Chapter Text
Alastor was surprised there was already another hotel built by the time he returned from hiding. He was only gone a few days, and there's already a brand new, huge building that had too many hearts and x's on it. If he had a say in it, he would've made it look much better and classier than it is now. Unfortunately, Alastor was busy taking care of the large gash on his chest that he got from his fight with that Adam Fellow. It was a very humiliating defeat for the great overlord. He underestimated his opponent, and overestimated his own abilities, with the consequence being a gaping slice in his flesh. At least nobody saw it, and Adam died in the end, so there's no point in moping about it.
Unfortunately, the injury wasn't healing as fast as he would have hoped, angelic steel may be blamed for that. Alastor had done his best to tend to it as, but his lack of experience showed when the stitches kept coming out, no matter how many times he tried to sew it back up. It didn't help that the laceration was quite deep, and if it weren't for the bandaging and clothing covering it, overwhelmingly noticeable. Alastor is grateful he didn't die that day, but the thought that he could've gone down in history for "selflessly sacrificing himself for his friends" sickened him.
Alastor's chest and ribs ached with every intake of air, and he often had to deliberately slow his movements to avoid a sharp wave of pain that makes his knees wobble and his head spin. He couldn't disappear for another 7 years though. He had a job to do, an appearance to uphold, and some dignity he would like to keep. Alastor still remained cautious, and stayed within the hotel grounds in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary fights out in the city. If Vox caught wind of his weakened state, he would surely try to attack him. More reason to keep up appearances. As boring as the lack of entertainment was, it was better than going through another life threatening experience that he didn't need, It had only been a bit over a week since the great exorcist battle, he would survive.
Charlie was currently in the middle of one of her group "bonding" activities, with the staff and singular client sitting in the lounge with her, minus Sir Pentious of course. Alastor overheard some talk of his funeral plans a few days ago, so it's safe to say the slimy snake died in battle, probably due to his own hubris and stupidity, Alastor noted. The radio demon barely listened to what Charlie was saying, but gathered it was something about vulnerability and "asking your friends for help". Alastor just kept staring into empty space, too focused on his own thoughts to notice that the princess was trying to get his attention.
"Alastor? Al?" Charlie lightly tapped his shoulder, which brought his focus back to the room, and everyone in it.
Charlie looked concerned, and everyone else was looking at him with confusion, except Vagatha, who had annoyance written all over her face. How long had Charlie been trying to get him to talk? Alastor felt oddly nervous with everyone's eyes on him, he still hasn't said anything. The silence was unbearable. Alastor finally found the power to say something, baring his usual toothy grin.
"Well dear, I don't believe I have anything important to add to this to little activity of yours, I am simply listening." He eventually replied, hoping it would be enough for everyone to ignore him so he can think to himself again. He did not have the mental capacity for witty banter today.
Angel Dust gave the deer demon a skeptical look. "Really? Cuz you've been staring at nothin' for the past 20 minutes." Angel said skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
Alastor tensed up a bit from the questioning, his smile remained, but it probably looked very forced at this point. For some reason, bringing himself to speak was a lot more difficult than it should've been, and the room fell into another uncomfortable silence as Alastor tried thinking of something of something to say. Charlie looked more worried now, hand going up to his shoulder as she asks a question.
"Are you oka-" Or at least tried to, as Alastor finally remembered how to talk.
"Well I must be going now, try not to have fun without me!" He sat up from his chair, perhaps too quickly though, as Alastor now felt dreadfully lightheaded, and the room was spinning around a tad bit.
He trotted away from the group of confused sinners, trying not to trip over his own feet. The walk to his room felt like it took more energy than it should, his forehead was beginning to sweat, and his breathing was somewhat uneven. So he opted to teleport to his destination instead, as passing out in the hallway would be rather embarrassing. Alastor leaned up against his door, his entire body felt too warm, and he still felt lightheaded. It was probably because of this bothersome injury he has to deal with. Alastor went to his bathroom, taking off his suit with unsteady hands and lifting up his dress shirt to assess the situation.
It looked bad.
Really bad.
The stiches barely held the damaged flesh together, with some sections already falling apart, and the skin surrounding the cut looked angry from how red it was. Damn him and his lack of medical knowledge. What is he going to do? If this gets any worse, someone's going to notice, and god forbid they try help him, that would be utterly humiliating, the great radio demon has gone through much worse before, he doesn't need help. Alastor tried testing the waters by putting some pressure on the wound, being rewarded with the intense sensation of throbbing, burning pain. He looked up at the mirror again, faced with the sight of a sweaty, disheveled moron who wasn't breathing, as if his lungs decided to stop functioning properly.
Alastor let in a big, albeit shaky, gulp of air. This was fine, he was fine. This is far from the worst outcome he could've gotten. He could've lost a leg or an arm. Or maybe if Adam was lucky, he would've decapitated the demon when he had the chance. Alastor's breathing worsened at the mental image of him being beheaded, or perhaps mangled beyond repair, his organs in all the wrong places. Not a helpful thought at all, he would never let that happen to him.
But he almost did.
Alastor just now realized he wasn't looking into the mirror anymore, he was on the floor, gasping for air like a fish out of water. The laceration on his chest was practically screaming with how much it hurt, and Alastor groaned pathetically as he rolled over onto his side, pulling on his hair tightly. This must be what dying felt like, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't run away, and every nerve in his body was on fire. Something wet rolled off his face before he eventually passed out from his hysterics.
Passing out on the bathroom floor was most certainly a bad look for him.