what originally was just gonna be some huggin turned into some character journeys and alastor just fuckin mentally adopting everyone

As a rule, Alastor does not enjoy physical contact. Embraces are uncomfortable, kisses are cringeworthy, and anything past that is simply unbearable. Any honies he'd reluctantly had while alive were kept at arm's length and any friends must stick to the polite guideline of keeping any touching strictly to the arms and hands.

But every rule has an exception, and for Alastor, that exception is the One Hug Policy. For those characters whose company he enjoys or has otherwise formed a connection with, they get exactly as advertised - when they are at their lowest, when they have nowhere else to turn, when the rare stab of sympathy is awoken in his cold heart.

When they need it most.

Angel Dust is a nuisance, at first, but Alastor would be lying if he said that impression of the spider demon persisted for long. Sure, Angel's sex obsession and constant flirtations had started as grating, but once Angel discovers the radio demon's genuine distaste for sex and assures him his advances are not serious - it's just, y'know, kind of habitual - it becomes an easy back-and-forth between them. Angel makes nonchalant suggestions, Alastor is calm and cold, and Charlie laughs at their antics.

Besides, Angel is a noteworthy ally; while he absolutely is nowhere near Alastor's level of power, he can navigate a battlefield well enough, and he's admirably well-versed in deceiving his opponents. Alastor personally cares little for combat, but he can respect a prostitute that can also hold his own in a fight.

He finds it amusing, at first, because of both of these things, that Angel Dust is the demon Charlie chose to rehabilitate. Of course drugs, prostitution, and violence are not impossible sins to absolve oneself of, but it is the willingness of the demon that determines whether it is successful, and Angel spends a long while enjoying himself far too much to change.

But then Charlie recruits Cherri. With his best friend and biggest enabler genuinely somewhat interested in bettering herself, as well, Angel has little interest in the antics of before. No more turf wars - Alastor gets the pleasure of dealing with Sir Pentious when he comes screeching to the hotel - and though it makes both Cherri and Angel cranky, far less booze.

It takes time and convincing, but Angel finally quits his job, and when Valentino tries to raise a fuss Alastor is prepared to take him head-on.

The pimp does ultimately decide it isn't worth it - all this for some cheap whore - and when the statement makes him bristle inwardly, Alastor realizes that some part of him has a special interest in the spider demon that has come so far. And when the radio demon croons back, a dangerous hum of I don't believe you have the right to call him that anymore, my dear fellow, Angel's face grows pink behind him, and when the smoke clears he offers Alastor a sheepish thanks.

Yes, Alastor thinks, perhaps Angel is not quite the annoying, disgusting, pitiable little creature he first believed him to be. Sure, he still indulges in plenty of sex and similar antics, but as Charlie (somewhat uncomfortably) tells him, sex itself isn't such a bad thing.

The hardest thing for Angel to give up is the drugs. Charlie is chipper, so proud when Angel puffs his chest out and declares he wants to go clean, and Alastor admits he is impressed, but no amount of determination stops the withdrawals. The low moods, the biting anger and small ticks, the shakes, the nights spent in bed alone and the way Charlie and Vaggie do their best to help him through the seizures and hallucinations.

Angel struggles through it all for days that stretch into weeks, sleeping too much, throwing violent tantrums, forgetting conversations, falling into lows that have the staff supervising him closely, until one day he walks into the lobby fully dressed and makeup done for the first time in months, and claims he needs a hobby.

Charlie, delighted, helps him rediscover a love for cooking, and it's a conduit for Angel to find his way back to normalcy. They share so many laughs and antics and wonderful meals over it, and for a time, most things are well. Alastor watches the way he moves, listens to the way he talks, and knows he is almost himself again. It's the most impressive turnaround he's ever seen.

The problem arises when family is brought up. Angel has trusted Charlie thus far, but Alastor can sense the tension in him, the reluctance to go this for. Is it necessary? Alastor is not certain himself, but none of them argue when she says it's important to forgive and forget, and it's also how Alastor learns some unfortunate details about Angel's family - and how they disowned him.

Just talk to them! Her golden advice. Try to find some common ground, some place of understanding. We want to rebuild a relationship if we can. But if they're just huge assholes and give you shit, be the bigger man and walk away! Show them you're better than some petty nonsense!

Alastor rather thinks this is more than some small disagreement, but Angel swallows and nods and sets out for his father's mansion, and that's where it all goes downhill.

Alastor is nosy when it comes to the wellbeing of those he has some care for - yes, he admits to himself, he has grown somewhat attached to this odd character despite his promiscuity - and he hears it all. The screaming, the slurs, the way Angel still tries to placate. It's a pitiful realization, when Alastor processes that Angel had truly wanted some kind of resolution, hears him pushing and reaching for anything that may bring any closure.

His shadows watch as Angel is thrown from the mansion, spectating silently as the spider lifts himself from the ground, sees the tears gathering in his eyes as he curses and throws the bag of gifts he brought with him to the concrete. Something breaks inside, but Alastor has to choose between investigating it and keeping up with Angel, and he picks the latter.

He is not surprised when Angel comes stumbling into his room, speech slurred and all six visible limbs uncoordinated, sporting torn clothes and a bruised eye, his chest heaving as though he's struggling to breathe. Alastor has watched him the whole way - the beeline to the shady alley, the limp, resigned way he let the demons there abuse him, the way he seemed to relax so completely once that cursed white powder was finally in his system. It's admittedly painful to watch.

Alastor eyes him warily, folding his hands together before him. Angel finally seems to properly fix his gaze on him, and a smile curves his lips, tired and devious and not entirely convincing. Alastor has seen his real smile now.

"Alastor," Angel purrs out, and oh how the radio demon loathes that tone. The spider is most definitely not himself. "I've been a bad boy."

"I do believe Vaggie is in charge of the public lashings," Alastor replies coolly.

It's clear Angel hardly processes it; he's stumbling forward now, slinking toward the armchair with a look in his eye Alastor very much dislikes, and as Angel clambers into his lap the only thing keeping him from doing something they'll both regret is Alastor's hands keeping his hips a firm few inches away.

"Angel." His voice hardens. He does not wish to be mean to the pitiful soul before him, but discomfort crawls under his skin like a plague. "The five foot rule."

"Please?"

Angel buries his his face in Alastor's shoulder, and though he does not do anything further, the feeling of warm breath on his neck makes Alastor feel horribly exposed. Vulnerable. He places his hands on Angel's chest and pushes him back to a more respectable distance.

"If you don't stop, I will make you stop." It's not a threat he wants to make. Angel pulls a pout, fingers wrapping around Alastor's wrists, and slides them up toward his throat.

"Then make me," he murmurs, his non-swollen eyelid drooping. "Kick my ass. I don't even have to like it."

Alastor recoils, jerking his hands from Angel's grasp. Self-loathing drips from every word, radiates from the way Angel's hands fall lamely back to his sides and his gaze averts. It makes sense, suddenly - self punishment for his failures. His failure to reconcile with his family, his failure in relapsing and betraying Charlie, his failure to respect Alastor's boundaries. He's looking for anger, for abuse, for someone else to punish him on his own terms - for atonement.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be disappointed," Alastor says, crossing his arms for some more solid space between them. Angel deflates further at the rejection.

"Come on," he slurs insistently, a reminder he can't even consent to the torment he desires. He reaches for Alastor's coat lapels, smooths his hands down them, a lame attempt at getting a rise from the radio demon. "I get you're not into sex, but you can get your rocks off by hurting me or something, yeah? You're an evil bloodthirsty demon, and all that. Anything." He pauses, exhales a shuddering breath, diverting his gaze downward. "Please, Al."

He sounds so pitiful. His heart isn't in it, Alastor knows. Delicately, he traces a finger along Angel's jawline to his chin, and Angel finally looks up at him, finally shows him his quivering pout and the black eye he's sporting. Alastor cocks his head, not releasing Angel's face as he takes in the cracking façade.

"This isn't what you want," he says low in his throat, not a guess. The trembling of Angel's lip only grows at how Alastor exposes him, all the air in his chest leaving him in a sharp, pained exhale.

"No," he chokes out, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down his cheeks, staining them black with his mascara, "it's not. It's what I deserve."

The admission is enough for Alastor. He sighs deeply through his nose; he feels about done for the day after this total fiasco, but Angel looks ready to burst at any second, and fondness worms its way into his exhaustion. He hesitates for only a moment longer before spreading his arms open in invitation. Angel stares at him for a long, baffled moment, before he sniffs loudly and all but throws himself into the embrace, the dam breaking as he cries noisily into his ear.

He wails about so much, most of it incoherent, and Alastor hardly listens - they're all dots he connected ages ago. How Angel only ever wanted support, how his party life was nothing compared to feeling welcomed and worthy and cared for, how he's so awful and so sorry and he hopes Charlie and everyone will forgive him. And through it all Alastor just holds him, lets him ramble and cry it out as he rubs small, comforting circles into Angel's tense back.

Angel had been low before, when Charlie found him - but nothing is lower than relapse, than seemingly losing all his progress when he truly thinks he's changed for the better. But now that he's hit rock bottom, he can only get better, so Alastor grants him this, listening to him cry until it all fades into ugly sniffles and labored breathing and limp fingers still half-clenched in his sleeves.

"My stupid pa never hugged me like this," Angel mumbles bitterly, but the venom in his tone is muted by how tired he sounds. "Maybe if he did I never woulda turned out so fucked up."

"I'm not positive I'm a better role model, sonny," Alastor jokes. Angel takes the bait knowingly, huffing amusedly against his shoulder.

"You're my pa now, huh?" He pauses dramatically, then purrs expectedly, "My daddy."

"I've reconsidered," Alastor declares, swatting Angel's back and earning a strangled oof. "I'm ringing the adoption agency immediately."

Angel shakes with laughter, but his voice trembles somewhat as it tapers off, so Alastor leans his head back against the cushions and closes his eyes. A little longer, he decides.

Until Angel is ready.

Vaggie is . . . an enigma.

There is much Alastor understands about her. Her hostility is not unwarranted; Alastor is the widely-known and just as widely-feared radio demon, after all, and his intentions are just as unclear to her as they are to himself. She is right to fear what he plans even if she needn't worry, and he never once judges her for her hesitance.

Still, he does wish she would show the tiniest bit of faith in him. He is a demon of his word, after all, and as a good business partner, he would never do anything to question the integrity of the hotel. Admittedly, he has also grown to care a notable deal for Charlie, and would never do anything to jeopardize her business.

Vaggie is a simple creature at a glance; she fears things she does not understand, she takes the cautionary path, and she mistrusts anyone unproven to her. They're not uncommon traits in Hell. She loves Charlie more than herself and would lay down her life, however unnecessarily, to see that she never comes to harm. Motivated by care for her partner is not a difficult concept to understand, and at first, Alastor can understand why she loathes him so much.

What he has yet to understand is why she still cannot bring herself to trust him. Time and time again, he has proven himself reliable, albeit a little over-the-top. He keeps the bar stocked, the residents complacent, their enemies cowering, and his broadcasts keep their reputation positive and brings in new interested patrons daily, even if interested is a bit of a stretch.

She even grows less hostile as time grows on, remaining in the same space alone with him without showing any sign of being bothered, taking her eyes off him for more than a few seconds during a conversation, even snorting into her hand at a joke or two he cracks, hidden amongst Charlie's tear-jerking guffaws.

They share something of a mutual respect when it comes to day-to-day life and conversations. It is only when it comes to the serious things. Trusting Alastor with anything that could help or hurt the hotel seems to be a total deal breaker for Vaggie despite how many times he has proven himself to them all, and though he does not show it, it does begin to irritate him.

The way she suddenly grows cold and spits animosity at him is growing as annoying as it is baffling, and as much as he hesitates to admit it, some small part of him twinges with hurt when she does that one-eighty. He has grown a fondness for her just as much as he has Charlie, and trusts her a fair amount; why can't she return the gesture?

The answer comes to him suddenly, in the form of raised voices from Charlie's office and Vaggie storming out of it and slamming the door with a snarl, running straight into Alastor and recoiling. They stare at each other a moment, and Alastor cocks his head as Vaggie's scowl grows, such an ugly thing compared to her smile.

"You," she hisses, a spear materializing in her hands, and Alastor places a hand on his chest.

"Me?" he repeats innocently, curiosity spurring him. He genuinely cannot think of anything recent he may have done wrong to elicit this kind of anger, but Vaggie raises the spearpoint to his chin anyway, and he throws his hands up in placating surrender, peering down the shaft at her. "Now, now, my dear, can't we discuss this like civilized folk?"

She glares up at him for a long while, and their staring contest continues for what feels like an eternity before the spear starts to shake minutely. Vaggie's hands tremble, and then the spear vanishes completely as she covers her face with them, an angry shriek ringing out through the hallway. Distress rolls off her in nearly tangible waves, but she masks it with frustration as always. Alastor waits patiently, folds his hands pleasantly and gives her time to collect herself.

"She says I'm ready," Vaggie whispers, sounding so terribly vulnerable, and suddenly the shouting match makes sense. "I can't do it. If I'm redeemed, I have to leave this place, and I - I can't do that!"

Alastor lets her shout. She leans against the nearest wall of the hallway and sags, breathing hard, and he recognizes the faint tremble that worms its way into her voice as her holding back tears.

"This is all your stupid fault," she accuses, glaring up at him, and really he cannot argue that. "If you hadn't ever come here, none of this would've happened!"

Suddenly it all makes sense. It's never been that Vaggie doesn't trust him - it's that she knows he'll get the job done, and she doesn't want him to. The pieces click into place like a frustrating puzzle and understanding relaxes his posture even as Vaggie lunges at him to deliver a gut punch.

She's too short to effectively punch him in the face, so instead she wails on his torso. She packs a good bit of force, but Alastor hardly budges as she delivers blow after blow, fury and agony mixing into a pitiable tone as she screams at him.

"Your stupid support got us here! We never would've found so many volunteers if you never came! We never would've been successful, and Charlie - Charlie could have moved onto something that wasn't this stupid fucking project - "

Her punches grow weak, and he realizes with a start she's crying. He'd have expected her to never show that kind of vulnerability to him, but he supposes she has little left to lose, anymore, including pride. Her fingers curl in his jacket as she shakes him weakly, and he lets her.

"I hate you," she grounds out, the venom of it muted by her tears, "so much."

Sure you do, he thinks fondly.

"You want her to achieve her dreams, don't you?" he asks her, reaching for her hands and gently removing them from his clothing. Her shoulders hunch, right on the money, and her head thuds against his chest in surrender as she quakes from head to toe like a leaf.

"More than anything," she tells him, voice muffled by his clothes. "I just . . . I don't want to leave her."

He pauses, waits, and when he's sure she has nothing else to say, he wraps one arm around her small shoulders and rests his other hand atop her head. For a moment, he remembers the way his mother would run her fingers through his hair and how the action would comfort him, but he ultimately decides Vaggie would distinctly hate that from him, so he refrains from it and instead pats the top of her head gently, careful not to jostle her bow.

"She'll be happy for you," Alastor points out gently, and Vaggie sniffs.

" . . . I know."

It takes her surprisingly little time to calm down, and when she backs away from him he produces a handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket, wiping away the dark trails of makeup from her cheeks. They never speak of the moment again, but when Charlie sees him next, she gives him a huge, knowing smile.

He had nearly forgotten it had all happened right in front of her office.

As far as Husk's memory serves him, he has yet to cash in on his hug from Alastor.

Memory is a fickle thing, however, and he has a single stretch, a single night, where he remembers nothing. The night years ago when he decided he would never love again. He remembers drinking, and drinking, and drinking, and . . . nothing.

He knows Alastor remembers. Alastor is one of the last thing he remembers, stumbling upon him in his stupor, cocking his head curiously, smile pitying. Alastor had been there while he drunk himself stupid, into a blackout, and had been there when he awoke, tidying his shitty apartment after presumably delivering him there, and that was the start of a change in their friendship.

Alastor still recalls the night clearly, but he's very aware that Husk doesn't. Husk doesn't recall the way he threw empty bottles at Alastor, shattering them over his head, how he yowled at the radio demon to get angry and kill him already, to just end him because it wasn't worth it. Husk doesn't remember bursting into pathetic tears, slumping against the wall, surrounded by broken empty bottles and spilled liquor, reeking of beer.

Husk doesn't remember Alastor joining him on the floor, stretching his legs out before him luxuriously. He doesn't remember that long arm wrapping around his shoulders and giving him a friendly jostle, doesn't remember sobbing loudly into Alastor's jacket, doesn't remember the hours of venting and swearing and drinking until Alastor's fingers started gently prying bottles from his hand.

He doesn't remember Alastor humming sympathetically with every complaint, squeezing his shoulder with every fresh wave of grief. He doesn't remember eventually drooping, sliding further and further down the wall until his exhausted head lay on Alastor's shoulder. He doesn't remember falling asleep on the radio demon, snoring loudly into Alastor's ear behind the dirty bar.

He most certainly doesn't remember Alastor scooping him up and bringing him to his apartment, but that part definitely happened, considering where he awoke the next morning, though it's the absolute extent of what Alastor will confirm.

Sometimes, though, Husk gets suspicious.

"Hey, Al," he rumbles, and the radio demon glances away at the little decorative umbrella he's been spinning to give Husk an inquisitive look.

"What is it, my fine furry friend?" Alastor asks, as chipper as ever. Husk huffs and rolls his eyes at that nickname, but lets it slide for the sake of his question.

"What all happened that night?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific - "

"Don't play with me, chuckles," Husk interrupts impatiently, frowning. "You know what night I'm talking about."

Alastor hums contemplatively and sips his whiskey, returning to twirling the tiny red umbrella between his fingers. "Why, I've already told you everything about that night, Husker! I'm not sure what else you want to know."

"Tell me again," Husk challenges, trying not to bristle at the loathed name. "My memory's fuzzy."

Alastor stops spinning the umbrella and delicately places it in his glass before finally spinning on the stool to face Husk fully. He sets his elbows on the bar, laces his fingers together, and rests his chin on his hands, smiling widely as he tilts his head to the side. He knows what Husk is suggesting, so he cuts straight to the chase, studying the bartender through casual, half-lidded eyes.

"My friend," he says sweetly, "how can anything important have happened if you don't remember it?"

Husk remains suspicious, but he drops the matter, and Alastor lets him. Alastor remembers. He remembers the sad words spoken, the admissions, the embrace as though they were yesterday. He always remembers.

But Husk doesn't, so Alastor lets him believe it never happened. And if Husk gets flashes sometimes of the reek of beer and soothing words and a red jacket, he dismisses it to the back of his mind as nothing. Alastor is, after all, a man of his word, who surely would make no exceptions to already-made exceptions for someone like Husk.

Nobody knows whether Niffty has gotten her hug. Every time someone asks, she and Alastor have a different reply, a different reason for denial or a different grandiose story.

"We're waiting for the right time, you see. It's very serious business."

"I angered the mafia - the whole mob was after me! I took down two, three, pew pew! And just when I run out of bullets Alastor swoops in and takes them all out! And, y'know, I had to thank my savior."

"It was a mistake - she came falling right out of the sky straight into my arms! A tragic waste, really."

"Sorry, but if I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

"I'd listen to her if I were you - she nearly slaughtered me with that duster for trying to hug her!"

Whether Niffty is an exception to the exception, they truly don't remember whether she's gotten one, or it's a story too personal to tell, Charlie no longer cares. She laughs delightedly with every response she gets, asking at least daily, and every time they come up with some other quick-witted reply.

Alastor starts to brainstorm stories in advance just to keep her smiling.

Charlie has, unquestionably, become one of the most important fixtures in his world.

Alastor has always thought she was a cute little thing, hopeful and full of energy, seeing the good in everyone and following the philosophy that with enough hard work she can achieve anything. Her can-do attitude draws more than just Alastor, too; Charlie catches the attention from all sorts of demons, her positivity infectious.

She likes to accredit Alastor with bringing so many new patrons in, but it's Charlie that makes them stay. It's her faith in them and care for their well-being that makes them want to try their best, not Alastor's threats or Vaggie's disapproval. Admittedly, Alastor had not always believed in Charlie's vision, but he's found himself impressed with her almost embarrassingly quickly.

Charlie is just like that. She grows on just about anyone she meets, and if they don't like her, well. Vaggie and Alastor have that base covered.

It's curious, Alastor thinks, that she's so very motivated. As princess of Hell, she could very well live her life in luxury, never concerning herself with the affairs of her people as her parents did, and never worrying she would be purged for her status. But Charlie is so kind and hardworking and helpful and Alastor cannot fathom how monsters from this hellscape could have created such a sweet little girl.

And then Alastor meets Lucifer.

He watches as Charlie does her best to impress, as she shows off the hotel facilities and introduces her star success stories and staff, and Alastor gives a grand flourish and bow and shakes his hand as though it's the greatest honor of his life. Tension crackles through the air as Lucifer gives him a once-over, clearly aware of his reputation, but Alastor is as amiable as he can, for Charlie's sake.

Because he also sees the polite way she carries herself, the way she keeps behind him at all times as though by pure instinct, the restrained, professional voice and smile she uses. Lucifer controls the hotel's budget, of course, so it's important to show him how successful she is. Charlie has to prove to him that she's not simply squandering his money - that she's good for business.

She's not successful. For every positive result she gives him, he returns a snide remark or asks a cold, catching question, and Charlie deflates under his scrutiny. He leaves without withholding further spending, but without expanding the budget, either, and Charlie's lower lip wobbles precariously as the front door slams shut behind him.

Alastor decides right then and there that Charlie is now his kid, and that Lucifer can get fucked.

That day is almost the day that Charlie gets her hug, but as demons left and right start to glance uncertainly at her and Vaggie steps forward to clasp fingers with her, she shakes her head hard and smiles at her patrons, and Alastor blinks in surprise as she beams around at everyone.

"It's not good, but it's not bad, either!" she declares. "Next month, for sure!"

She bounces back so quickly from any hardship, even rejection from her own father, and it's truly impressive for someone so seemingly soft. Yes, Charlie is soft, but she's not fragile; she's impressively strong-willed, and it's admirable. In fact, it seems the only demon she fears saying no to is her own father, and, well, Alastor has already determined his opinion on that.

Aside from the rare times Lucifer pops in, Charlie is spirited, never let down by anything else, and some part of Alastor wonders if she will ever have a low worthy of a hug.

Charlie wonders it too, sometimes - she sees the way he looks at her father, displeasure in that ever-present grin, distaste dripping from his words as they speak. She sees the way he looks at her, when he's shivering and dropping her façade as her father disappears, and she watches from the corner of her eye as he looks her over, as though expecting more. Expecting worse. Maybe he's surprised she's not worse off. Maybe he expects it's time.

He's going to be waiting a while, she thinks. She's long past the days that her father's cold shoulder keeps her down long, and after dealing with that guy her whole childhood, she's not sure what could possibly trump the way he makes her feel, especially with the hotel going through so much success.

Things really seem to be looking up for a long while. It's not until weeks, then months, have passed that a real problem finally arises, and boy is it a problem. A demon, colossal and angry and out for Charlie's blood, and inconveniently enough their top expert on dealing with massive problems is out of the picture, off performing some task Charlie hardly has the energy to expend on remembering when she's busy hurling hellfire at the giant threatening her business.

She has no idea who it is; it hardly seems to matter. Through what garbled words she picks up, it seems angry with her father. It's not a surprise he's managed to infuriate someone dirty enough to attack his family - it's happened often enough - but Charlie has never been so far from home.

Blades bounce off its thick skin harmlessly, bullets seem to barely penetrate at all, and while the fire seems to do noteworthy damage, the beast is so large and stretches so high, head in the clouds, that there's no way she can spread its damage across enough area for it to actually do anything lasting. Still, she tries. She has to. For the hotel, for its residents. She has to keep them safe.

It's fruitless, of course; she can't expect anything more. The beast waits until she's exhausted much of her power before it reaches down with a great, clawed hand. It knocks into a neighboring building, raining rubble down upon them, and in the confusion curls its meaty fingers around her frail body.

The world grows quiet, in this instant, everything moving in slow motion as the demon brings her higher and higher up into the sky. The talons around her are painfully tight - they haven't totally crushed her yet, but she's sure they will. No amount of the bargaining or appealing she faintly hears spilling from her lips is making attractive enough of an offer for the demon to release her.

Vaggie's silently screaming something below her from the rooftop of the hotel, and Angel Dust is holding her back. He has to use four of his arms to prevent her from rushing into the fray. Husk is pulling Niffty from some rubble. Her poor hotel, in shambles. Her poor friends. They'll be so upset when she's gone. How will the hotel residents feel?

She wonders, grimly, if her father will care more about her death or what it represents.

The claws tighten around her, and she cannot help but shriek. There's a deafening crack and her throat is raw from her screaming as one of her shoulders erupts with agony. Dislocated, perhaps? It rather feels more like it shattered. She can feel the tears roll down her cheeks, and her mind goes fuzzy with the pain. She thinks she might faint.

Well, this is what I get, Charlie thinks to herself in a moment of surprising clarity. This is where my stupid fairytale ideas have gotten me. I should have expected it.

"Unhand her."

The voice is hardly a voice at all. It's so staticky and almost formless, the near-embodiment of white noise, and the words come out as though they've been shaped through the static through sheer force of will. She strains her ears, but there is no recognizable tone under the noise, no voice she can connect to a speaker.

The beast makes a noncommittal noise, cocks its head, and starts to laugh. Something in the air - the suddenly red, misty air - tells Charlie that isn't a good decision. Electricity crackles through the air, snakes and veins of red lightning sparking along their seemingly random paths. A warning.

Some of it arcs off the great arm of the beast holding her, and it howls with rage; the next thing she knows, the hand squeezes tighter, and the sound she makes is inhuman as several of her ribs make a sickening crunching noise. She kicks her legs, writhing as much as the tight space allows her, the effort to worm out of its grasp just as fruitless as every other attempt.

"That was the wrong move."

Charlie opens eyes she doesn't remember closing. She thinks she's dreaming for a moment due to the sudden blackness of the scene, but she realizes with a slow start that it's a shadow stretching out before her. A silhouette, one with a pointed, terrifying grin, vibrant red eyes, and menacing antlers that stretch toward the sky. Clawed, shadowed hands reached for the beast, sinking into its torso and rooting mercilessly through its chest cavity.

A great, pained howl shakes the sky, and suddenly, Charlie is falling.

She's free. But the fall is long, and with the pain clouding her focus, she struggles to remember anything that can help her. Her dislocated arm flaps uselessly before her, and she closes her eyes, trying to focus on anything but the fast-approaching ground. Any spell, anything she can do with what little magic she has left from the fight.

"The princess of hell, falling suddenly from the sky? What will people think?"

Arms wrap carefully, delicately, around her back and behind her knees. She cracks open one of her eyes, then both of them fly open. Alastor grins down at her, head cocked, and if the tear stains on her cheeks are refreshed by new ones, he pretends not to notice.

"Just dropping in," she manages with a watery smile, relief coursing through her system as her still-functional hand wraps subconsciously around one of his lapels, and they share a chortle. If she sounds a bit hysterical, he does not comment on it.

He's here. He's saved her, not for the first time. Of course he has. She relaxes against him, willing her heart to slow its rapid pouding - she's safe.

Their descent slows, and he touches down on the cracked pavement of a side street, long emptied since Charlie's adversary had shown up. Gingerly, he sets her down. For a moment, she's steady, and positive she's fine, but then her legs buckle and she crumples to the ground. Her hand, still clinging to his jacket, drags him down with her, and he's left on his knees before her as she catches her breath.

"Sorry," she gasps out, her hand going to her bruised chest. "I'm just . . . in shock, I think."

He sets steadying hands on her shoulders, a motion of consolation, but she cries out as the left one radiates fire. His hand jerks back quickly, and static crackles at his fingertips, but she shakes her head and places her hand on his, the one still on her other shoulder.

"It hurt you," he muses, something menacing and lethal leaking into his tone, not out of the norm.

"I'm fine," she chirps quickly. "Give me time to recharge, and I can fix this up in a jiffy!"

She tries to tack on some of her telltale cheeriness to the end, but as the silence stretches on longer and longer with him frowning down at her, she knows he doesn't buy it. But she's okay, really. In just a few hours she'll be right as rain, so why is he looking at her like -

- wait, frowning - ?

It's accompanied by a low set brow and roaming eyes, checking her over, analyzing every bump and bruise. He returns his hand to her injured shoulder, gingerly now, closer to her neck than her arm this time, for which she's grateful. He gives her another careful once-over, looking altogether displeased, and she squirms under the attention, hunching away a bit.

"Alright, Al," she starts to say, peering up at him, "you're starting to freak me out a little - here!"

Before she can finish her sentence, he's pulled her into (ironically enough) a bone crushing hug. She's pulled toward him, one arm snug around her shoulders and his other hand cupping the back of her head, tugging her forward until his chin is nestled atop her head. She all but freezes in surprise. It takes her a moment, but she eventually lets herself sag somewhat in his arms, her good one reaching around him to nestle reassuringly on his back.

"I'm okay," she promises quietly, honestly. She really is. He's come to save the day, everything's taken care of, and she's going to be alright. She's long since calmed herself down.

Somewhere in the distance, they pick up Vaggie's call, then Angel's. Their friends are looking for them. When Alastor finally pulls away from her, his smile is firmly back in place, and a weight lifts from Charlie's shoulders at the sight. He stands, dusts himself off, and offers her a hand to pull herself up. She accepts it with a grateful smile and considers also brushing the dirt from her nice slacks, but decides she's probably going to change as soon as they all get back home.

"As exciting as this all was," Alastor hums lightly, offering her an arm to hang on as they exit the alley, "if you get wrapped up in anything of this magnitude again, as your business partner, I'm afraid I'm going to have to cover you head to toe in bubble wrap and keep you safely tucked away in your office!"

Charlie snorts. "You and Vaggie both," she laughs. "You'll have to catch me first!"

They find their friends quickly, and as Angel and Vaggie crowd Charlie, Alastor remains a safe distance away. He occupies himself with straightening his already straightened attire, selling the story of his indifference quite well, and as they start to meander back to the ruined hotel, Charlie glances back to him and shoots him a gentle smile. Vaggie looks back, too, gives him a brisk nod, and returns to her girlfriend - the closest thing to approval he's ever gotten from her.

When they arrive home, he sets about fixing the building up to how it once was, from the severe structural damage to the singed furniture and damaged paintings. He busies himself with the work until Niffty shoos him off, and then he occupies himself with hunting down the occupants of the hotel that had run away during the attack.

He avoids Charlie as well as he can, but not well enough.

"Hey . . . Alastor."

The soft rapping of knuckles against his door is a grim insistence that he cannot avoid his slip-ups. He snaps his fingers, and the doorknob turns and the door swings open on its own. Charlie steps cautiously into the room, wringing her hands nervously, and Alastor folds his own behind his back, waiting for her to speak.

"So," she starts, and then lingers on the word for a long while. "I know you don't really do hugs."

"One per person," he confirms easily, cocking his head. She suspects him, he knows, and his fingers fidget behind his back. Charlie mirrors him, her head tilting curiously.

"At the time they'll need it most," Charlie continues, and he nods. "Well, I've had worse." She knows. "And I'll probably have worse in the future, so - "

"My dear," Alastor interrupts kindly, clenching and unclenching his fingers behind his back to let out some of the embarrassment that comes with the confession, "that was not your hug."

Charlie pauses. Her eyebrows are furrowed as though she expected this, but her mouth is slack as though it surprises her anyway. Perhaps it's the admission that shocks her. "So that was for . . . ?"

"Myself?" Alastor hums in what he hopes is an idle tone, bringing one of his hands up to pick at his nails nonchalantly. It's truly an embarrassment to slip up so badly, to break his own rule like that, but it looks better to own his mistake, to pretend he's always been allowed to do so. "Charlie, my dear, you did give me quite the spook! You mustn't do that to people, you know."

Charlie has to consciously close her mouth, and it's admittedly quite endearing. She nods once, squares her shoulders, and then nods again. "All right," she says in a distinctly professional tone. "Well, then, Mr. radio demon, you still owe me a hug, yes? I expect you to not skimp out on your own policy!"

"Of course not," Alastor promises, his grin growing in amusement. "What kind of business partner would I be, then?"

Charlie nods yet again, comically enough. She turns back to the hallway. "Right, then! I'll . . . see you later! Have a good night!"

"Et toi," Alastor replies pleasantly just before Charlie makes her escape, closing the door behind her.