It has been over seventy years since the first time he met Rosie, and the Overlord of Cannibal Town has become perhaps his only actual friend here in Hell. The years saw them become closer and closer-- he saw her through Franklin's disappearance and she saw him through taking a seat in the ruling overlord's council.
She is one of the only ones he permits to hug and squeeze him first, consistently using the ridiculous deer pun themed gifts she sends his way with amusement. They spend many contented hours chatting, and before his disappearance Alastor was a regular fixture of Cannibal Town.
Less so now.
His Deal has constraints, and he doesn't want to spend one-on-one time with Rosie when she might actually ask questions that he cannot answer. Yet-- she is the only one he can go to now. The only one he can trust (ha... trust... ridiculous, does he really trust her?) to assist him and not use the opportunity to rid Hell of the troublesome Radio Demon for a second time.
Even after all this time, he will never accept a favour for free, and so he plans meticulously before he comes. He told Charlie that he would dispose of Adam's remains... she doesn't need to know that most of him is now frozen in packets for him to savour. With the exception of his two large golden wings, gloriously bright in colour even after death, and so different from common exorcist wings. Those are packaged in a display box and held out of sight in the shadows by his power, ready to be brought forth.
Too much exertion is still a struggle, and the edges of his smile are pulled taut when he enters Rosie's Emporium, an impatient crackle of static already chasing a few of the nearer customers away and out of his path. But even with the urgency, he remembers his manners and waits at the back of the queue for her to notice him; this is her territory and these are her people, he will not shame or belittle her by forcing things.
Unlike their first years of acquaintanceship, Rosie considers Alastor a fine friend and an honorable fellow in Cannibal Town - he's never steered her wrong yet! And just like when he brought the Princess to visit, when Rosie spots him, she steps aside through her customers to greet him directly.
"Alastor! There you are, I figured you were busy what with the hotel being rebuilt!" Rosie cheered delightfully - the other cannibals chittered and grinned in grateful delight. After all, Alastor had let them have a little taste of heaven in the first place. "Welcome back, looking cool and composed as ever!"
Despite the nature of his visit and the pain pulling at the edges of his senses, his words and smile are sincere. He reaches to take both of her hands in his, offering a gracious nod to the surrounding cannibals.
"I must say that Cannibal Town is positively glowing these days, quite the famous heroes of Hell. Loathe as I am to tear you away from your clients, I wondered if you might have time for a private word?"
"Of course, darlin! Alright, babes, Auntie Rosie is going on lunch break, I'll be back in a jiffy," Rosie waved at her customers - most were in a good enough mood that they didn't grouse at being asked to wait. Rosie offered her elbow to Alastor to walk him to the back, as usual, nothing particularly out of the ordinary.
Once they're in a private room in the back, Rosie locks the door behind them and smiles at Alastor a little knowingly. "Sit, sit!"
Alastor does indeed go to sit in the offered chair, and if his posture is just that bit stiffer than usual, perhaps he manages to mask it well.
"...I need your help."
Much as he is loathe to say those words to anyone, he knows it's best to just get them out there bluntly before he can second guess himself. Rosie, he is fairly sure, won't hold it over him and will understand what asking for help costs him.
"I have, naturally, brought compensation should you agree."
"Compensation! Uh oh. After your last ask, should I be worried you're paying me up front?" Rosie hummed, opening the armoire in the room in anticipation. "We'll see what ol' Rosie's got for you, Alastor."
Shadows swirl and appear on the carpet and a box slides upwards out of nowhere, practically as long as Alastor is tall, and thick besides. Inside is an ice cooler, and atop are two golden wings from the first man himself.
"Nothing I ask of you will put you or your cannibals in danger this time, I assure you."
Ooh? Rosie takes a peek into the ice box and gasps in awe - those golden wings are unmistakable!
"Oh Alastor, you spoil me rotten, you sweet thing! There's no way I'm eating these by myself, you know, you're joining me - a delicacy like this has to be shared with someone special, after all!"
Gorgeous, and she'll make damn sure to pluck it carefully and make something gorgeous out of those feathers, too. Absolutely radiant.
"Alright, buck-a-roo, tell Rosie what favor you need."
Even if he hadn't needed a favour from her, he would have tried to bring her at least one of the wings-- it's a delicacy that they'll likely only ever get to try once, and she deserves it for being so willing to lend her people and her support to the fight to begin with.
For a long moment he just looks at her with that ever-fixed smile, seconds from melting into the shadows himself and disappearing. But it's her-- that wide sharp grin is one he's come to associate with an almost maternal care, so eventually his shoulders droop a little.
"I miscalculated during the battle and took an injury, I find it impossible to stitch it closed myself. I require-- help."
"Oof! And those holy wounds, boy, they pack a whallop too! Haven't had one in a long time but I sure remember it," Rosie nodded, turning back to her armoire and fetching a few things. Namely: a sewing kit, bandages, some hand towels and a massive bottle of what was probably moonshine.
"Ugh! It was such a pain, too, havin' to sew up my own guts! Damn things kept wiggling. And the stitching hurts like absolute Hell too - s'why we're getting you nice and drunk, darlin."
This is one of the reasons he has such affection for her, she knows how to take a potentially fraught situation and set those around her at ease. By mentioning her own wounds, it stings his pride less, because both powerful Overlords have been in the same position.
"I don't believe I've been drunk since I died."
It's not a no, he does curl clawed fingers around the bottle and takes a sniff from it.
"I used to be rather partial to rye, it's funny the vices we leave behind in life and the ones we bring with us to death, hm?"
"You can say that again! Hell's got a funny way of broadcasting why you're down here to everyone. They say it's the true nature of your soul, but if you ask me, someone's havin' a real good laugh at making pretty much every cannibal look like a skull," Rosie chattered, tapping the bottom of the bottle to encourage Alastor to drink. He definitely didn't want to be sober for the stitching part.
"I'll have to get some nice rye to hold onto for visits, then! The stuff from Gluttony ring is pretty strong and incredible, if you can get your hands on it. In this case we just gotta get you fucked up enough that you don't tense too hard and mess up the stitch. Where's the damage, by the by? Don't be shy, you ain't got nothin' ol Rosie hasn't seen before."
This is a much easier topic of conversation to focus on than his own issues, so he will continue to latch on there and trust Rosie to allow him the distraction. But he does make a move to show her the wound at the same time. Stiffly, slowly, he stands and unbuttons first coat, then bow tie, then shirt to take them off one at a time.
Beneath his torso is covered in tight blood stained bandages, hiding the wound that almost bisected him from shoulder to hip.
"Cannibal Town is quite the populous place, more so than I imagine were actual cannibals in life. Tell me, my dear, did you have such proclivities before your death?"
"Ate my first husband! He was an oaf of a man, absolute monster," Rosie scoffed loudly, keeping up the conversation to keep Alastor distracted. That was a VERY nasty slash wound, no wonder he needed help. She stepped back to the armoire and pulled scissors from the drawer, sitting Alastor down again and gingerly cutting away the bandaging.
"Thought the best way to handle a lady was with his big strong hands, and not in the honeymoon type way, either - I found out he'd been leaving bruises on some of the other girls in town and decided that was quite enough," she elaborated. Taking a turn with the alcohol, Rosie dunked the chosen needle and suture to prep it.
"Chug, Alastor, 'cause this is the shitty part. Anyway I slit my husband's throat in his sleep and thought that'd be the end of it - but when you live in the middle of town, what exactly are you gonna do with a body? I'm a strong gal nowadays, but I was a little thing back then! So I did what made sense: quartered 'im, baked and boiled and ground up every last bit, ate what was edible and tossed the rest to the alley cats."
He has always been impressed with Rosie, and now is no different. Her solution was elegant and capable, ridding the world of someone who ought not to have been in it at all. Perhaps this is one of the reasons he doesn't truly believe in Charlie's dream of redemption, because who would want to get to Heaven if they couldn't differentiate between a good and bad murder?
"I suspect he tasted quite vile, my first victim was unpleasant to the palette as well."
The little titbit of his own past is given freely for once, a thanks for her opening up to him and the way she is making this easier. It means he obeys her rather than arguing, tipping the bottle back and feeling the fire of the drink spread through him. Unpleasant as it is, he keeps swallowing more and more, until he feels his head grow cloudy with it, the hum of radio static around him ebbing and flowing erratically as if his signal were unsteady.
"Perhaps I ought to have been one of yours, I wonder why I wasn't."
"You got the teeth from it! But you must've been doing something a little more riveting than plain ol' murder and cannibalism. The dead shot here," she pokes his forehead, though she was also considering his deer traits, "has me thinking you were fancying yourself as some kind of twisted 'hunter'. Then you got offed with a dead-on shot."
She's been around the block, after all, she knows a lot of Sinners' deaths. When Alastor sets down the bottle, she grabs a towel and dabs it in the booze, giving the wound a brief wipe-down. "You've done a good job keepin' this clean, keep that up after this and you'll heal up fine," she congratulated, picking up the sterilized thread and placing her hand on Alastor's chest, gently pushing him till he was leaned back against the back of the chair.
"Alright. On the count of three. Don't feel bad if you throw up, I did too."
She pinched the end of the wound, bringing the skin together, already painfully.
At least by the time she begins, he is past tipsy and distinctly on the edge of drunk. It doesn't numb the pain that much, it's still a bright agony that flares into a new burst of pain with every jab of the needle through his skin, but it does make him able to tolerate it better.
The air is full of the scent of blood, cloying and comforting. Alastor's head is tipped forwards and his gaze is unfocused, vaguely watching her fingers deftly wrestle with slippery instruments and ragged skin.
"I shan't be offended if you take a taste."
Hm, that's perhaps a little personal, but it seems his ability to filter thoughts before they become words is starting to be impaired.
"Hah! Bold time to start flirting, Alastor, if I get flustered I might miss a stitch!" she teased him, not even hesitating as she deftly tied skin and muscle together again. She didn't think he was actually flirting, but hey, she wouldn't mind if he was. Funny little ace in the hole.
His nose scrunches and his smile twitches at the edges, as if that insinuation is somehow more intolerable than the pain of being stitched together.
"Never. You remind me of my mother."
...oh. Hm.
There's a sudden loud scratching of static and Alastor's shadow expands across the wall, its jagged mouth stretched in a laugh at its master for revealing something so ridiculously sentimental.
Oh, she is never gonna forget that. That's precious information, right there. She had paused at seeing the shadow and hearing the scratching sound, but shrugged as she resumed.
"Your mom must've been quite a chatterbox, then! Franklin always griped about me filling the silence - but I can't help that, I got a lot on my mind and a lot to say!"
Juuuust tightening the suture here... getting a knot in, starting the next section, making sure it's flexible enough for Alastor to move and breathe without tearing the stitches (or worse).
"Like I'm preaching to the choir, though - dead air's no good for a radio station either, so you know where I'm coming from!"
He shakes his head, his mother and Rosie didn't really have anything in common with one another. Not to mention his mother must have made it to heaven, and would be horrified if she knew the sort of creature her son had grown to be.
Apparently he is much drunker than he thought he was (or perhaps it's the addition of the blood loss), but he is incapable of keeping his foolish smiling mouth shut.
That's sweet, and nostalgic, and probably way more vulnerable than Alastor's been in decades. She makes sure not to slow down or acknowledge it too much - men could be so darn proud, after all.
After tying the final knot and carefully dabbing at the wound with the alcohol-soaked cloth to clean it up, Rosie sat back for a moment and smiled at him. "Your mother raised a polite, well-mannered man," she eventually said, grabbing the roll of clean bandages and starting to unwind it.
It's half snarled, his smile jagged around the edges. He isn't ashamed of who he is and what he had done, even in life he had understood his own darker impulses, but there had always been that small part of him that feared her finding out and realising what sort of monster a good woman had raised and loved.
"Mine wouldn't know either. I know the feeling," Rosie answered sympathetically. Alastor had a lot more bloodlust and fervor to him than Rosie, who was a methodical plotter - but she was no less culpable in the murders she committed or the people she targeted.
"Think I came to terms with it knowing she ain't around to see what little Rosie ended up becoming. Or how I still wouldn't have done anything differently, I'd still march right here into Hell if it meant doing what I knew what right back then," she shrugged a bit. "It's why I think you and I get on so well, Alastor - you and I both recognize there's times where someone's hands have gotta get a little bloody for things to be set right."
And once again Rosie proves why she has become the only one Alastor trusts in Hell. Instead of offering him some meaningless platitude, or cloying sympathy that would surely have raised his temper further, she was just matter of fact about it. About herself, about him, and what they were.
It allows the tension to drain from him again, though the shadows around the base of his chair are still darker than normal, and the stubs of his antlers are longer and stretched backwards.
"We know what we are and always have."
He stretches slightly to test the stitches, wanting to get out of here before he makes any further disgraceful remarks.
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Friend in need
She is one of the only ones he permits to hug and squeeze him first, consistently using the ridiculous deer pun themed gifts she sends his way with amusement. They spend many contented hours chatting, and before his disappearance Alastor was a regular fixture of Cannibal Town.
Less so now.
His Deal has constraints, and he doesn't want to spend one-on-one time with Rosie when she might actually ask questions that he cannot answer. Yet-- she is the only one he can go to now. The only one he can trust (ha... trust... ridiculous, does he really trust her?) to assist him and not use the opportunity to rid Hell of the troublesome Radio Demon for a second time.
Even after all this time, he will never accept a favour for free, and so he plans meticulously before he comes. He told Charlie that he would dispose of Adam's remains... she doesn't need to know that most of him is now frozen in packets for him to savour. With the exception of his two large golden wings, gloriously bright in colour even after death, and so different from common exorcist wings. Those are packaged in a display box and held out of sight in the shadows by his power, ready to be brought forth.
Too much exertion is still a struggle, and the edges of his smile are pulled taut when he enters Rosie's Emporium, an impatient crackle of static already chasing a few of the nearer customers away and out of his path. But even with the urgency, he remembers his manners and waits at the back of the queue for her to notice him; this is her territory and these are her people, he will not shame or belittle her by forcing things.
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"Alastor! There you are, I figured you were busy what with the hotel being rebuilt!" Rosie cheered delightfully - the other cannibals chittered and grinned in grateful delight. After all, Alastor had let them have a little taste of heaven in the first place. "Welcome back, looking cool and composed as ever!"
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Despite the nature of his visit and the pain pulling at the edges of his senses, his words and smile are sincere. He reaches to take both of her hands in his, offering a gracious nod to the surrounding cannibals.
"I must say that Cannibal Town is positively glowing these days, quite the famous heroes of Hell. Loathe as I am to tear you away from your clients, I wondered if you might have time for a private word?"
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Once they're in a private room in the back, Rosie locks the door behind them and smiles at Alastor a little knowingly. "Sit, sit!"
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"...I need your help."
Much as he is loathe to say those words to anyone, he knows it's best to just get them out there bluntly before he can second guess himself. Rosie, he is fairly sure, won't hold it over him and will understand what asking for help costs him.
"I have, naturally, brought compensation should you agree."
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"Nothing I ask of you will put you or your cannibals in danger this time, I assure you."
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"Oh Alastor, you spoil me rotten, you sweet thing! There's no way I'm eating these by myself, you know, you're joining me - a delicacy like this has to be shared with someone special, after all!"
Gorgeous, and she'll make damn sure to pluck it carefully and make something gorgeous out of those feathers, too. Absolutely radiant.
"Alright, buck-a-roo, tell Rosie what favor you need."
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For a long moment he just looks at her with that ever-fixed smile, seconds from melting into the shadows himself and disappearing. But it's her-- that wide sharp grin is one he's come to associate with an almost maternal care, so eventually his shoulders droop a little.
"I miscalculated during the battle and took an injury, I find it impossible to stitch it closed myself. I require-- help."
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"Ugh! It was such a pain, too, havin' to sew up my own guts! Damn things kept wiggling. And the stitching hurts like absolute Hell too - s'why we're getting you nice and drunk, darlin."
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"I don't believe I've been drunk since I died."
It's not a no, he does curl clawed fingers around the bottle and takes a sniff from it.
"I used to be rather partial to rye, it's funny the vices we leave behind in life and the ones we bring with us to death, hm?"
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"I'll have to get some nice rye to hold onto for visits, then! The stuff from Gluttony ring is pretty strong and incredible, if you can get your hands on it. In this case we just gotta get you fucked up enough that you don't tense too hard and mess up the stitch. Where's the damage, by the by? Don't be shy, you ain't got nothin' ol Rosie hasn't seen before."
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This is a much easier topic of conversation to focus on than his own issues, so he will continue to latch on there and trust Rosie to allow him the distraction. But he does make a move to show her the wound at the same time. Stiffly, slowly, he stands and unbuttons first coat, then bow tie, then shirt to take them off one at a time.
Beneath his torso is covered in tight blood stained bandages, hiding the wound that almost bisected him from shoulder to hip.
"Cannibal Town is quite the populous place, more so than I imagine were actual cannibals in life. Tell me, my dear, did you have such proclivities before your death?"
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"Thought the best way to handle a lady was with his big strong hands, and not in the honeymoon type way, either - I found out he'd been leaving bruises on some of the other girls in town and decided that was quite enough," she elaborated. Taking a turn with the alcohol, Rosie dunked the chosen needle and suture to prep it.
"Chug, Alastor, 'cause this is the shitty part. Anyway I slit my husband's throat in his sleep and thought that'd be the end of it - but when you live in the middle of town, what exactly are you gonna do with a body? I'm a strong gal nowadays, but I was a little thing back then! So I did what made sense: quartered 'im, baked and boiled and ground up every last bit, ate what was edible and tossed the rest to the alley cats."
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"I suspect he tasted quite vile, my first victim was unpleasant to the palette as well."
The little titbit of his own past is given freely for once, a thanks for her opening up to him and the way she is making this easier. It means he obeys her rather than arguing, tipping the bottle back and feeling the fire of the drink spread through him. Unpleasant as it is, he keeps swallowing more and more, until he feels his head grow cloudy with it, the hum of radio static around him ebbing and flowing erratically as if his signal were unsteady.
"Perhaps I ought to have been one of yours, I wonder why I wasn't."
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She's been around the block, after all, she knows a lot of Sinners' deaths. When Alastor sets down the bottle, she grabs a towel and dabs it in the booze, giving the wound a brief wipe-down. "You've done a good job keepin' this clean, keep that up after this and you'll heal up fine," she congratulated, picking up the sterilized thread and placing her hand on Alastor's chest, gently pushing him till he was leaned back against the back of the chair.
"Alright. On the count of three. Don't feel bad if you throw up, I did too."
She pinched the end of the wound, bringing the skin together, already painfully.
"Three."
And so the suturing begins.
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The air is full of the scent of blood, cloying and comforting. Alastor's head is tipped forwards and his gaze is unfocused, vaguely watching her fingers deftly wrestle with slippery instruments and ragged skin.
"I shan't be offended if you take a taste."
Hm, that's perhaps a little personal, but it seems his ability to filter thoughts before they become words is starting to be impaired.
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"Never. You remind me of my mother."
...oh. Hm.
There's a sudden loud scratching of static and Alastor's shadow expands across the wall, its jagged mouth stretched in a laugh at its master for revealing something so ridiculously sentimental.
"...I would ask you to forget that."
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"Your mom must've been quite a chatterbox, then! Franklin always griped about me filling the silence - but I can't help that, I got a lot on my mind and a lot to say!"
Juuuust tightening the suture here... getting a knot in, starting the next section, making sure it's flexible enough for Alastor to move and breathe without tearing the stitches (or worse).
"Like I'm preaching to the choir, though - dead air's no good for a radio station either, so you know where I'm coming from!"
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Apparently he is much drunker than he thought he was (or perhaps it's the addition of the blood loss), but he is incapable of keeping his foolish smiling mouth shut.
"You both inspire trust."
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After tying the final knot and carefully dabbing at the wound with the alcohol-soaked cloth to clean it up, Rosie sat back for a moment and smiled at him. "Your mother raised a polite, well-mannered man," she eventually said, grabbing the roll of clean bandages and starting to unwind it.
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It's half snarled, his smile jagged around the edges. He isn't ashamed of who he is and what he had done, even in life he had understood his own darker impulses, but there had always been that small part of him that feared her finding out and realising what sort of monster a good woman had raised and loved.
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"Think I came to terms with it knowing she ain't around to see what little Rosie ended up becoming. Or how I still wouldn't have done anything differently, I'd still march right here into Hell if it meant doing what I knew what right back then," she shrugged a bit. "It's why I think you and I get on so well, Alastor - you and I both recognize there's times where someone's hands have gotta get a little bloody for things to be set right."
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It allows the tension to drain from him again, though the shadows around the base of his chair are still darker than normal, and the stubs of his antlers are longer and stretched backwards.
"We know what we are and always have."
He stretches slightly to test the stitches, wanting to get out of here before he makes any further disgraceful remarks.
"...thank you."
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