Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The portal slammed shut behind her with a sharp crack, and everyone in the room froze.

Charlie had only just stepped back through, still brushing off the glow of Heaven’s light when the flare hit - too fast, too bright, and nothing like the usual way a portal closed.

It rippled once behind her, sparked like a cracked mirror, and something fell through.

Someone.

The woman stumbled a step, caught herself, and lifted her head. She was short but striking, with dark skin that shimmered faintly under the hotel lights, and a cascade of rich, honeyed curls that framed her face and glowed beneath her halo. Her wings were broad and feathered, warm golden-brown tipped in light, and shivered slightly as they settled.

She didn’t feel like a sinner.

She didn’t feel like anything that should be in Hell.

Angel Dust spoke first, sharp and baffled. “Uh. Charlie? Babe? Did a fuckin’ angel just follow you home?”

Niffty gasped from behind the sofa. “She’s glowing! She’s glowing and pretty and she smells like fresh linen!”

Husk’s wings bristled. “No angel’s supposed to be here.”

Vaggie was already in front of Charlie, spear drawn, stance taut and ready. “You need to explain yourself. Now.”

The woman raised her hands slowly, not in fear, but in patience. Her voice, when it came, was soft and southern, gentle as dusk air. “I don’t mean to cause trouble. I’m not here on any ill will, I just…”

“You what?” Husk growled. “You just strolled in?”

“Not exactly.” Her gaze flicked to Charlie, warm and tired. “I’ve been hoping for a chance. Watching. When I saw the light open just now, I didn’t stop to think. I moved.”

“You jumped through a portal into Hell on impulse?” Angel squawked.

“I’ve been waiting months for a moment like that,” she said simply. “Hoping for even the smallest gap. I thought maybe I could pass along a message. A question. Something.” Her hands trembled faintly before she lowered them. “But Heaven doesn’t offer those kinds of graces. Excess of such simple things but no care for what matters.”

Charlie stepped out from behind Vaggie, slow but calm. “Why would you want to reach someone here?”

The woman’s smile was faint, and unbearably human. “Because someone I love is down here.”

The words landed hard, familiar for any sinner with family lost to them. The room went still.

“I’ve known it since the day he died,” she said, voice quieter now. “He was… angry. Sharp. Clever. Took lives he thought deserved it - terrible men, dangerous ones. But Heaven doesn’t care about the reasons, just the rules. And so down he went.” She breathed in slowly, then out again, steadying herself. “I hated it. But I told myself he’d survive it, maybe even thrive in it, and I’ve held on to that.”

She looked around at them then - at Niffty, barely peeking out; at Husk, grim and wary; at Angel, wide-eyed and weirdly silent; at Vaggie, who hadn’t lowered the spear but had stopped bristling.

Her gaze settled last on Charlie. “But since I heard about… about the exterminations, I couldn’t sit idle anymore. I had to know he was still here.”

Charlie’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You know you’re not supposed to be here,” she said, quietly.

“I do,” the woman said. “But I didn’t come as an angel.”

She folded her wings back slowly, her voice dropping to something almost too soft to hear.

“I came as his mother.”

Charlie exhaled, voice soft but strained. “Ma’am, I… I don’t know how you got through, but you can’t stay here. You’re not safe, and being here puts your son at risk too.”

The woman’s brow furrowed, her expression tightening. “I know Hell’s dangerous. But I would never endanger him. That’s not why I came.”

“It’s not just Hell,” Vaggie said, stepping in gently. There was a note of warning in her voice, but sympathy too. “It’s Heaven. You’re not a sinner. You’re not a demon. You’re not fallen. If they realise an angel’s down here - if the Exterminators find out - your presence could get him killed. Could get any of us killed. And if word gets out to the Sins or the wrong kind of demon…”

Her meaning hung heavy in the air.

“I didn’t come for safety,” the woman said quietly. “I came to see if he’s still breathing.”

“Yeah, well,” Angel muttered, folding his arms. “Maybe keep that kinda talk down, sugar. We don’t need every cannibal in the city sniffin’ around just ’cause you lit up the room.”

Behind them, the air shifted.

A door opened, not with a bang, but the soft, familiar creak of the west corridor.

“Speak of the devil,” Husk grunted. “Here comes trouble.”

Alastor strode in as if summoned by timing alone, hands tucked behind his back, his grin wide.

He glanced around at the gathered group, blinking once at the palpable tension in the air. “What’s this, then? A staff meeting I wasn’t invited to?” His voice was bright, light, almost playful, but there was no humour behind it.

Charlie looked over at him, wary. She honestly wasn’t sure how he’d react. He hadn’t seemed too bothered when he’d learned about Vaggie’s angelic past - but at least her presence in Hell made some kind of sense.

“You might want to stay calm,” she said carefully.

Alastor tilted his head, his smile razor-thin. “That’s a rather unusual suggestion, coming from you,” he replied, stepping into the room without hesitation.

Then he saw her.

Alastor stopped mid-step.

It wasn’t loud or dramatic - no shadows writhing, no sudden grin or static pulse. No cannibalistic hunger or sadistic curiosity. Just… stillness. Like something inside him had dropped out all at once, leaving nothing behind to keep him moving.

His smile stayed fixed for a breath. Then another. Then it vanished.

Completely.

There was no performance in it. No theatrical collapse. Just a quiet change The edges of his mouth dropped. His jaw slackened slightly, his lips parted as if to speak - but nothing came out. His eyes widened not in fear, but in something older. Something that hollowed him out as they all watched.

And then the static hit.

Charlie flinched as it ripped through the lobby - sharp, ragged, and sudden. It shrieked from the walls, the floorboards, the ceilings - from everywhere. Every speaker in the hotel bled with noise. Lights stuttered overhead. The chandelier rattled.

Then it was over.

What remained was worse.

Alastor stood completely still. His hands hung at his sides. His chest lifted in small, uneven breaths. No static. No twitch. No sound.

No smile.

“Th-the fuck-?” Angel whispered, barely audible. His hand hovered near his face, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak.

Charlie saw Husk stiffen behind the bar, eyes narrowed, tail flicking. Niffty had stopped mid-perch, one little hand clamped tight on the back of the armchair. Even Vaggie seemed thrown, glancing between Charlie and the tall, expressionless man in the centre of the room.

Charlie had never seen Alastor like that.

She hadn’t thought he could look like that. It was like watching untouchable come undone - sacred, not because it was holy, but because it had always been fixed. Immutable. He always smiled. Even when he was hurt. Even when he lied. Even when he was killing something.

Not now.

The angel simply stepped forward, slow and sure, and held out one hand - palm open, fingers steady.

“Alastor?” she asked quietly.

Alastor disappeared.

His shadow rushed forward like water on glass, drawn to hers, curling around it protectively, as if even that flickering silhouette needed to be shielded. Before any of them could blink, he reformed.

He stood directly in front of her, posture slightly crouched, as if his body had barely stopped itself from falling.

Then the angel touched his face.

It was so gentle Charlie almost didn’t see it - just a thumb on his cheek, like brushing dust off a picture frame.

And that was all it took for Alastor to collapse.

Right there, in the middle of the hotel lobby, the Radio Demon’s knees hit the floor.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t silent. His hands shook where they hovered near her coat, claws flexing like he didn’t know how to touch anything that wasn’t sharp.

Then he looked up at her.

“Mama?”

Charlie had never heard his real voice. None of them had.

Not the one he used for broadcasts. Not the bright, slick accent that made everything sound rehearsed even in regular conversation. Not that voice.

This one was small. Filterless. Southern.

The sound of it went through Charlie like a thread being pulled tight.

Angel’s mouth dropped open. “That’s-” he started, but couldn’t finish.

Niffty clutched the back of the chair so tightly it creaked. Husk looked away. Even Vaggie’s face had softened into something more careful, more quiet.

Charlie stepped forward slowly, not to interrupt, but because she couldn’t not. Her hand hovered just over her heart, her other hanging useless at her side.

The woman knelt without hesitation, wings curling gently around her coat as it pooled across the tile. She held his face like she’d done it a thousand times. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re still here,” she whispered. “My boy. You're still here.”

Charlie’s breath hitched.

Alastor didn’t say anything else, but his hands moved. Slowly. One touched her sleeve. Then the other. Shaking, uncertain.

Then he sunk forward and down into her arms with the helpless weight of a child who’d been holding himself up too long. His head tucked beneath her chin. His claws clutched at her coat. His whole body trembled.

She held him like she’d done it a thousand times before. Like she’d never stopped. Like he was still small - not a seven-foot-tall demonic overlord, but just her baby.

Charlie’s breath caught in her throat.

Alastor didn’t say anything else at first.

He just held on - tight, trembling, breath stuttering against her shoulder like he didn’t quite trust it was real. Like one wrong movement would make her vanish again.

Charlie stayed frozen, hands clenched at her sides. Her chest ached just watching them.

Then came the sound - fragile, uncertain.

“…Is it really you, Mama?”

The voice didn’t suit him. Not this version of him that they all knew. It was younger, rougher around the edges, and far too human. No static. No echo. No polish. Just a boy’s voice, worn and threadbare.

The woman’s fingers combed gently through his hair, slow and patient. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “But here you are, in my arms. That’s all I ever prayed for.”

His voice cracked on the next breath.

“I missed you.”

“Oh, baby,” she breathed, pulling him in closer. “I missed you every day. Every hour.”

Charlie didn’t move.

None of them did.

Even Angel had gone completely still, lips pressed together hard enough to hurt. Vaggie’s hand had lowered fully, but she hadn't looked away. Husk had his gaze locked on the two of them like he was seeing something he didn’t know how to name.

And Niffty let out the smallest, softest sound, just a little oh, but the moment broke.

Alastor’s shadow snapped outward like a blade unsheathed.

It coiled tight around the floor beneath them, lashing up the walls and curling fast as a whip’s crack. The air changed. The temperature dropped. The lights flickered hard.

Then, with no warning, the floor beneath Alastor and the angel rippled dark, and the shadow swallowed them whole.

Gone.

None of them spoke. Angel was frozen, arms crossed tight over his chest, gaze locked on the scene like he was trying to work out how the world had shifted sideways. Vaggie’s grip had gone slack on her spear, her other hand brushing against Charlie’s side without a word. Husk stared straight ahead, face unreadable, but not looking away.

And Niffty, small and quiet now, blinked wide and watery.

She whispered, “He looked so little…”

A long beat passed. Charlie could still feel the air humming where the shadow had been.

“I think it took them to his room,” she said, almost absently.

Husk gave a grunt, low and rough. “Let ’em be.”

No one argued.

Chapter Text

The floor caught him gently.

No, not the floor - the bed, his bed, though he barely registered the give of the mattress beneath his knees. His eyes stayed fixed, his breath locked behind clenched teeth, shoulders pulled taut as wires. Everything in his body screamed at him to move - to run, to fight, to laugh, to vanish - but nothing obeyed. He was frozen in place, cradled in the hush that followed the impossible.

She hadn’t spoken since he’d dragged them through the shadows - through that twisting, unnatural space that reeked of what he was now. It had clung to her like smoke, like shame, and he hadn’t looked up since.

He couldn’t.

Alastor blinked once, slowly, as if the world might rearrange itself between lashes. But when his vision cleared, she was still there - her skirt pooled beside him on the crimson quilt, her wings catching faint gold in the low glow of the wall lamps. He didn’t need to lift his head to know. Her presence was real in a way nothing in Hell had ever been - weightless and absolute, pressing against him like memory, like sunlight, like the echo of an old hymn stitched into his chest. It made him feel five again. And thirty-three. And one hundred and twenty. And dead. And unbearably alive.

Mama.

The word sat like a blade against the inside of his ribs.

She was here.

She was really here.

And he didn’t know how to bear it.

His fingers twitched where they rested on the bedspread, claws biting softly into the velvet - small, shallow punctures he couldn’t stop. He’d drawn blood with these hands. Laughed at them, too, when it suited him. He’d snapped necks, peeled back faces, torn smiles into things that didn’t deserve them - and now they trembled, pale and thin and inhuman against the deep red of the quilt.

He hadn’t meant to bring her here, hadn't meant to move them at all. It had been instinct, the need to be away from prying eyes.

He hadn’t meant for her to see it - the room, his room, him. The wallpaper crawling with sigils, the old gramophone bleeding with noise, the mirror that refused to reflect, and the photographs stitched together from people who no longer had faces. The shadows in the corner hadn’t left. They never did. They twitched when he breathed.

He hated them for it.

He hated himself for it.

His antlers had come out more when he moved them through the shadows. He knew that. Felt them tear through the skin the way they always did when he didn’t hold them back - wild, branching, proud. A crown made of bone. A curse made of him. And they were still there now, towering and obscene above the crown of his mother’s head.

She’d always been so small.

And he’d been small with her, once. Her boy. All knees and awkward teeth, clever but quiet, gentle until he wasn’t.

He wasn’t small anymore.

He was wrong.

Every inch of him.

His voice was wrong. His height was wrong. His smile - that damned, stitched thing - was wrong. His eyes hadn’t been red, back then. His skin hadn’t glowed like candle wax over coals. His laugh hadn’t been static. He’d been her son. Her darling. Her little man.

Now he was-

He was-

Alastor clenched his jaw and breathed, shallow and sharp. His mouth tasted like copper and rot.

He didn’t want her to see him like this.

He didn’t want her to touch the monster and call it baby.

He wanted to crawl out of himself. Peel it all off. Scrape the radio waves from his spine and bury the teeth that didn’t belong. Hide the antlers. Cut off the grin. Take off the voice.

Anything, anything to not be this in front of her.

But she hadn’t run, when she'd seen him. She hadn’t screamed.

She was still here.

Still quiet. Still watching.

Then, finally - painfully gently - she spoke.

“You always were dramatic, even when you were little.”

Her voice broke the air like a hymn through smoke. Not chastising. Not teasing. Just there, soft and fond and utterly unchanged. She might as well have been reading from memory, not observation.

Alastor’s breath caught.

“I remember you used to sit under the porch with your little radio,” she went on, her fingers moving to smooth the edge of his collar where it had twisted. “You’d hum along with the static like it made sense to you. Like you could hear something in it the rest of us couldn’t.”

Alastor flinched. Just barely. His fingers flexed on the quilt.

“You always liked things people thought were too loud,” she murmured, brushing a stray hair back from his temple. “But you were never loud, not really. Not until after your father…”

She didn’t finish.

She didn’t need to.

Her hand rested lightly atop his head. Warm. Steady. Unafraid.

He still hadn’t looked at her.

He couldn’t.

Not with his face like this. Not with that grin creeping at the edges of his lips - forced back into place, twisted and unbearable.

His voice, when it came, was so low it scraped. “I’m not that boy anymore.”

“No,” she agreed, without pause. “You’re not.”

Alastor braced for it - the recoil, the fear, the shift in tone that always came when people realised what he was. What he did. What he looked like when the mask slipped.

But it didn’t come.

She simply moved her hand down, cupping his cheek with fingers that shook just slightly. Her thumb brushed the sharp edge of his cheekbone. He expected her to stop at the wrongness of it, the way his face didn’t sit right anymore. She didn’t.

“You’re not a little boy anymore,” she said, quiet and even. “But you’re still my son.”

That did it.

The breath he’d been holding broke in his chest, sharp and silent, and when it came out, it came out wet. His shoulders hunched forward, trying to swallow it down, but it was too late. His body betrayed him.

His mouth opened and closed. The static ticked under his tongue, desperate to build, to save face, to perform - but he couldn’t do it. Not with her hand on him. Not with her here.

“You don’t know what I am,” he whispered.

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I know. But I don't.”

He finally looked up.

Just a little. Just enough to see her face - her real, tear-bright, angelic face - and that was all it took to break the last of him. He collapsed into her arms without ceremony, without control, like a child stumbling into a tantrum as tears fell from his eyes. His long limbs folded awkwardly beneath him, his claws scraping nothing, his antlers tilting just enough to not knock against her chin.

She held him anyway.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, cradling the back of his head like she used to when he cried in bed at night and wouldn’t tell her why. “Oh, my sweet boy. My heart.”

Alastor didn’t speak. Couldn’t. His throat clenched around every word that tried to rise, strangling them before they reached air until all that escaped were sobs. All he could do was weep, folded in the lap of the one person he’d never wanted to scare.

And she just rocked him.

Back and forth, her wings half-furled to shield him from the room, from the silence, from the rot curling out from the corners. One hand at his back, one cupping his skull, her lips brushing his forehead when she spoke.

“I don’t care what you look like,” she whispered. “I don’t care what this place made of you. I don’t care how sharp you’ve become.”

“You should,” he rasped against her, shivering as he said it. “You should hate me.”

“I could never.”

“I’m not human anymore.”

“Doesn’t matter, neither am I.”

“I’m not good.”

“That's okay.”

Alastor let out a noise - helpless, halfway between a laugh and a sob - and clutched at the front of her blouse like a child might hold onto the edge of a blanket. His claws pricked the fabric. She didn’t flinch.

“You’re not good,” she echoed softly, pressing her cheek to his hair. “You don’t have to be. I just wanted to know you were still here.”

“I’m not,” he whispered, and it broke something in his voice.

But she just hummed - low and familiar - and ran her hand down his back like she was brushing off dust from a long-lost keepsake.

“You are. You’re right here,” she said. “In my arms, where you should be.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

No clocks ticked. No broadcasts hummed. The world outside might’ve stopped altogether and Alastor wouldn’t have known. Wouldn’t have cared.

Eventually, the sobs softened. The shakes stilled. His breathing evened into something quiet and manageable, chest rising and falling in sync with the warm weight of her arms.

She was crying, still.

Not loudly, not like he had. But her face was buried in his hair, her shoulders tight, her breath catching faintly now and then with a tremble she hadn’t let him see.

“Mama,” he rasped, voice barely there. His claws twitched against her shirt. “You’re crying.”

She exhaled a watery breath and pulled back just enough to brush the hair from his forehead. Her smile wobbled, but it was still hers - warm and wry and far too human for this place. “’Course I am,” she said. “I have my baby back. I thought I'd lost you.”

Alastor blinked at her.

“You didn’t,” he murmured.

“I know.” She leaned in again and kissed his temple. “But I didn’t know that. Not for sure. Not ‘til just now.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. So he didn’t. He just let himself lean into her hand as it cupped his cheek again, let his eyes close for one more second. Just one.

Then she straightened - gently but firmly - and patted his shoulder like she used to when it was time to get up for school.

“Alright,” she said, in that tone that didn’t allow argument, despite the tear tracks that still stained her cheeks. “Let me see you properly.”

Alastor stiffened.

Her brows lifted. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

He hesitated, just long enough for her to give him a look, and then, slowly, awkwardly, he sat back and unfastened the buttons of his coat. It slid from his shoulders in a ripple of crimson, pooling at his sides before being tossed onto the bed with significantly less care than he normally took.

He half-expected the lights to flicker. For her to flinch.

She didn’t.

“Well,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her mouth, “look at you.”

He tensed, ears pressing painfully against his skull as he prepared for whatever she might have to say.

“You’ve gotten so tall.”

His ears flicked back - startled, sheepish.

She reached out, palms warm against his upper arms, and gave him a light squeeze. “You're still far too thin, I've always had to beg you to eat a full meal and now you're eternally skinny? Honestly.”

Alastor blinked. “You’re not... frightened?”

“Frightened?” she snorted. “Boy, if you think antlers and sharp teeth are enough to scare me, you’ve forgotten who carried you through a breech birth and raised you after.”

He let out a huff of static that might’ve been a laugh. His Mama had always bounced back fast from emotional moments; still reeling but she’d already snapped on a smile like she’d taught him to. Some corner of him warmed at the sight.

“And what is this mess?” she said, turning his face gently, her fingers sure and familiar. Normally, a mix of static and hot irons kept his hair straighter than a preacher at mass, but tonight - after the crying, the hand-combing, the sudden collapse - it stuck out at odd angles. Half flat, half curling stubbornly in every direction. “You’ve got those lovely curls and you’re flattening them down like a banker. No wonder you’re scaring people.”

Alastor flushed and raked one clawed hand through his hair. “It’s... It looks better.”

“It’s a mess,” she corrected. “Here. Stay still.”

Before he could protest, she stepped closer and reached up, careful to avoid his antlers, and began raking her fingers through the stiff lines of his part. Her nails scraped lightly at his scalp, smoothing the hair back into something softer, looser.

“There. That’s better,” she said, satisfied. “Now you look like you.”

“I...” Alastor blinked. “I thought it made me look more... presentable.”

“You look like you’re hiding.” She smoothed a curl down over his brow, then brushed it aside with a smile. “But you’ve got nothin’ to hide from me, baby. You’re beautiful. Just like your Mama.”

She brushed the last curl into place and stepped back, giving him a once-over like she used to before Sunday school. “There. That's my handsome boy.”

Alastor opened his mouth, probably to argue, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“Now, those shadows back in the lobby,” she said, a little quieter now, almost musing, “they came from you, didn’t they?”

His body went still.

“I didn’t see any spell,” she went on, sitting herself gently at the edge of the bed, wings tucking behind her. “And I sure didn’t hear a chant. Just felt somethin’ reach out and carry me like a wind with hands.”

Alastor hesitated, eyes flicking to the corners of the room. The shadows there stirred faintly - listening. Watching.

“That was me,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” She patted the spot beside her. “But I’d like to see it again. If you don’t mind.”

He sat stiffly, not looking at her. “You want to see... my shadows?”

“I want to see you, baby. All of you.”

That pulled a faint noise from him, something uncertain, almost shy. He flexed his fingers once in his lap, and the darkness beneath the bed shifted. It moved with his breath - slow, deliberate - before creeping up his calves like smoke under silk. He lifted one hand, and the shadows obeyed, rising in long ribbons that curled around his wrist and shoulder like affectionate snakes.

Then he let it go further.

From the base of his spine, denser, darker strands of shadow unspooled - thick and slow-moving, almost tentacle-like - curling lazily across the floorboards. They slithered forward and draped itself over her ankle like a cat claiming a lap. She didn’t flinch.

And then, at last, his Shadow emerged.

It crept out from the darkness beneath him, where it had been pretending to behave - flattened into a normal shape, quiet and obedient since it had ferried them from the lobby. At Alastor’s exasperated nod, it stirred with glee, peeled up from the floor, and twisted itself around his mother’s shadow in loose, looping coils. It grinned, or did something close enough to it that the air flickered.

“That one’s always been a bit clingy,” Alastor muttered. “It’s tied to me more closely than the rest of them.”

She raised a brow, amused. “It does seem to be rather attached.”

Alastor made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a wince.

Cautiously, he lifted his palm and focused. With a sound like a phonograph needle catching groove, green light crackled up his wrist - bright and unnatural, curling like lightning held mid-strike. Symbols flickered into the air, sharp and alien, pulsing faintly against the stillness. The energy hummed beneath his skin, and he could feel it shift in his eyes - pupils turned dials, drowned in black, antlers stretching tall and branching sharper overhead.

His mother didn’t pull back.

She just reached out, calm and unhurried, and rested her hand gently on his forearm.

“You really are something else,” she said softly, brushing her thumb over the edge of his wrist. “All these pieces, and you still fit together.”

Alastor glanced at her sidelong. “You’re not scared?”

“I’ve seen worse in church.”

He huffed out a breath. “You say that like it’s a joke.”

“It’s not.” She turned to him fully and reached up to brush her fingers over one of his antlers - careful, reverent.

“And these? Lord, you’d have given your Uncle Ray a heart attack. Always said we had spirits in the bloodline. You’d’ve had him scribblin’ in his Bible margins for weeks.”

She saw the shift in his face and smiled.

“There it is,” she murmured, brushing his cheek. “I knew that look. That’s my boy, thinkin’ too hard about something and tryin’ not to cry behind that smile of yours.”

“I’m not-” he started, but it trailed off.

She gave him a pat. “I know, I know. Big scary demon. But I’m still your Mama, and you’re still lookin’ hungry.”

Alastor blinked. “Hungry?”

“Mhm. Hungry. I don’t care what kind of devil you’ve become, you can’t tell me you’ve had a proper meal in too long.”

His face twisted, uncomfortable. “I... don’t really need-”

“You’ve always needed feeding,” she cut in, rising to her feet with the kind of command that didn’t invite debate. “It’s a miracle you lived past sixteen with how fussy you were. Now get up and show me where the kitchen is before I start hunting it down myself.”

“Mama-”

“Now, Alastor.”

She was already halfway to the door, skirts swaying, wings tucked behind her like she’d never been anywhere else but here.

Alastor lingered for a beat, staring at the spot where she’d stood, where her warmth still clung to the air and the quilt beneath his knees. His shadows hesitated too, curling indecisively around the bedpost like they weren’t sure whether to stay or follow.

He sighed. Quiet. Fond.

There would be questions, of course. Unpleasant ones.

Charlie, all stars in her eyes and tremble in her voice, asking how. Vaggie, arms folded and half a spear’s length from tolerance.

Angel, grinning like a jackal and waiting for the first moment he could say something obscene just to see if she flinched. (She wouldn’t. That was the worst part. They’d probably get along far too well.)

Niffty would cry. Husk would pretend not to care.

Alastor couldn’t bring himself to dread it.

He should. He knew that. He should have been locking the door behind her and drawing every ward he knew, should have panicked at the breach in balance, the danger of her presence, the thousand ways her existence in Hell could unravel him.

But all he could think about was cornbread.

Real cornbread. With butter. And her hum in the kitchen. And the way the world had smelled when it was still worth staying in.

He reached for his coat and slipped it on, smoothing out the front and adjusting his bowtie. The static had gone quiet, not gone, just... calm. Resting somewhere behind his teeth like a dog curled up in the sun.

Outside the door, he heard her call back-

"If I open the wrong one and find whips or somethin’ unsavoury, you better believe I’m marchin’ straight back there and cuffing you 'round your ear like you’re five.”

He bolted.

“Coming!” he called, voice almost cracking as slid into shadows and darted after her. “That room isn’t mine!”

His laughter echoed down the hall - real, strange, and startlingly light - as he caught up to her steps and took his place just half a stride behind, where he’d always walked when she led.

And for the first time in a very long while, Alastor's smile was real.