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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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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