Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It began with static.

A cacophony of disjointed sound; Warped and warbling, prickling against his senses as it filtered out from the archaic receiver before him. 

He wasn’t looking for any particular station. Just idly spinning the dial. Blood turned dark and tacky under his claws as he drifted between them all. They all offered the same hellish drivel. Wails. Warnings. Screechy little jingles advertising sin and spectacle. After so long, it had all started to sound a bit like the static in between. 

Infuriatingly bereft of anything worthy of his attention.

“Coming up next: a romantic power ballad from the Pit of Eternal Agony. Dedicated to Barb from Accounting…Gary says he’s sorry he ate your legs.”

Asinine.

“...stay tuned for traffic updates. Someone disemboweled a bus full of influencers on Highway…”

Derivative.

“Have you or a loved one been maimed, consumed, or cursed? You could be entitled to absolutely nothing! Call 1-800-GET-HEXED to join our class-action regret spiral today.”

Insufferable.

A creak of protest rang out from the weathered boards beneath his seat as he leaned forward to reach for the off switch.

“ …At the Happy Hotel, we believe in redemption. ”

The newest voice stopped him cold.

Clear. Bright. Hopeful.

Alastor’s grin twitched, then slipped just a hair.

He turned the dial back with slow, deliberate precision, tuning in with all the reverence of a prayer. And there she was, the answer to it.

Her . 

Alive in the airwaves. Carried across dust and time back to him.

“A second chance is possible. Come see for yourself. The Happy Hotel! Where sinners become something more. ”

For a long moment, he sat motionless in his studio. 

One hand on the dial. The other clenched around his microphone until it groaned in his grasp.

It wasn’t possible.

Not after all this time. 

Not after he had scoured Hell to its bones. Not after breaking himself against the gates of Heaven. All while chasing the shape of her like a man starved.

He had let go.

Or tried to, anyway.

He had told himself he was past it all, and he told that lie well. Until he’d almost, almost believed it.

But there she was. 

Not a memory. Nor a dream. 

Charlotte.

Still here. Still vibrant. Still impossibly her. 

He rewound the broadcast and played it again.

And again.

Then once more.

Not for the words. The sound of her voice was enough…

And then not nearly enough at all

He stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floorboards. 

His smile looked carved in. Too bright, too sharp, too hungry for comfort.

A single, fleeting moment was spared to straighten his bow-tie and dust off his coat.

Then he turned and left, his footsteps too quick for someone trying to seem composed.

He couldn’t remember crossing the city, only that he’d moved . Fast, purposeful, a crackling thread of static unspooling behind him. 

That voice…she was here , and that certainty had pulled something loose inside him; unravelling threads of resolve he’d long wrapped tight. The wounds beneath remained raw and festering, oozing lifeblood with every step towards her door. 

The journey to her doorstep was beyond madness. It was folly; Born from the sort of fragile, fleeting hope he’d promised himself he’d never be beholden to again.

But Alastor knew he couldn’t have stayed away if he’d tried.

So he didn’t.

The Hazbin Hotel was smaller than he imagined.

Less palace, more patched-up pipe dream. All crooked floors and chipped paint and ambition held together by glitter glue and false confidence.

Of course it was.

Of course she would build her future out of broken things.

Would anything else have suited her?

The hotel let him in. No resistance. No grand entrances. Just one footstep after another over a threshold he hadn’t known he’d been desperate to cross.

No music greeted him. No guests caught his eye. Just the smell of dust and desperation.

He didn’t announce himself.

He didn’t have to.

Footsteps approached rapidly. Light and familiar.

She rounded the corner and froze.

Their eyes met.

His stomach lurched like the floor had fallen out from under him.

Her hair was longer now. Her clothes were more modern. But her smile, now adorned by small fangs, was still bright. And wonderfully, painfully hers. 

Charlotte .

Three mismatched chairs huddled around a lopsided table, the unlikely stage for their so-called meeting. Charlie sat with Vaggie and Alastor, all three of them leaning over a binder stamped Redemption Charter V0.6 . Steam curled from chipped mugs of untouched tea, and underneath it all, a faint hiss of static lingered like it was leaking straight from the Radio Demon’s smile.

Charlie tried her best to keep the mood civil. Vaggie, not so much.

“So… again, thank you for coming,” Charlie said. “Officially, I mean. It’s helpful to… put things in writing.”

Alastor’s grin widened. “Oh, I adore writing things down! Makes it all the more delightful to watch people wriggle out of agreements later.”

“We’re not wriggling out of anything,” Vaggie shot back, unimpressed. “We just want to clarify what exactly you’re offering.”

“Security. Structure. A little panache.” Alastor leaned back, his chair groaning under the shift in weight, and shrugged. “The place could use some.”

“Panache?” Charlie echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Darling, have you seen the current marketing?” He began counting on his fingers. “Your signage is handwritten in glitter gel pen. Your flyers are misspelled. Though-” He tilted his head to a concerning degree, “That radio broadcast script was hysterical.”

“Oh…” Charlie nervously clicked her pen a few times, “I uh—I was going for heartfelt, actually.”

Alastor laughed. It wasn’t as cruel as it could have been, but it certainly wasn’t kind.

Charlie’s face heated further. Vaggie bristled beside her.

“We’re… working on it,” Charlie said, trying to sound firmer than she felt.

“Mmm. And the housekeeping?”

Vaggie’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

His eyes crinkled with mirth, “Well, I nearly stepped on a rodent in the east wing. It was dragging a cigarette butt. Looked very judgmental.”

Charlie ducked her head, shuffling papers that didn’t need straightening. “We’re a little understaffed.”

“Which is why you need help! And as luck would have it… I know people. Artists, performers, publicists. Certainly a few cleaners. Some of them might even have souls.” Something in his grin sharpened. “Figuratively speaking.”

“And what,” Vaggie asked cooly, “you’d just call them in? No strings?”

“Of course there are strings. Everything good has strings.” His gloved finger tapped his chin. “Or lace. I do love lace.”

Charlie waved her pen as if to chase away that visual, “Okay, okay, if we were open to some support in, say, presentation and logistics… what’s your angle?”

“I want the hotel to succeed. You’ve got a fascinating premise to build upon. Redemption! Rehabilitation! Rebranding Hell itself.” he leaned forward, “But it’s dreadfully boring when such grand ambition is poorly executed.”

“You’re offering consulting services?” Vaggie said slowly.

“Exactly! Think of me as a… very involved investor.” Sliding the binder over to himself, he began casually flipping through it.

“We could use the help,” Charlie muttered, half to herself.

“Charlie,” Vaggie pinned her with a warning look. 

But it only spurred her to double down. “We could. It doesn’t have to be permanent. Just a trial. A few small projects.”

Alastor’s grin catches the light like glass, “Perfect! I love small beginnings. They so often end in flames.”

The pen in Charlie’s hand faltered, then steadied as she jotted something down. The radio’s static seemed to buzz louder in her ears.

“And you’d follow hotel rules?” Vaggie pressed.

Alastor clutched at his chest in mock offence. “Of course! Within reason, naturally.”

He tapped his finger on the page he was ostensibly reading. “You’ll have to define ‘cruel and unusual’ for me, though. I’d hate to step on any legal landmines.”

Charlie dragged a hand over her face. Vaggie muttered something in Spanish that sounded distinctly profane.

The meeting dissolved into more of the same quips and posturing until Vaggie excused herself with a clipped word about updating the security roster.

Charlie lingered. Alastor hadn’t moved. He remained seated, legs crossed elegantly, twirling a pen that absolutely didn’t belong to him between gloved fingers.

“So what’s in it for you?” Charlie asked again.

He stilled, then lifted a brow. “Hm?”

“You want to help with marketing. Housekeeping. Outreach. Staff. Budgeting. It just doesn’t exactly seem…” she waved her hand like she was trying to conjure up a polite way to phrase her next sentiment, “your style.”

His grin curved, sly as ever. “You wound me, my dear! I love administration. All those little rules. All the nasty consequences of breaking them.” He tilted his head. The gesture reminded Charlie of a bird, almost. “But I suspect that’s not the question you meant to ask.”

Charlie folded her arms. “I’ve read up on you.”

“Oh?” His tone warmed with genuine intrigue. “Any favourite stories?”

She ignored him. “What are you doing here? Do you want redemption?”

The silence that followed was sharp. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes went cold. It stretched just long enough to make her pulse stutter.

Then he laughed. Soft and sharp. “Redemption? Oh, my little optimist… It’s a pipe dream. A goose chase.”

“You don’t believe in any of this,” Charlie said flatly.

“Not a lick.”

Charlie’s jaw tightened. She started to push back from the table. 

“But,” he began.

She stopped.

His voice dropped to something soft, velvet-dark, almost intimate. “Maybe I just want to see how far you can go.”

Charlie tried to hold on to her mask, but the conviction slipped through her fingers. “What does that mean?”

Alastor’s grin ticked up. “We’re in the same business, aren’t we? Change. Chaos. Turning the natural order on its head. I harvest the weak and weary. You try to heal them. Same coin. Different grin.”

Charlie stepped forward, steel in her voice now. “We do not harvest souls here.”

A hand flew to Alastor’s chest in mock innocence. “Perish the thought.”

“I’m serious.” Her eyes narrowed. “That is not the kind of operation I’m running. It never will be.”

“And I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” Something in his grin shifted. Less performance, more sincerity when he added, “You handle the redemption. The mission. The heart.”

He rose to his full height, unfolding from the rickety chair with deliberate grace. “I’ll handle the ugly bits. The infrastructure. The rot. The people who don’t want to see your hotel exist by morning.”

“And you expect me to just trust you?” she asked, suspicion heavy in her words.

“Not at all!” His chuckle was all teeth, “In fact, I’d be disappointed if you did.” 

He leaned in, looming over her. “But I’m very good with people. And you, princess, you’re going to need someone like that. Just to keep the lights on.”

Charlie’s frown deepened. She didn’t move away, refusing to give him the upper hand. 

Alastor watched her carefully and then, with a tip of his head and a gentleman’s bow, said, “Consider me… your necessary evil.”

He vanished in a ripple of red static.

Charlie exhaled, fists clenched at her sides. She wasn’t sure if she’d just made a deal or narrowly avoided one.

The hotel was humming.

Not in a metaphorical way. Though metaphorically, yes, it had begun to wake up. But literally, there was a hum. A low, uneven warble that echoed up the vents from somewhere deep in the walls.

Charlie leaned her elbows on the front desk, letting the gentle din settle into her bones. The air smelled like cinnamon, cheap cologne, and dust. Angel had burned something in the kitchen again. Husk was grumbling in the lounge, playing cards against no one. Niffty was… somewhere. Probably alphabetizing the spice rack or polishing doorknobs until they gleamed like coins.

And behind it all: static.

Alastor’s presence buzzed at the edge of her senses. Not loud. Not intrusive. Just there. Like a frequency only her nerves could hear.

It had been a month since he arrived.

A month since he’d swept through the front doors like he’d been expected. Like she’d been expecting him.

And maybe, on some buried level, she had.

Charlie rested her chin on her hands. From this angle, the lobby looked almost respectable. It was still a little janky, with peeling paint and crooked sconces, but alive. It had heart now. People were moving through it, voices echoing down halls, and chairs that weren’t always empty.

That had started with him.

She hadn’t meant to let him in. He hadn’t exactly asked.

He’d just smiled that godawful, too-wide smile and said,

“Charlotte, darling. You look like hell.”

It had stopped her cold.

Not because the name was wrong. But because it wasn’t. 

Those familiar syllables curled around something in her, something hollow and half-buried. Nobody called her that. She didn’t let them. Not even her parents. Not even Vaggie.

And yet the way he said it, too familiar for comfort, too confident for a stranger… 

She still didn’t know what to make of him.

He was unpredictable. Overbearing, too flashy, too formal, and strangely... kind. Not in the usual meaning. In no form that made sense. But in his own way.

He acted like they knew each other. Really knew each other. Like they were close. Like they shared a history that only he remembered.

And that unsettled her in ways she hadn’t figured out how to name.

He was dangerous. They all knew it.

He was helpful, somehow.

And he was infuriating.

Charlie turned just slightly as the static sharpened, just for a second. Not loud. Not targeted. Just brushing past her awareness like someone passing too close.

It didn’t make her jump like it used to.

That was probably bad.

From the kitchen came a clatter. She rolled her eyes.

“Angel, if you’re going to microwave soup again, put a plate under it this time!” she called.

From the kitchen: “It’s stew, not soup, and you’re not my real mom!”

She sighed. 

But she smiled, too.

She hadn’t expected the Radio Demon.

He’d just… been here. 

And now the hotel was full.

Of noise. Of guests. Of problems.

But also... of hope.

Charlie looked around the lobby, still half-falling apart and held together by more dreams and aspirations than wood and steel. 

But more real than it had ever been.

Chapter Text

The parlour had once been a place for delicate tea and quiet death threats, but now it hosted business meetings. Or something like that. The sun (or whatever counted for it in Hell) slanted through the dusty glass, casting splotchy colours across the table where Charlie and Alastor sat.

A stack of documents lay between them. Maps, names, contacts. In front of Charlie sat a greasy paper basket filled with fries, which she plucked from with enthusiastic crunches, eyes scanning a half-scribbled list.

“So, these are the people you think might be open to... collaborating?”

Across from her, Alastor wore a particularly pointed grin. Sometimes, he reminded Charlie of a shark. “Oh, I wouldn’t say open, but I know how to talk to them. And if we present the right incentives, I’m certain they’ll bite.”

He tapped a few names with one long finger, sharp claws clicking against the paper through his gloves.

“We’ll need to decide what exactly we’re offering. Favour for a favour, tit for tat. It’s the backbone of Hell’s little economy. And you have such talented guests! Perhaps they have skills we could use to barter?”

Charlie squinted at him and responded through half a mouthful of fries, “We’re not pimping out Angel Dust.”

Alastor raised his hands in mock surrender, “Perish the thought! Though I’m sure he’d be flattered.” He pulled a paper with a list of residents out of a stack and held it out for her, “No, no. I simply meant we might leverage the skill sets already on our little roster. Performance, influence, rare talents. People love exclusivity.”

She peeked around the side of the paper, “You mean exploitation.”

With a flair of his wrist, Alastor returned the roster to its place, “I prefer to think of it as... strategic resource allocation.”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “You mean exploitation.”

He chuckled, lacing his fingers under his chin. “In all seriousness, dear, we’ll need something of value. The warm fuzzy feeling of helping out isn’t exactly a prized currency around here.”

With a sigh, she dropped her gaze to the fry basket, frowning at it as if it held the answer to his conundrum, “I know. I just… I don’t want to start this place off by selling pieces of people. That’s not what this hotel is for.”

“Of course not!” He crows, “We’ll keep their souls intact.”

“Alastor!”

They bickered. Politely, but sharply, back and forth. Charlie scribbling things out on the notepad between bites, Alastor countering every point with infuriating good humour. Eventually, she slammed her pen down with a final flourish and leaned back, triumphant. “There. That’s our list. What we can and cannot offer. Limits. Boundaries. And actual options.”

She beamed. Bright, proud, and radiant, like someone who’d just carved order out of chaos. This felt like progress. Real progress! Like someone might actually take them seriously.

She turned that smile on Alastor. All gratitude, no sarcasm for once. “Thank you. Really.”

He grinned. Sharp and pleased. Reached casually across the table and snatched a fry from her basket. “You’re welcome.”

—

The elevator doors glinted gold, their surfaces reflecting both excitement and dread.

Charlie stood inside, hands smoothing down the front of her blazer for the fifth time. Her stomach fluttered like it was full of bees. Tidy ones. With clipboards. “What if I screw this up?” she asked softly.

Alastor chuckled and drew her close with an arm around her shoulders. “Now, now, my dear. We’ve done the legwork. We have the names, the figures, the charming smiles. Well, one of us has the charming smile.”

Charlie laughed despite herself, leaning into the warmth of the gesture.

“This is what we prepared for.” His voice lilted with performative cheer, all sweeping cadence and gestures. “And now that we’re here, there’s no use gnawing your nails over it. So! Put on that grin, lift that chin, And remember: nothing to it but to do it!” He clapped her on the back once. His smile was steady. Reassuring.

Charlie drew in a slow breath. “Okay. Yeah. Nothing to it.”

The elevator dinged.

They stepped out together.

—

The room was lavish but cold, with sleek stone walls accented by infernal iconography, all sharp edges and flickering shadows. Behind a long obsidian desk sat a well-dressed demon with the unimpressible air of someone whose last spark of humanity had been ground out by corporate drudgery long before he ever reached Hell. His eyes burned like lit coals behind rimless glasses as he watched them enter. 

Charlie and Alastor moved in perfect step, the picture of composed confidence. They looked like professionals. Like partners. 

“Mr. Asbesto,” Alastor greeted with a bright, easy grin. “Thank you for making the time.”

Asbesto gave a shallow nod. “Alastor. And you must be Princess Charlie.”

Charlie extended a hand, and though the older demon didn’t rise, he did shake it with polite disinterest.

“A pleasure,” she said. “Thank you for seeing us.”

He gestured to the seats across from him. “Let’s hear it.”

Charlie launched into her pitch, her voice clear and her smile bright. She laid out the hotel’s mission, the potential for collaboration, the public relations value, and the strategic benefits. Her words danced off the tongue, practiced but sincere.

Asbesto listened, nodded occasionally, head tilted in quiet scrutiny.

“You’ve clearly put effort into this,” he said at last. “I appreciate the presentation. The figures check out. But tell me. How exactly do you intend to… rehabilitate your guests? What does that process look like, step by step?”

Charlie froze.

Her smile faltered. Just a flicker. But it was enough to disrupt her momentum, “I- well, the hotel provides a safe space. Opportunities for reflection. And community. A chance to develop empathy and- uh- purpose…”

Her words stumbled. Not because they weren’t true, but because she didn’t have a system. There was no clear mechanism. No structure. Just a vision.

Asbesto’s expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed was loud.

Charlie glanced toward Alastor instinctively. He gave her a slight nod, but didn’t speak. This was her meeting. 

She took a fortifying breath. “We’re… still refining the framework. But the heart of it is helping people want to change. That’s the first step, isn’t it?”

“In theory.” Asbesto replied smoothly,  “But Hell isn’t kind to vague ideals, Miss Morningstar.”

Charlie sat straighter, heart pounding.

He set his pen down with a soft click that echoed with finality, “Still. I admire the ambition, and I’ll consider your offer. If you’re willing to follow up with something concrete.”

He stood and offered his hand.

Charlie rose to shake it, just barely hiding the tremor in her fingers.

—

Sunlight filtered through the red awning, casting warm, bloody hues across the linen-draped tables. The café overlooked the smog-drenched skyline of the city’s up-town quarter. Somewhere far below, the noise of Hell carried on. But up here, it was almost peaceful.

Charlie sat at a wrought-iron table, a tall glass of something fizzy in front of her, leaving little condensation circles on the fabric. 

Across from her, Alastor reclined with unnatural ease, scanning the drink menu. “They have absinthe in six flavours. Abominable. And yet I admire the commitment.”

Charlie didn’t answer. She was staring at the menu but not reading it. One leg bounced restlessly under the table.

“You’re chewing your lip,” he observed, “That’s never a good sign.”

With a sigh, Charlie slumped in her seat. 

Shoulders hunched, she started sliding her glass around idly. Wet condensation trailed behind it on the tablecloth. “I know I should feel good about parts of it, but all I can think about is how badly I blanked.”

He reached for his glass and took a long sip before replying, voice calm and firm. “That wasn’t a blank, as you say. It was a minor roadblock. You navigated it, recovered, and left the door open. That’s diplomacy, darling. It wasn’t a failure.”

Charlie didn’t look convinced but smiled anyway, “Maybe…”

The rest of her thought was lost as a voice called from across the patio, “There you are.”

Charlie turned quickly in her seat. Relief washed across her face as she spotted Vaggie approaching, cutting through the tables with practiced sharpness.

Charlie rose to her feet and rushed into her arms. The hug they shared was real and tight. Charlie’s shoulders unknotted a little, and she didn’t hide it.

Vaggie’s voice was soft in her ear, “Didn’t go so well, huh?”

Over her shoulder, Alastor’s smile thinned slightly. His eyes, flat and unblinking, lingered on the embrace. He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Charlie let go and motioned toward the empty chair. “Come sit. I… I’m just so glad you’re here.”

They all sat. Vaggie took the spot beside Charlie. Alastor sipped idly at his drink, his gaze flicking between them.

Charlie immediately launched into a description of the meeting. She described the building, the office, the fancy monogrammed pens. Even Asbesto himself, as she went over the entire meeting in minute detail. 

“It was a total disaster,” she said at last, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Everything was going great until he asked how we plan to actually rehabilitate people. And I just… I didn’t have an answer. I sounded like a complete idiot.”

Alastor made a vaguely dissenting noise and tipped his glass to Charlie, “You sounded idealistic. Which, in fact, is the brand. And you answered with sincerity, which I assure you did not go unnoticed. You delivered the pitch perfectly, fielded his questions with grace, and you even had that charming little graphic I helped with. You remember that, don’t you?”

Charlie blinked. Her brow furrowed, but she slowly nodded. “...Yeah. I guess that part went okay.”

“More than okay.” He leaned back, folding one leg over the other, the picture of smug satisfaction, but his eyes hadn’t left Vaggie.

Who puts her hand over Charlie’s, waiting until she’d gotten full eye contact to offer a soft smile. “Sounds to me like you did very well. And hey, he said to send over a revised proposal once it’s ready, right?”

“Yeah, he did.” Charlie replied.

“That’s a big deal, Charlie.” Vaggie squeezed the hand with her own, “That means he’s still interested. All you have to do now is tighten up the plan. You’re already halfway there.”

Charlie flushed just a little, that familiar hopeful spark reigniting in her eyes. She nodded, and her shoulders straightened just a touch. “You’re right. Yeah. Okay. Okay, we just… we fix this. We make it solid. And then we send it back.”

“That’s the spirit.” Alastor smiled again, this time wide and wolfish. And though his voice was pleasant, something underneath it pulled tight.

It had only been a day since the meeting, and the parlor looked like it had lost a battle with a stationery storm.

Charlie and Alastor sat opposite each other at a tiny coffee table that had clearly not been designed for the level of paperwork they were handling. Loose sheets, highlighters, notecards, and half-drunk mugs cluttered every inch of space. The couch cushions were squashed and sagging from their long-term occupation. A pencil rolled slowly to the floor with the finality of a soldier falling in battle.

“I’m just saying,” Charlie said, voice tight with the kind of stubbornness that comes from arguing too long without food or sleep. “Changing their clothes isn’t going to fix what’s broken inside.”

“And I’m saying,” Alastor replied with maddening cheer, “that nothing hurts a reprobate’s pride like being made to behave in polite company. Appearances aren’t a solution, but they are a starting point.”

Charlie gave him a look. “So if the outside reflects the inside, how come you don’t look like a slobbering, feral animal?”

Alastor blinked. And then let out a startled, genuine laugh that cracked through the tension like a match to dry wood.

“Oh my! Careful, princess, that almost sounded like a compliment. Did you just call me handsome?”

Charlie groaned. “That’s not what I said.”

“Too late!” he sang, absolutely delighted. “The words have left your mouth and entered my heart forever!”

She buried her face in her hands, but her shoulders shook with laughter. “I called you a wild animal.”

“Yes, but a well dressed one!” he said, still beaming. “Now then, tell me what the heart-based version of reform looks like.”

Charlie perked up. “I thought you’d never ask!”

She shoved aside a couple of folders and dragged a massive binder toward the center of the table. Inside were colour-coded dividers, highlighted scribbles, and hastily drawn diagrams of hearts, devils, and what appeared to be a motivational slug.

Alastor leaned in, curious despite himself.

“So,” Charlie said, flipping through the pages, “first we start with individual therapy. Weekly one-on-one sessions to talk through trauma and guilt and stuff. Then we pair that with group activities. Cooking nights, art classes, storytelling.”

She flipped to another page labelled Vice Education with three underlines and an exclamation mark. “This is the real game-changer. They need to understand why they do what they do. What their vice really means. We’ll have lectures and discussions about temptation and morality, but in, like… fun ways! With snacks!”

She rummaged around and finally pulled out a massive sheet plastered with sticky notes of all sizes and colours. “Behold! The Redemption Charter!”

It looked like a crime scene investigation board married a kindergarten art project.

Charlie held it up with pride. “It’s a list of things we think are acceptable and things that aren’t. We’ll go over it with the guests and then check in every week to see how their behaviour aligns. Like we did with the pitch list!”

In her enthusiasm, she gestured too hard and knocked an entire stack of loose papers off the arm of the couch.

They exploded across the room with the dramatic flair of paper possessed.

“Ughhh. Of course.” She dropped to her knees, scrambling to gather them.

Alastor watched the chaos unfold, chin in hand, wearing the amused expression of a man watching a very polite house fire.

“You could help, you know,” she muttered, shoving a rebellious flyer back into a folder.

“I thought it was part of the presentation,” he said, deadpan despite his obvious delight.

Charlie rolled her eyes and dumped the messy, out-of-order stack onto the table with a huff. “It’ll take me forever to sort this.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then Alastor reached out and tapped the top of the pile with one gloved fingertip.

The papers shivered, lifted, and reshuffled themselves in a neat, perfectly aligned stack. Sorted by department, topic, and feasibility. Even a few askew sticky notes straightened with quiet dignity.

Charlie stared. “…Oh.”

He tilted his head, smiling. “You’re welcome.”

She let out a breath and flopped back into her seat. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem at all.”

They sat there in a rare pocket of calm, the table suddenly looking less like an avalanche zone.

Charlie glanced around the cramped, cluttered parlour, then at the tidy pile now occupying most of their shared workspace.

“You know…” she said thoughtfully, “we should probably get you a real office.”

Alastor arched a brow. “Oh?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Like with a desk. And drawers. Maybe a door that closes.”

He leaned back slightly, intrigued. “I do like doors. They tend to be very permanent. Very long term. Past their trial period, one might say.”

Charlie grinned. “We’ll make it happen. You’ve kinda earned it.”

He considered that. And for a moment, something like genuine appreciation flickered behind his eyes.

“Then I look forward to seeing what kind of chaos you decorate it with,” he said, and tapped the Redemption Charter for emphasis.

Charlie smirked. “Only the best kind.”

—

The door creaked open with theatrical protest.

Charlie stepped inside, arms flung wide with an overly triumphant flourish. “Ta-da! Your new office!”

Alastor lingered in the hallway a moment longer, peering past her shoulder. His eyes swept the interior.

The room was… certainly a room. Dust hung in the air like glitter from Hell’s saddest parade. There was a lamentable little desk with one leg shorter than the others, and a filing cabinet that looked like it had survived a war. And the centrepiece of the whole affair was a rickety old dining chair with a sunken cushion and cracked veneer.

Alastor stepped over the threshold like he was entering a crime scene.

“My, my,” he drawled. “The luxury is palpable.”

Charlie grinned. “Oh, come on. It’s nearly twice as big as mine.”

“Mm. And it comes with artisanal air pollution,” he said, fanning the dust motes with his hand. “What did I do to deserve such bounty?”

“Oh, don’t act so spoiled. You have a chair.”

They both looked at it. The chair creaked preemptively under the weight of their gaze.

“Is it haunted?” Alastor asked. “It looks haunted.”

Charlie shrugged. “If it is, maybe the ghost will help with filing.”

He laughed. A quick, unguarded sound that warmed the room more than any radiator could have. She looked pleased with herself.

“Well,” she said, brushing dust from her skirt. “I’ve got shopping to do with Vaggie. Aaaand I figured since it’s your space you could decorate it how you like.”

“Redecorating,” Alastor mused, already circling the desk with a calculating eye. “It’s been a while since I’ve done any of that. I suppose I’m due.”

She beamed. “Have fun!”

He tipped an invisible hat as she backed out of the room. The door shut with a groan, leaving Alastor alone in his new domain.

He eyed the chair again. It creaked in warning.

He smiled.

“This is going to be fun.”

—

The streets buzzed with activity. Neon signage clashed with brimstone-colored sky. Smoke curled from exhaust vents, and the occasional demonic pigeon cooed ominously.

Charlie and Vaggie meandered from shop to shop, arms full of bags. Paint, light bulbs, and various office supplies stuffed into overtaxed tote bags.

“Okay,” Charlie said, nudging a bright orange binder up her arm. “We’ve got the stationery, the mop heads, the shelf brackets, and that really weird sink you wanted for the lobby bathroom.”

“I’m telling you, the eyes glow,” Vaggie said with a grin. “Totally worth the cursed surcharge.”

Charlie laughed, warm and relaxed. Her eyes caught on a storefront window just ahead, and she veered slightly, stepping closer. Inside, mannequins wore accessories dripping in frills and glitter.

“Ooh look!” she said, tapping the glass. “That would look so cute on you.”

Vaggie followed her gaze. It was a simple, pale pink bow. Soft and charming, a little rounder than the one she wore now. A little more textured.

Vaggie raised a brow, amused. “You trying to dress me up now?”

“I think it’d look adorable,” Charlie said with a giggle. “And terrifying. It’s one of the things I love about you! Like, deceptively sweet until bam! Total destruction.”

Vaggie huffed a laugh. “I think you’re the only one that thinks I’m ‘sweet’ baby.”

They moved on, Charlie swinging a bag like a purse.

“I was thinking,” she said after a beat. “For the redemption charter, I want to create some kind of reward system. Something to motivate the guests week to week.”

“Like gold stars?” Vaggie asked, smirking.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “More like, I don’t know, extra privileges. First pick at dessert. An hour without Angel’s commentary.”

“Now that’s motivational.”

Charlie snorted. “Alastor actually helped me organize the tracking structure. He sorted all my files. It was really…kind of great, honestly.”

Vaggie’s head tilted slightly. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him lately.”

The words were gentle. Observational. Not accusatory.

Still, Charlie’s shoulders tensed just slightly.

“Well, yeah,” she said, voice a little too fast. “He’s helping. We’re business partners now. And he’s really invested in the hotel functioning like a proper operation, so it makes sense we’d be working together a lot.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t,” Vaggie said calmly.

Charlie winced. “Sorry. I just. He’s actually being really helpful. And I guess I’m not used to someone being helpful. Not like this.”

Vaggie nodded. Her tone softened. “I get it. I do. I just… miss you. We haven’t really hung out, just the two of us, in a while. You’ve been running around solving the world.”

Charlie slowed, expression tugging toward guilty. “I miss you too.”

“Then take a break once in a while,” Vaggie said, nudging her with a shoulder. “The hotel’s not going anywhere. And now that you have a second workaholic on hand, you don’t need to fix everything by yourself.”

Charlie exhaled and gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah, okay.”

They stopped outside a tiny café, the kind that sold overpriced soul cakes and spicy cocoa. Vaggie tilted her head toward the door.

“Five-minute cake detour?”

Charlie’s smile brightened. “Make it ten.”

They ducked inside.

Much later that night, Charlie jolted awake in a cold sweat, her chest heaving like she had surfaced from deep water. Her skin felt clammy against the sheets, her hair plastered to her temples. She rolled over, fumbling blindly for the pen on the nightstand. In her haste, her elbow caught a shopping bag and a water bottle; they tumbled with a dull series of clunks to the floor.

By the time the pen finally pressed to paper, the frantic scraps of thought she had clung to in her sleep were gone. Her mind was a hollow silence, infuriatingly blank.

“... y’ok?” Vaggie’s voice floated up from beneath the mound of blankets Charlie had thrown off in her scramble. She hadn’t moved, her words thick with sleep, curling warm and muffled through the stillness of the room.

Charlie let out a long, frustrated breath. “Yeah.”

Vaggie’s voice slurred again. “’ Member anything?”

Charlie shook her head, though she knew Vaggie couldn’t see it in the dark. “No, not this time. It’s alright, babe. Just go back to sleep. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

That finally coaxed Vaggie’s head out of the cocoon of blankets, her hair mussed, her eyes heavy and soft as she blinked at Charlie. “Wan’ company?”

The sight pulled a tired but genuine smile from Charlie. “You just sleep, hun. I’ll be back soon.”

Vaggie made a small, reluctant sound before sinking back down into the nest of pillows. “...kay.”

—

The halls were dark. Just the dim amber glow of sconces lighting the walls.

Charlie moved through the main corridor, a hoodie half zipped over her nightshirt, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looked like someone who tried to go to bed and gave up halfway through. 

Then static. Barely perceptible. The prickle of radio feedback in her ear, under her skin.

Not sound exactly. More like a feeling.

She followed it. Sensing out the tiny but steady climb in magnitude as she searched.

She found Alastor in the lounge, back turned, humming soft music under his breath.

She paused.

“You really shouldn’t wander alone,” he said, not turning. His tone wasn’t quite chiding.

“Is this where you warn me about monsters and bad guys lurking in the shadows?” she asked, tired humor in her voice.

“I assure you, I will only allow one monster to roam these halls at night. And all the shadows are mine.”

Charlie scoffed but smiled nonetheless. “So dramatic.”

He glanced at her then, A brief flicker of amusement.  “I aim to please.”

He gave her a once-over, unhurried and unapologetic.

“Well,” he murmured, “aren’t you cozy.” He brushed past her, a hand briefly placed at her waist. And that-

She sucked in a breath.

Something bloomed behind her ribs. A wave of warmth. Of homesickness.

So fast it was gone again. Her heart stuttered, confused.

He didn’t react. Or maybe he did, just subtly: the tiniest hitch in his stride.

“So… what chases you out of bed tonight, Princess?”

He began down the hall, unhurried. She fell into step beside him.

Charlie hesitated. 

“I just couldn’t sleep.” She brushed it off with a shrug, looking down at her sock feet padding beside his perfectly shined shoes. But inside, cogs started turning.

This is perfect, she thought.

The Radio Demon doesn’t bond easily. He’s strange and grand and keeps people at arm’s length. If not with cruelty, then with style. With performance.

But vulnerability invites vulnerability. Demon Psych 101.

So she stopped.

Turned to face him in the middle of the hallway. His head tilted. That birdlike gesture again.

“Actually… It was a dream. Kind of.” She ducked her gaze. As if staring at his chest instead of his eyes would let her escape her own awkwardness. “Not really a nightmare, but… it left me weird.”

“Go on.” His voice was gentle, but not soft. Something in it waited.

“Sometimes I dream about things that don’t make sense,” she said, hugging her elbows. “A room. A smell. Music I’ve never heard before, but I know every word. It’s like there’s this big empty place in me where something used to be.”

She gave a huff of laughter. Utterly devoid of humor.

“And it’s not the whole Hell torment thing. It’s me. Something about me is missing.”

Alastor’s smile flickered, just for a second.

She didn’t notice.

“And it’s dumb, but sometimes I get...sad over stuff I shouldn’t care about. Like when people call me Charlotte. I hate it. But I don’t know why. It feels like a yawning pit opening in my chest where something used to live. But now it’s just a dark sinkhole that will take the rest of me with it if I let it.”

“You don’t need a reason to hate something. Not here.” His voice interrupted her before she could spiral. Gently. Not unkind. Measured. Careful.

Charlie hesitated. Then shook her head.

“I think it’s more than that. I think there’s a whole other me, buried under the one I am now. And some part of me remembers. Even if my brain doesn’t.”

He didn’t speak.

For a moment, she wondered if she’d said too much.

Then he reached out and took her hand.

The moment their skin touched, a pulse surged through her. Soft. Hot. Familiar. Like slipping into a room where a song was already playing. One she couldn’t name, but knew every note of.

“Dreams are tricky things,” he said. “They lie. They tell the truth. Sometimes both.”

Then, more softly, so soft she had to hold her breath to hear it:

“I think the holes we carry in ourselves are often shaped like things we couldn’t bear to lose. Even if we don’t know what they are.”

Charlie looked up.

He was watching her.

And for once, not with a grin.

Not with a smirk.

Just… watching. Expression open. The curve of his smile was vulnerable in a way that didn’t feel accidental.

Then it was gone. His usual mask sliding back into place like a velvet curtain on a stage.

Charlie didn’t know what to say.

She stared a second longer than she meant to.

She looked down, flustered. “That was probably a lot to dump on you.”

Alastor chuckled. Low. Warm. “Oh, darling,” he said, just a touch too fond, “I’ve always liked hearing what’s on your mind. Even when it’s half formed and leaking out sideways.”

Always.

Her stomach fluttered at the word.

He leaned in. Not too close. But closer than he should be.

Close enough for her to feel the buzz of his ambient static.

His smile had changed again. Smaller. Quieter.

Curved at the corners with something almost reverent.

“Some holes,” he murmured, “aren’t meant to be filled with answers. Just… people. The ones who fit.”

Charlie’s breath caught.

Silence swelled between them. Full of things she didn’t have language for.

Then, mercifully, he laughed. Light. Deflecting. A performative glint snapped back into his grin.

“Forgive me,” he said, gesturing playfully to himself. “I do get terribly sentimental at night. Must be something in the air.”

“You’re creepy, y’know that?” Charlie muttered, too aware of her own heartbeat.

He shrugged, “I’ve heard worse.”

They kept walking. 

His steps fell into line with hers. Too close. Too careful. Like he was listening to her footsteps and adjusting to match them.

Charlie noticed but wrote it off. He’s strange. He always has been.

She was going to have to handle all kinds of strange, running this hotel.

They reached the edge of the hallway. She paused. So did he.

She looked up. “Thanks for keeping watch.”

“Always.” His voice low. The glint back in his eyes. “I’m never far, darling.”

She smiled. Just a little. She thought it was sweet.

She turned to head back to Vaggie’s room.

And Alastor didn’t move. He watched her go. His smile grew.

Even as his eyes narrowed.

Chapter Text

The lounge was quiet. Morning in Hell was strange and sluggish. There was less of a sunrise and more of a dull shift in the tint of the air, like the world had been dyed a murky pink. 

The parlour smelled faintly of coffee and burnt toast. Someone had left the gramophone spinning a scratchy tune that warbled faintly. 

The hotel was hardly populated with morning people. Which left Charlie blissfully unbothered to enjoy a moment of peace curled in one of the armchairs, legs tucked up under her nightshirt, a mug balanced between her palms. She stared at the steam until it lost its shape.

Vaggie slid into view, hair pinned half up and ruffled from lack of sleep. She looked at Charlie first, then at the untouched coffee, then back again. “You’re up early.”

Charlie tried for brightness. “Couldn’t really go back to sleep. Figured I’d… get a head start on the day.”

“Uh-huh.” Vaggie perched on the arm of the chair opposite. “Head start on what? You’ve been sitting here since I came down.”

Charlie winced, caught. “Okay, fine, head start on existing.” She forced a laugh.

Vaggie didn’t laugh back. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes steady. “You were gone quite a while last night. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Charlie’s chest went tight. She looked down at her mug, willing the coffee to rise up and swallow her whole. “Was I?”

“Yeah.” Vaggie’s voice softened. “Charlie, I know I can’t do much for you.” A look flickered across her face. The faintest trace of bitterness.”But maybe it’s time to start looking for someone who can?”

Charlie shook her head quickly. “No point.” She hesitated, then reached up to guide Vaggie gently into her lap. “Both Mom and Dad have done their best. If there was a way to fix it, I’m sure they’d have to know it.”

Vaggie leaned into Charlie’s shoulder with a sigh. “I hate this,” she whispered.

“I know,” Charlie murmured, sliding an arm around her. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

The gramophone needle caught, repeating the same three notes over and over.

Vaggie let out another sigh, and Charlie held her a little tighter. For now, they just held on to each other, enjoying the hush of the parlour while the quiet lasted.

—

Charlie’s personal office was cluttered in the endearing way of someone who had never, in her entire life, worked on only one project at a time. Notebooks splayed half-open, a leaning tower of hopeful brochures threatened collapse, and a mug of tea sat abandoned long enough to grow cold and bitter.

Her pen tapped against the edge of her clipboard. Her foot bounced beneath the desk like a metronome gone rogue. The occupancy report in her lap wasn’t adding up. Probably because she’d read the same paragraph five times without absorbing a single word.

Her mind was somewhere else. She hadn’t dreamed last night, not after crawling into Vaggie’s bed far too late and feeling weirdly vulnerable. Still, she’d woken up thinking about the dreams anyway, and the hollow feeling that followed them. 

She knew she should’ve let herself be coaxed into taking a day off when Vaggie approached her. One day, just for the two of them. It’s not that Charlie didn’t want to go. She just had to finish a few things.

That had been hours ago.

Now, the sun was long gone, and her desk was buried in paperwork that felt no thinner than it had at dawn. Still, she told herself the same lie she always did: just one more task, one more report, one more spreadsheet, survey, or budget line, and then she could stop.

But she never did stop.

Charlie stared out her window for a few long moments. Vaggie. Maybe she should go find Vaggie. She had promised to take breaks after all. But these reports really did need to get done. She couldn’t schedule a second meeting with Asbesto without it. And without Asbesto’s support, the Hotel would still rely entirely on Alastor and herself.

Logically, finishing these reports sooner would get the Hotel the support it needs, and then she’d have more time to spend with vaggie. Win-win-win, right?

With a sigh, she reached for the little vintage radio perched on her shelf between a cracked snow globe and a plushie shaped like a burning building.

The machine was old, maybe older than she was. The dial turned with a satisfying click. Static. Then: a mellow wash of low jazz. Warm trumpet. A smooth, measured piano. And then,

A voice.

Rich, theatrical, playful. Sliding across the music like silk over gravel.

“-and now, sweet sinners, a tune for the witching hour. Close your eyes. Or don’t. Some things are better seen coming.”

Maybe she should’ve turned it off. Should’ve changed the station. But instead, her pen stilled. Her breath evened out. The tightness in her shoulders, which had gone unnoticed until now, eased.

It wasn’t weird.

It wasn’t.

She liked the music. That was normal. Totally normal. Lots of people did. And the voice? Incidental. Background noise. A minor annoyance, really. She barely even heard it anymore. She didn’t listen-listen. Not like a fan. Certainly not enough to recognize which episodes were live. Or which stories were reruns. Or that one weird lullaby he sometimes played at the end of the broadcast-

“Interesting choice of station.”

Her heart launched into her throat.

She spun in her chair so fast it squeaked.

There he was, leaning in the doorway like he’d been invited, grin carved too wide and far too pleased.

Alastor.

She scrambled to slam the dial, sending the music into static.

“Don’t you knock?” she yelped.

“I did,” he said brightly, stepping into the room. “You were simply too enraptured to notice. I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

Charlie folded her arms over the clipboard like it could shield her soul.

“Interrupting what?” she squeaks out.

He strolled in, glancing around the office like he hadn’t been in a dozen times before. The air smelled faintly of paper and whatever cursed candle Angel had dared her to try last week.

“Hmmm,” Alastor mused, tracing a gloved finger across the radio’s dial, clearly worn in a single position. “The frequency is... precise. Curious coincidence.”

“I like big band music! And jazz. And- and- Lots of people like jazz music.”

“You are correct!” he crowed. “So many, in fact, that there are several other stations to choose from playing much the same selection.”

She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not weird.”

He beamed. “Oh no, not at all! Perfectly ordinary to listen to my voice daily. Alone. Behind closed doors.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Say it like what, dearest?”

“Like it’s creepy!”

“Your words, not mine,” he sang.

She groaned and rubbed her forehead. “It’s not a fan thing. It’s just background noise, okay? I just… like the music. It’s nostalgic. And maybe your voice isn’t the worst when I’m stressed.”

“Oh, I see. Soothing, am I?” He leans casually against her desk, still grinning ear to ear. His radio hums softly in sync with the one behind her.

Charlie’s voice was tiny, “...sometimes.” She glared at the wall.

“Though I do wonder,” He says, “if my dulcet tones bring you such comfort, why haven’t you ever mentioned it?”

She turned her scowl on him, stabbing a finger in his direction, “Because I knew you’d act like this.”

“Like what?”

“All smug and,” she circled her finger at him aggressively, “this! This exact smug face!”

“This face?” He asks, faux innocent grin sitting crooked and too bright.

“Exactly that face!”

He laughs again, and it’s lighter than usual. Less sharp, less haunted. A real laugh. He picks up a pen shaped like a flamingo from her desk and twirls it.

“You know…” He begins in a conspiratorial tone, “Most of my fans try to write in, mail gifts. The unhinged ones even try to get ahold of my belongings. Never had anyone up and move in with me, though. Quite the opposite of the usual parasocial affair.”

“I- You- You moved in with me!”

“Ah, but you admit you are a fan?” He tilted his head. Something flickered in his eyes.

“Well,” he said, almost gently. “I’m flattered.”

And. He meant it. She could tell. It wasn’t like his usual flattery, which usually had knives folded into it. This was... lighter. Honest. And it made her stomach twist in a weird, warm, awkward way.

Of course, he immediately ruined it.

“I’ll send you a signed photograph.”

Charlie pelted a pen at his head. “Out.”

“I could record a bedtime story!”

The entire pen cup followed. 

Alastor dodged easily and cackled as he retreated, hands raised in mock surrender. Static clung to the doorframe as he vanished.

The office was quiet again.

Charlie turned back to her desk.

The radio, still faintly humming, crackled back to life.

“-and to our mysterious listener in the tower office: sleep well, darling. I’m always on dial.”

Her face went red.

She snapped the radio off.

...Paused.

Turned it back on.

Just a little quieter.

It was sometime past midnight when the quiet hum of the Hotel turned jagged.

Glass shattered.

Charlie sat upright in bed, heart pounding, unsure if she’d dreamed the sound. But then Vaggie was up beside her, already climbing out of the bed. She reached for her phone. No signal. A whisper of static.

Then. The laughter.

Not cheerful. Not warm. The kind of laughter that slithered down the hallway like oil. Crept in from all angles. Settled in your bones.

—

Two figures crept through the lower floors, shadows stretched and crooked. One held a crowbar. The other a twisted blade.

“I’m telling you, man, this place is a bluff. That whole redemption crap? It’s bait.”

“I dunno… doesn’t blondie running this place have some serious backing?”

“Well, duh. Of course she does, she’s the princess. Don’t matter though. She’s got no bite.”

They crept out of a side hall, peering around the open lobby before heading toward the front desk. 

The lights flickered once. Twice.

Then they died.

Everything went quiet, like the sound had been sucked out of the room. 

The intruders froze. Their breath steamed visibly as the temperature dropped like a stone.

“I don’t like this…” one started.

He never finished the sentence.

The air split open with green light and static. Unnaturally tall shadows rose up, curling around the walls. They snapped out, snaring the men in layer after layer of tendrils.

A voice crackled through the silence, not from any single direction, but everywhere at once.

“Oh-ho-ho, what’s this? Uninvited guests?”

The first intruder tried to run.

He didn’t make it a step.

The next sound was a scream.

It was short.

Then came the music. Scratchy, old-timey radio jazz filled the halls, skipping like a warped record. A crimson glow seeped from nowhere and everywhere. And when the lights returned, Alastor stood at the center of it all, smile wide, coat pristine.

One man sobbed against the wall, broken and bloodied but intact. The other shook so hard he couldn’t stand.

Alastor turned to the one still conscious and leaned in close, nose to nose. He grasped the man’s blade between his thumb and forefinger and plucked it like a child’s toy from his limp grasp.

“Oh, no, no, my dear fellow,” Alastor purred, voice velvet-smooth but jagged beneath the surface. “That’s not how we behave in our establishment. You see, when you brandish something sharp in the lady’s house, why, that’s a personal offence.”

He smiled wider, teeth gleaming too sharply in the dark.

“And I take personal offences… very seriously.”

He raised the knife casually, letting the tip drag lightly across the man’s cheek. Not cutting, not yet. Just threatening. His other hand twitched, fingers flexing, and the shadows around the man coiled tighter.

The intruder whimpered.

“Alastor.”

Charlie’s voice cut clean through the tension, sudden and firm.

He didn’t turn. But the shadows hesitated.

She was already halfway down the stairs, barefoot in her hoodie and nightshirt, eyes sharp despite the hour.

“That’s enough.”

He tilted his head, slowly. “They broke in. They threatened you.” His tone was light, lilting. But there was something underneath. Something that trembled against the edge of restraint.

“I know,” Charlie said, softer now, coming to a stop a few feet from him. “But they’re not worth killing.”

Alastor chuckled. “Everything down here is worth killing. That’s the fun of it.”

Charlie moved closer, almost within arm’s reach now, meeting his eyes.

“I said it’s enough.” Charlie was surprised at the steadiness in her own voice. No anger, no desperation, just something firm, planted, like a pillar in the storm.

For the first time, Alastor’s smile wavered. Only slightly, a flicker, but she saw it. The knife didn’t lower.

“You’ve already proved your point, Al.” Her throat felt tight, but she kept her tone coaxing. She raised a hand toward his arm, hesitated, and stopped just short of touching him. “Let them go.”

The air pressed heavily around her, every second stretching thin. For a moment, she thought he might ignore her.

Then the knife was gone, vanished as if it had never existed. Alastor’s shadows peeled back from the walls with a static hiss, curling away into silence. The radio hum cut out. The remaining intruder collapsed, trembling too hard to flee.

Charlie exhaled in relief, only then realizing how tightly she’d been holding her breath.

Alastor stepped back, his arm settling neatly into the open invitation of her hand. He flicked an imaginary speck from his lapel. “As you wish, my dear.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

His pleasant smile swung back to her, but she could see it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You make it so difficult to stay in character,” he mused. “One moment, I’m a terrifying figure of legend, and the next…” His gaze lingered on her, rumpled from sleep, barefoot, fragile by every outward measure. He leaned close enough for her to feel the ghost of his words against her ear. “… I’m at your mercy. How scandalous.”

She gave him a look. “Not funny.”

That earned her a grin at full force, sharp enough to slice. He turned away with a too-casual shrug. “Well, I suppose we’ll call this your win for the night. But only because you asked so nicely.”

Charlie turned back to the intruders, her pulse still hammering but her voice steady. “Get out. And don’t come back.”

They didn’t need to be told twice, stumbling, limping, desperate. 

The door slammed behind them.

When she looked back, Alastor watched her from a few feet away with an unreadable expression. She knew she still looked tired. Knew her toes were curling against the cold marble. But the echo of authority lingered in her chest like warmth, like fire that hadn’t burned out.

“You’re going to be trouble,” she heard him say.

Charlie lifted her chin and met his eyes. “So are you.”

His grin spread, slow and deliberate. “Delightful.”

At the top of the stairs, she caught sight of Vaggie, watching with her arms folded and mouth pinched tight.

Charlie should have stopped there. Should have gone upstairs, let Vaggie tuck her into bed, and let the night fade into nothing more than a bad memory. But sleep never came easily after moments like that. Not when her thoughts still buzzed with questions, with the need to do something.

So when dawn broke, she was already back at her desk.

If she worked fast enough, maybe her brain wouldn’t circle back to Alastor’s grin when she told him to stand down. To the blood staining the lobby floor. To the way her heart had kicked against her ribs when she thought, for one terrifying second, that he might refuse her.

Numbers were easier than that. Checklists were safe.

The hours blurred. She skipped breakfast without realizing it, swept up in the rhythm of lists and tasks. First came the morning workshop, where she guided the Hotel’s two residents through another round of “practical empathy.” They groaned and fidgeted, but she pressed on with determined cheer, sketching diagrams across the chalkboard and coaxing reluctant answers until at least one of them cracked a smile. She didn’t give her mind a single chance to wander.

Then came the first official Redemption Charter meeting. She’d been looking forward to it for weeks, and now it felt almost desperate, like if she could just make this meeting run smoothly, it would erase everything ugly from last night. The binder was heavy in her hands, dog-eared from late revisions she barely remembered making. Staff and residents clustered around the table. Pentious did the best of the group. He announced his progress with theatrical flair, and she clapped the loudest, even as the others rolled their eyes. For a moment, pride steadied her. This. This was what the Hotel was supposed to be.

The day wound on like that. Task after task. One more box to tick, one more dispute to de-escalate, one more problem to solve.  But time and again her thoughts drifted. To shadows curling against marble. To Vaggie’s pinched expression at the top of the stairs. Each time she told herself she’d stop after this. Just one more thing. Just one more.

By midday, she could feel Vaggie’s eyes on her, following her through the halls. Every time she caught a glimpse of her girlfriend, arms crossed and brows drawn, Charlie ducked into another errand. There was always something else. Always one more distraction to hide behind. Any excuse not to think.

The guilt nipped at her heels, but she didn’t slow. She couldn’t.

It wasn’t until Vaggie physically cornered her in the office, hands on her hips, that Charlie finally faltered.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Vaggie demanded, cutting through the scattered papers and cluttered notebooks like she owned the space.

Charlie startled, looking down at the half-created chart in front of her. “I…uh. Lunch?”

“You mean the lunch you ignored?” Vaggie snatched up the plate she’d set down hours earlier and thrust it toward her. “Eat.”

Charlie sighed, guilt curling in her chest, but picked up the fork anyway.

“Charlie, this isn’t sustainable.” Vaggie hovered beside the desk, her voice rising with every word. “You can’t keep running yourself into the ground. You’re dodging me all day, you’re not sleeping, and you’re sure as Satan not eating. You can’t keep this up.”

Still, when the plate was empty, her eyes drifted back to the stack of unfinished paperwork.

Charlie swallowed hard, the food like sand in her mouth. She smiled, aiming for reassuring but coming out more guilty and fragile. “It’s okay. I feel totally fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Vaggie snapped, then exhaled hard, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What’s the point of having that red freak haunting the place if you’re still working yourself to the bone?”

Charlie looked down at the plate, chewing in silence. She didn’t have a good answer. Still, when the food was gone, her eyes slid back to the stack of unfinished papers. It was easier than meeting Vaggie’s gaze.

Vaggie followed the glance, her lips pressing into a thin line.  She opened her mouth, then hesitated, biting back whatever sharper thought wanted out. When she finally spoke again, her voice had shifted. Sharper. Pointed.

“This isn’t just about work, is it?” Arms crossed tight. “You always jump to defend him. Did he do something to you? Anything weird?”

Charlie jerked her head up, startled. “What? No! No, of course not.”

“Dios mio.” Vaggie dragged her hands down her face, “Yeah. See? Just like that.”

Charlie poked at the remains of her lunch, tone deliberately unimpressed. “You’re making it sound dramatic.”

“That fucker’s always hanging around you. With that smarmy smile, standing too close, putting hands where they don’t belong. Flirting.” The last word landed sharply, frustration spilling over.

Charlie set her fork down with a clatter. “Don’t make it weird. Alastor’s not …like that. He’s not, y’know, interested in people. Like that.”

Vaggie’s eyes narrowed. “Not like that? Charlie, he’s always like that around you. Maybe you don’t see it, but I do.”

There was a moment of quiet where Charlie grappled with the words to convey how she felt. She looked to Vaggie, all harsh lines and bristles, knocked the breath out of her. The bottom fell out of her resolve. 

Her tone brightened suddenly, almost sing-song, the shift discordant even to her own ears. “Okay, okay. I hear you. You’re uncomfortable, and that’s totally fair! You don’t have to trust him. He’s definitely got issues.” She pasted on a smile, lifting her hands like she was presenting a solution at a staff meeting. “But maybe you could trust me? Because whatever he’s doing, it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

The words sounded inorganic, rehearsed. The kind of scripted reassurance she gave nervous guests at the Hotel, not her girlfriend sitting across the table. The mask fit too neatly, and the distance it created sat heavy between them. Like hearing all the right words from a mile away.

But Charlie didn’t drop it. Easier to hide behind an optimistic smile than admit that the image still haunted her. Alastor’s grin, the knife dissolving into smoke, the way he leaned in too close when she told him to stop.

Better than admitting Alastor was a gamble. And that he was the one stacking the deck.

After that, Vaggie had given in, dropping into the chair beside her. 

Charlie lit up at the company. This was how it used to be: two of them, side by side, making sense of the chaos together. Slipping into the rhythm of passing papers back and forth, bouncing small ideas, and checking each other’s notes felt so easy. She thrived on it, her pen flying faster, her laughter slipping out in bright little bursts whenever something actually lined up the way it was supposed to.

She noticed the tight set of Vaggie’s jaw, the sighs that slipped when a number didn’t add up, the clipped scratch of her pen. But to Charlie, it was all part of the rhythm. That was just Vaggie being Vaggie: steady, reliable, grounding Charlie’s own scattered energy. 

When Vaggie nudged a plate of food toward her and crossed her arms until Charlie took a bite, she felt a rush of warmth. She laughed softly at the fussing, leaning just a little closer, enjoying the feeling of being taken care of. It was love, she thought. A little clumsy, a little exasperated, but love all the same.

When Vaggie finally snapped the laptop shut and gave her a flat look, Charlie only giggled softly. “Break. No arguments,” Vaggie ordered.

They curled up together on the couch, pressed close. Charlie hummed at the contact, soaking it in. She didn’t feel tired. She loved this: Vaggie at her side, the quiet weight of being together. It filled her chest with sweetness, enough to trick her into thinking everything was perfectly fine.

So when Vaggie eventually excused herself to bed, Charlie lingered only a moment before her eyes drifted back to the unfinished stack of work. Guilt pricked faintly, but she told herself she’d only check one or two reports.

Alone in her office now, the quiet pressed in. The lamplight cast long shadows across the piles of work.

She slid back into her chair.

Hours escaped her, fleeing into the dark.

And then the numbers wouldn’t line up.

The page swam.

Charlie blinked, hard.

The second column was missing an entry. Or maybe she’d miswritten the damage report totals. Or maybe none of this actually mattered because she’d read the same line of figures six times and her brain refused to hold on to a single one.

She wasn’t really thinking about the spreadsheet anyway.

She was thinking about the break-in last night. About the blood that had pooled across the lobby floor. About the way Alastor smiled and stepped aside when she ordered him to.

Had he let her win? Was he going to retaliate for the indignity of being bossed around? Was this a setup, or some kind of long game?

And what about the sinners who ran? Were they okay?

She’d even poked around the net a little, half-heartedly, while handling the Hotel’s daily socials. Just to check. Just to see. No usernames she recognized. No tags. No blurry photos. Nothing.

Charlie groaned and dropped her head to the desk with a dull thud.

Despite the relative quiet in the Hotel, it felt so loud in her brain. Thoughts chasing thoughts.

With a sigh, Charlie pushed the papers into a neat stack and shoved them into a folder. It was no use. She wasn’t going to get anything else done tonight. 

She stepped out of her office, intent on returning to Vaggie’s room. The halls were dark and soft, painted in the purple-magenta hues of the late-late hours. She hesitated. Vaggie was almost certainly asleep by now. And if Charlie stayed in her own room, she’d just keep spiralling.

Somewhere down the corridor, an old light bulb buzzed like it was trying not to be lonely.

Her slippers made almost no sound as she padded through the quiet halls.

No sign of him on patrol.

She hadn’t expected to find anyone.

But she hoped.

As she passed the broadcasting wing, she saw it. A warm, golden glow leaking under the door to his new office.

Charlie hesitated. Then, quietly, she knocked.

“Come in, dear,” came his voice, as if he’d known she was there all along.

She opened the door.

Alastor stood behind a desk, not the one she’d seen the last time she was there. This one was a rich, sturdy mahogany. His coat was slung over a high-backed chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The place was lit with a scattering of glowing green orbs that pulsed faintly like fireflies. He looked at her with the same alertness and poise as always, as if the bizarre hour made no difference to him.

“Well now,” he beamed, flipping closed the book he was working on. “To what do I owe the honour of a midnight visit from my favourite business partner?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Charlie admitted, trying not to sound sheepish. “Thought I’d get some work done, but that flopped. So I went for a walk. Then I saw your light on…”

He gestured grandly. “And like a moth to flame!”

Charlie rolled her eyes, but smiled despite herself. “Something like that.”

“Come. Sit.” He swept toward the small sofa by the fire like a stage host revealing a prize. “There’s tea in the pot. Still warm. Probably. I think.”

She curled up in the seat without hesitation, tucking her knees under her. She wrapped around a throw pillow. The fire crackled softly. 

“What did you do to this place?” She asked in wonder.

“Ah, much more homey, don’t you think?” He leaned against the desk, arms folded, watching her with that perpetual glint in his eyes. “Do I need to serenade you to sleep?” he teased. “Perhaps a lullaby? Or would you prefer a…private broadcast?”

Charlie flushed. “No!” Then, after a moment, “...Definitely not that last one. Whatever that means.”

His grin widened. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.”

She shot him a withering look. “Big mistake.”

“I have no regrets,” he said solemnly.

Alastor moved to fold himself neatly into the other end of the sofa, long legs crossed, one elbow on the arm, the other hand cradling a half-finished glass of whiskey. He watched her with mild amusement as she shifted again.

Charlie grumbled, “I’m exhausted. And completely, hopelessly awake.”

Alastor hummed, “A tragic affliction. Shall I fetch a mallet?”

She chuckled, “No bludgeoning, thanks. Maybe just… talk to me? You said you’d record me a bedtime story.”

“Did I?” Alastor asked, eyes glittering, “My, my. That hardly sounds like me.”

She nodded, waving her hand lazily. “You were being smug. I threw a pen at you. It was a whole thing.”

“Ah, yes. A treasured memory. Still have the ink stain.”

“So? Pay up.”

Alastor took a sip. “My, my. How demanding you get when you’re tired.”

She pulled on the blanket from the back of the couch. It was soft and thin, perfect for the warm temperature of his office. She wrapped the blanket around herself, snuggled down, and blinked at him expectantly. 

He sighed, more theatrical than tired. “Very well. What would Her Royal Highness like to hear? I could spin you a tale of dismembered royalty, bureaucratic betrayals, or a particularly thrilling tax audit.”

“No murder,” Charlie asserted, looking like a very serious burrito. “No espionage. No paperwork. No cannibalism. And definitely no… weirdness.”

“Darling, you’ve eliminated every good story I have.”

She laughed, the sound soft and bright in the low light.

He swirled the amber in his glass, regarding her over the rim. “Hmph. Fine. How about… a story from the living world?”

She blinked, lifting her head slightly. The humour faded from her expression, replaced with something quiet and curious. “You’d do that?”

He tilted his head. Maybe it was the firelight. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the drink. But his smile gentled, just a fraction. “Ask, and I’ll tell you.”

She thought about that. He could tell. Her brow furrowed, her mouth twisted thoughtfully. 

When her eyes lit with something vaguely wicked, he braced.

“Tell me about your first date,”  she demanded.

His glass paused mid-air. “Of all the- That’s what you want to know?”

“Yup.” She grinned, seemingly pleased. “No backing out now. Spill.”

He snorted, then set the glass down with exaggerated care. 

“It wasn’t meant to be a date, you know. I was at a club in New Orleans. Christmas Eve, 1927. A little basement place with more smoke than air, live jazz, and enough bootleg liquor to drown a bishop.

“Classy,” she chirped.

“I thought so.” He turned away from her then, staring into the flames for a moment while presumably collecting his thoughts. “I went to drink and to dance and to enjoy the music. Nothing more. But then she waltzed in. All warmth and nerve and nonsense. Said something absurd about peace on earth and goodwill to all men.”

Charlie smiled at that. “What’d you say?”

“That not all men deserve goodwill.”

Charlie laughed into her blanket.

“So she bought me a drink. Bold thing.” He lifts his glass to accentuate the point. “Told me I looked like I needed one. We argued. Debated. Laughed. She insulted my tie, I said her shoes were a crime. Eventually, she dragged me onto the dance floor.”

“Wait,” Charlie sat up straighter. “She dragged you?”

Alastor snickered, “Oh yes. No respect for social convention, that one. And she was terrible. I mean, truly abysmal. Moved like each limb was trying to perform a different dance.”

She giggled and rubbed her eyes, “Ouch.”

“So naturally, she demanded I teach her. And, well… I did.”

Charlie leaned in, interest bright in her eyes, “Did she get better?”

“Surprisingly quickly. By the third song, she was halfway passable. By the fifth, she was twirling and dipping like she’d been born to it. We laughed. A lot.” He smiled into the memory, distant and full of something tender. “And then, of course, the cops raided the place.”

“Because of course they did,” she replied flatly.

“We ducked into the back room,” He was gesticulating now, full storyteller mode engaged. “A grim little cellar with busted radios and crates of gin. We passed a bottle back and forth. Told stories. Teased each other. It was… surprisingly pleasant.”

A pause.

Charlie, drowsy now, blinked slowly. “Wait, how does that even count as a date?”

He looked over at her with a sly smile. “If it helps… I did get a kiss at the end.”

Charlie gasped in delight, eyes wide. “No way!”

He nods, “And I walked her home. Like a proper gentleman.”

She was leaning against his shoulder now, warm and heavy with sleep. He carefully tugged the blanket up around her.

Her voice was low, starting to soften with sleep when she asked, “Did you ever see her again?”

He chuckled low, into her hair. “I only agreed to one story tonight.”

A beat. Then, softer, “But yes. I did. We became… quite close.”

Her voice was almost a mumble now, barely coherent. “Good… You deserve someone who makes you laugh like that…”

And then she was out. Breaths even, brow unknotted, body still. 

Alastor looked down at her, something unreadable flickering across his face.

He didn’t say anything else.

And still, he didn’t move.

Not for a long time.

Chapter Text

Dreams seized Charlie.

She sat on a cold stone floor, knees drawn to her chest, coat wrapped tight around her shoulders. The room around her was dim and musty. Old crates and busted radios stacked like makeshift fortifications. There was shouting somewhere far off. The unmistakable rhythm of boots and barked orders. But in here, everything felt muffled. Distant.

Mostly.

There was a man beside her. Tall. Slender. Clean-pressed clothes, messy curls, a grin sharp as a flicked switchblade. His voice curled through the shadows, smooth and lilting, words rolling like smoke as he spun some half-mad story about jazz musicians, cursed instruments, and a funeral gone terribly wrong. She couldn’t decide what was funnier. The story, or the way he told it. So full of casual flair and wicked amusement.

They passed a bottle back and forth. Something sharp and awful that tasted like paint thinner and regret. She made a face after every swig. He drank it like it was fine wine. The buzz in her head felt like warmth and mischief tangled together.

“You talk a lot,” she said, slurring slightly. “You know that?”

He raised a brow. “An astute observation.”

She laughed. Too loud. And slapped a hand over her mouth like she’d only just remembered the cops outside. He chuckled too, but quieter, softer, like he couldn’t help it.

He passed the bottle back.

She didn’t drink it right away. Instead, she rolled the bottle between her hands, staring down at her lap. “You know, where I come from, we don’t really do the whole ‘Christmas’ thing. Kinda.”

He looked at her with quiet interest, waiting.

“I really wanted to experience more-” she waved vaguely, “just. More. So thanks. I guess. It’s been nice. Spending a holiday with you.”

“Ah, yes, the time-honoured Christmas tradition of hiding in a cellar with a stranger.”

She snorted and shoved him.

“Any other traditions you’d like to experience? Perhaps a little vandalism? Felony shenanigans?”

“A kiss…” Her eyes widened. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She glared accusingly at the bottle in her hand, then moved to raise it again.

He laughed. Sharp, surprised. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar.” 

She looked indignant. “Yeah, well-” she aggressively wiped her mouth and shoved the bottle into his hands, “It’s a thing. Uh. Y’know. At midnight, people kiss. Definitely a thing. Not that we have to do that or anything. But it is a thing.”

“Ah, that’s New Year’s, I’m afraid.” He took a deep sip, entirely unbothered by the vile liquid.

She deflated. “Ah, well. I probably won’t be around for New Year’s.”

“Hmm? You going somewhere?” He lifts the bottle to his lips.

She squinted at him. Judging. Weighing. “Can you keep a secret?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“That body that they found? The guy who did it is looking for me.” Her voice didn’t tremble. There was no fear. Just resignation.

Beside her, he went still. His voice turned quiet. Heavier. “You think the killer is after you.”

“Yep,” she popped the ‘p’ and made grabby hands at the bottle.

He pulled it out of her reach, “How interesting.” 

She blinked, affronted for all of four seconds until he leaned in. So close.

“Very well, darling, you may have your kiss. But you’ll have to wait-” he pulled out his watch, squinting at the time, “-three minutes. How convenient!”

She beamed at him like he’d hung the moon and stars. And just for a moment, something strange sparked in her chest. Something warm.

They sat like that. Just the two of them, pressed together in the dark, holding his watch in a sliver of light, watching the seconds slip past. When the time came, he led her in a soft countdown.

And then she kissed him.

Quick and bold, her fingers brushing his lapel.

His eyes flared wide, stunned. He blinked at her like she’d broken a rule he hadn’t realized existed.

She giggled and whispered, “You look like a deer caught in a spotlight.”

And then she kissed him again.

This time, he kissed her back.

Tentative at first. Gentle. His hand rose halfway like he wasn’t sure where to put it, like the moment might collapse if he held on too tight. But his lips were warm, and there was something tender under the caution. Something that ached.

It was a good kiss.

She felt safe, somehow. Known.

And then-

Charlie stirred, breath catching on the edge of sleep.

The dream clung to her like mist. His voice in her ear, his arm pulling her close. It hadn’t felt like a dream. Not vague or surreal or jumbled the way dreams often were. It had been startlingly clear. His cadence sounded exactly like him. His warmth. His weight. She could still feel it.

Which… obviously meant nothing.

He was an excellent storyteller, that was all. Detailed, a master of pacing. Of course her brain had latched onto that. Of course she’d dreamed about him after he’d sat with her spinning that bittersweet yarn about a woman who loved him. That’s what brains did. They got weird and emotional and stitched things together into nonsense.

It definitely wasn’t because… anything.

And yet.

She glanced up.

He was still there, exactly where he’d been when she fell asleep. One arm resting lightly around her as if to keep the nonexistent chill off.

His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm under her cheek. The firelight flickered over his face, casting soft green-amber shadows over his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the slight crease between his brows that eased more with every breath. His hair was mussed, falling in soft, unruly tufts. Without the usual coat or posture or grin, he looked-

Different.

Warmer. Human, almost.

Had he always been that…

She blinked. No, it was just the lighting, just a weird dream, just a severe lack of sleep. That was all.

She began to shift carefully, making small, subtle movements so as not to wake him.

But he stirred anyway. His grip tightened slightly, and the faintest static flicker threaded the air.

“Alastor,” she whispered, barely a breath. “Al, let go.”

He did.

But not before pressing a soft, sleepy kiss to the top of her head.

Charlie froze.

The warmth of his lips against her hair lingered a beat too long. Soft. Unthinking. Real. It didn’t feel like part of the dream. It felt automatic, instinctual. Familiar in a way that left her heart stumbling over itself.

He didn’t wake.

His face had shifted. The tension had smoothed again into something more neutral. That small and soft smile still rested on his lips, almost peaceful.

She didn’t know what to do with the heat in her cheeks or the strange ache blooming behind her ribs.

It didn’t mean anything. Probably.

He was just asleep. People did weird things in their sleep.

Except Alastor wasn’t people. He was a barbed tangle of rules and distance and walls taller than most could climb.

She had just started to pull away again when a low, groggy hum curled through the quiet.

“...Charlotte?”

She stiffened mid-step. Turned slowly.

He was waking, blinking slowly as he pushed himself upright. One hand dragged through his hair, tousling it further. His monocle hung slightly askew. His usual smile hadn’t returned in full yet. 

And his voice.

It was rough with sleep, low and unguarded. Melted at the edges. Something in the sound scraped along her spine in ways she was not prepared to unpack at this hour. 

If he remembered what he’d done, it didn’t show.

“Oh! Uh-sorry,” she stammered, words falling out too fast. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You just… looked comfortable.” Her voice pitched upward, “Probably should have left earlier, but you were comfy and your voice is kinda nice when you’re not being an ass. And now I’m gonna go to bed because I’ve apparently lost control of my mouth.”

He gave a soft little huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite not. 

As he stood, the blanket slid off his lap. He folded it carefully and precisely, smoothing the corners before draping it over the back of the sofa with both hands. No sharp lines. No grand performance. Just Alastor, tousled, warm, and quiet in the flicker of dying firelight.

She should’ve looked away.

She didn’t.

He turned. And something glinted briefly at his chest.

Charlie blinked.

A chain. A ring. Heavy, ornate, old-fashioned. It swung briefly in the open collar of his shirt before vanishing again beneath the fabric.

She couldn’t stop herself.

“That ring,” she said, too quickly. “Was it- Is it hers? From the story?”

Alastor stilled. Just for a moment.

Then softly, “Yes.”

He didn’t meet her eyes. His hand drifted halfway toward his collar as if debating whether to hide it. Or hold it.

Charlie didn’t press. She waited. Her chest felt too tight to speak again.

Finally, his voice emerged. Low and even.

“She was my wife.”

Her gaze lingered on the chain. On the faint shape of the ring beneath his shirt. She didn’t know why her throat felt so tight, why the air seemed heavier. 

Something hurt.

“I…You were married,” she said, numbly.

The word echoed in her chest. Wife. As if repeating it might make it less impossible.

“What happened to her?” she asked quietly, “Is she, uh…around?”

Something hollow swallowed the light in his eyes.

“If anyone deserved to be in Heaven, it was her,” he said softly. Then added, almost as if it hurt: “She was… good.”

Charlie’s heart gave a little twist. 

It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly.

It was something more tender than that. Something like admiration. Or awe.

“You really loved her.”

His gaze flicked to hers. Sharper. Brittle. “Is that so surprising?”

“No! I just-” She paused, fumbling. What was the polite way to admit she hadn’t thought him capable? That she’d shallowly assumed him too far gone to experience something so intrinsically human. “You never talk about that sort of thing. I guess I didn’t picture you…” She trailed off. 

Didn’t picture anyone getting that close. Didn’t picture him letting them.

Or maybe she’d never wanted to picture him that way until now.

There was love there. Not past tense, not faded. Just quiet. Steady. Deep.

This version of Alastor. Sleep-rough, open, stripped bare by grief and mourning, felt like a secret. 

Something rare. Something maybe no one else had seen.

Except someone had. She had. 

His wife.

Charlie didn’t know where to put her hands. Or how to move her face. Or what to do with the strange, reverent hush in her chest.

“I’ll, um… I’ll let you get some more rest,” she mumbled.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice still low. “For the company.”

She nodded too fast. “Right. Yep. Totally. Good night. Or morning. I don’t know what time it is. I should go. Sleep. Yes.”

His smile returned. Small. Real.

She turned before she could say something worse.

Fled, really.

She didn’t breathe again until the door of Vaggie’s room closed behind her.

Then she leaned back against it, pressed both hands to her burning face, and whispered into the dark, “What the hell was that?”

No answer.

Only the ghost of that sleepy voice in her ear.

And the glint of gold she couldn’t stop seeing every time she blinked.

Sleep would not come easily.

Charlie shuffled into the hotel lobby, cradling a cup of coffee she hadn’t even started to drink. The sunlight filtered through the windows, scattering orange hues over the floor. It should have felt peaceful. Quiet. Safe.

But something was off.

Husk hadn’t grumbled a single curse when he’d grabbed the remote. Niffty kept glancing toward the screen with uncharacteristic stillness. Even Angel had paused mid-sass, one hand holding his phone half-raised like he couldn’t decide between a tweet or a tantrum.

Charlie followed their eyes.

And felt her stomach drop.

There, on the crackling hotel TV, was Katie Killjoy in her usual tailored red blazer and venomous glee, smirking like she’d just stepped on someone’s dream.

Behind her, the split-screen showed two very familiar faces. The sinners from the break-in. Charlie recognized the one with the cracked horn and the other with a scar over his jaw. Both looked far too smug for people who’d committed armed breaking and entering less than forty-eight hours ago.

“…brutal conditions, unprovoked violence,” the horned one was saying, voice rising with faux outrage. “We were invited to the Hazbin Hotel, promised safety and sanctuary. But what we got instead was a totalitarian nightmare.”

“We were attacked,” said the other. “The guy running the place went feral the second someone stepped out of line. Like. Bloodthirsty. You should’ve seen the mess.”

The banner at the bottom screamed in bright red block text:

"EXCLUSIVE: HAZBIN HOTEL RUN BY TOTAL PSYCHOS"
"SERIOUSLY, WHAT DID YOU EXPECT FROM THESE PEOPLE?"

Charlie’s heart pounded.

She barely registered the coffee slipping from her fingers until the mug hit the rug with a muted thunk. Her breath caught. Her eyes stayed locked on the screen.

Katie’s voice oozed with satisfaction. “You heard it here first, folks. Hell’s most exploitable nepo-baby is sheltering one of the most unstable bastards in the pit. You’ve seen the footage. You’ve read the rumours... What? They haven't? Well, roll the fuckin tape!”

The footage in question wobbled with every pained breath of the sinner holding the phone. The angle was low and skewed, capturing the scene from where they had crumpled against the wall. The lobby looked gutted. Glass shards scattered across the floor, and shadows slithered like smoke too thick to breathe.

In the center of it all stood Alastor. Or something like him. His body never held steady on camera. His outline warped, glitching with every flicker of the lens, antlers bending at impossible angles, static hissing through the audio like a corrupted signal. One hand pinned the last intruder upright, the other spun a knife with lazy menace.

Alastor’s head snapped around. The knife froze. 

Then there was movement at the edge of the frame. Charlie. She stepped into the light, barefoot, rumpled, the hem of her clothes brushing the wreckage on the floor. She said something too soft to hear, swallowed by the static.

The shadows rippled back, slithering into the walls like water down a drain. His corrupted image buckled, frame-skipping, until the phone caught him, leaning into her hand.

For a breathless moment, the distortion cleared. The frame locked on Alastor smiling down at her, her hand on his arm, his tall figure folding toward her like gravity had shifted. He bent closer, lips parting as if to murmur something only she could hear.

The video cut out.

Katie's face reappeared, somehow more punchable than ever before. “There you have it, Alastor the Radio Demon has officially traded radio towers for a hotel lobby. And guess what? He’s still got the taste for carnage.”

Charlie's stomach turned.

They were framing him as the threat. They were painting her sanctuary as a deathtrap. And worse. They weren’t entirely wrong. He had gotten violent. He’d snapped. And she'd been the one who ordered him to stop. And he had.

He’d listened.

The others in the room were watching her now. Quiet. Waiting.

“I…” Charlie tried to speak, but her mouth was dry.

She forced her voice to work. “I need to go check the business inbox. There’s probably… damage control to do.”

No one stopped her as she hurried off, steps too fast, eyes too wide.

She slipped behind the front desk, fingers trembling as she fumbled for her laptop. Notifications were already piling in. Commentary from sinners, from skeptics, from opportunists. Some called her brave. Some called her naive. Some were mocking her so-called attempt to redeem the radio demon. Others called for a tour. A war. A cancellation.

Charlie pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes.

She had known there’d be blowback. But not like this. Not so fast. Not so loud. Not with him caught in the center of it all.

Charlie stared at the email like it might bite.

Forgoing the socials for the moment, she brought up the business email. And there, right at the top of her inbox, was one email marked ‘urgent’ from the very news network she could still hear filtering over from the lobby TV.

Subject: PRESS STATEMENT REQUEST – IMMEDIATE RESPONSE REQUESTED

Body: Following recent allegations aired on The Katie Killjoy Show, we are formally requesting comment from the Hasbin Hotel administration. If Princess Charlie Morningstar or a designated representative is willing to offer a statement or appear for an interview, please respond with time and location at the earliest availability. This request is time sensitive, and interest is high.

She rubbed her temples.

Interest is high. That was one way to put it. She popped open a new tab. Her social media was a digital war zone. Half outrage, half giddy schadenfreude, and a handful of vultures asking to “sponsor” her next public meltdown.

She scrolled again. Considering her options.

Live interview. Open-ended statement. Control the narrative.

Before someone else did.

She hesitated only a second before straightening.

Alastor wasn’t hard to find. He’d returned to his office at some point, seated near the unlit fireplace where she’d left him, maybe he never left? 

He was thumbing absently through an old novel she didn’t think he was actually reading. His coat was back on now, his hair tamed, a faint smile in place. But there was something alert in his posture. Something that told her he already knew something was up.

He looked up before she even said a word. “Trouble?” he asked, voice smooth but quiet.

Charlie nodded. “The press wants a statement. Or an interview. Or both.”

“Ah.” He shut the book. “Let me guess. The same smiling mouthpiece who peddled slander from our oh-so-charming intruders?”

So he knew. Charlie crossed her arms. “Killjoy’s network, yeah.”

His smile thinned, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m thinking of saying yes,” she added quickly. “If we don’t give them something soon, they’ll just keep running their version of the story. At least if we act fast, we might be able to steer it.”

Alastor tilted his head. “A bold move. And not an unwise one.”

She hesitated. “Would…you do it with me?”

Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes.” She meant it. It came out maybe a little too fast. “You were involved. You defended the hotel. You’re part of this, and I tr-”

She cut herself off. Her cheeks burned.

“I just…think it would be better with both of us.”

For a heartbeat, Alastor said nothing.

Then he rose smoothly to his feet. “Then we should not delay.”

Charlie blinked. “Wait, you’ll actually do it?”

“There is very little I wouldn't do if you asked. Besides…” His grin curled slightly wider, radio static flickering faintly beneath his words. “Live broadcasts are a charming little bit of theatre, aren’t they? So full of possibility.”

Charlie exhaled. Relief warred with nerves.

“Lobby?” she asked.

“Public, but familiar. Accessible to the press. Comfortable lighting. Good acoustics,” he mused, hands folding behind his back. “Yes. I approve.”

“And as soon as possible?”

“I’d recommend it,” he said. “The vultures are already circling. Let’s pluck out an eye or two before they get too comfortable.”

Charlie shot him a look. He seemed the opposite of deterred.

She set her laptop on his desk and pulled open the email. Then scrolled until she found the contact number and extension in the footer.

She punched the number into her phone and, after a breath, hit dial.

The press rep on the other end picked up almost instantly, her voice tight with caffeine and bloodlust. “Killjoy News, front desk.”

“This is Charlie Morningstar,” she said. “We’ll give our statement. Interview. But you have to be here in two hours.”

“You’ve got a deal,” said the woman. “We’ll send a mobile unit. Cameras. Light crew. Katie herself might show, depending on the chaos curve. Sit tight, sweetheart.”

The line clicked.

Charlie hung up, heart already thudding.

“Two hours,” she confirmed with Alastor.

He nodded. “Plenty of time.”

“Not really.”

“Then we’d best get ready.”

—

Charlie couldn’t hold still. She paced a long path behind her desk. Back and forth, back and forth. Tight, repetitive, anxious. Her heel snagged a thread on the last pass, but she didn’t stop. The clock on the wall ticked louder with every lap, echoing off the walls like a countdown to her execution. 

Interview. 

Whatever.

Two blazers lay draped across her desk. Mocking her, probably. One was a warm, inviting rose. The other, a crisp red. Her usual.

“Red’s too aggressive,” she muttered, tugging on the lapel of one, then the other. “Pink’s too soft. But if I go neutral, they’ll say I’m dodging. Or I’m afraid. Or worse… that I’m trying too hard.” She threw her hands up and spun on her heel. “Why does colour psychology have to be such a minefield?”

No answer. Just the ticking clock. The silent judgment of fabric.

A knock, light and rhythmic, on her open door.

She turned. Alastor stood just inside the threshold. His brow arched slightly, expression unreadable but calm, like he wasn’t surprised to find her on the verge of chewing through her own fingernails.

Charlie straightened reflexively. “Oh. Hey. Sorry, I- uh. Didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered,” he said gently. “You're nearly through the underlayer of the carpet. Another thirty laps and I daresay you’ll hit bedrock.”

She huffed a laugh, half-genuine, half-exhausted, then looked away. “I have to get this right.”

He stepped further into the room, gaze sweeping over the desk, the discarded cue cards in the trash bin, the blazers. Then to her.

“You always did fret most when things were nearly under control,”

She blinked. “What?”

He smiled, but didn’t elaborate. “You have nothing to prove, Charlotte.”

Her arms crossed tight over her chest. “People already thought this place was a joke, and now they’re calling it a front for a serial killer. I do have something to prove.”

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying. “May I offer an opinion?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“I think you should wear the suit you usually wear,” he said. “The one you feel most like yourself in.”

She frowned. “But what if it’s not enough?”

“You are not going on this mindless picture-show to beg permission.” Alastor stepped closer, grasping both her shoulders. “You're speaking as yourself. On behalf of your vision. You are telling them who you are and what to expect when stepping into your domain. No costume required.”

Something in the gentle certainty of his words unhooked a knot behind her ribs. She dropped her arms, hands twitching at her sides.

And then, before she could think better of it, she leaned forward.

Not far. Not quite touching.

Her forehead hovered just shy of his shoulder. Unsure. Instinctive. She didn’t even know why she did it. Only that it felt… necessary.

He shifted subtly. Not a step. Just a lean. Enough to close the gap.

Her head landed softly on his chest. His shirt was warm beneath her skin, the fabric a little rumpled. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, letting her touch settle without flinching or pulling away.

Something about his stillness soothed her in a way nothing else had all morning.

“Thanks,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know why I’m-”

“Nervous?” he offered.

Terrified.

The word stuck in her throat, but she didn’t say it. Didn’t let it take root.

She could feel the panic coiled beneath her skin, the weight of expectation pressing in from all sides. The carpet under her feet was worn thin from pacing, her breath short and uneven. She felt like a firework right before it burst. Tight, trembling, seconds from flying apart.

Charlie closed her eyes.

Get a grip, she told herself.

The doubt, the fear, the aching pressure to perform. It wasn’t going to go away. Not in the less than thirty minutes left before the interview. Not ever, maybe. But she could still choose what to do with it.

So she inhaled slowly, taking comfort in the scent of wood and warm spices. Held it. Let it out. And with a roll of her shoulders, she opened her eyes and stepped back.

This was her hotel. Her mission. Her choice.

Alastor still stood quietly where she left him, watchful but silent. He didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt her moment. Just waited. Unmoving, respectful.

And something about that, his stillness, his restraint, settled her more than words ever could.

Charlie turned back to the desk.

The pink blazer was soft. Professional. Careful.

The red one was bolder. Fiercer. Hers.

She picked it up by the collar and slipped it over her shoulders without hesitation. The fabric hugged her figure like muscle memory.

Alastor’s eyes lingered on her, sharp but warm. He didn’t comment, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth said enough.

She met his gaze and lifted her chin. “Let’s go set the record straight.”

And for the first time all morning, she was sure.

—

Cameras flashed. Microphones surged forward like bayonets. The air in their makeshift press room was choked with perfume, nerves, and predation.

Charlie sat in her crisp red blazer, hands folded politely over her lap. Alastor sat beside her, one leg crossed over the other, posture perfect and completely relaxed.

The room did not treat them kindly.

“Princess, is it true two unarmed sinners were tortured on your hotel grounds?”

“Is the Radio Demon unhinged or just uncontrolled?”

“Are you in charge here, or is your ‘guest representative’ running the place?”

Each question stabbed more viciously than the last. Charlie answered with all the poise she could muster, but it was clear the press didn’t want answers. They wanted blood.

Someone shouted, “Should we be concerned that Hell’s most notorious killer now has a safe haven to play house?”

And that’s when Charlie cracked.

But not loudly. Not explosively.

She sat up straighter. Her eyes burned with something hot and sharp.

“You seem to forget,” she said, voice professional in the brittle way of someone who just might snap if pushed, “that my business partner is not just some demon. He is an Overlord. And he lives here. Two armed,” she makes sure to clarify, “sinners decided to break into and burglarize the home of, as you say ‘Hell’s most notorious killer’, The Radio Demon, and yet, both of them walked out of here on their own legs. I’d call that a miracle.”

A hush fell.

Charlie leaned forward slightly, and though she smiled, there was steel behind her teeth.

“This hotel is a place of redemption and healing. If you come to us with the intent to do the work, you will be welcomed as a guest and offered all the services and protection of our hotel.”

“However,” her voice rose in volume, carried by the momentum of her frustration, “if anyone poses a threat to the safety, livelihood, or even emotional well-being of our residents, they will be dealt with accordingly. And as of this moment, Alastor has unilateral authority over the hotel’s security.” She makes a point of staring down every interviewer individually. “If that scares you? Good.”

Alastor’s expression hadn’t changed, but something in the air did. The static softened. Warmed.

Charlie turned her back on the press without hesitation and walked out of frame, heels echoing like gunshots down the marble floor. 

The reporters scrambled over each other like rodents in a dumpster, trying to get one last statement. One last angle.

Vaggie’s jaw was tight. Angel, off to the side, blinked like someone had thrown a punch he didn’t see coming.

Outside the lobby, the hall was quiet. The lights flickered faintly. The interview was still echoing in Charlie’s head.

She walked fast, heels clicking against the warped tile, breath still shallow from adrenaline. The smile she’d worn on camera had slipped. Now it was just exhaustion dragging down the corners of her mouth.

She barely heard Vaggie’s footsteps behind her.

But she heard her voice.

“What the fuck was that?”

Charlie stopped. “Vaggie, not now.”

“No. Now.” The heat in Vaggie’s glare burned at the back of Charlie’s skull. “Because if I don’t say something right now, you’re going to pretend that wasn’t completely insane. You gave him control, Charlie. In front of half of Hell.”

Charlie turned slowly, heavy-limbed. Tired. Guarded. “I made a call. We needed a show of strength.”

“So you handed the hotel’s security to him?” Vaggie stepped closer, her voice sharp. “He’s not a protector. He’s not even a person. He’s a predator playing dress-up. He doesn’t care about us, Charlie. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t do friendship. He does pawns. Assets. Things he can control.”

“It makes us safer than we were,” Charlie said. Her voice was calm, but beneath it was a look. That look. The stubbornness she donned when someone told her she couldn’t do something. Or shouldn’t. The expression that declared she absolutely would do that thing.

Vaggie recognized it immediately. Knew it meant Charlie was going to dig in her heels on principle.

But she couldn’t let it go. Not this time.

“You don’t know that!” Vaggie’s voice cracked. “What if he decides someone’s a threat just because he’s bored? What if Angel steals another toothbrush and suddenly flaying is on the table?”

Her voice dropped, sharp and low. “What happens when he decides I’m the threat?”

“That’s not who he is,” Charlie said without hesitation.

And that certainty made Vaggie’s stomach twist. “How can you know that?” 

Charlie’s voice rose before she could stop it. “I trust him!”

The silence afterward was deafening.

Vaggie stared at her, stunned. “You… you what?”

“I trust him,” Charlie repeated, her voice quiet but firm. 

Vaggie’s expression hardened. Her voice turned to ice. Cold. Brittle, like it might shatter. “Then you’re stupid.”

The word hit like a brick.

Charlie didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stood there, hollowed out.

“…Stupid.” She parroted, the word turning to glass in her mouth.

Something cracked open inside her.

Vaggie’s face crumpled instantly. Her hand reached out. “I didn’t- Charlie, I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Charlie took a step back, just out of reach. “You meant it.”

Vaggie’s hand hovered uselessly in the air.

“Just like everyone else,” Charlie said, her voice trembling. “They’ve all said it too. That my dream is stupid. My plan is stupid. I’m stupid for believing in it.” She swallowed hard. “...did you always think that or-”

“Charlie,” Vaggie’s voice softened, just for a second. “This isn’t about your dream. I just want you to see him for what he is.”

Charlie straightened.

Shoulders down. Face smooth. Every part of her poured into that perfect posture. The one she’d learned growing up in front of Hell’s elite. The one she used when holding her ground against critics. She had never turned it on Vaggie before.

And she didn’t want to think about what it meant that she was doing it now.

“I know what everyone says. I know what he is. But I’ve seen what else he can be. When it matters.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

“You think he’s dangerous. Fine. Maybe he is. But I’ve lived with you thinking I’m fragile for years, and this is the first time I’ve ever felt like someone looked at me and saw a person who could change the world instead of break under it.”

“Maybe he thinks that,” Vaggie said, voice strained and furious and scared all at once. “Or maybe he’s just really good at getting what he wants.”

The silence between them buzzed like static.

Charlie didn’t answer.

Because she didn’t know how.

Vaggie’s shoulders sank as she turned and walked away without another word.

Charlie stood alone in the hallway, jaw tight, shoulders trembling. Her eyes burned, but she refused to allow the tears to come.

Not this time.

Chapter Text

Three new guests.

It wasn’t much. But it felt like a miracle.

Charlie leaned against the front desk, arms folded, watching them check in. They were jittery. Quiet. Desperate in that raw, hunched-shoulder kind of way that said they didn't expect to survive a second chance. The kind of guests that used to make her nervous.

But in that moment, she felt oddly steady.

“Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere,” she murmured.

Alastor stood beside her, hands neatly tucked behind his back, his smile smooth and unreadable.

“None of them are here for redemption,” he said.

“Nope.”

He tilted his head, curious. Waiting for her usual optimism, some sunshine-laced denial. A naïve insistence that deep down, they must want help.

“They’re here for safety,” he tried again. “Nothing more. Taking advantage.”

“Exactly.”

That stopped him cold.

She didn’t sound disheartened. Or naïve. She sounded… pleased. Darkly, gleefully pleased.

“They’re here because they think you’re worse than what’s chasing them,” she said. “And that’s leverage.”

His brows twitched. “Leverage.”

She turned to face him, smiling like a shark that had just scented blood in the water.

“Let them come. Let them feel what it’s like to be safe here. That means they’ll do anything I ask to stay.”

Her voice dropped, quieter. Gleeful.

“And I’ll ask them to start healing. Over and over. Until it sticks.”

He stared at her. Something about the razor edge in her voice, the calculation behind her soft tone, made something unplaceable twist in his gut. “Well now, dear, that almost sounds like a con.”

“Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, Al. Look it up,” she said, spinning to beam up at him. “It’s exactly like a con, sure. But for good. I trick them into getting better.” Then, more softly, “And maybe one day they won’t need tricking at all.”

Alastor was quiet slightly too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was oddly tight. “How delightfully… conniving. My, my, Princess. Are you sure you’re not one of us?”

“I’m resourceful,” she said breezily. “It’s different.”

She left with a smile, gathering up her new guests and shepherding them toward their rooms, her laughter trailing behind her like glitter.

When she returned, phone in hand and thumb still scrolling, the lobby felt emptier. Alastor had relocated to one of the lounge sofas, legs crossed, cane balanced across his knees. He looked every inch the picture of leisure, except for the tautness coiled in his posture.

“Oh, look,” she called lightly, eyes still on her screen. “We made the headlines again.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Alastor replied tartly, snapping open the newspaper like it had personally offended him. Bold, blocky letters screamed from the front page: “PRINCESS OF HELL SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY?”

Charlie swiped her screen.

“‘Crown to Carnal: Has Charlie Fallen Too Far?’ Ooh, that one’s even got a slideshow.”

She scrolled. “‘Princess Trades Crown for Carnal Delights.’ That’s not even alliterative. Lazy.”

Alastor tapped the paper. “‘Sleeping with the Enemy.’ Straightforward. Lacks flair.”

Charlie flopped onto the couch beside him, still thumbing through articles.

“‘Hell’s Princess in Bed With a Butcher’? Classy. Oh, here’s a fun one: ‘Private Negotiations Behind Closed Doors.’” She glanced up. “That one almost sounds like a euphemism and a tax write-off.”

Alastor gave a huff of static.

“‘From Virgin Princess to Demon’s Pet,’” she read aloud with a grin. “Wow. I’m not even close to a virgin.”

He made a sound like a phonograph shorting out.

Charlie, entirely unbothered, kept scrolling. “Being a pet wouldn’t be the worst, honestly. Free food, naps all day. I could just sleep in a sunbeam like Keekee.”

“They’re calling you a harlot,” he said, voice light but taut with barely masked ire. “My harlot, apparently.”

Charlie snorted. “I’ve been called worse.”

His nose wrinkled.“They’re implying you’re offering yourself in exchange for my cooperation. That you're…leveraging your virtue for power.”

She blinked. “They do this kind of thing all the time. You didn’t care when they said Mimzy was sleeping with that ventriloquist dummy she owns.”

He scowled. “That’s because she probably was.”

“So why care now?”

His fingers tensed against the paper. “Because it's you.”

That made her stop.

She looked over at him, catching the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of genuine indignation. For her.

He was really bothered.

Charlie leaned in slightly, teasing lilt to her voice, “You really don't like people touching your things, huh?”

“You're not a thing, Charlie.” Radio interference warped and distorted his voice under the weight of his vehemence.

The sudden intensity was a little overwhelming. 

She softened. “Alastor. I don’t need you to protect me from public opinion.”

He looked at her.

“If anything, I should be defending you. I'm the one who dragged you into this.”

She reached out, just a light touch to his arm, grounding, grateful.

And then she was somewhere else.

She was standing in a hallway, alone but for the low snickers of gossipers just around the corner. They didn’t know she could hear them.

“She’s so pretty, isn’t she? Soft, like a woman ought to be.”

A pause.

“What a waste. All that good breeding… thrown away on that.”

That.

The sneer in their voice hit her like a slap. Her body twisted with rage and instinct. She moved without thinking, stepping out to snap something back, but a hand caught her wrist. Reeled her in to pull her flush against a familiar frame. 

“It won't help.” Alastor. That strange soft sepia Alastor, firm behind her. He was smiling. That cold, polite smile he still wore like armor.

Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“You're not a thing, Star.”

“It doesn't matter.” 

The present snapped back like a rubber band.

Charlie yanked her hand back like it burned. Her heart was hammering. Her face was hot. 

Star?

Alastor turned slightly, eyes guarded, watching her. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Charlie laughed too high, too fast, “Nope. Nothing up here but flowcharts.” She stood abruptly, “Oh, I almost forgot. I have a meeting with Asbesto.”

It was clear that he wasn’t buying her, admittedly pathetic, deflection attempts. But it seems he was feeling gracious, “Oh? Have you gotten a response from him?”

Charlie squared her shoulders, “I’m about to.”

Charlie had called. And texted. And left exactly three voicemails. One nervous, one formal, and one bordering on unhinged.

Asbesto hadn’t answered any of them.

Which was how she found herself standing in the cold marble lobby of his downtown office building, arguing with a very polite receptionist while security loomed nearby.

“I’m not leaving,” she said brightly, clutching her briefcase like a shield. “I just need five minutes. He knows me. We’ve met. He gave me his card.”

“You don’t have an appointment,” the receptionist replied, equal parts tired and firm.

“Yes, but-”

The elevator dinged.

Charlie whirled. Asbesto emerged through the sleek gold doors, striding past like a shark in pressed gray slacks. He wasn’t looking her way.

She called his name. Twice. Louder the second time.

His head turned slightly. Just enough to clock her. 

Heels, folder, too-bright smile. 

He stopped.

He didn’t sigh. Or glare. Or frown. But somehow, the flatness of his expression managed to convey all three.

“…I’m on my way to lunch,” he said.

“I can walk with you,” Charlie said quickly. “Please. You haven’t been returning my calls, and this is important, and I swear it won’t take long.”

He considered her for exactly one second. Then turned on his heel.

“Well?” he said, already moving. “Keep up.”

Charlie nearly tripped in her rush to follow.

Outside, the sun was high and hot. Asbesto’s pace was unrelenting, brisk, clipped, and efficient. He didn’t slow for her once. Just gestured vaguely with one hand.

“Talk.”

Charlie fumbled with her folder as they speed-walked down the sidewalk. “Right! So. This is my finalized guest rehabilitation plan. I’ve broken it into phases: intake, orientation, enrichment, therapy. Uh, sin-specific, of course. And post-program mentorship. I’ve also laid out three proposed trial timelines, short, standard, and extended, with accompanying staff schedules, room usage charts, and potential success metrics based on past case analogues.”

She scrambled to flip through her documents, breathless, flashing pages at him whenever they hit a red light. He never stopped moving. She doubted he even looked at half of it.

They rounded a corner. He stepped into a sandwich shop and nodded at the man behind the counter. “I’ll have the number six,” Asbesto said, “and you’re paying.”

She blinked. “Right. Yes. Okay.”

Five minutes and two iced teas later, he was eating with machine-like precision while she talked over the plastic rustle of wrappers.

She tried not to watch him chew. Tried to stay focused as he gave zero indication of listening. No nods. No eye contact. Nothing. He just marched back the way they came. 

Charlie forged ahead anyway.

“…and we’ll start with a ten participant cap. Enough to monitor group dynamics without overwhelming staff. We’ll incorporate volunteers from the community, but maintain consistent case managers for stability-”

The office building loomed back into view, tall, silver, and distressingly close.

She panicked a little.

“-and I’ve scheduled weekly metrics reviews for every phase, plus anonymous feedback forms, with quarterly assessments to adapt the model as needed.”

They stopped. Right at the base of the lobby stairs.

Asbesto wiped his hands with a napkin, tossed the rest of his sandwich back in the bag, and stood there, adjusting his tie like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

“You’ve done well,” he said simply. “I’ll send a formal proposal by the end of the day.”

Charlie squealed.

Out loud and everything.

And before she could stop herself, she flung her arms around him in a quick, ecstatic hug.

It lasted exactly one and a half seconds before she realized what she was doing.

“Oh my gosh- sorry! Sorry, that was… totally unprofessional.” She stepped back, hands flailing a little, trying to reassemble her dignity. “Thank you so much. Really. This means everything. Thank you.”

He stared at her like she was a new and mildly offensive species.

And then, without another word, he turned and disappeared back into the building.

Charlie stood blinking after him, folder clutched to her chest, trying to process the fact that she’d just chased down a bureaucratic nightmare in heels and got a win out of it.

Maybe miracles were possible in Hell.

The hotel had finally settled.

It was late. The usual riotous energy had been reduced to a warm, flickering hush. The lounge lights glowed low and golden, and the bar hummed with the faint sound of jazz and old wood creaking. 

Husk was manning the bar with his usual air of resentful obligation, dealing cards lazily from behind the counter. 

Angel was sprawled upside down across the lounge couch, limbs draped dramatically like some satin-clad starfish. 

Vaggie perched on the armrest nearby, sipping something neon and glowing from a cocktail glass with a tiny sword stabbed through the garnish.

Charlie wandered in mid-yawn, rubbing the corner of one eye, hair tousled from where she’d half-dozed over paperwork an hour ago.

Angel immediately perked up, waving his phone with a devilish grin. On the screen was the same carousel of clickbait headlines she and Alastor had been doom-scrolling through earlier.

“Well, well,” he sang, “if it ain’t one half of Hell’s most scandalous power couple.”

Charlie groaned, dragging her feet toward the couch. “Don’t start.”

“Too late,” Vaggie said, a little too quick, a bit too light. She lifted her glass like a toast, but didn’t quite meet Charlie’s eyes

Angel gave her his best look of wide-eyed innocence. “I’m just sayin’, babe, if you’re gonna hand Overlord Daddy the keys to the castle, you could at least admit you’re into the spooky.”

Charlie laughed despite herself. “I am not into the spooky.”

“Don’t call him that,” Vaggie muttered, nose wrinkling.

“What,” he put on a sultry whine, “a sugar Daddy?”

“If I never hear that again, it will be far too soon!” Alastor swept into the room, hands clasped behind his back, coat sharp as ever. His smile was effortless. And smug. He made his way to the bar.

Vaggie made a gagging sound at Angel’s antics. The kind that used to spur Charlie’s good-natured cackling, but now the sound was followed by a pause. A small silence. 

“Literally, where is the sugar,” she added, with a crooked half-smile.

Charlie let her head fall back with a groan. “I hate both of you.”

“Liar,” Vaggie replied automatically. Sweet, on the surface. But Charlie caught the flicker in her tone. Like she wasn’t quite sure she was joking.

Husk didn’t look up from his glass. Still wiping it with the same rag he’d used since the Paleolithic era.

“So,” the old cat demon muttered dryly, “when’s the wedding?”

“We’re still haggling over napkin colours,” Alastor replied, without missing a beat.

Husk grunted. Without looking, he slid a drink across the bar, topped with a dainty little heart-shaped cherry stuck on the rim.

No one said anything.

Alastor’s eye twitched. The radio gave a brief, startled skip. But his smile didn’t falter.

“How charming,” he said brightly.

He sipped the drink with all the air of someone who absolutely refused to acknowledge the garnishment.

Charlie slouched deeper into her seat and groaned. “You are all the worst.”

Angel cooed. “We only tease ‘cause we care, babe. Well-” He pointed at himself. “I tease because it’s fun.”

Then at Husk. “Husk teases because he hates everything.”

Then to Vaggie. “And she teases because she’s slowly accepting that she’s gonna be Maid of Honour to the damn Radio Demon.”

“Oh shut up,” Vaggie muttered.

But Charlie caught the glance she flicked her way. Just a twitch of an eyebrow, a smirk half-hiding behind her drink. Testing the water. Testing her.

Charlie hesitated.

There was a crackle of something unspoken between them. Vaggie was trying. Doing her best to play along like nothing had changed. Like there hadn’t been shouting, or storming off, or that long, aching silence when Charlie went to bed alone..

Charlie opened her mouth. Closed it.

No use fighting the accusations. They’d smell the blood in the water.

Instead, she leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance and announced, “Actually, I had a meeting with Asbesto today.”

Vaggie blinked. “Wait, seriously? What’d he say?”

Charlie smiled, all teeth. “That I need better friends.”

Angel snorted

Alastor’s chuckle was a slow purr. “That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said about anyone.”

She grinned.

And when Vaggie looked at her again, there was something almost careful in the way she smiled back.

A little later, Charlie made her way to Vaggie’s side. She leaned in with a tentative smile. Vaggie was putting in the work, and Charlie was determined to meet her halfway. 

“Hey,” her voice came out shrill and tight. She coughed to clear her throat and started again, “I was uh, thinking about doing a little party for the new guests tomorrow. Nothing crazy, just enough to make them feel welcome and all. But I was thinking I would make a cake? And maybe you- that is, would you, wanna… Do you wanna help me bake it?”

Vaggie’s guarded look softened with every word that stumbled from Charlie’s mouth. It almost made the mortification worth it.

“Yeah,” Vaggie offered a small smile, “I think I'd like that a lot.”

The kitchen was a disaster in progress. Flour dusted the air like ash from a sugar bomb. Smears of frosting painted the cabinets. A tray of experimental cookies had already been declared legally inedible.

Charlie had icing in her hair and an optimistic sort of madness in her eyes as she hunched over the misshapen cake. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, a piping bag clutched in both hands like it might help her salvage this absurd confection.

Beside her, Vaggie worked in near silence, more precise. More careful. More herself, and somehow… less.

“Okay, okay,” Charlie said, adjusting a crooked fondant horn, “if we angle the horns this way, it still looks like a redemption-themed devil cake and not… just a complete meltdown, right?”

Vaggie tilted her head. “Charlie, it looks like a cartoon goat died on it.”

“A hopeful goat,” Charlie insisted, a grin tugging at her mouth.

Vaggie gave a low, reluctant laugh, and Charlie’s heart lifted like a balloon tied too tightly to her ribs.

She snorted. “Okay, but seriously, we might need a backup dessert.”

Vaggie licked some frosting off her thumb. “Why are we even doing this?”

Charlie hesitated for only a second.

“Because I want the guests to feel welcome,” she said with a bright little shrug. “And we’ve got our first real investor, which is huge! And, okay, also because Angel said my last batch of muffins tasted like ‘an existential crisis,’ and…he may have had a point?”

“You put soy sauce in them.”

“It was maple flavoured!” Charlie protested, laughing. “I was experimenting! That’s creativity!”

She went back in with her piping bag, placing delicate flower petals around the little sugar skulls Vaggie had started lining the cake with. They made a nice contrast. The two of them always had.

“You’re ridiculous,” Vaggie said, almost fond.

Charlie grinned up at her. “You love it.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to notice.

Then Vaggie leaned in and wiped a bit of icing from her nose with her thumb. “God help me, I really do.”

Charlie smiled, a little too hard. Her heart fluttered, but it didn’t quite land right. The beat was off. Like playing the right notes to a song she used to know by heart, only stilted. Less sure.

They bumped hips. Worked side by side.

It was still them. In the kitchen. Making a mess. Laughing.

But Charlie could feel something quiet and cold just under the warmth. Something soft unravelling between them. In the space where Vaggie didn’t lean in quite as much. Where her smile was slower to come.

Charlie didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t.

She just leaned harder into the moment. Into the icing and the laughter and the shape of something that used to be easy. She was sure it could be easy again.

She just had to keep the rhythm. Keep smiling.

And maybe, eventually, it would all come back.

—

Later that day, the sun was actually shining.

That alone should’ve been enough of an omen.

But in the Hazbin Hotel’s cobbled-together dining room, made festive with paper streamers, lopsided flowers in thrifted vases, and a suspicious number of paper cranes. Charlie beamed like she’d dragged the light in herself.

The guests had arrived. They’d stayed. No one had been maimed. 

That was cause for celebration.

She’d insisted on brunch. A small one. Just the residents and the three new arrivals. Casual. Chill. No speeches. No formality. Just a “get-to-know-you” thing. Of course, a crooked banner read ‘Welcome New Gests!’ with a glitter-penned “u” squashed awkwardly between the letters. The smell of half-burnt waffles still clung to the wallpaper, but she was trying.

And blessedly, they showed up.

All three of them.

They entered with ducked heads and nervous hands. Hunched shoulders, glances that never stayed put. Demons who clearly weren’t used to being greeted with anything positive.

Charlie lit up anyway.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed, joy tripping up her voice before she wrangled it down to something gentler. “I’m so glad.”

That earned a few flinches. Some muttering. One mutinous glare at the buffet table. But no one turned around and walked out, so she counted it as a win.

Charlie clasped her hands. Took a breath. “Okay! Everyone, please be nice.” She aimed that squarely at Angel and Alastor. “This is just brunch. You’re safe here. We’re all here to help each other. That starts with knowing each other. So let’s do some quick intros!”

No one volunteered, exactly.

But eventually, after some mild prompting, a few names were mumbled, some greetings half-assed.

Charlie beamed through it like a pleased teacher on the first day of class. “I’m so proud of you already.”

That was met with a near-universal recoil.

“Okay!” she clapped her hands. “Let’s eat before the coffee turns into battery acid. Vaggie and I made something special.”

The moment she turned toward the cake stand, Angel squinted with visible alarm. “That better not be what I think it is.”

Charlie wheeled back around, slightly scandalized. “It’s cake!”

“Is it?” Angel asked, arms crossed, nose scrunched. “Or is it your latest experiment in ‘how much sugar can I pour in before it legally counts as a chemical weapon’?”

“Vaggie helped!” Charlie cried, clearly seeing this as her airtight defence.

From her seat, Vaggie gave a mild shrug. “It’s half-ass acceptable.”

“Vaggie!”

Husk had already bypassed the debate entirely, carving himself a massive corner slice with his claws and stabbing a fork into it like it owed him money.

“This tastes like drywall and hope,” he said flatly, chewing.

“I’ll take it!” Charlie chirped.

Further down the table, Pentious had made himself incredibly comfortable near the newcomers. “SO!” he declared, gesturing with his fork like a conductor. “What is it you do, exactly? Any fascinating hobbies? Crimes? Revenge plots?”

Silence.

He grinned wider. “Marvellous! We’ll get along famously!”

Across the table, Alastor flipped a page of his newspaper, sipping black coffee from a chipped mug labelled World’s Okayest Roommate.

Angel squinted. “You look like my uncle during divorce court. Real cryptkeeper chic.”

Alastor didn’t glance up. “Thank you, dear. I do try.”

“Old man.”

“I heard that.”

Charlie, meanwhile, gently set a plate down in front of one of the newer arrivals. The guest blinked at it like it might detonate.

“It’s okay,” Charlie said softly, just for her. “You don’t have to eat it. You don’t have to stay. But we’re glad you’re here.”

A pause. Then a whispered, “Thanks.”

And just like that, the table slipped into a low, scattered buzz. Someone passed syrup. Pentious launched into a dramatic retelling of the time he was nearly eaten by a demon made of wax. Angel heckled him the whole way. Husk topped off his flask with coffee. Razzle and Dazzle emerged from wherever they’d been lurking and immediately began attempting to swipe food from the table. Charlie just sank a little deeper into her seat, utterly content. Vaggie quietly sliced another piece of cake. Charlie looked around and let herself smile.

The table groaned and giggled in equal parts. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was working.

There was a knock at the door.

Everything stilled.

Forks paused midair. Angel froze with frosting halfway to his mouth. Pentious, who had been mid-monologue about "the tragic decline of mechanical engineering standards in modern torture devices," paused mid-gesticulation, one claw still dramatically midair.

All eyes drifted to Charlie.

The second knock came louder. Heavier. Not tentative. A summons.

Alastor lowered his paper just enough to peer over the top, red eyes coolly amused. “Are we expecting company, darling?”

She blinked. “…I didn’t schedule anything.”

“Well, I ain’t gettin’ it,” Husk said flatly, and tipped back a mouthful from his flask.

That jolted Charlie into motion. She pushed up from the table, smoothing her palms over her jacket like it might press down her nerves. The new guests were already vanishing behind Husk with the speed of spooked animals. They peeked around him like startled children clinging to their grumpy dad. 

She threw one last glance over her shoulder at the tableful of silent, watchful faces.

Charlie reached the door, took a breath, and opened it.

“HELLO, MY SUNBEAM!”

Lucifer Morningstar didn’t enter. He exploded into the room. Coattails sweeping, eyes gleaming like polished garnets, and his smile bright enough to light the entire west wing. His aura hit like a blast furnace, flooding the space with warm gold, and heat, and pressure. It was oppressive, dazzling, and completely intentional.

He beamed and caught Charlie in a sudden, crushing hug that knocked the wind from her lungs.

“Daaaaad?” she squeaked.

“My goodness, just look at you!” he declared, already letting her go, moving on like a storm front.

A blur of movement, Razzle and Dazzle bolted from wherever they’d been lurking, all feathers and teeth, and practically tackled him with shrieks of joy.

Lucifer hugged them both with practiced flair and patted their heads fondly.“Yes, yes, I know, I know, I am terribly missed,” 

The whole room had shifted. Light warped subtly warmer, the air heavier, humming with presence. Like a force of nature that demanded the room rearrange itself around him.

Charlie’s heartbeat had just started slowing when the temperature shifted.

Lucifer turned his gaze across the room.

And found Alastor.

The smile didn’t vanish, but it changed. Hardened. Sharpened. Something ancient and calculating stirred behind Lucifer’s eyes. “Ah. The bellhop.”

Alastor had risen to a casual stand; his smile was serene, but his eyes burned red like hot pokers. In his hands, his mug cracked with a grinding, glassy sound. Spiderweb fractures blooming across the ceramic as he placed it down with dangerous care.

Charlie’s heart jumped into her throat. “Dad-”

“Why don’t you make yourself useful,” Lucifer went on, eyes gleaming cold, “and carry my bags up to the royal suite?”

Charlie practically teleported between them, planting herself in the path of potential divine retribution with a smile that was more teeth than calm. “Hah- Wow! Okay. Uh. Dad, that’s not really necessary. We don’t do that here, actually. Everyone pitches in on their own, that’s the whole thing!”

Behind her, Alastor’s voice was syrupy. “Of course. I’d hate to disappoint a guest.” 

But she could feel his fury vibrating behind her like a pressure system, contained only by her presence. 

Charlie reached back without looking. Hand hovering in front of his chest. A silent plea. A reminder.

Alastor stilled. Then subtly leaned into the press of her hand. 

Lucifer’s smile never faltered, but his gaze zeroed in on the contact.

“Alastor,” Charlie began in a forced cheery tone, “This is my Dad. And Dad, this is Alastor. He’s not the bellhop, he's uh- my partner.”

Time hiccupped.

Lucifer’s smile thinned to something skeletal. “Partner,” he repeated, and the word bled with implications.

Charlie clarified, quickly, “Business partner.”

Too late.

The damage was done.

A moment passed. Then Lucifer’s expression twitched. Barely. But it was there. A crack in the mask. Hellfire burned in his eyes. His jaw clicked shut just a little too tightly. Fire and fury behind his perfect teeth.

Alastor, in turn, preened.

Not obviously. Oh no, not him. He stood straighter behind Charlie. His shoulders settled. His grin slid sharper, more feline. He all but glowed in the barely-leashed fury of Lucifer’s silence.

Charlie could feel the tension between them spike. Like a rope stretched taut between two snarling beasts. Fraying quickly and ready to snap.

No one moved for a long, long second.

Then Charlie clapped her hands and turned, sweeping her father toward the parlour like a hostess with zero patience for divine bloodshed in her lobby.

“So! Everyone. This is my dad! He’s just… kinda like that. He’s here now. And he’s hungry. Probably. Right, Dad?”

“Famished,” Lucifer said, sweeping in behind her like royalty at a buffet.

“Great. Cool. Awesome. Everyone scooch down. We’ll make room.”

—

The lounge was quiet. Everyone had cleared out after brunch. Lucifer went off to settle into his new room. And Vaggie was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching Charlie wrangle an uncooperative tower of paperwork into something vaguely portable.

“Hey,” she said casually, though the brightness in her voice was a little too practiced. “thought we could hit the boardwalk today. They’re doing some Hell Harvest thing. Creepy corn maze, deep-fried everything, probably five OSHA violations minimum.”

Charlie looked up, halfway through stuffing a stack of half-scorched ledger pages into a folder. Her eyes were bleary behind a smile. “That actually sounds amazing.”

Vaggie’s posture softened, just a little.

Charlie shifted the pile in her arms, wincing as a laminated form with a suspicious bloodstain slipped out and fluttered to the floor.

“But…” She lifted her pile and gave it a pitiful shake. “This is maybe ten percent of what I have to get through today.”

Vaggie’s smile faltered. Just a flicker. “Oh,” she said. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

“...I could stay. Help you sort through some of it.”

Charlie bent to pick up the form, hugging the rest of the stack tightly against her chest. “No, it’s okay. I know how excited you were for a full day off. You should go. Have fun.”

Vaggie hesitated.

“I was excited,” she said, voice softer now, “because I thought I’d spend it with you.”

Charlie looked up at her, mouth parting slightly.

Silence bloomed in the space between them. Familiar. Uncomfortable.

“I just want to get this done,” she said, quieter this time. “So I can breathe. So I can get back to-” She cut herself off.

Vaggie nodded once, sharp and short. “Okay.”

Charlie adjusted the stack in her arms again. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Vaggie said. “Sure.”

Charlie turned, and Vaggie watched her disappear down the corridor, her silhouette framed in dull hallway light.

She made her way up towards her office.

The hallways in this part of the building were narrow. Dim light hummed from flickering sconces. The wallpaper was more scuff than pattern. The ceiling hung lower here than in the main corridors. 

It was a bit out of the way and a little claustrophobic, but that was a large part of why Charlie chose this place for her office. 

The solitude of it. 

She would rather not keep any residents up at night with her restless pacing or deeply questionable work schedule.

Charlie had her arms full. Folders, complaint forms, budgeting spreadsheets, and a crayon-colored "New Morality Curriculum (Now with Glitter!)" courtesy of Angel Dust. Normal hotel business. A strange prickle started up under her skin. 

Alastor.

She rounded the corner toward her office.

There he was. Stood directly in front of her door. Tall. Perfectly still. Smiling like he knew things he shouldn't.

"Oh. Hi Al." She made an aborted gesture that might have been a wave. "Did you need something?"

"Hello, my dear." He offered cheerfully.

Charlie was rapidly approaching his position, and he made no attempt to move. 

She stopped at arm's length from him. He still did not move. "You're in the way."

"So I am!" He looked too smug. "What a coincidence." 

"I need to get through."

"Of course. And yet, here we are."

He smiled. That same too-wide, too-sharp smile. Antlers practically brushed the ceiling. The hallway suddenly felt even smaller than it was.

Her eyes narrowed, "Seriously?"

Alastor tipped his head, "Why, I was simply admiring the architecture. Such exquisite symmetry in this corridor, wouldn't you agree?"

"You're doing it again," she stated, voice flatter than the floor they stood on.

"Doing what?" There was no faux innocence. No. He was goading. Testing. Daring.

"The power trip." The load of papers shifted precariously as she gestured at him, "Standing there like you're the gatekeeper to my own office."

His smile didn't falter. If anything, it deepened. "Would you prefer I charge a toll?"

"You're not funny."

"You always say that when you're trying not to laugh." He leaned in the slightest bit. "It's quite charming."

She adjusted the folders in her arms, shifting her weight. 

He still blocked the door. No room to pass without touching him.

He knew it.

And so did she.

"Move."

"Do you plan to enforce that command?"

She didn't hesitate.

With her arms still full, she slammed her shoulder into his chest in one sharp shove. Not a playful bump, not a sidestep. Full contact.

She's on tiptoes, straining for a high shelf. Something mundane. Maybe sugar, maybe books.

A gloved hand reaches past her. Grabs it.

She bats his wrist. "Show-off."

He laughs. "Say thank you."

She doesn't. Instead, she shoulder-checks him, gentle but firm.

He makes an exaggerated oof sound. The shelf rattles. She rolls her eyes.

The object, whatever it was, is passed to her without fuss. Like they've done this dance a hundred times.

Charlie gasped. Just barely. Little more than a hiccup in her breath. Again?

He stumbled back, coat flaring. One hand caught the wall, but the motion was too smooth. Too controlled, like he'd let her.

Their eyes locked.

His smile didn't fade, but it changed. Darker. Hungrier.  "Oh, well now…"

Charlie straightened, her breath short. Something electric crawled down her spine. "I said, Move.”

He did.

Effortless. Graceful. 

But as she stalked past, he leaned in. Not touching her. Just close enough for his voice to ghost across her ear like the static hum behind the walls. "That was very… decisive of you."

She didn’t stop walking. "Shut up."

"I'm simply impressed. You've never manhandled me like that before."

She threw the folder at him.

He caught it one-handed, gaze never leaving hers. "Such spirit. I do so enjoy our talks."

The office door slammed behind her.

Inside the office, Charlie pressed her back to the door and exhaled.

She set the stack down.

That had been… what? A hallucination? A flicker?

The shelf. The gesture. The sound of his laugh, like they’d done that before. Like passing things to her was muscle memory. Like he’d expected the shoulder-check and leaned into it.

But that wasn’t a memory. It couldn’t be. She’d never done that. She’d never-

Charlie’s breath caught.

The first time, in his office. She’d convinced herself that was just a dream too. A product of stress, a good story, or her brain chewing on stray static.

The second time, at brunch, she’d ignored it. Wrote it off as nerves. A coincidence. She tried very hard to forget what she saw. Or who.

But this?

This was real.

It felt real.

Her heart still raced, her shoulder still tingled where she'd hit him. And that flicker, his hand, the shelf, her laughter. It hadn’t been imagined. It had landed like a stone dropped into a still pond. No preamble. No warning. Just a ripple of something too familiar to be fiction.

Charlie pressed her hands over her face. Then dragged them down slowly.

She was seeing his memories. 

The realization settled with a weight she didn’t know how to hold. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet. It was just heavy. Pressed behind her eyes and curled in the corners of her ribs.

Was it him doing this?

Why would he show her?

She sifted through her memory searching for a pattern, an explanation.

Every time she touched him. No. Not every time. He was constantly touching her.

But today…maybe the shove reminded him of that time? The flicker in the lobby had also shown her something similar to what they had been talking about. And the story he told in his office. He had been visualizing it when he told her. 

Was that it?

Was that the trigger? He had to be thinking of something for her to see it?

Charlie stared at the floor, the same worn carpet they’d never gotten around to replacing.

She didn’t know.

But she was going to find out.

Chapter Text

The hotel doors blew open with a bang that rattled the chandeliers.

Alastor’s head snapped up from the chessboard just before the first foot crossed the threshold.

Vaggie vaulted the stair rail, boots slamming the floor. “Ay, chingada. This shit again.” Her spear spun lazy circles in her grip.

Five. No. Six intruders. They were masked and equipped with gear that was somewhat matched, hinting at actual planning. One had a length of chain. Another, a flamethrower. All of them wore makeshift armour and the look of desperate amateurs hyped up on borrowed bravado.

They didn’t make it past the lobby.

Alastor acted first. A grin bloomed across his face, sharp and immediate, as the room flooded with red static. His shadow peeled away from his feet, then another from the ceiling. A distorted reflection rising with knives of its own. He didn’t even rise from his chair; he just turned his head, eyes glowing.

“Welcome,” he sang, “to the Hazbin Hotel.”

One attacker lunged with a serrated blade. He barely made it two steps before his own shadow burst from beneath his feet and spiked through his thigh with a wet crunch. The scream that followed was shrill and echoing.

Vaggie was a blur of motion. She pinned one attacker to the wall with a brutal kick. Another reached for a gun, only for Vaggie’s spear to knock it skyward. The blade flashed, stopping just shy of the demon’s eye. “Next one to scratch the wallpaper loses a limb.”

One of the masked figures, bolder than the rest, ducked under Alastor’s shadow and ran, not at the bar, not at the vault. At the stairs.

Alastor’s smile didn’t falter, but his voice dropped. “Oh ho. We have a diver.”

Vaggie pivoted to intercept, but Alastor finally rose from his seat. In a blur of distortion and curling shadow, he teleported, appearing directly in the path of the intruder with a low, humming pop. 

“Going somewhere?” he asked sweetly, and rammed the butt of his microphone stand into their ribs.

Something cracked. The intruder collapsed.

Alastor leaned down beside them, voice intimate. “Lucky for you, she said no fatalities.” He pressed a hand gently over the demon’s throat. “So I’m exercising restraint.” His smile stretched, teeth too many, too sharp. “But tomorrow, oh… you’ll be wishing I hadn’t.”

Behind him, another screamed as Vaggie shattered their wrist with a brutal twist and a stomp. She whirled on the final attacker. The last one dropped their weapon, turned, and ran.

Vaggie watched the frantic retreat for a moment. Then raised an eyebrow. “You gonna let that one go?”

Alastor hummed. “Mmm. I could…”

A moment later, the demon tripped as something invisible yanked their ankle out from under them. They hit the ground hard. Shadows coiled over themselves like hungry snakes encasing the demon's legs as he was inexorably dragged backwards. To where Vaggie and Alastor stood, blood soaked and waiting.

“They weren’t trying to rob us,” Vaggie commented, watching the demon flail against the shadows.

“No,” Alastor agreed. He dusted off his gloves with a flourish and adjusted his coat. “They were here to make a point.”

Vaggie nodded grimly. “And the message,” she muttered, “is that someone didn’t like your little Overlord security detail going public.”

Then.

“Vaggie!”

Vaggie’s eyes snapped to the balcony.

She only had a fraction of a second to process the frantic fear in her girlfriend’s eyes before she heard the gunshot. Something slammed into her from the side. The floor knocked the breath from her lungs. 

Above her, Alastor stood appearing deeply inconvenienced. A ragged, ugly tear split his jacket where the bullet tore through. A slight snarl curled the edges of his grin as he assessed the damage.

The demon screamed as the shadows reeled back and slammed him into the ground. The impact landed with a wet, sickening crunch. The gun clattered out of limp hands.

Charlie emerged from the hallway, eyes wide. “Is everyone…?”

“No casualties,” Vaggie reported. 

Alastor gave a little bow. “They’ll have no problem pulling themselves together. In a manner of speaking.”

Charlie glanced at the intruders. One was coughing up blood. Another lay curled on the floor, clutching a broken arm. “Oh my God.”

“Look at it this way,” Alastor offered cheerfully. “I left them intact this time. Though I dare say they might not appreciate that courtesy.”

Charlie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why is this happening again? What did they want?”

Vaggie folded her arms, gaze sharp. “Good question. Was this a robbery? Vandalism? A message?”

“An attempted kidnapping?” Charlie asked quietly. “Or an assassination?”

The three of them stared down at the bodies. No clear pattern. No spoken demands. Just violence.

“Who were they after?” Vaggie asked. “Me? Charlie? You?”

Alastor tilted his head. “It’s flattering to imagine I still draw that much ire.”

“I don’t know.” Vaggie’s eyes narrowed. “That one made a break for the hallway. Could’ve been headed for my quarters.”

“That one went for the stairs,” Charlie said. “That’s my room.”

Alastor shrugged. “Then again, the first to lunge was aiming at me. Not that I blame him. I am terribly punchable.”

“Can you be serious for two minutes?” Vaggie snapped.

“I am being serious.” He gestured to the wreckage. “Serious enough to leave them twitching.”

Charlie frowned. “Could they have been after the guests?”

Vaggie shook her head. “No. This was targeted.”

“They didn’t make it far enough to do much,” Alastor added. “If there was a goal, they botched it.”

The silence stretched.

Then Vaggie muttered, “Something’s coming.”

“Bigger than this?” Alastor asked, almost gleeful.

She glared at him. “Don’t sound so excited.”

—

Not long later, the group of them got to work hauling the intruders into the hotel’s gutted rec room. What had once been a billiards lounge now functioned as an improvised holding cell.

They hadn’t expected anyone to be alert after the assault. Certainly not the scrawny kid Husk dragged into the foyer by one arm, groaning with pain but still conscious. The youngest of the group by far. He had deep, bruised hollows under his eyes.

“Last one,” Husk muttered, shoving the kid forward with a boot. “Little bastard bit me.”

“He did?” Alastor’s eyebrows lifted, intrigued. “How charmingly feral.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Vaggie snapped.

Charlie stepped closer, gaze scanning the kid. He glared back, but there was no real venom, just a roiling panic under his skin, masked by bravado.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He spat at her feet.

Vaggie surged forward. 

Alastor caught her wrist lazily, like he was plucking a flower. “Ah-ah. I can't imagine that will help our dear Charlie’s little interrogation.”

Fury overtook Vaggie's face. She opened her mouth to respond, but Charlie spoke first.

“I’m fine,” Charlie murmured, shaking her head. “Look at him. He’s terrified.”

“Which means he knows something,” Vaggie snapped.

The kid muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Charlie crouched a little, trying not to tower. “You can talk to me.”

He stared at the floor. “Didn’t sign up for this.”

“What did you sign up for?” Vaggie asked sharply. “You don’t just strap on weapons and run into Overlord territory for fun.”

“I thought it was just supposed to be recon!” he snapped, then flinched, like the words had betrayed him. “I was supposed to get in, map the place. That’s it. Next thing I know, we’re going in heavy. Angelic shrapnel, blessed blades. It was a setup. Half the stuff they brought was designed for him.” He points to Alastor.

Charlie’s eyes widened slightly. She crouched lower. “You didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Vaggie snorted, “He just has basic survival instincts.”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes flicked up at her. Just once. That was enough.

Alastor chuckled, low and contemplative. “Conscience or not, you still showed up to the massacre.”

“Shut up,” the kid spat, but his voice trembled. “You think it’s easy? Most of us don't have an overlord standing between us and the bullshit out there!”

“But you could,” Charlie said quietly. “You could join us.”

A pause.

The boy’s breath hitched.

Then, quietly: “You really let people stay here? Even after they…”

Charlie didn’t smile. It wasn’t a moment for that. But something in her shoulders relaxed. “We don’t promise it’s easy. But yes. You can stay. If you’re willing to try.”

Vaggie made a soft sound of protest. “Charli-”

“One chance,” Charlie said. “One. If he tries anything-”

“I’ll turn him inside out and use his spine as a towel rack,” Alastor said with a sunny grin.

The boy paled. “Y-You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I can,” Alastor assured him. “But she’s offering mercy. That’s a rare currency in Hell. Best not to squander it.”

The boy looked between them. Charlie’s sincerity, Vaggie’s fury, Alastor’s horror-show enthusiasm. And against all better judgment, he nodded.

“…Okay. I’ll try.”

The doors burst open behind them with a sharp click and swing, Lucifer striding in with the calm strut of a man who hadn’t missed a damn thing.

His coat flared behind him like it had a mind of its own. What appeared to be grocery bags floated in behind him, possessed of some infernal magic. 

He took one look at the ruined foyer, the burned wallpaper, the unconscious intruders, “What the fuck happened in here?”

Alastor’s smile sharpened immediately, voice honeyed and sharp, “Ah, welcome back. You only missed an entire battle for the hotel’s front door. But please, by all means, make your grand entrance. It’s not like your presence would have made much of a difference.”

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed. Not enough to break the flippant act, but the tension in his jaw was unmistakable. The temperature in the room dropped noticeably.  “Hm. I was under the impression the hotel had security. Something about ‘overlord protection’.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Didn’t realize a single scraggly kid would give you such trouble.”

The kid flinched as attention swivelled to him. His eyes wide and locked on the spectacle at the door. He leaned toward Charlie, voice barely a whisper. “…Is that really Lucifer?”

Charlie gently touched his shoulder, guiding him further away from the others. “Yes. Don’t worry. They’re only like this with each other.”

The boy blinked, visibly starstruck. Then his eyes flick briefly to Alastor, “...and he talks to him like that?”

Alastor, still bristling, gave the boy a thin, polite smile that did absolutely nothing to hide his fraying temper. “Apologies for the unwelcoming atmosphere. Some of us were busy bleeding for this hotel. Imagine our curiosity about where exactly His Majesty was while that was happening.”

Vaggie stepped in like a living wedge. “Enough. Both of you. We just stopped a second attack in two weeks. Maybe try not to start a third in the damn foyer.”

Alastor didn’t flinch, but his smile sharpened. Lucifer’s hand twitched at his side.

Charlie clapped her hands, “Dad, can you show our new guest to his room, please? The attack is over now, but you are in time to help with the cleanup!” 

Vaggie hefted her spear, “I’ll do a sweep to make sure we got everyone.”

“Great idea, babes,” Charlie said, turning to the others. “Husk, make a list of everything that needs replacing so Dad can fix it when he gets back.”

“There’s no need for that.” Alastor dismissed, “I can start on repairs immediately.”

A hand clamped around his arm. He bristled all the way up to his ears, and the lights seemed to dim briefly.

“You’re coming with me.” It wasn’t a statement. It was a command. 

“Am I now?”

“Some of us,” She parroted his cadence from earlier, “are still bleeding for this hotel.” 

It was quiet in Alastor’s office. 

Quiet. Not peaceful. 

The air still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, sharp with the acrid tang of scorched fabric. Charlie rummaged through the first aid kit with careful casualness. She clung to her thinly constructed illusion that this was all routine, like she wasn’t about to patch up a demon who’d just taken a bullet for someone he claimed to despise.

Alastor stood by the window, one hand braced on the sill, the other pressed lightly to his side where the blast had grazed him. His jacket and waistcoat lay neatly folded on the desk.

“I’m fine, you know,” he said. “Just a scratch.”

He wasn’t wrong. By Hell’s standards, the wound was downright minor.

“Sit down,” she muttered.

He obeyed with maddening calm, lowering himself to the loveseat like it was nothing at all. Elbow propped on one knee, microphone discarded beside him, bleeding like an afterthought.

Charlie stepped between his knees.

He didn’t move. Just looked up at her with that lazy grin, eyes half-lidded and gleaming like he couldn’t think of a better way to spend his evening.

“Show me,” she said, tugging his shirt up.

Not off. Just high enough to bare the damage. She peeled it from where it was tucked into his pants, dragging the fabric slowly and deliberately until it bunched beneath his arms. His skin was pallid, stretched taut over lean muscle. Blood streaked across his ribs in an ugly, fresh spatter.

She swallowed hard.

The wound was angry and red. The rest of him looked untouched.

Alastor hummed low in his throat, clearly amused. “Always the forward one, my dear. Normally, one expects a drink before the undressing starts.”

She didn’t rise to it. Just gave him a look. “Alastor.”  Then, quieter, “This was meant for Vaggie.”

“Was it?” His gaze drifted to the ceiling. “Funny. I seem to recall her freezing up. Not very professional.”

“You don’t even like her. Why would you-”

“I didn’t do it for her.”

That stopped her. Just for a second.

She nodded, jaw tight, and rolled up her sleeves. Then she knelt in front of him.

Charlie leaned in, eyes narrowing as she inspected the tear across his side. The gash was shallow but ugly, skin scored with angry lines where flesh and metal had collided. Without thinking, she prodded the edge of it with her fingertip, testing the damage.

Alastor jolted, a hiss breaking sharp between his teeth. His eyes snapped to hers, pupils narrowing, surprise painted raw across his face.

“Deal with it,” Charlie said before he could speak. “If you’re going to scare the shit out of me, you can sit still and let me fix it.”

The grin flickered, sharp teeth bared with more effort than ease. “Not necessary,” he said, voice too smooth, too quick.

“Necessary.” She dipped the cloth in antiseptic. “Just…let me do this. Please.”

His laugh came low, tight, almost unsteady. “By all means, my dear. Proceed.”

“Try not to enjoy this too much,” she said, a dry attempt at humour

“Oh, no promises,” he replied, voice a purr, teeth flashing.

She pressed the cloth into the wound, a little rougher than was needed. Probably less than he deserved.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But the radio static shifted.

Not louder.  Deeper.

Charlie’s hand lingered against his side, heat seeping through her palm. A thought tugged at her; if the visions were linked to what he was focused on, this would be the time to check. She needed to know. To test it.

She flattened her free hand deliberately on the skin of his exposed stomach. The muscles jumped under her palm. Nothing happened. Just the rise and fall of his breath under her touch.

“Have you let anyone patch you up before?” she asked, half-curious, half-accusatory.

For an instant, something flickered in his eyes. And then,

A kitchen in another time, chair legs scraping against the wooden floor. Alastor slouched against the backrest, laughter spilling through clenched teeth as he pressed a hand to his ribs, shirt dark with blood. She shouted at him for being reckless, scrambling for cloth and whiskey and anything to stop the bleeding.

Her hands retreated.

Gaze locked on him, she rinsed the cloth and pressed into the wound again, heavier, slower this time.

His pupils blew wide, swallowing the red. Her breath hitched. His grin stayed fixed, but his fingers curled into the armrest, knuckles creaking around the fabric.

A shiver ran through him. Small. Contained. Unmistakable.

His breath stuttered, then resumed. Slow, shallow, deliberate. 

He liked this.

Not just the touch. The pain. The sting of it. The way she pressed into him, deliberate and unflinching.

Her curiosity sparked, unbidden. How far could she push before the pain stopped being pleasure? She leaned closer, dragging the cloth across the wound with a steadier, slower hand, fingertips brushing just past the edges of torn skin.

Another stutter of breath. He was holding still for her, control fraying at the edges.

“Almost seems like you’re doing this on purpose,” he murmured, voice low and ragged.

Charlie looked up, eyes locking with his. Frustration boiled up from deep in her chest. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe she wanted him uncomfortable, off-balance, not in control for once. She wanted to grab him with both hands and shake him until he no longer felt the need to instigate conflict at every opportunity.

“Are you complaining?” She reached for a large plaster. Tore it open.

His grin stretched wider, hunger edging it now. “Not in the slightest.”

She held his gaze as she pressed the bandage into place.

Her hands were firm, unrelenting, breath coming faster than she wanted. The gauze was tight. Her knuckles had gone white under the pressure.

His sharp inhale split into a low, ragged laugh. His chest arched into her palm before he caught himself, locking it down. But not before she felt the tremor. The restraint shattering for just an instant under her palm.

The sound he made slid jagged down her spine, and before she could think, Charlie pulled back. Too fast. Too sharp. Like distance could undo the way his breath had hitched under her hand.

She fumbled the medical kit together, snapping bottles closed, stuffing wrappers inside as if she could pack away her own reaction with them. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Her fingers shook. Every clumsy shuffle sounded too loud in the quiet room.

He was probably laughing at her already. Thriving on her fluster, on how easy it was to get under her skin. That was the joke. She was the joke.

She drew a breath, forced herself to look at him, to prove she wasn’t rattled.

Mistake.

Alastor reclined in the chair, legs spread loose around where she’d just been kneeling. His shirt rucked high, the bandage stark against ashen skin, hair falling messier than she’d ever seen it. Static still hummed low, threading through the silence, heavy enough to feel in her teeth. His grin wasn’t playful. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just steady. Watching.

Her stomach flipped.

She wanted to believe he was teasing her, stringing her along for his own amusement. That would have been easy. Familiar. Safe. But the way his eyes held hers, dark, unblinking, steady as stone. There was no joke in it. No laughter.

She stuffed the last gauze into the kit, snapped it closed, and backed toward the door. Every step felt calculated, careful, like one misstep would undo the mask she’d held so tightly.

Alastor’s eyes followed her, unwavering, and she imagined that faint smirk, the one that always suggested he was enjoying her flustered state. She told herself it was only that. That he found her reactions amusing. That she was a toy, a target.

She stepped into the hallway, drawing a slow, steadying breath. The door clicked shut behind her. The silence pressed in, heavy and close.

By the time she reached her office, her legs felt leaden. She sank onto the edge of the sofa, staring down at her hands, still faintly red where she’d patched Alastor’s side.

The wound would heal; he was a sinner after all. And a powerful one. Wounds significantly more severe would barely slow him down. But the sight of him bleeding, smiling through it, had left her stomach in knots. 

She didn’t know what was worse. The moment she thought he might be truly injured, or the certainty that if he had been, he wouldn’t let her see it.

He was fine. He’d insisted on it. And she had let him. Because the alternative was looking too long at the way his coat had split open, or asking what would’ve happened if that gun had been blessed too. If he hadn’t chosen to intercept that bullet.

She pressed her hands over her eyes.

Vaggie had nearly gotten shot. Alastor had gotten shot. And this was the second time this month someone had broken through the defences. That wasn’t a coincidence. It was a pattern. A pattern she should’ve predicted. A threat she should’ve neutralized before it ever got to this point.

So she hadn’t gone to dinner. Instead, she grabbed the building plans, the emergency procedures, the blueprints for the latest warding sigils, and disappeared into her office like a woman possessed.

She could fix this.

She had to fix this.

She just needed to get ahead of it. Be smarter. Try harder.

A few hours later, when Vaggie stepped into the war zone of paperwork and general madness, Charlie didn’t even notice the door open.

Stacks of paper towered like leaning buildings. There was a whiteboard covered in overlapping schedules, guest charts, and emergency protocols. Several copies of hotel blueprints were scattered around, covered in various notations and routes marked out. Charlie was typing furiously, highlighter cap between her teeth, mug of cold coffee at her elbow.

Vaggie approached with takeout in hand. “You didn’t come to dinner. Again.”

Charlie looked up like a startled animal, eyes flicking to the clock. “Didn’t notice. Sorry.” Her voice was clipped, distracted. “Lots to do.”

Vaggie set the box down, careful not to disrupt the chaotic little ecosystem of ledgers, schedules, and color-coded folders. “That’s why I brought food. You need to eat. And sleep. And breathe, maybe.”

“Can’t. We’ve got-” Charlie grabbed a loose sheet that may or may not have started life as a takeout menu, now covered in scribbles. “Four new guests I need to build care plans for, Angel set the curtains on fire in room seven, and Pentious blew a hole in the wall again.”

She squinted at another paper. “Wait, who signed off on Niffty leading group therapy?”

“That’s not the point,” Vaggie said, sharper than she meant.

Charlie finally looked up. Her face was pale, drawn, and her smile too tight to be reassuring. “I’m fine. Just busy.”

“Charlie, you’re not fine,” Vaggie said, stepping closer. “You’re holding this place together with spit and willpower. You’re exhausted. You’re stretched too thin. You can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this.”

Charlie schools her face into something more approachable, “It’s no big deal babes, I just need to finish this-“

“That’s such shit.” Vaggie snaps. “There’s always something else that needs to be done. Always something new to fix. It never ends, Charlie.”

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” Charlie said, her voice rising slightly. “If I don’t, who will?”

Vaggie’s voice dropped to something gentler. “I will. We will. You’re not alone, Charlie.”

Charlie slammed her pen down. “I don’t have time for this to be done wrong.”

That silenced the room for a beat.

Vaggie sucked in a breath. “I’m not saying stop. I know how much this matters. I’m saying you need to stop doing it like this. You’re barely sleeping, you forget to eat, and there have been two attacks this month alone.”

Charlie stood suddenly, the chair squeaking behind her. “I know! I know… I was there. I heard the shot. I don’t need reminding.”

She stopped herself, breath shallow. Her hands were trembling.

Vaggie softened but didn’t retreat. “I’m scared for you.”

Charlie blinked.

Vaggie stepped closer again. “This is real, we're talking angelic steel, Charlie. We're facing a coordinated, well-funded enemy. You just keep throwing yourself into the fire and acting like it’s fine, but it’s not. One day it won’t be. One day they’ll get through.”

Charlie’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Vaggie swallowed hard. “I can’t protect you if you’re too tired to function.”

There was a long silence.

Finally, Charlie sat. Slowly. Like her body had just remembered how heavy it was.

“I just… I need this to work,” she whispered. “If it doesn’t, then what’s the point?”

Vaggie knelt beside her, resting a hand gently on Charlie’s knee. “It will. But not if it eats you alive in the process.”

Charlie didn’t speak. But her shoulders slumped forward. As if she’d allowed herself to lean for the first time all day.

Vaggie’s hand stayed. “Let me carry some of it. Please.”

Charlie nodded. Just once.

She rose unsteadily. “I’m just… gonna head to bed.”

Vaggie’s hand found her shoulder, “You going to yours?”

Charlie gave a small nod.

“Do you need anything?”

A shake of the head.

Vaggie’s expression softened. “Okay, mi vida. I’ll check in on you later.”

—

Alastor found her.

Of course he did. She could hide from reality, responsibility, and even her own crowded thoughts. But she could never stay hidden from him. He always knew where she was, especially when she didn’t want to be found. 

She hadn’t even been there very long when we entered her room as a slip of shadow under the door. Casually coalescing as though he had every right to be there. As if he belonged in her space.

She watched his shoes in disinterested silence. Not a sound filled the room. Not crying, not music, not even breathing. Just… stillness. 

The shoes were still for a long moment. Then they approached the bed. Ah, so he’s spotted her.

He stepped lightly, the static buzz under his skin quieter than usual. 

Then, still standing straight as a board, he bent in that way only Alastor could, folding sideways at the hips like a marionette to peer beneath the bed, his grin already half formed. 

"Now what could you be doing down there, Princess?” 

Charlie blinked up at him. Eyes wide. Red and rimmed and tired. She didn’t answer. 

Alastor hummed thoughtfully, as if considering what came next. 

Most times, this would be the moment when Vaggie, or whoever else found her, would give her space. A moment to decompress. Maybe leave a tea or some snacks on the nightstand for later. 

But Alastor didn’t leave. 

Instead, he sighed long and theatrical, then knelt and sprawled onto the floor. One limb at a time, careful and precise, until he was lying on his back beside the bed, staring at the ceiling. 

"Would you believe I’ve never tried this particular brand of self-inflicted exile before?” he murmured. “It’s charming. Rather dusty.” 

Charlie considered protesting. Pointing out someone with his injury shouldn’t be rolling around on the floor. She doubted it would sway him, so she didn’t respond. But she didn’t tell him to go, either.

He filled the silence like he always did. With noise, with nonsense, with the casual ease of someone who’d never been afraid of a void because he knew he could always outtalk it.

“I heard Angel tried to convince Husk to play strip poker earlier. Husk thought it was a setup. Angel didn’t deny it. The round ended with Husk tossing the table and yelling about union wages. Nifty had to clean up the mess. I did offer to help, of course, but she hit me with a broom.” 

It was nice to have something to focus on outside of her head. 

“Would you like to hear a story?” He asked.

She didn’t answer.

He went on anyway.

“About modern slang,” he said with a grin sharp enough to cut. “Specifically, how I came to learn the phrase ‘a snack.’”

She still didn't say anything. But her interest was piqued.

He folded his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling, voice lazy with theatrical reminiscence.

“I was searching for an establishment I’d heard served exquisite soul-infused soufflés. I must’ve taken a wrong turn, because instead of a restaurant, I ended up at what was very much…” He paused, lips quirking. “Well. Not a restaurant.”

“Wait.” She blinked, certain she misunderstood. “Like a…” 

“Brothel,” he supplied helpfully. “Though the signage was very vague. All dark wood and red velvet. Easy mistake, really.”

She choked on a laugh. “You accidentally tried to eat dinner at a brothel?”

“Oh no, darling. I accidentally ordered a hooker. Thought he was the waiter. I asked for the specials, and he winked at me and said, ‘Well, baby, I’m a snack… but some say I’m a whole meal.’”

Charlie slapped a hand over her mouth to smother her laughter.

Alastor looked incredibly pleased with himself.

“Naturally, I was intrigued,” he went on smoothly. “Though admittedly confused about the menu.”

“And what did you do?” she asked, wary amusement laced through every syllable. “Did you? Wait. Did you actually…”

He turned his face toward her, his smile gone a little too still at the corners.

“I ate him.”

The silence snapped taut between them.

Then a muffled noise.

“Alastor.”

“I did warn him.”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

He hummed, considering, “Unless my wife went through some truly bizarre changes after death, he certainly was not my ‘type’ as it were.”

Charlie groaned. Long, theatrical, and muffled by her palms. She scrubbed her face like she could wipe the thought out of her head. “So what, you'd be totally down if your wife looked completely different?”

“It was not her physical features that enthralled me.”

For a moment she just looked at him. And then, without a word, she reached for him. 

A hand extending out into the low space between them. He stilled. Then, slowly, he placed his hand in hers. 

For a second there was a flicker. Something else. Something more. Their hands overlaid between them, His skin darker, warmer. An extra finger that housed a gold band. Hand still cradling hers in the exact same way as now. Still offering the same comfort.

One blink and it was gone.

She gave the gentlest tug. 

And like some bizarre, overgrown cat crawling into a box too small, Alastor folded himself under the bed, limbs contorting awkwardly in the small space. His hair caught on the bedframe. His monocle popped askew. 

Their knees brushed. Then their thighs. Then, inexplicably, her foot ended up tucked behind his calf, and suddenly they were very close. Close enough that she could see the shine in his eyes. Close enough to feel his grin.

She squinted at his face in the dark. Then she laughed. Quiet at first. Then louder, breath catching with something that felt almost like relief. “You look ridiculous,” she whispered through the smile breaking across her face. 

“I look dashing,” Alastor corrected, a hand pressed to his chest between them as if wounded. “Devastating. Heroic. Impossibly gallant.” 

“You look like full sized taxidermy in a dollhouse.” 

He grinned at her, letting her have the last word. 

They lay there in the dark together, limbs tangled in stillness and dust. The space under the bed was too small for anything else. No room for pretense, or masks, or the polite distance they both maintained. Just quiet. And closeness. Comfort. 

Charlie hadn’t moved. Neither had he.

The warmth of her fingers still lingered where they’d tangled in his. She wasn’t holding his hand anymore, exactly, but she also hadn’t let go.

Alastor lay beside her, unnaturally still. His eyes wide open. His grin soft at the edges.

He didn’t need to stay.

But he did.

After a long stretch of silence, Charlie spoke, barely above a whisper. “Vaggie’s mad at me.”

Alastor’s eyes shifted in her direction, but he said nothing.

“She said… she’s scared. That I’m going to get hurt. That I work too hard, and I don’t know when to stop.” Her voice cracked just a little. “And I don’t know what to tell her. How do I explain this is just… what has to be done?”

She didn’t ask him directly. It wasn’t advice she wanted. Just the relief of saying it out loud to someone who wouldn’t ask her to stop.

“You do work too much.” His voice was sharp, clipped, leaving no room for argument. “You called me your business partner. Appointed me head of security. And yet you insist on carrying every burden yourself. If you don’t allow me to contribute properly soon, I’ll be forced to assume you find me incompetent.”

Her head snapped up, guilt rising hot in her chest. “No! No, that’s not what I think at all. You already do plenty. And Vaggie! She does too. I couldn’t-”

“Mm. And what of Asbesto?” he cut in smoothly.

Charlie blinked. “He’s… more financial backing than anything. Isn’t he?”

Alastor’s grin thinned. “You’re squandering your assets. If you bring someone aboard, you use them. Otherwise, you’re not delegating, you’re hoarding. Passing every problem through your own hands until you grind yourself to dust. A dreadful waste.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to argue, but the words stuck.

Finally, she set her hands flat against his chest and exhaled. “I don’t… I don’t know how to let go. If I don’t keep my hands on everything, what if it all falls apart?”

“Perhaps you ought to consider the possibility that it already is.” He hooked a claw under her chin and directed her to meet his eye, “Because of you, not despite you.”

The words landed like a slap, but he didn’t soften them, and she didn’t ask him to. She tucked her head under his chin, her chest pulling tight.

“Okay,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “If you and Vaggie actually agree on something, then… I’ll make the changes.”

His voice rumbled softly under her forehead,  “See that you do. It would be such a shame to watch you crumble under the weight of your own good intentions.”

Charlie let out a weak laugh, running her thumb over the edge of his lapel. For a long moment, she almost swallowed the words down. Almost.

“…Can I ask you something else?” she said finally, voice tentative.

Alastor's ear twitched once, thumping lightly against the under bed, “By all means, my dear. Your curiosity is ever so entertaining.”

She hesitated, searching his face for mockery, and found only polite expectation. “How… how did you handle fights? With your wife. Not little ones. Not arguments about,” she waved vaguely, “dishes, or mess, or whatever. But the big things. The kind of differences where it feels like you’ll never see eye to eye.”

His grin sharpened. “My, my. Straight for the jugular, hm? And what is it, precisely, you’re not seeing eye to eye on?”

Charlie bit her lip. The words tasted sour coming out. “I don’t think Vaggie believes in my dream anymore. Not really. Not the way she used to.”

Alastor barked out a laugh, quick and delighted. “Oh, Princess! You’re asking me for romantic advice? Now, that’s rich.”

“You’re not exactly disqualified,” she said, a touch defensive. “Your love lasted through both of your deaths, right? That’s more than most couples manage.”

His eyes glinted. “A charming way to frame it. Though I can only speak for myself.”

“I mean it. How did you handle her reaction to your… proclivities?” Her throat bobbed as she forced the words out. “Or… was she like you?”

For the first time, his grin faltered. Didn’t vanish, but held steady, smaller. “No,” he said at last, quiet, certain. “She wasn’t like me.”

Silence stretched. For a moment, Charlie thought that was all he’d give her. Then, at length, he went on.

“Don’t waste your time looking for someone who believes in what you do. Or even someone who likes it. What you want,” his gaze flicked to hers, bright and unflinching, “is someone who thinks you’re ridiculous. Insane. Someone who shakes their head at your absurd little schemes and declares it all a waste of time. But,” he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, “stands beside you anyway. Who takes up hammer and nails to help you build your madhouse simply because it makes you happy.”

Charlie’s chest squeezed. She wasn’t sure if the words comforted her or cut her deeper. She stared at him with something new in her eyes. Something warm and unguarded. Awe, almost.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, more curious than annoyed.

“You’re secretly, like, a real actual romantic,” she said, grinning at him like he’d handed her a gift without knowing it.

He made a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a gag.

“Absolutely not,” he sputtered. “You take that back this instant.”

“Nope,” she sing-songed. “You said to support your partner's dreams. That’s, like, textbook romance.”

“I said find someone who humors you despite your obvious delusion.”

“Awww.”

“Stop it.”

“Adorable.”

He covered his face with one hand and groaned dramatically. “For the love of Hell, do not go spreading that information around. I have a reputation.”

“Too late. I’m telling Angel the moment we leave this dust box.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“He’d love that.”

They both laughed, quietly. For a moment, Charlie’s shoulders loosened. And for a moment, everything felt a little less heavy.

—

Elsewhere in the hotel, reasonable folk were asleep, or pretending to be. Angel was on shift, watching the prisoners.

The lights above the bar hummed low. Husk sat slouched on his usual stool behind the counter, dealing out a game he had no real intention of finishing. A cigarette burned lazily in the ashtray beside him, its smoke curling into the stale air.

Vaggie entered without a word. 

She didn’t look tired, but Husk could tell she was. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that came from holding too many things together too tightly for too long.

“Bar’s closed, you know,” Husk muttered without looking up.

“I’m not here to drink,” she said, and sat down anyway.

He gave her a look. Didn’t stop her.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she added after a moment. “Something weird. And I need you to be honest.”

Husk exhaled slowly through his nose. “That already sounds exhausting.”

“You’ve known him the longest, right?” she asked. “Alastor.”

“Unfortunately.”

Vaggie didn’t smile. “Is he… interested in people? Sexually?”

Husk actually laughed. A rough, barked sound, like something torn from the bottom of an ashtray. He looked at her like she’d asked if fish could sing opera.

“You serious?”

She didn’t flinch. Just held his gaze, steady.

He blinked once. Then shook his head.

“No. Not a fuckin chance. Men, women, anything in between or beyond. Doesn’t matter. Never seen him show interest in that kind of thing. Closest he ever came to getting hot and bothered was for carnage. Chaos. Maybe a good gumbo.”

Vaggie exhaled through her nose. Not quite relief, but close.

Husk clocked it. “This about Charlie?”

She didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

He sighed and leaned on the counter, squinting at her more closely now. 

“Look… you ain’t wrong to be worried,” he said, tone softening. “Not ‘cause he’s got some pervy thing for her. He doesn’t. Not physically, anyway. But you wanna talk about attachment?”

He let that word sit there, heavy.

“That’s a whole different beast.”

Vaggie frowned. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled slow. Reached for the bottle, but didn’t pour. Just held it in one hand like it helped corral his thoughts.

“Back before all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling. “Back when we were alive. He kept to himself. Didn’t date. Didn’t touch anyone. Shut people down hard. Violently, sometimes.”

He tapped his own chest.

“But he wore this ring. Still got it now. Never took it off.”

Vaggie leaned in a little. “Was he married?”

“Dunno,” Husk replied. “Never said. But he had these photos. Old ones. Kept ’em locked up like treasure. Wouldn’t let anyone near ’em. Tore into a guy once just for picking one up by accident.”

He paused. The memory seemed to sit uneasily.

“He was… jealously sentimental. Not in a sweet way. Like something broke and he was guarding the pieces like a dog with a bone.”

There was a long pause. Husk shuffled the cards just for something to do with his hands.

“I didn’t think he could care about anything. But once he did? He held on with both hands. Wouldn’t let go. Not even when it got bloody.”

A quieter pause.

“Especially when it got bloody.”

Vaggie sat with that for a long moment. Then said, almost absently, “Like he does with you.”

Husk blinked. “What?”

“You said he doesn’t get attached often,” she went on. “But even in Hell, he found you. Tracked you down. Keeps you close. Calls you his friend.”

She looked at him, steady.

“You’re one of his attachments.”

Husk looked vaguely horrified. He leaned back like she’d physically struck him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He won’t let you go,” she explained, quiet but firm. “Even when you try to leave. He keeps dragging you back in. That’s what you just described.”

Husk muttered something under his breath and dragged a clawed hand down his face. “Fuck no. No no no. That’s not- I’m not. Ugh.”

Vaggie gave the faintest smirk. Not smug. Just tired. Knowing.

Husk pointed at her like she’d crossed a sacred line. “Look, I’m not one of his little fuckin pet obsessions, alright? I’m just… convenient. And I mix a good drink.”

“Sure,” she said.

He grumbled. Fell quiet. Eyes drifting toward the dark hallway.

“But if he’s started to care about Charlie…” he said eventually. “He’ll cling to her, too. Same way. Same fury. And he won’t take kindly to anyone who gets in the way of that.”

Vaggie’s spine straightened.

“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked. “Charlie doesn’t see it that way. She doesn’t think he’s dangerous to her. She won’t listen.”

Husk dealt another card. Didn’t look up.

“Then don’t be in his way.”

He started shuffling the deck again. Like that was the end of it. Like that should be enough.

And maybe, in Hell, it was.

Chapter Text

Morning began with Charlie being yanked straight through a portal.

She tumbled out the other side with a startled bleat, still in her pajamas, hairbrush clutched in one hand. She landed in a waiting pair of arms.

“Good morning, sweet apple!” Lucifer’s voice cracked the hallway’s silence like a trumpet blast.

“Hey, Dad.” Charlie gave a small, awkward wave, hands fumbling for something to do. “What’s up?”

“You weren’t answering your door!” He gestured grandly toward it, shifting her weight to one arm.

Charlie followed his point to her own bedroom door. “Oh! Yeah… I wasn’t in there.”

A flicker of suspicion crossed Lucifer’s face.

“I usually sleep with Vaggie.” 

Lucifer’s brows raced each other for his hairline. 

“In her room!” She slapped a palm over her eyes. It felt too early for this. “Ohmygosh. Did you want something, Dad?”

Lucifer barked out a laugh, loud, manic, and gone just as fast. “Just wanna spend time with my baby girrrlll!” He smooshed his face against hers. “And maybe breakfast? I was gonna make pancakes, but I uh... don’t know if you still like those…”

Charlie’s exasperation melted into a smile. “Yeah, Dad. Pancakes sound great.”

—

The silverware clinked softly, the only sound between them. Across from her, Lucifer was chattering away about his newest project, but she felt his eyes flick toward her every few seconds.

“You look tired,” he said finally, voice deceptively light.

She wondered, just for a moment, how much she could tell him. That she was catching glimpses of someone else’s past? That it was making her nervous to touch people? Or at least, one specific person. Alastor.

No. She pressed the thought down hard, like smothering a spark before it could catch. He didn’t need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Charlie answered instead, a safe sliver of truth.

He sat forward in his seat and gave her his full attention. “Is it work? Thought you had all this help now.”

She shook her head, “I’ve been… dreaming a lot.”

That made him still. The steam curled off his cup, and for once, he didn’t fill the silence with his usual dramatics. “Dreaming,” he repeated slowly. “Is it the nightmares again?”

Charlie forced a small laugh. “Not nightmares exactly. Just… strange. I don’t even know how to explain them.”

“Try me,” he pressed gently.

Her throat felt tight. She shifted in her chair, eyes on her plate. “They’re about someone else,” she said at last. “A man. A human.”

Lucifer set his coffee down with deliberate care. His expression smoothed into something polite and unreadable, but his eyes sharpened. “Human,” he echoed, as though testing the taste of it. “And what does this… someone do in these dreams?”

“Nothing,” Charlie said too quickly. She tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle. “It’s like… I’m not myself. I see through someone else’s eyes. It feels real, like memories, but they’re not mine.”

Lucifer’s fingers tightened around his cup, the porcelain groaning faintly.

“Charlotte,” he said smoothly, almost idly, though his eyes gleamed sharp. Charlie’s mouth twitched in distaste, but he went on before she could protest.

“Not every dream in your head is yours. Some are shoved in there like ducks into a fountain, meant to cloud the waters, or stir up things that have been rotting at the bottom of the basin for a very long time.”

Her heart thudded painfully. She managed a brittle smile. “Dad, it’s just stress. You worry too much.”

Lucifer’s mouth curved into something soft and sad. “Be careful where you go, even in sleep, pumpkin. Some doors are locked for good reason.” 

Charlie lingered only a moment longer, weighing how to salvage the mood. “I was actually thinking,” she said carefully, “that the guests should get some kind of self-defence training. Would you… Maybe like to help with that?”

It looked like Lucifer tried very hard to keep hold of his Serious Concerned Dad expression, but it melted like soft-serve under Hell’s summer sun. He brightened, practically glowing. “Would I ever! Oh, don’t you worry CharChar, we’ll whip them into shape in no time!”

Relief loosened Charlie’s chest. She smiled as she rose, gathering her plate. “I should find Vaggie. Thanks for breakfast, Dad. It’s nice to have you around again.”

He melted just a little more. “Aww, it’s nice to have you around too!”

Charlie dodged an aggressive hug and slipped out into the hall, leaving behind a chorus of 'my daughter wants to work with meee',

She was immediately ambushed by Angel, who popped around the corner, all frantic gestures and glitter clinging to his fur.

“Boss! Emergency! The popcorn machine’s possessed or somethin’ keeps spitting fireballs, nearly took Husk’s tail off. C’mon, you gotta see this!”

Before she could protest, he hooked her arm and dragged her down the corridor. Charlie groaned, already tallying up the damage reports.

By the time she wrangled the situation into something resembling 'handled' (Husk nursing a singed glass of whiskey, the machine banished to the courtyard with a wet tarp over it), she found herself retracing her steps down the quieter wing of the hotel. Still no Vaggie in sight.

The soft, steady glow of golden lamplight spilled through the crack under Alastor’s office door.

Charlie knocked lightly once, twice, then pushed it open with the kind of tired, absent-minded motion that only came after a long morning of damage control and three lukewarm coffees.

“Hey, Al, have you seen-”

She stopped dead in the doorway.

Vaggie was curled up on the plush red velvet sofa to Alastor’s right, an open binder resting on her lap. Alastor sat hunched over the coffee table, sleeves rolled up, gesturing animatedly over a maze of blueprints, diagrams, napkin sketches, and something that might’ve been a cursed floor plan.

They both looked up in unison. Caught.

“Ah!” Alastor said pleasantly, not missing a beat. “Speak of the princess and she shall appear. Good afternoon, my dear.”

Vaggie gave a lazy wave without looking up. “Hey.”

Charlie blinked. “...Oh. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Vaggie raised one brow, shrugged, then returned to her binder. Charlie stepped fully into the room, letting the door close behind her with a soft click.

Alastor clasped his hands. “We’re working on defence schematics for the hotel. Proactive strategy, naturally. Can’t rely on Miss Vaggie and myself always being in the lobby when miscreants come knocking, hmm?”

Charlie narrowed her eyes, then let her gaze drop to the absolute chaos spread across the table.

Rolls of parchment. Red-stamped permits. Something labelled Trapdoor Variant C in neat handwriting. A very detailed doodle of Husk falling into a pit with a tiny, furious scowl.

She leaned forward, frowning. “...No spike pits.”

“Of course not,” Alastor agreed easily.

Vaggie didn’t even bother looking up. “That was his first suggestion.”

“No lava traps,” Charlie added, eyeing him warily.

Alastor’s grin crept wider. “A minor design setback-”

She stabbed a finger at one of the blueprints. “That’s literally a moat of fire around the dining hall!”

“That was my idea,” Vaggie said without looking up.

Charlie straightened, scandalized. She pointed an accusing finger at both of them like they were misbehaving children. “No spike pits, no lava traps, no swinging axes! No... anything our guests could fall into! This isn’t a medieval punishment dungeon!”

Alastor tilted his head, grin sharpening. “...Yet.”

“Alastor!”

He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I jest, I jest. Mostly. You must admit, though, a certain theatricality is on brand.”

Charlie groaned. “This is not the kind of ‘brand’ I want!”

She stepped back, rubbed her temples, then let out a breath through her nose. “Okay. Okay. I actually came looking for you, Vaggie.”

Vaggie glanced up from her binder, brow raised.

“I wanted to talk to you about starting a self-defence lesson for the guests. Just something basic. Neutralizing threats, body awareness, stuff they can actually use if things get bad again.”

Alastor perked up immediately, but Charlie raised a hand to stop whatever he was about to say.

“Angel said something the other day,” she went on, voice softening. “He said learning to handle himself in a fight made him feel... safer. More in control.” Her fingers tapped anxiously against the edge of the coffee table. “I want that for the others too. Part of healing is feeling safe, right? And safety’s not just something we give them. It’s something they should know how to keep.”

Vaggie was already nodding. “I’ll do it.”

There was something a little too eager in her voice. Her eye glittered ever so slightly. Light, sharp, almost hungry.

Charlie narrowed her eyes. “And you’ll keep it appropriate for their skill level?”

“Absolutely,” Vaggie said with faux innocence. “What’s more appropriate than empowering vulnerable civilians through structured physical violence?”

Charlie gave her a flat look. “You will be supervised.”

“I live for supervision.”

Alastor, who had been unnervingly quiet, steepled his fingers. “Well, if we’re all contributing to the physical and emotional development of our dear guests, I’d be delighted to assist as well.”

Charlie blinked. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He gave her a curious look, all polite interest with just the faintest glimmer of teeth. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I mean…” She hesitated, trying to find a diplomatic way to say you’re a magical apex predator and most of our guests are barely more threatening than a chihuahua. “You’re just... not exactly easy to keep up with.”

“True!” he said amiably. “But I wasn’t always like this, you know. No powers, no magic. Just a radio host with a few sharp objects and a healthy disregard for the law. I’ve got plenty of experience punching up, so to speak.”

Charlie stared at him, unconvinced.

Vaggie cracked a grin.

And Charlie had the sudden, dreadful realization that the two of them getting along was possibly the most terrifying thing to happen to Hell since the invention of reality television.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Alastor beamed. “Delightful, isn’t it?”

“...We’re putting Husk in charge of first aid,” Charlie decided aloud, already imagining the impending hospitalizations.

“Good call,” Vaggie said brightly, already reaching for a new blank page in her binder. “Do we get liability waivers? I want waivers.”

Charlie buried her face in her hands. Hell help her, she was actually going to let them do this.

—

By midafternoon, the old tennis court behind the hotel had been cleared and marked up in red chalk, the cracked pavement still steaming faintly from magical scorch. Training dummies now stood in neat rows. Freshly conjured and eerily lifelike. Most of them bore a distinct resemblance to Alastor. Some more than others.

Charlie stared at them for a moment, trying not to sigh.

Lucifer stood at the center, sleeves rolled up and jacket tossed over a nearby bench. He looked perfectly at ease, whistling as he adjusted the collar of one of the dummies like it was getting ready for a portrait.

Alastor slowed as they approached, mic stand tapping lightly against the ground. He tilted his head at the nearest dummy, then the next, and then the one after that. His grin stretched wide. “You know,” he said brightly, “if you were looking for collectibles, I do have an official merchandise shop.”

Lucifer barely spared him a glance before turning to Charlie, arms wide, voice syrupy sweet. “My dearest darling starshine, sweet apple of my eye, blood of my blood, what in the actual flaming fuck is that guy doing here?”

Alastor gave a sunny little wave.

Charlie forced a smile. Polite. Tired. The kind she’d been perfecting since she was eight. “He wanted to help. Please be nice.”

“No,” Lucifer said flatly.

Across the court, the hotel residents were beginning to form a loose, uncertain line. Vaggie was already in motion, striding up and down like a drill sergeant high on caffeine and righteous fury.

“Line up! You will follow all orders without question. If you can stand, stand. If you can’t, crawl. And if I catch anyone slacking off, I’ll personally show you what a spinal fracture feels like.”

Charlie winced. Alastor grinned. Lucifer looked delighted.

She braced herself. This was already going well.

––

Thirty minutes later, Charlie was rubbing her eyes with one hand like she could chase off the headache brewing behind them.

Husk had commandeered a foldout table and stocked it with bandages, ice packs, and a pitcher of lemonade. Without a word, he slapped a hot pink Band-Aid on her temple, then handed her a cup.

“Thanks,” she muttered, staring bleakly out at the battlefield.

Lucifer was running agility drills with Pentious and the kid from the last attack. It looked like they were both about to cry. Alastor’s group of three had formed a suspiciously well-organized formation, chanting something that sounded vaguely French. Vaggie had taken Niffty and Angel to a far corner and was currently demonstrating a chokehold on a dummy with a frankly distressing amount of enthusiasm.

Charlie turned at the sound of a heavy thump behind her. One of the guests had fallen, groaning on the mat.

“You’re okay!” she said quickly, crouching beside them. “You almost had it that time. Just shift your weight a little more to the left. You can do it!”

The guest glared up at her, breathing hard. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you try it?”

Charlie blinked.

That was…fair. 

She shouldn’t be asking them to do anything she wouldn’t. So she straightened up slowly, brushing chalk dust from her hands. “…Okay.”

She glanced around, taking stock of who was free, and then made her way toward Alastor.

His eyebrows lifted the moment she approached, delighted. “Oh? Are we to be treated to a royal demonstration?”

“There’s no point in sparring with my dad. We’ve done that hundreds of times. And Vaggie’s…” she winced.  “...invested.”

From the other end of the court, Vaggie’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’ve got four arms and still haven’t landed a single hit! That’s just embarrassing!”

“I’m fighting a cockroach on meth!” Angel shrieked, dodging a blur of pink and steel. “She’s all skittery!”

“Skittery and winning!” Niffty chirped, twirling a blade the size of her arm like it was a toy.

“No excuses!” Vaggie snapped. “You want to survive in Hell? Learn to punch faster than a bug!”

Charlie turned back to Alastor, deadpan. “So. You’re the only one not actively screaming at someone.”

He gave a mock gasp. “How uncharacteristic of me.”

“Wanna spar?”

Alastor’s grin stretched sharp. “With you? Always.”

Charlie stepped into the cleared space and rolled her shoulders, falling into the stance her father had drilled into her since she was young. It wasn’t flashy, but it was solid. Functional. Built from years of palace training and self-defence drills, because Lucifer had always insisted it was a valuable life skill. Especially in Hell.

Alastor bowed low, one hand behind his back. “Shall we dance?”

Charlie smiled, tight and tired, but genuine. “Let’s just try not to break anything.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” he teased, tipping his head. His grin flickered slightly at the edges, but he made no move to fight. Just stood there, hands folded neatly behind his back like a polite fencing instructor.

He wasn’t even in a stance.

“Ready when you are, princess,” he said sweetly.

Around them, people scrambled to the edges of the court, watching with wide eyes.

Charlie steadied her breath.

This wasn’t about winning. It was about proving it could be done. Proving to the crowd of uncertain, haunted souls watching from the sidelines that you didn’t need to be a killer to survive in Hell.

She lunged.

Alastor shifted aside effortlessly, letting her jab pass through nothing but air. He didn’t even break eye contact.

“Break his ribs, sweetheart!” Lucifer called, cupping his hands like a megaphone. “Crack that smug little twig in half!”

She swung again. Left hook, pivot, side kick. 

Again, he slipped past her like mist.

“You’ve got solid instincts,” he observed casually, as if they were on a walk. “Firm balance. Predictable combinations. The footwork is charming.”

She gritted her teeth. “Stop playing around.”

“Oh, I’m not.” He stepped in fast this time, and her heart jolted. She blocked instinctively, and still she felt a sharp sting against her temple. 

The pink bandaid Husk had placed there fluttered to the ground.

“Not bad,” he mused. “But if I’d meant it, you’d be on the ground.”

Charlie shot him a look and came back in harder. Her movements turned sharper, faster, more aggressive. She aimed for his shoulder, tried to bait his ribs, dropped low for an elbow. Her hands moved with precision, with purpose.

She was good.

But Alastor didn’t fight like someone trying to win.

He moved like someone who already had.

“Come now,” he said, voice light and goading. “This is your big demonstration. Let’s really show them something.”

She ducked his arm and backed up a few feet, panting. “This isn’t about showing off. The guests need to see this is doable.”

He spread his arms wide invitingly. “Then stop holding back. You’re the princess of Hell. Burn me. Blast me. Try to kill me.”

“No!”

The word echoed louder than she meant. Her cheeks flamed.

Charlie forced her voice steady. “I’m not going to do anything they can’t. That’s the point.”

Alastor tilted his head, amusement glinting behind his glasses. “Admirable.”

He stepped in again. She tried to sidestep, but he was already there. He swept her ankle, and the world tilted out from under her.

She hit the mat with a soft thud.

He leaned over her, hinged at the waist,  and offered a hand like they truly were sharing a dance.

“You do realize,” he spoke low, only for her, “that every single person in this room is now terrified of me and worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth. “That was the point.”

From the sidelines, Lucifer hollered, “If she dies, I get to kill you!”

“She’s not dead,” Vaggie called. “She just got humbled.”

Husk muttered something under his breath and took a swig from his flask, making no attempt to pretend it was water.

Charlie took Alastor’s hand. 

Something fluttered in the back of her mind. A sensation more than a thought. The echo of warmth. Fingers twined with hers. Laughter. Gone as quickly as it came.

She pulled herself to her feet. Her arms ached. Her pride ached more. But her jaw set with stubborn determination.

“Again,” she said.

Alastor raised a brow. “You sure?”

“I’m not giving them one chance to think they can’t do this,” she said, glancing at the watching guests.

She smiled. Thin but determined. “And I will land a hit.”

Something passed through his expression.  Not amusement. Not superiority. Something quieter. Almost fond. 

He dipped his head. “I look forward to it.”

The overhead light buzzed like it was out for blood. The basement reeked of oil, smoke, and what the hell was that? Charlie was already regretting her decision to follow the noise. Tools clattered against metal in the distance. Something groaned like it was in pain. Honestly, it might have been the walls. Or her soul.

She stomped down the steps, boots echoing loud and angry. “Vaggie!” she shouted, voice slicing through the stale air.

No answer. Just the continued rattle of tools in use.

Charlie hit the bottom of the stairs and immediately locked eyes on her girlfriend, crouched beside some kind of half-assembled contraption, welding mask pushed up, a wrench in hand, like this was normal. The machine looked disturbingly stabby for something allegedly for protection.

She had a bad feeling about this.

Charlie marched forward. “What. Are you. Building?”

“Spike pit,” Vaggie said without even glancing up.

Charlie’s brain screeched to a halt. “I said no spike pits!”

“I asked Alastor.”

That made her freeze. 

“Alastor?!” she repeated, too loud.

“Yes?” came his voice, smug and chipper and entirely too pleased with himself.

Charlie spun around, and there he was, lounging in a rolling chair. One leg crossed over the other, blueprint in his lap, and a mug in hand that read #1 SECURITY RISK in proud block letters.

He grinned at her like he was proud of it.

He was proud of it.

“He has unilateral control of the defences,” Vaggie said, tightening another bolt with terrifying precision.

“I have unilateral control of the defences,” Alastor echoed in a singsong, flipping to a new page.

“That doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want!” 

“Well, now that depends, doesn’t it?” Alastor mused. “Unilateral, adjective: performed by or affecting only one person-”

“Alastor!”

“-without the agreement of others. Why, it’s practically definitional!”

She turned to Vaggie again in utter betrayal. “You. Traitor.”

Vaggie didn’t even flinch. “A girl has needs.”

“Needs?!”

“Sharp. Pointy. Discreetly retractable. Needs.”

“Unbelievable!” Charlie groaned, dragging both hands down her face. This could not be her life. She did not build this hotel just to watch it turn into a booby-trapped clown car run by two of the most dangerous people she knew.

Alastor sipped from his stupid mug and started humming some upbeat little tune like he hadn’t just greenlit a war crime underneath her lobby.

Charlie pointed furiously between the two of them. “I cannot believe you two are bonding over booby traps.”

“We prefer the term creative deterrents,” Alastor said smoothly.

“No, actually, I like boobies,” Vaggie said with a toothy grin.

Charlie stared at her. Then at Alastor. Then back again.

She was surrounded. Completely. Utterly. Surrounded.

A clang from the trapdoor echoed like punctuation.

Charlie spun on her heel. “I am going to get sued. By God. Personally.” She stormed back up the stairs, muttering about liability insurance and brain-melting lawsuits and why no one in this hotel could just be normal for five minutes.

Behind her, she heard Vaggie murmur, “We're going to need more funding for this.”

And Alastor’s voice, amused and utterly unbothered: “Oh, I’m certain we'll manage.”

—

The game night table was a war zone. 

Charlie stormed in. Her shoulders tight, jaw clenched. She was radiating the pure, unfiltered aura of a person who just lost a debate and was not over it.

Playing cards stuck to damp coasters. Dice scattered across spilled soda and glitter. A half-crushed can of something suspiciously green was leaking into the snack bowl. An unused Ouija board had been shoved aside in favour of something called "Truth or Eat That Weird Thing Husk Found Under the Couch."

Angel Dust lounged across a plush, overstuffed armchair like some decadent Roman emperor in yoga pants. One leg hung off the side. The other kicked rhythmically to a silent beat. He twirled a card between his fingers, chin in hand, sipping on something neon and suspicious.

Across from him, slouched at the table like a cat that got dragged into a bath, Husk nursed a bottle of cheap whiskey and the stare of a man who regrets existence. His ear twitched every time Angel spoke. Which is to say, constantly.

The door slammed open.

Angel perked up, "Heyyy! Did you get Vaggie? She said she’d come beat my ass at cards."

 "She’s with Alastor," came the sullen, bitter response.

A hush, tense and immediate. Husk even looked up.

Angel blinked. "What the hell is she doing with Smiles?"

 "Getting her needs met."

Another pause. You could hear a pin drop. Or a whiskey bottle sweating in shame.

Angel shot upright like someone shoved a live wire down the back of his hoodie.  "I-I’m sorry- what?!" 

He flailed three separate hands in Husk’s direction. "Are you hearing this?!"

Husk looked back down.  "Nope."

 "Husk!"

"I refuse to process this information without context.” He gave the bottom of his bottle a deadpan stare, “and at least two more shots."

Angel stood, arms flailing like an interpretive dance version of a breakdown, volume climbing with every word, "She said Vaggie’s off with Smiles getting her needs met."

Husk raised his voice, still dry as sandpaper,  "Sorry, can’t hear you. I’m deaf. Never heard anything in my life. Not even hearing now. Who are you? What is sound?"

Seemingly giving up on Husk for the moment, Angel whirled on Charlie,  "What needs, Charlie? Sexy needs? Stabby needs?? I need specifics!"

Charlie buried her face in her hands, "Apparently... spiky ones."

Angel made a gagging noise and threw a pillow across the room.

 "Y’know,” Husk muttered, “If anyone ever told me I’d hear that sentence, I’d’ve quit this gig decades ago."

“You didn’t even work here decades ago!”

Charlie grabbed Angel’s discarded throw pillow and flopped face first onto the couch. "I’m surrounded by idiots."

"You’re surrounded by survivors.”Angel snatched his pillow back, “Of mental images we never asked for."

Husk cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey, "Nobody talk to me until this bottle is empty or I am."

"You owe me for this.” Angel stabbed an accusatory finger at Charlie, even though she couldn’t see it. “I want my eyeballs replaced. And memory wiped. I wanna live in a world before this conversation."

Muffled, from the couch cushion,  "Same."

Vaggie’s room was dark, but cozy. The nightlights she refused to admit to having cast soft glows from two corners, turning the cluttered shelves and rumpled blankets into something hazy and safe. Charlie sat cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, brushing out her hair while Vaggie wrestled a pillow into submission behind her.

It felt normal. Or close enough.

“I noticed you were making an effort today,” Charlie said, her voice light, casual. “With Alastor.”

Vaggie paused mid-fluff. “Huh?”

“The security meeting…thing. You had with Al,” Charlie clarified. “You didn’t glare at him the whole time. You sat sorta near him. You even agreed with him... granted it was about the violent removal of threats from the hotel buuut progress is progress!”

Vaggie groaned and flopped onto her back beside her. “Yeah, well. I still don’t trust him. But if he’s gonna be here, it’s better not to poke the deer. He’s dangerous, yeah. But honestly?” She squinted up at the ceiling like she was chewing something sour. “When he’s not being a creepy, contrary dumbass, he’s almost… tolerable. In a smug bastard kind of way. And well. You seem to like him so...”

Charlie laughed, eyes bright. “You said tolerable. That’s going in the record books.”

“Oh shut up,” Vaggie muttered, nudging her with a foot.

They both chuckled. For a moment, Charlie let herself bask in the familiar warmth of it. But the smile didn’t last. Her fingers began to worry the edge of her sleeve.

Vaggie noticed immediately. Her gaze slid sideways, sharp beneath the softness. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing,” Charlie said too fast. “Just… stupid dream stuff. Ignore me.”

Vaggie rolled over onto her elbow, frowning. “Charlie.”

She hesitated. Then exhaled slowly, not meeting her eyes. “I don’t want to dump this on you. You’ve already got enough going on.”

“Charlie.” 

“I don’t know what it is yet, okay?” she insisted. “It’s probably nothing. I mean, I didn’t even realize it was happening until… I just. Okay.” She fidgeted with her hairbrush, thumb pressing into the bristles. “Promise you won’t freak out?”

Vaggie’s silence said everything.

Charlie swallowed. “I think… I’ve been seeing things. Like… memories. But uh…Alastor’s.”

There was a pause.

Vaggie shot upright tension sparking off her like static. “Memories? Charlie, what kind of memories?! Does he know? When did it start? What did you see? Are you sure they’re his? What if he finds out you’re seeing his private thoughts and goes full murder-mode about it?!”

Charlie winced. “It’s not like I’m trying to! I thought the first one was a dream. The second one I brushed off. But now it’s happened at least three times, and I think it only happens when I touch him. But it’s not every time, so I’m not sure-”

“You’re not sure?!” Vaggie balled her fists in the blankets, then forced them to unclench. “Okay. Deep breath. Back up. What exactly did you see?”

Charlie hesitated.

“The first time,” she said slowly, “He was in the cellar of some kind of speakeasy. Hiding from a police raid. Drinking with someone. Laughing.” She skipped the kiss. Skipped the way he’d called it a date. That part felt too personal to hand over.

“The second time, he passed someone something from a high shelf. They were bickering. It felt… Domestic. ”

“And the third?”

Charlie’s voice dipped. “Someone was saying… not so great things about him. The person who saw it. Well, they were furious.”

Vaggie’s brow furrowed, jaw tight. “Charlie, are you sure this isn’t some kind of manipulation?”

“It doesn’t feel like that,” Charlie said quickly. “I’m not hearing his thoughts or anything. And what would be the point, even? I don’t think he has anything to gain by showing me these things.”

Vaggie didn’t reply right away. Then she said, “Okay, wait. Just. Describe it again. Not the memories. How you saw them.”

Charlie frowned. “Like I was there. I could see him, hear him. The room, the smells. Everything.”

Vaggie stared. Hard. “You could see him. So like… third person?”

Charlie blinked.

Her mouth parted, the realization sliding ice-cold down the back of her neck.

“Oh.”

Vaggie’s voice dropped. “You’re not seeing his memories.”

Charlie felt it, like a click in her chest. Her stomach dropped.

“You’re seeing someone else’s memories of him.”

Silence fell like a stone.  Charlie wrapped her arms around her knees, chin resting on them. Her voice came small.

“So what do I do?”

Vaggie didn’t answer right away. Her posture was rigid now, arms crossed like she needed a barrier. “First of all, you don’t tell him.”

Charlie glanced up. “You think he’d be mad?”

“I think we don’t know how he’d react. And that’s the scary part. You’re touching him and seeing memories that aren’t yours, Charlie. If he finds out and takes it the wrong way, if he thinks you’re poking around in his past?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“I know that.” Vaggie looked at her, expression caught somewhere between worry and something colder. “You do. I do. But him? Charlie, he doesn’t handle surprises well. And he sure as hell doesn’t like people seeing behind the curtain.”

Charlie’s gaze dropped again. Her hands were still.

A long moment passed.

“I just…” Charlie started, then stopped. When she tried again, her voice was thinner. “If my mom were here, she’d know what to do. This was her kind of magic. Dreams. Memory stuff. She’d… she’d explain it. Fix it.”

Vaggie nodded, but it was subdued. Not dismissive. Just far away. “What about your dad?”

Charlie blinked.

Vaggie shrugged. “I mean… he knows a lot. About magic. Curses, enchantments, all that weird celestial-demonic crossover crap. Maybe he could… I don’t know. Scan you? Figure out if someone’s messed with your mind or if this is just something that’s always been there.”

Charlie let out a quiet breath. “I kinda partly told him this morning. Not the details. It’d be a whole thing. He hates Alastor.”

“Well, yeah,” Vaggie said, sharper than she meant to. “Most people with instincts do.” She paused. “Sorry. That was-” she shook her head. “ You don’t really have another option if you want to figure this out.” 

After a moment of silence she looked at Charlie, gaze searching. “...You do want to figure this out, right?”

Charlie didn’t answer.

Vaggie’s expression turned guarded. Careful in a way it hadn’t been before. “You can’t possibly be thinking of keeping this a secret.”

Charlie met her eyes. There was no denial. Just weariness.

Vaggie reached across the bed, gently touching her wrist. “I’m worried about you.”

Charlie didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. Didn’t offer one of her usual bright reassurances.

She just stared down at their hands and said softly, “I know.”

And this time, she didn’t say it like things were going to be fine.

They settled into bed without saying much else. 

Charlie lay awake for a long time, the silence pressing down so heavily it felt like the only thing keeping her from bursting under the weight of her thoughts. Eventually, though, sleep crept in and claimed her.

She stood frozen at the sideboard. A knife lay there, blade half-open, the metal catching the lamplight. Its handle was dark and sticky, the stains soaked deep into the leather grip. Blood.

Her hand shook as she picked it up. “This… this is yours,” she whispered, voice barely carrying.

A laugh unspooled from the doorway. Smooth, delighted, utterly unbothered. Alastor sauntered in, “Ah! You’ve found my souvenir,” he said, tone dripping with amusement. “You do have a nose for treasure, don’t you?”

Charlie’s stomach lurched. “You…this is blood. You hurt someone.”

“Hurt?” His laugh rang out like a radio burst of static. “Darling, don’t be quaint. I’ve done far more than that.” He picked up the knife, twirling it between his fingers as if conducting invisible music.

Her pulse stuttered. “You’re a murderer.”

“And you say it like I should be ashamed.” He moved closer, step by step, slow as a predator enjoying the chase. “Did you really believe your guard dog would come without teeth?”

Charlie stumbled back, spine striking the pastel wallpaper. Her breath shuddered. He closed the last of the distance, knife now in his hands. With an almost playful flick, he traced the dull side of the blade along her jawline, coaxing a tremor out of her.

“There it is,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. “That lovely trembling. I do so enjoy it when you’re frightened of me. It feels like you finally see me clearly.”

Charlie shoved at his chest, panic clawing up her throat, but he caught her wrists in one swift movement and pinned them above her head. The sudden closeness stole her breath.

She writhed in his grip, but his body caged hers effortlessly, the heat of him suffocating, the static in the air crawling along her skin.

“Shhh.” He bent his head, pressing his cheek against hers in a mockery of tenderness while his hands clamped her tight. “Stop struggling, sweetheart.”

The bloody knife lay on the floor where he'd dropped it, stark against the soft carpet. Evidence of everything he was. And he held her there, grinning, until her terror filled the room like music.

Charlie woke violently.

Her body convulsed upward with a scream already ripping from her throat, arms flailing against grabbing hands. The nightmare clung to her, blood on her fingers, static in her ears, the knife at her throat.

“Charlie!” Vaggie’s voice broke through, close and urgent. “Wake up!” Hands gripped her shoulders, trying to steady her.

She panicked, shoving hard.

Vaggie cried out as the force sent her flying backward off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud.

The sound snapped Charlie out of it. The shadows peeled back into their bedroom. The familiar furniture, the faint glow of the nightlight. No knife, no Alastor. Just safety. And Vaggie, wide-eyed and winded, on the carpet.

“Oh shit,” Charlie scrambled to the edge of the bed, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Vaggie! I’m so sorry, I didn’t- are you okay?” Her words spilled fast, frantic. “I was dreaming, I didn’t know it was you, I thought-” She broke off, chest heaving.

Vaggie eased herself up onto an elbow, still rubbing her shoulder. Her expression softened as she looked at Charlie, breath slowing. “You… you were saying his name.”

Charlie froze. “Whose?”

“Alastor’s.” Vaggie’s voice was gentle but edged with worry. “Over and over. You sounded…Charlie, you were scared.”

Heat flooded Charlie’s cheeks, shame colliding with the last shreds of terror. “Oh.” She swallowed, twisting the blanket in her hands.

“Were they all like that?” Vaggie pressed carefully. “The memories you were talking about?”

Charlie shook her head fast, hair falling loose around her face. “No. No, not like that. Not usually.” Her pulse was still uneven, but the raw edge of panic dulled as she slid off the bed and joined Vaggie on the floor. The carpet felt steady beneath her, grounding.

“They’re not all…” She struggled for words, then sighed. “Some of them are good. Or… confusing. I thought it was whatever he was thinking about when I touched him. But this one…” She broke off, hugging her knees to her chest.

Vaggie reached out, resting her hand lightly on Charlie’s back.

Charlie leaned into the touch just enough to draw strength, then reached for the side table. A leather-bound journal and a battered pen sat waiting. She pulled them into her lap, flipped open to a blank page, and with fingers still trembling began to scrawl.

The words tumbled out jagged, uneven, but Vaggie stayed close, shoulder brushing hers, reading along in silence as Charlie set the nightmare down on paper before it could fade.