"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.
"I picked my path and it's the right one for me! And of course, darlin, let's get this bandaged up so it doesn't ruin your shirt," Rosie insisted, digging through the sewing kit to find a few safety pins. She held it in her teeth so it'd be ready, wrapping the bandaging tightly - but not TOO tightly - around his chest and shoulder to keep things nicely packed. And once she had it well wrapped, she used the pin to hold the bandaging in place.
"Alright, you're all done, Alastor. Should hold up pretty alright for a while - just no crazy gymnastics, you hear? Come on by again if a stitch pops and I'll get it back in there. And when it's healing over we'll cut the stitches out."
He knows that he doesn't have to tell her to keep this quiet, nor to be discrete in their future interactions regarding the vulnerable things he has shared. It's why he can count her as a friend, she is the most emotionally intelligent person he has ever met, and delightfully dangerous with it.
Standing, and stumbling a half step to the left thanks to the booze and blood loss, he lets a slightly wavering tinny laugh track play while he pulls his shirt back on.
"A pity, I fully intended to spend my evening practising my rhythmic gymnastics routine."
"You'll just have to make do! A relaxing evening with some jazz and maybe a snack," Rosie chuckled, using another clean cloth to wipe her hands dry of the booze and blood, casual as ever. "Oh!! That reminds me, I've got a gift for you, don't wander off just yet!"
She always does this-- he offers her payment for something so there's no debts between them, and she retaliates with some little gift or other. He's not seen her do it with anyone else, she always charges them a fair price for her services, and it frustrates him that she doesn't do the same with him.
"...Rosie."
A wearily warning tone as he begins to pull his shirt back on.
"Yes?" she turns, batting her eyelashes at him. Whaaaat, you don't want a present? A perfectly innocent present because she never keeps tally with you? She turns right back around to open up a trunk in the corner of the room, taking out a neatly wrapped clothing bag and turning around with it.
"I got the best crushed red velvet and Alastor, oh, it is just the right shade for you, how could I resist? I remembered your measurements for your vests and everything! It's got a beautiful paisley pattern with a gothic aesthetic - just perfect for a fancy outing!"
She is irritatingly good at this, always seeming to just "at random" have a gift perfect for him that would be useless to anyone else. He cannot refuse this, not when it's been cut and sewn into a vest for his proportions-- and she's correct, the design and pattern is perfect for him.
"Thank you, Rosie, too generous as always."
He takes the clothing bag, his smile just a little too sharp.
"I shall be sure to send something as thanks shortly."
"Focus on healin' up, darling, that's gift enough!" Rosie winked, putting her hands on her hips. Oh, she knows she won. "And that little vest there ought to make sure you're looking classier than the king himself," she added coyly. She hadn't seen Lucifer in person herself, but she knew Alastor - there was no way he wanted to be anything less than the top dog at the Hotel.
Alastor's acerbic dislike of the King is evidence right away, the man is an imbecile and to be considered classier than him is not exactly the compliment is should be.
Still, his smile turns more genuine as he turns to go, grateful even if he cannot mention it and wants to run from this for now.
"I might come drop by instead of sending a telegram once that Hotel's rebuilt! But you'll get a telegram once the wings are plucked and ready~" she waggled her fingers, beaming. "I might have a fancy new angel-feather hat to show off by then~!"
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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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"Alright, you're all done, Alastor. Should hold up pretty alright for a while - just no crazy gymnastics, you hear? Come on by again if a stitch pops and I'll get it back in there. And when it's healing over we'll cut the stitches out."
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Standing, and stumbling a half step to the left thanks to the booze and blood loss, he lets a slightly wavering tinny laugh track play while he pulls his shirt back on.
"A pity, I fully intended to spend my evening practising my rhythmic gymnastics routine."
Ha.
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She always does this-- he offers her payment for something so there's no debts between them, and she retaliates with some little gift or other. He's not seen her do it with anyone else, she always charges them a fair price for her services, and it frustrates him that she doesn't do the same with him.
"...Rosie."
A wearily warning tone as he begins to pull his shirt back on.
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"I got the best crushed red velvet and Alastor, oh, it is just the right shade for you, how could I resist? I remembered your measurements for your vests and everything! It's got a beautiful paisley pattern with a gothic aesthetic - just perfect for a fancy outing!"
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"Thank you, Rosie, too generous as always."
He takes the clothing bag, his smile just a little too sharp.
"I shall be sure to send something as thanks shortly."
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Alastor's acerbic dislike of the King is evidence right away, the man is an imbecile and to be considered classier than him is not exactly the compliment is should be.
Still, his smile turns more genuine as he turns to go, grateful even if he cannot mention it and wants to run from this for now.
"Goodbye, Rosie."
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