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mydeerfellow · 8 months

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Ye Mighty, Lay Down Your Arms

synopsis:

Rosie, as a professional fixer-upper, just wants to fix up Alastor. Inside AND out. Alastor just wants a few stitches, not the Spanish Inquisition. Vox just wants to play N64

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It took a special sort of stupidity to cross into the Cannibal Colony with an open wound, where even the youngest child had a nose as good as any dog, and the populace was prone to swarming any potential meal. Yet, Alastor didn’t have much choice, and so he hurried his pace as well as he could without spraying blood everywhere, which would be problematic on a number of levels.

Truthfully, the wound itself was something Alastor probably could have handled on his own with a mirror and steady hands. The problem was his current lack of steady hands, and the fact that he couldn’t look at the damage without hearing his own heart pounding in his ears.

The problem was that Alastor did not want to be alone at the moment, but he also didn’t want to put on airs for the rest of the night in front of a group of ecstatic fools.

He needed to exist without a facade for a few hours to lick his wounds and compose himself, and for that, he needed Rosie.

“Ugh, I smelled you coming from half a mile. What are you doing, walking in the rain? You and the drama, I swear.” The door opened before Alastor had reached it, and he didn’t protest when he was hauled into the darkened emporium by the elbow, then led diligently up to the living quarters above. “In, in, come on. Take off your jacket, I’ll get it cleaned.” He was herded through the familiar-feeling kitchen and straight into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of some fresh hands sitting half-chopped next to a stock pot. “Now, don’t be a baby.” Rosie scolded preemptively.

Alastor tried to ask why, but he was interrupted when she yanked his dress shirt off his skin, peeling the half-dry blood that had been holding things together. He uttered a muffled shout and pulled back, which apparently fit Rosie’s definition of a baby, based on her thunderous expression.

Defeated without a word, Alastor sat on the edge of the old-style tub, balancing a bit precariously on the rim of it. He stared at the ceiling, practically relishing in dropping the act, even for an hour. Of course he continued to smile, but it was flat and unaffected. After a few seconds, he blinked hard and refocused on Rosie. “Hello.” He laughed sheepishly.

“Hello to you, sweetheart!” She replied warmly, raising her brows. “I guess it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” As always, Rosie didn’t pry, even though she was clearly interested and had a stake in the whole venture. Alastor loved her for it.

Alastor flexed his fingers and uttered a laugh that was more of a heavy tsk. “It did, as far as I can tell. I had hoped it would.” He replied curtly, uncomfortably aware that even his voice was flat and tired. The radio effect was too hard to keep up when his body was trying to stitch itself back together and the primary catalyst of his power was in pieces.

“Alastor, darling, only you would pick a fight with an angel and have the absolute gall to come back alive and still cry about not winning.” Rosie laughed. “Is that all this is? Embarrassment?” She poked playfully, and Alastor felt his ire rising like a viper, catching a light in his eyes even as he caught himself before snapping at Rosie, who stilled immediately. She gave a sympathetic smile. “Not just that, then. Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Both were plausible, because Rosie was better at putting feelings into words than Alastor was. Whenever he tried, he ended up flustered, or trying desperately to dance around talking about the actual issue.

“I can’ttell you.” Alastor said flatly. There was a crack in the ceiling that was going to drive him to madness.

Rosie tutted. “Ugh, of course you can’t. Always with the secrets. And the mystery.”

There was a fork in the road that Alastor hadn’t anticipated. He had the opportunity to blissfully brush Rosie’s questions off as he usually did, allowing her to believe it was simply for the sake of drama. Or this was one of the few opportunities he would ever get to confide… withoutconfiding at all, thus maintaining the damnable deal. “I can’t tell you.” He repeated.

“Yes, you said that.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“I know, sweethe— oh.” He didn’t bother looking at her face, mostly because he didn’t want to see her expression. It was humiliating enough for the knowledge to be shared at all. “Oh, I see.” There was a rustle of fabric and then Rosie was sitting beside him on the edge of the tub. “Well, let’s address what we can fix, shall we? No sense crying over spilled blood.” She tutted, taking in the ugly wound. Most of the bruising on his back and shoulders had faded to sickly yellow skin, but the open wound was still festering, bleeding in spots.

Alastor sensed that Rosie was on the cusp of saying something else before she reconsidered and merely set about pouring hot water into a shallow dish, muttering something about her sewing kit. That was what he liked best about Rosie - she was smart enough to glean what she needed to know from what Alastor was willing to say, and she was, unlike most, content with her answers rarely being answered directly. “You know, you won’t like hearing this, but you really are lucky you didn’t end up in two very cute pieces.” Rosie pointed out, moseying around the overlarge bathroom, which was so unnecessarily decadent it was nearly comical. She started to rummage in a cabinet on the far side of the room. “Lucky for you, I always stock up before Exterminations.” She canted her head with a beaming smile, brandishing several small mason jars.

“I know.” He smiled back, feeling slightly relieved already by the weight off his shoulders, knowing there was at least one person aware of his predicament. “I’m surprised your contact is still alive.” Alastor admitted with some interest, taking the first jar from her and sniffing it. The paste inside was pungent, but distinctly fresh-smelling, and when he scooped some out, it was a pleasant forest green color. It stung the shit out of his chest when he applied it, but Alastor knew better than to doubt anything Rosie advised.

“Oh, no! The first one’s been dead for years, darling. Ugh, bless him. Frederick. Sweet boy, very tender.” Rosie corrected with a hoot of laughter. “If you paid any attention to politics outside the Pentagram, you’d know that plenty of hellborn demons are happy to help!” She held out the second jar, which smelled like the ocean… or as close to it as Alastor could remember. “They’re always flicking back and forth to Earth anyway, so it’s not hard for them to pick up some ingredients! Especially hellhounds - their noses are perfect for this kind of thing.” She noticed the way Alastor’s lips curled at the mention of hellhounds and absently slapped the back of his hand. “Oh stop. Keep your biases to yourself.”

Alastor rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, because Rosie was correct and it was a personal bias that kept him from wanting anything to do with hellhounds. Alastor didn’t like the way they looked, or the way they smelled, or the way they sometimes made doggish sounds when he least expected it. “Are you not going to pry even a little?” He asked instead, sounding amused.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Not particularly.”

“Would you be able to answer anythingI asked.”

“Probably not.”

“Well, then that answers your question!” Rosie chirped, clapping her hands down on her lap as she sat next to him again. “I do wonder what in hell would possess you to do something so stupid, but…” She patted his shoulder fondly, and Alastor had no desire to rip out her throat for touching his bare skin. In fact, he amiably leaned into her side. “Well, stupid is as stupid does, as I always say! You’ve always got your reasons, even if they’re shit.” Rosie chuckled, then gently squeezed him against her side in a loose hug. “I suppose the only real question that matters is if you’re okay.”

Alastor was abruptly brought back to his first meeting with Rosie, when he’d been in Hell less than a week and practically crawling between hunger and pain, having stumbled from one bad situation to the next for days on end. Frankly, Alastor attributed much of his current success to Rosie’s kindness in those first months when he had nothing to offer her and she still chose to house him and feed him.

Rosie was good. Rosie had his trust.

“No.” He admitted softly, after enough time had passed that Rosie looked surprised. “No.” Alastor shook his head, feeling his heart speeding up and starting to skip a beat or two along the way. “I don’t want to die.” He elaborated in a high, panicky tone, dragging a hand through his hair as his ears flattened against his scalp. The room felt small and airless. Wasn’t there a window in here? Why was it so hot? “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be at a disadvantage every single time.” Alastor added, speaking faster as his panic finally caught up with him, feeling like he had a knot tied around his throat, cutting off his breath. “I’m weak like this! I’m— they— I don’t need—” His voice crackled with interference and his eyes took turns ticking.

Rosie, who knew what to do in every situation, patted his hand calmly and was content to sit and wait as seconds crackled by. Eventually, when she seemed sure he wouldn’t sprint out of the room like a hunted animal, Rosie spoke up. “Well… I think that’s the risk you took, sweetheart, doing what you did. Aw, now don’t look at me like that.” She tutted when he wheeled on her with unprocessed anger brewing in his face. “I’m not saying what you’re feeling is wrong! It’s not! You think you’re the only one who’s probably scared to death with all this going on? Hah. Honey, please.”

“I’m weak.” He repeated hoarsely.

“To who? Some two thousand year old angel? Honey, we’re all weak next to that!” Rosie chided gently. “Or do you mean your deal?”

He couldn’t confirm it even if he wanted to, but his sullen look seemed to speak volumes.

“Hmm. Well, I guess that’s a little trickier…” Rosie sighed, standing up and pulling a small stool over from the corner so she could sit in front of Alastor. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.” He said tightly, lifting his chin so she could start sewing his skin together without his nose in the way. He sighed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I can’t find a backdoor.”

“Mm, well, you know what they say: Every deal’s got a backdoor.” Rosie reminded him as she set to work. “I’m sure yours is no different. You just need to find it.”

Alastor winced at the first poke of the needle. “And what if there is no backdoor?” He wondered bleakly.

“Then you’re stuck, and you might as well learn to live with it.” Rosie laughed. “Not what you wanna hear, I know, but you could be doing worse for yourself, Alastor. Look where you are. Who you’re there with!” The needle dipped a little deeper than before and he hissed softly. Rosie didn’t seem to care as she chattered on. “That Charlie’s a little peach! A bit naive, maybe, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Stick with her, and I think it’ll work out.”

Alastor sighed, because Rosie was right (as usual), but that didn’t make her advice any less grating on his nerves. “Well, at least that won’t be a struggle” He muttered bitterly, then dragged a hand through his hair again, anxiously mussing his ears. “Maybe.” Alastor added as a brooding afterthought, knowing better than to try predicting the mind of any demon besides himself. The one holding his leash could change their mind on a whim, and he wouldn’t have any say in the matter.

Rosie hummed thoughtfully as she knotted the last stitch and nipped off the thread. “I see.” She suddenly had a third jar of something-or-other in her hand and dabbed it on the stitching. It smelled spicy. Foreign. It made Alastor think of some far-flung desert. “It’s interesting that you would say it like that.” Rosie laughed softly, taking his hand in hers before Alastor could think to pull away. “It’s so odd to see you worried. You really are fond of that little hotel, aren’t you?”

He immediately bristled, taking offense at the suggestion that he was blinded by misplaced affection for a plan that was, at best, wildly unrealistic. Alastor tried to yank his hand away, but Rosie had a grip of iron when she wanted, and he had a better chance of cutting his hand off than getting it back from her. “Oh stop, sweetheart. You’re so dramatic!” Rosie sighed irritably. “I wasn’t insulting you, so you can put your incorrigible male pride away for the time being. It’s not a sin to be fond of people you live with!”

“I’m not—”

“Dear.”

“I do not—”

“Darling.”

“I just—”

“Sweetie-Pie.”

“I’ve never—”

“Alastor.” He looked up at her sudden shift in tone. “Shut up, honey. You know how much I hate it when you lie. It’s an insult to our friendship.” Her smile was an unpleasant, jagged, and anxiety-inducing thing. Alastor deflated rapidly, ears flat against his head and shoulders sinking. “Thank you, sweetie.” She patted his shoulder warmly. “I think we’ve got you about as patched up as you’ll ever be.” She added as an afterthought, standing up and wandering out of the bathroom for a few moments, giving Alastor a chance to catch his breath, eyes pinched shut and expression pained by more than just the searing wound on his chest. Out in the main room, Rosie was talking (mainly to herself) about how happy she was to help.

“Of course, there isn’t much I can do for your silly little stick.” Rosie was still chattering away as she came back with his shirt and jacket, both meticulously cleaned.

“I didn’t expect you to.” Alastor laughed curtly as he pulled on his dress shirt, grimacing when the stitches strained against flesh. “That’s the next stop.”

“Well, best to get it all over with in one fell swoop, isn’t that right? No need to drag out your own suffering.”

Alastor shuffled his arms into his jacket, adjusting his clothes until he felt presentable enough to leave the sanctity of Rosie’s luxurious bathroom. “Oh, I don’t know. I imagine it’s going to be dragged out whether I like it or not.” He raised his brows at her significantly and she had the decency to at least appear sympathetic. “I continue to suffer for the fact that I have ever agreed to any deals.” He couldn’t help whining one last time as he was shuffled towards the door.

“Oh stop. It’s what, twelve hours? You can handle that! Look at you! You survived an angel, I think you can handle a television.” Rosie pulled him into a tight hug that Alastor reciprocated after a pause. “The door’s always open if you need it. Tell Vox I sent him kisses.” She added cheerfully.

Alastor grimaced. “See you in twelve hours.” He muttered, sucking in a long-suffering breath as he nudged open the door with his hip and slipped out onto the street, begrudgingly making eye contact with the stupid drone that was eagerly floating around in the pissing rain, one red light flashing rhythmically, just in case he needed even more confirmation that Vox was being, as the children would say, a fucking creeper.

“Well, you’re going to have to wait. I’m not tolerating you until I’ve eaten.” Alastor bared his teeth at the floating camera in what was more a snarl than a smile. “And I am not going to that ludicrous eyesore of a tower.” The drone, of course, didn’t speak, but Alastor was more than capable of having a one-sided argument with the fool on the other side of the camera. “You maycome to the hotel in one hour. Assess the damage and we can go from there.” He pinched the bridge of his nose irritably, unable to fully comprehend that he was still forced to adhere to a deal he’d agreed to almost sixty years ago.

Frankly, the fact that Vox still held onto it was pathetic… though Alastor had togrudgingly admit that he had no idea what he would do if he was left to his own devices with the tangle of wire and magic that was his microphone.

“You can go now.” He waved his hand at the drone, which made an unbearably happy trill with its motor as it followed him down the street. “Do you think I’ve forgotten how this works? You fix my cane and I go along with whatever absolute idiocy youforce upon me for twelve hours.” Alastor pointed angrily at the drone, which continued whirring cheerfully until a tendril of darkness crawled around it, sending it clattering onto the pavement. “That twelve hours starts when I say it does. Not when you feel most aggravating.” The drone blinked a few more times as the tentacle overcame its sensors and Alastor’s shape started to morph into something lanky and dark. “You may come to the hotel in one hour. Any earlier than that and ł’ⱠⱠ ₥₳₭Ɇ ɎØɄ ⱤɆ₲ⱤɆ₮ ł₮.” He snapped his teeth at the drone just before it disappeared into the void, then pulled back with an aggrieved sigh, losing all his ponce and drama immediately.

It was going to be a very long night.

#hazbin #hazbin hotel #hellaverse #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin alastor #hazbin rosie #hazbin vox #Rosie is here to lay down some truth sandwiches #Alastor would rather be dead thanks #Alastor has a panic attack RIP #Vox just lives in his drones #like a freak #Rosie still calls them friends even though it's been 40 years and they're on sight

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