Chapter Text
You woke up dead.
…Well. More dead than usual.
Your head felt like someone had punched it. Your mouth tasted like battery acid. Your eyes refused to open all the way, and when they did, the lights stabbed into your skull like tiny, hateful knives.
“Ughhhh,” you groaned, rolling to your side. The room tilted violently. “No. Stop that. Stay still.”
Your stomach sloshed. Great. Amazing. Incredible. You were one cough away from vomiting into your own hands.
Bits of last night hit you little by little:
- Cherri passing you unknown substances
- Angel taking shots off someone
- Husk wandering
- You walking face-first into a streetlamp
- Alastor’s hand on your elbow
You groaned again, dragging a pillow over your face.
A knock sounded on your door.
You ignored it.
The knocking got louder.
“Ughhhh,” you groaned again.
“Vixen?” Charlie’s voice. Sweet. Too sweet. Too loud. “Angel said you guys had a night last night… Can I come in?”
Before you could answer, the door creaked open.
Charlie stepped in and froze.
“Oh my gosh,” she whispered. “You’re dying.”
You rolled halfway onto your back, hair tangled in every direction, makeup smeared like raccoon war paint.
“Coffee,” you croaked. “Funeral. Pick one.”
Charlie vanished for two seconds and returned with a glass of water, two pain pills, and a bucket.
“We… keep these stocked,” she admitted awkwardly. “Mostly for Angel.”
You swallowed the pills, gulped the water too fast, choked, regained your will to live, and flopped back against the pillows.
“Where is he?” you mumbled.
“Angel? Still asleep. Husk too. Cherri texted me, ‘CAN’T talk hunGOVER,’ which sounds right.”
Then Charlie hesitated, twisting a strand of hair.
“And… Alastor asked me to check on you.”
Your eyes opened just enough to squint at her.
“He what?”
“He, um…” Charlie looked confused. “He said you came in late, and he walked you to your room. He wanted to be sure you were okay.”
Her tone suggested she wasn’t sure whether to be touched or terrified.
You weren’t sure either.
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through you. You curled up around your pillow.
“Never drinking again,” you lied.
Charlie smiled gently. “I’ll make you toast.”
“Bless you,” you whispered.
As she left, you caught sight of something on your nightstand:
A cold glass of water.
A neatly folded blanket.
And a note in old-fashioned, elegant handwriting:
Do hydrate. It would be such a shame if you perished from something as mundane as a hangover. —A
You groaned into your pillow again.
Of course, he left a note.
Of course, it was weirdly polite and vaguely threatening.
You were never drinking again.
Definitely not.
Lies.
~~~~~~~
A few hours later, you felt well enough to drag yourself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water helped burn some of the fog away, even if it couldn’t touch the lingering ache behind your eyes. You dressed carefully, choosing clothes that at least suggested you weren’t as hungover as you actually were.
When you checked your phone, your stomach dropped. It was already mid-afternoon.
Your eyes widened. You could’ve sworn only an hour had passed.
With a quiet groan, you opened your door and shuffled into the hallway. The hotel was quiet around you. You made your way downstairs, head still buzzing, and slipped into the kitchen.
You poured yourself a glass of water and drank like you’d just remembered how.
You stood there a moment longer with the empty glass, then set it carefully in the sink and straightened your shoulders. Whatever fog lingered, you pushed through it and turned for the door, moving quicker than you meant to.
You didn’t make it two steps.
You collided solidly with someone just outside the kitchen, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs as you stumbled backward. Strong hands caught you instantly, firm at your waist, steadying you before you could even think to fall.
Alastor.
His grip was warm, secure, far too grounding. Heat rushed to your face as he eased you upright, his touch lingering just long enough to make you acutely aware of it.
“Careful, darling,” he said smoothly, amusement curling through his voice. “Wouldn’t want something to happen to you again.”
You swallowed, nodding as you stepped back, though your pulse refused to slow. “Sorry. I wasn’t—I didn’t see you.”
He tilted his head, eyes flicking over you. “I see that,” he replied lightly. “You look much more improved than before. Vertical is a promising start.”
You huffed despite yourself. “It’s mid-afternoon already. I thought I’d only been out for an hour.”
“Hmm, clearly not,” he said as you passed him.
He turned smoothly, falling into stride beside you. Instead of continuing toward the lobby, however, he veered decisively toward the front doors.
You frowned, slowing just enough to glance at him. “Where are you going?”
“Out,” Alastor said simply, pushing the door open. “I have suits to retrieve from the tailor.”
You paused, watching him. After a beat, he added, more lightly, “You’re welcome to come along, if you’d like.”
You hesitated at the threshold, fingers curling briefly at your side. The thought of stepping back out into the city still felt strange, like testing your balance on uneven ground.
“Yeah,” you said after a moment. “I’d like that.”
Alastor’s smile was subtle but unmistakably pleased. He stepped aside to let you pass, the door closing softly behind you as the noise of the hotel faded away.
Outside, the air was crisp, cool enough to make you draw a deeper breath than you had all morning. It helped more than you expected. Alastor matched your pace without comment, his stride unhurried, his presence steady at your side.
The tailor’s shop sat tucked between two narrow buildings. Inside, the space was warm and smelled faintly of pressed wool and polish.
The tailor’s smile tightened the moment the two of you stepped inside. “Ah, Alastor,” he said, measured but polite. “Right on time.”
He turned without another word and disappeared into the back of the shop, returning moments later with several garment bags draped carefully over his arm.
Alastor slipped out of his coat, setting it aside until he stood in nothing but his undershirt. One by one, he tried on each suit, movements precise and unhurried.
You realized you were watching him rather than the garments. The way he inspected the seams, adjusted a cuff, and smoothed the lapels. Each nod of approval was brief but decisive. There was something grounding in it, in how exact he was, how fully present.
“Well?” he asked, glancing your way. “Opinion?”
You blushed. “They fit you.”
He chuckled softly. “That’s the goal.”
Once he finished trying them on, he handed the suits off toward the shadows lining the shop wall, and they vanished as if they’d never existed.
You must have looked stunned, because when he turned back to you, Alastor laughed.
“My dear,” he said lightly, “I have no desire to carry half my wardrobe for the remainder of the day.”
You left the tailor together, the door chiming softly behind you as the street opened up around you. Conversation picked back up easily as you walked, his voice a steady presence beside you.
Mid-sentence, your stomach betrayed you, growling loud enough to cut clean through the moment.
You froze, mortified.
Alastor stopped, glancing at you with open amusement.
You sighed, one hand pressing lightly to your abdomen. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. And that barely counts, unless alcohol does now.”
“Mm, no, I don’t think so,” he said, gently steering you in another direction. “Before we head back, let’s stop by a café in Cannibal Town.”
You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “Cannibal Town?”
“Yes!” Alastor replied brightly, as if he’d suggested a quiet park. “Run by dear Rosie. I’ll have to introduce the two of you properly one day.”
You stared at him. “You’re… serious.”
“Entirely,” he said, nodding once. “I assure you, the food is exceptional. And you need something substantial before you attempt anything else today.”
You hesitated, then let out a breathy laugh. “You really know how to sell an idea.”
“I pride myself on it.”
He offered his arm, and after a brief pause, you took it. Looping your hand through his and resting it there. His posture adjusted subtly, accommodating you without comment.
As you walked down the street, the architecture began to change. Buildings grew older, their lines broader, streets opening into wider stretches of space instead of the tight, claustrophobic press Hell was known for.
Then you noticed the residents.
They moved through the streets in early twentieth-century attire, pressed suits, long skirts, polished shoes, styles frozen in another era. Their skin had a pale lavender hue, and their eyes were entirely black. At first glance, they appeared unsettling, almost predatory.
Yet they passed one another calmly, exchanging polite nods and quiet conversation. No chaos. No violence. Just a town going about its day.
You observed it all in silence, your grip tightening slightly on Alastor’s arm. He noticed immediately.
“Cannibal Town has order,” he said evenly. “Don’t worry, they won’t eat you, especially while I’m around.”
Alastor slowed, giving you time to take it in. “I assure you,” he said mildly, “the atmosphere is far less alarming than it seems.”
You walked beside him toward a café called Cannibal Café, a name that did nothing to ease your suspicion.
You glanced at him. “That’s comforting. I think.”
He smiled, sharp but reassuring, and reached for the door. “After you, my dear.”
The moment you stepped inside, the scent hit you: rich and savory, layered with spices and something warm and familiar beneath it. Conversation hummed softly around the room, punctuated by polite laughter and the delicate clink of porcelain. The patrons glanced your way as you entered, black eyes flicking over you with open curiosity, but no hostility.
Alastor’s presence shifted the room almost immediately. A few conversations dulled. A couple of heads inclined politely in his direction. Someone near the counter paused mid-motion, then carried on as if nothing had happened.
The café itself was dim and elegant, all dark wood and low lighting, its windows fogged faintly from the warmth inside. It felt lived-in, deliberate, like a place that had existed a long time and intended to keep doing so.
Alastor guided you toward a small table near the window, pulling out a chair for you with effortless grace.
You took your seat, and Alastor pulled out the chair across from you, settling into it with practiced ease. He picked up a menu, skimming it quickly as though already familiar with most of the offerings.
“What do you recommend here?” you asked, leaning back slightly.
“Hm.” He considered for a moment. “Ordinarily, I’d suggest something with meat in it, but I rather doubt you’d enjoy that.”
You laughed. “What do you mean? I had gumbo the other day.”
He slowly raised a brow, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Darling,” he said lightly, “this is Cannibal Town.”
Your laughter faltered. “You’re joking.”
“Only partially,” he replied, folding the menu and setting it aside. “Fortunately, they’re quite accommodating. There are alternatives.”
A server approached, posture polite, expression unreadable. Alastor ordered without hesitation, his tone smooth and authoritative. You followed suit, placing your own order.
You exhaled, tension easing slightly. “You really should’ve led with that.”
His smile widened, amusement glinting in his eyes. “And rob myself of the reaction?”
Despite yourself, you smiled too, nervous, but genuine.
The café’s warmth settled around you as you waited, the low hum of conversation filling the space. The soft clink of cups and murmured laughter made the room feel almost cozy, a stark contrast to the uneasy reputation of Cannibal Town.
Alastor leaned back slightly, fingers steepled on the table, eyes scanning yours with that familiar, sharp amusement. “You know,” he said, “most people would be too busy panicking to notice anything else about this place. You, however… You observe.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Observe? That sounds like a polite way of saying I’m weird.”
“Perhaps,” he replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But there’s value in being… peculiar. You notice details others overlook. You read people and places carefully. That’s a rare skill.”
You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I’d call it a skill. Mostly it’s just… survival instinct.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice slightly. “Instinct, skill, charm… call it what you will. It suits you. It makes being around you far more… engaging than I anticipated.”
Before the conversation could deepen, a server appeared, placing two steaming plates in front of you. The aroma, rich, savory, layered with spices, made your stomach growl despite yourself.
Alastor’s sharp eyes flicked to you, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Honest, isn’t it?” he said.
You laughed softly, picking up your fork. “Very honest.”
The meal was brief but satisfying. You ate quietly, letting the warmth of the food settle your nerves. Alastor ate with the same calm precision he carried himself with, occasionally glancing at you, as though measuring your reactions.
When the plates were cleared, he stood smoothly, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
You took it, looping your hand through his, and stepped back into the cool evening. The streets, the soft glow of lanterns, even Cannibal Town itself seemed less intimidating with him by your side, his presence steady and grounding.
You walked side by side, the city lights flickering softly around you.
“You seem to enjoy my commentary more than you should,” Alastor said, his grin sharp.
“Maybe I do,” you admitted, nudging his shoulder. “Or maybe I just like having someone to blame if things go wrong.”
“Blame me?” he said, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t dare let you get away with that.”
You laughed, nudging his side lightly. “Oh? And what would you do if I tried?”
“Attempt it, and you’ll find out,” he replied smoothly, his tone teasing but calm. His eyes glinted in the streetlight, sharp and intent.
You grinned, feeling a rush of warmth. “I think I might like finding out.”
He let out a low chuckle, leaning slightly closer, though his pace never faltered. “Careful, my dear. Curiosity has a way of getting one into trouble.”
“Trouble?” you echoed, matching his teasing tone. “I hardly think a walk back to the hotel counts as trouble.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, glancing down at you with that ever-present mischievous gleam. “But with you, I suspect it could.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are,” he replied smoothly, eyes locked on yours, “walking beside me anyway.”
The hotel came into view ahead, its lights warm and familiar against the darkening street. Alastor slowed as you approached, opening the door for you with that effortless grace he always carried.
Inside, Husk and Angel sat at the bar, chatting quietly. Both glanced up as you entered. Husk’s face twisted into a faint grimace, while Angel’s expression held a flicker of curiosity, eyes lingering a moment longer than usual.
Alastor’s smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, just noticeable enough to make you wonder what he was thinking, before he led you past them. “Shall we?” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, guiding you toward the stairs.
The walk up was quiet. You lingered slightly at the doorway to your room, hesitant to break the spell of the evening.
Alastor stopped, turning to face you. “Goodnight, darling,” he said, voice gentle, almost intimate. He held your gaze for a moment, his sharp smile softened.
You smiled back, feeling the warmth of his presence linger. “Goodnight,” you replied softly.