She sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “That’s not really what I meant—”
“It is the best offer you’re going to get.”
She considered it. “If he starts it?”
“Then I shall settle it,” Alastor replied pleasantly. “Seasonal cheer is hardly something I find most tolerable, I’ve enjoyed very little these past weeks, permit me this.”
“Well…That’s…fair.” She rolled her eyes again. “I’ll have the same talk with him. A one week, mutual non-aggression pact.”
“A truce,” he mused. “How seasonal.”
The bathroom door opened fully then, and Alastor stepped out, steam clinging to him, the warm scent of soap following in his wake. Candlelight flickered behind him, reflected in tile and porcelain.
“It’s ready,” he said gently.
Charlie nodded and shifted forward on the bed. As she stood, he offered his hand without hesitation.
She eyed it. “I’m fine, you know.”
“I am aware,” he replied knowingly.
She took it.
As he led her toward the bathroom, she muttered, “You’re acting like I’m elderly.”
“You have had wine,” he replied calmly. “On an empty stomach. It would be negligent of me not to assist.”
“Ugh,” She groaned, halfheartedly accepting. “…I hate how reasonable that is.”
The bathroom was warm, glowing softly with candlelight. The tub was filled nearly to the brim, bubbles piled high and threatening to spill over the edge.
Charlie stopped short, eyes widening slightly. “Oh. You remembered.”
“I remember many things,” he said. “This included.”
He helped her slip out of the robe, movements unhurried, respectful.
Ever the gentleman, he adverted his gaze to the door, hands lingered only as long as necessary, but the proximity sent a quiet shiver through her anyway.
Charlie simply brushed it off, afterall, it had been how many months since someone had laid more than a finger on her bare skin.
Suddenly, as if in the same exact moment, she began to feel embarrassed.
Not the kind of embarrassment that comes from an awkward conversation or prolonged silence—She felt exposed.
The princess’s breath hitched, Alastor noticed and raised a brow.
She laughed under her breath as she stepped into the tub. The heat enveloped her instantly, bubbles rising around her shoulders as she lowered herself with his steady support.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Jesus, I’m not gonna melt, Alastor,” she insisted.
“No,” he agreed softly.
That landed deeper than she expected.
She sank back, eyes fluttering shut, a sigh slipping free as the tension finally began to unwind.
Alastor crouched beside the tub, watching her for a moment. “Comfortable?”
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “More than I’ve been in days.”
He stood, straightening his cuffs. “Good. I’ll return in twenty minutes—with another glass of wine.”
“…Maybe, you know, if you’re still feeling generous, another plate of cookies too? Oh, oh, and please send my compliments Nifty’s way.”
“Of course, princess.”
She opened her eyes and smiled at him, something soft and grateful shining there. “Thank you. Really.”
“Nonsense,” He paused at the door, expression unreadable but warm. “Now do rest, Charlie.”
The door closed behind him, leaving her alone with candlelight, music, and the steady reassurance that everything was exactly as it needed to be.Then he left her with the warmth of wine, cookies, and the quiet knowledge that even in Hell—someone had noticed she was hurting.