"Why don't you ever conjure food?"
Alastor looked up from the skillet he was monitoring, pausing his stirring.
"I do, at times. But, my mother had a strong belief that a home-cooked meal is a magic of its own."
"You're a mama's boy, huh?"
He laughed again, the sound shooting serotonin straight through her system, an addiction of its own kind.
"Undoubtedly."
His fond smile bubbled curiosity beneath the haze of intoxication, Clover finishing the glass he'd refilled for her decidedly before diving in.
"Al?" She waited for his quiet humming response, watching as he placed the lid on the skillet. "How old are you?"
"Well, that depends on what year it is in the world above, my dear."
He leaned against the counter behind him, crossing his arms over his chest with a tilt of his head. It was then that she'd noticed he'd changed, the shirt beneath his apron a stark white instead of the red she was used to, its sleeves roughly rolled around his elbows and the top two buttons undone. She was momentarily distracted by the contrast of it against his skin, his ashen tone seeming darker, warmer, than normal. Realizing she was staring, Clover cleared her throat as subtly as she could before continuing.
"No, I mean- I don't know how to say this gently."
"You're asking how many years I'd lived, before my untimely demise."
"You don't have to answer, I was just-"
"Curious, I know," Alastor said, his eyes softening before he pushed off from the countertop, curling his fingers around the flask of mysterious dark liquor he'd given her before. "Are we playing this game again, my dear? You know that you always win."
The fluttering in her chest dropped suddenly, stopping briefly in her stomach before it sank lower. Was it the praise, or the gentle quirk of his brow as he said it, that did her in? Either way, it seemed he'd chosen to put her fragile emotional state through the wringer today, but she couldn't help but go after the obvious bait he was dangling in front of her.
"I've already been drinking, this isn't fair."
Alastor fetched another glass from the cabinet, pouring himself a healthy shot before swallowing it all in one go. His pointed look in her direction sent her into a fit of giggles as she burned, Clover crossing her legs as she turned herself towards him.
"How many questions each?"
"Until one of us desires to stop."
"It's a shame we don't have Husk to pick on."
Another laugh, another dose of unbridled joy, shot straight into her veins as he circled the marbled countertop until there was nothing between them but the empty expanse of his kitchen. Alastor turned his head to check on his cooking before continuing.
"I'm afraid we'll have to do without our jolly friend tonight. Now," Alastor crossed towards her, refilling her glass with a more reasonable amount of liquor before doing the same for himself. "To the question of my age, would you like me to answer outright, or would you enjoy a puzzle, my dear?"
Clover thought for a moment, watching the way his fingers lingered along the rim of her glass.
"We decided that you'd died in the early 1930s if I remember. Give me an end date."
"It was the fall of 1933," Alastor swirled his glass thoughtfully as his grin grew wider. "Hunting season."
Her brow furrowed as Clover tapped her fingers along the table to count her way through her thought processes; She was determined to get her math right.
"Thirty-five then, if I'm assuming you were born just before the turn of the century."
It was immediately apparent that she was wrong, Alastor's smile growing wider before he gave a sharp shake of his head.
"Not quite, little doe. Would you like the answer?" He said, watching as she fidgeted through the burn of embarrassment spreading across her chest before she nodded, eyes downcast. Seeming to find amusement in her upset, Alastor curled a finger beneath her chin, lifting her head to look at him as he continued. "You're not far off. My tombstone, if I have one, would tell you that I hadn't yet made it to my thirties."
"You're kidding," Clover narrowed her eyes at him, analyzing his features carefully before adding a quiet aside. "You'd be younger than Cyrus."
Neither of them questioned when she'd gained that knowledge.
"I am not lying to you for vanity's sake."
"I'm sorry, I-" Clover was distracted again, the feeling of his fingers pressing into the soft skin of her throat twisting her thoughts into inappropriate territory, something in the darker portions of her desire wishing that he would press harder but her rationality worried he would then feel the racing of her heartbeat. She had to lean away from him, picking a spot below his cheek to look at while she attempted to right her mind. "I didn't mean to offend, I just- It's hard to believe you're barely older than I am."
"None taken! I am aware that most assume I am older than I was, especially to those of you from the modern era. I hope that does not change anything between us."
She ignored the knowing narrowing of his eyes, her own drifting to his smile as it became annoyingly, endearingly, crooked.
"You just seemed to do so well for yourself in life, from what you've told me. Working in a printing shop, getting your own radio show, I couldn't imagine doing that at my age…"
"I joined the workforce very young, when it was still legal, of course. It was a different time! But, do not sell yourself short darling, I remember you mentioning obtaining a higher education! An admirable feat."
Clover shrugged, watching as he circled back to his cooking to remove the lid and give it a short stir before dropping in his remaining ingredients into the mix. She waited until he seemed satisfied before continuing their little game.
"It's your turn, but you can always skip."
"I am very well aware that you could interrogate me well into the early hours of the morning, but let us play fair." Alastor smiled, turning to retrieve plates from the cabinet, his voice echoing within the dark wooden shelves. "Did Husker ever tell whose likeness you share? I never had the chance to ask him myself."
Lifting the glass to her lips, Clover downed her shot of liquor, feeling the burn settle under her skin.
"That's not fair, Al, those aren't my secrets to tell."
"It was worth trying."
She thought of what to ask him next as she refilled her glass, watching as Alastor finished pulling their table settings from the cabinet. It wasn't until he gave her an impatient glance over the rim of his eyewear that she found inspiration.
"Why do you wear a monocle? I mean- I know you wore glasses in life, but I thought those had fallen out of fashion by your time."
His face was beginning to flush, probably from the amount of alcohol, but she liked to think that she'd had something to do with it. Alastor looked at her a long moment before he let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head at her fondly.
"One day, I will cease to be surprised by your knack for knowledge. That day is not today. I must admit that perhaps I have dated myself more than needed since my arrival in Hell."
"So, you're a hipster?"
"I'm a what?" Alastor sputtered.
"It was a thing, a few years before- Well, before I showed up. People decided to start rejecting modern fashion and culture as a trend, to seem smarter than or different than everyone else. Which is pretty redundant when you take into account that they were all conforming to this facade of non-conformity but-" Clover looked up from her fidgeting fingers to find him staring at her, one brow raised, and realized she'd been rambling. Her embarrassment was suffocating, but she was able to squeak out an apology despite the heat that began to spread across her chest. "I'm sorry, I'm talking too much."
"It's quite alright, dear. I find your perspective on the modern world refreshing, if not biased."
"Hey! I'm no-" Clover sighed. Alastor's chuckling proved his point for him. "This doesn't mean you're right."
"Of course not, dear."
The conversation paused as Alastor served their food, taking his time to gather whatever extras they might have needed before sitting himself across from her. It wasn't lost on either of them that they'd found themselves in yet another painfully domestic moment. Alastor waited until she'd tried her own food to begin eating, seeming more than satisfied with her small wiggle of delight upon first bite. They fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the background noise of Alastor's radio and the quiet appreciated humming noises that Clover made as they ate. A pitcher of water appeared at some point, and then another after she'd finished off the first almost entirely by herself. It was partially to help clear the fuzzy feeling in her head, but mostly because her body had finally realized how uncared for it had been throughout the day. She'd finished her plate by the time Alastor got around to answering her.
"To return to the topic of my eyewear, I have found that as the centuries go by and new sinners arrive, the past becomes a blur in the eyes of the modern world. Originally, my attire was very similar to what I wore in life," Alastor began, folding his napkin into a neat square before placing it on the table beside his finished portion before he stood to clear the table. "But eventually, my connection to my time began to waver. So, with the help of my newly acquired friend Rosie, we devised a wardrobe that would firmly cement me as a man of purely vintage tastes."
Dropping back into his seat after depositing their plates into the sink, Alastor removed his monocle. It shone in the warm light as he turned it thoughtfully between his fingers, the red glass casting rose-colored prisms across the table. It was placed between them before Alastor shifted to lounge back into his chair, crossing his legs at the knees and allowing his head to fall to one side.
"I no longer need corrective eyewear in my afterlife, and neither do you, it seems, so it's entirely for aesthetics."
Clover blinked, her brow furrowing at the odd addition to his tale.
"What do you mean, by 'neither do I'?"
"Why, you've been doing so well without them! I had assumed you'd just kept your charming spectacles for familiarity's sake!"
When she reached out to adjust her glasses, she found them missing, her fingers pressing into the bridge of her nose without the hard plastic of thick rims to stop them. How had she not noticed their absence? Her vision seemed the same, she could see every amused twitch that widened Alastor's smile from across the table, read the numbers on the clock on the wall, things she'd never been able to see without the physical aid of her glasses before. Thinking harder about it just made her head begin to ache, and Clover decided she was too tired to try and wrap her head around the changes in her anatomy.
"I must have forgotten to put them back on when I got out of the shower. I didn't even notice." She shrugged, resisting the urge to squint now that she was aware of the issue.
"Would you like to keep wearing them?"
"Yes. I've worn glasses since I was nine, I feel…I dunno- Naked without them and they're-"
Clover fell quiet, staring hard at a water spot that was forming on the table before leaning forward to wipe it away with her sweater sleeve. It felt silly to admit to Alastor that she was attached to her glasses. They were just plastic, but plastic she'd worn through her fall into hell, through which she had looked upon those she loved in their final, or first, moments in her life. Her battle to keep that train of thought from delving deeper into the more sober sections of her mind was interrupted by Alastor's hand laying gently over hers, the demon's thumb brushing over her knuckles.
"Don't fret, darling. I'll see that they're returned to you."
With the slightest flick of his wrist, Alastor's shadow twisted itself out from behind him, sent her an almost indiscernible wink, and rushed from the room with a soft hiss. The soft tapping of fingers against her wrist as she stared after the thing startled her back to attention, Clover stumbling for another question to fill the silence.
"Is there any movie you genuinely like?"
"Why, I've enjoyed many of the films we've indulged in during our private picture shows!"
It was very hard to ignore how risque that sentence could have sounded coming from anyone else, especially with that enthusiastic growl of his, but she managed.
"I know you humor me most of the time-"
"At the beginning, perhaps. But! To answer your question, I enjoy the works of that Keaton fellow on occasion." Alastor grinned as his radio began to play a jaunty ragtime tune, the sound quickly dying off again as he leaned into the table, planted his chin into his hand, and rose a brow in interest. "Did you enjoy the meal?"
"Wasn't it obvious?" Clover giggled, her heart fluttering at the delighted glint that brightened his smile. She wanted nothing more than to drag him across the table and kiss him again, the desire digging her fingers into the table as his touch seared into her skin. The conversation was rushed along with the first related question she thought of to avoid lingering on the urge for too long. "Uh- Did you always live in Louisiana?"
"Born, raised, and died. New Orleans was my home." Alastor's smile softened, taking on an almost wistful quality as he turned to gaze at his kitchen, the demon releasing her hand and returning his to his lap.
Drumming her fingers on the table in an attempt to rid herself of their tingling, Clover decided to focus on the drawl that had begun to drunkenly drag his words instead of the recognizable look of longing in his eyes.
"No wonder your accent slips out so easily."
Luckily, Alastor laughed. The sound echoed through the room hollowly, and Clover turned her head to find the shadow leaning over her shoulder. Ghostly fingers placed her glasses on her nose, carefully tucking the arms against her temples and making sure they sat straight across her cheeks. When its touch lingered on her skin, Alastor cleared his throat abruptly, leaning forward in his chair again to brace his arms against the table as he steered them all back into the conversation.
"So does yours, dear. Even more so when you're intoxicated."
Clover blinked at him for a moment, clearing the daze that the shadow's barely-concealed affection had set over her and fighting to comprehend what he was implying. She could feel the heaviness settling in the back of her throat now that he'd drawn attention to it, the thickness that allowed her lazy drawl to reappear weighing down her tongue and tone.
"..It happens when I'm relaxed." She sighed, focusing on pronouncing her consonants correctly and softening her vowels.
"Why hide it? You shouldn't be ashamed of where you've come from."
"That's easy for you to say! You sound like-" Clover nearly bit her own tongue, stopping her drunken description short with a stutter. "Well, you sound nice."
"Go on."
That damned crooked grin of his was almost enough to convince her to give in to his goading; Almost.
"It's not your turn," Clover replied, watching as he raised his eyes from where they had been watching the slow swirling of amber liquor as he turned his glass. His brow rose, Alastor cocking his head to one side in an infuriatingly endearing manner that only drew further attention to the lazy lilt of his smile.
"And you've not answered my question."
Sometimes, Clover wondered if Alastor knew that he was pushing every button she had, especially at times like this. As much as she enjoyed their endless games, he was an awfully sore winner, and she couldn't stand for that.
"...I don't know, I guess I just always felt it made me sound- Unintelligent? I know it's an unfair stigma but it hurt when I was younger. I did theater in high school. It's hard to do anything that involves an audience if you don't have a more neutral tone. I mean, that's why Transatlantic exists."
"You're right, and I understand what you mean. Society progresses slowly where the wellbeing of the working class is involved." Alastor hummed, staring thoughtfully into the space between them before straightening himself again.
Clover couldn't help the soft scoff that left her lips, the sound pausing Alastor's movements and drawing the demon's eyes to her.
"Sometimes you say things that are so profound; Judgemental even, and then sometimes you seem to take joy in the struggles of others. Which is it?"
"A little of each, I believe." His reply was flat, Alastor obviously already mentally moving on to his next inquiry as he set his drinking glass down with a sharp 'clack' that echoed through the kitchen. "There's a question that I've been meaning to ask since you arrived, about something you've said before."
"Go on."
"What the devil does "a door that swings both ways with a key" mean?"
Fuck.
The chilling flash of the shadow brushing past her was the only reason Clover continued to breathe, the menacing mirage disappearing behind Alastor with an echoed chuckle. How, or when, did he hear that? Angel wouldn't have said anything, he'd sworn not to bring up their conversation to Alastor, but maybe he'd said it in passing, used it as part of an unwelcome joke in conversation, or just adopted the metaphor and been questioned on its source. Grappling with rationality, it was a losing battle to maintain her composure as she squeaked out the first question that came to mind.
"When did I- Oh." The realization almost slapped her across the face as the cold panic in her blood sobered her enough to remember; A flash of red against fuschia wallpaper, a demon waiting outside her door. "You told me you weren't listening."
"I did not listen to your conversation with Angel Dust the day of your abduction, I would not lie to you, but there was another that I could not help but overhear."
She noticed then the complete drop of radio interference in his voice, Alastor's explanation unaltered and sincere, and she understood.
"Your broadcast, it works both ways. How did you know I was-"
"I believe it was you who called for me, dear."
He was right, she had called out to him then; A foolish whisper of his name into the darkness as she caught her first glimpse of the famed Radio Demon. That night felt so far away now, the two of them had just begun to become friends. Would she have believed then that in the near future she'd find herself sitting across from that man in his own home, attempting to wash away the taste of him from her lips? It was a simpler time, a time before photographs and Overlords, but a time without Alastor at her side. Looking at him now, finding those crimson eyes watching her expression shift with careful consideration, for the first time in her life it felt like all the trouble was worth it.
Clover had to stop this slow skip down memory lane before it became too sentimental.
"Right, we'll talk about y'all's habit of eavesdropping later." She sighed, unable to stop herself from smiling at the soft chuckle he gave in response despite the weight of her next question. "Is that how you knew that I- Well, that I did this to myself?"
His ears flicked slightly as he shook his head, Alastor leaning forward further into the table as he continued to push her for answers.
"No, it simply proved an assumption I had already made to be correct. Now, about that door-"
Liquor was burning its way down her throat before he could ask again, Clover feeling her nose wrinkle and twitch as she fought the urge to cough. There was absolutely no way she was revealing the truth of her badly thought-out metaphor for her sexuality to Alastor now.
"...I'll tell you at another time, I just- I am not mentally prepared enough to have that conversation with you tonight."
"I suppose that is fair," Alastor almost scowled, his brow twisting confusingly as he stared down into her now empty glass. "Your turn."
Clover watched as he leaned forward to refill her glass, feeling the newly-renewed daze of the liquor sway her slightly in her seat. Alastor's lip curled slightly when he clumsily clinked the decanter against the rim of her glass, and she became distracted by the flash of black gums the expression revealed. Wondering when she'd be able to feel those lips again, Clover redirected the swift trip down into the needier subsections of her subconscious to a bigger question, one she'd been pondering ever since he'd abruptly changed the subject after their earlier encounter.
"...Do you want to talk about it? What happened earlier, I mean, when we-"
Looking up from where she'd focused her attention as his smile faltered, Clover found him staring back at her with equal attention. Her lip caught against her teeth and tugged when his eyes flickered across her face, lingering on the motion before returning his gaze to hers as her brow furrowed. He had that confusing mess of a smile again, warped and twisted against the pained expression that set lines into his forehead. Clover couldn't stop the slow stretch of her fingers across the tabletop, her urge to comfort him easily pushing through her apprehension with the aid of liquor lubrication. Alastor's abrupt lean backwards away from her would have hurt her feelings if she'd thought he'd noticed her reaching out to him, but he hadn't; His eyes never left hers as he settled back into his chair with a sharp, deciding sigh.
"No, not yet."
Alastor sounded as unsure of his answer as he looked; That was enough for her to leave well enough alone. It had been a risk to move forward physically with Alastor, and even though she didn't regret taking it, she knew there would be consequences for her actions. She just hoped that Alastor would come around sooner rather than later, before she lost herself to anticipation.
Leaving that conversation alone, Clover moved on to search for other answers.
"Can I ask another question?" She asked, watching the way her bandages shifted as she drummed her fingers against the tabletop. Alastor quirked a brow in response, raising his glass to his lips absentmindedly and pausing to nod when he noticed the symbolism in the motion. Clover waited until he'd taken his drink to speak again. "What would have happened if I'd died today?"
The heavy, static-laced sigh that he let out as he dropped his glass to the table alongside his radio sputtering to life startled her slightly. His expression had dropped back to the almost-relaxed smile Clover had come to learn was his neutral expression, his radio starting to play a somber, slow jazz as Alastor tapped his fingers to the rhythm she had drummed against his tabletop moments before.
"...Darkness, you would have felt the pain, and then there would have been nothing for an indeterminable expanse of time. If he would have consumed you completely, I suppose you would simply cease to exist, that is what I've come to understand, at least. If he had planned to just fatally injure you then you would eventually have woken wherever your remains had been moved to. I can't say that I dwelled long on the beast's motives before acting."
"He was working for Velvette."
Alastor froze with a record scratch, dark eyes lifting to hers as they narrowed in interest.
"How do you know?"
"He told me before you got there. Velvette showed up at the coffee shop again earlier today, she took a photo of me and posted it on Sinstagram."
The twitching of his eye, just the slightest movement behind the monocle he now moved to return to his cheek, pulled at the corners of his smile as it sharpened. A heavy breath through his nose before the screeching of his chair dragging against the tile pulled her ears forward, Clover standing almost as quickly as he did as Alastor's voice began to lace together with the growling static that was forming among his frequencies.
"...It seems the Vee's haven't learned their lesson." The glasses on the table disappeared with a wave of his hand, Alastor stepping around the table to take her arm with far gentler hands than she would have expected from his current energy and leading her out of the kitchen. "I'm sorry darling, but I'm afraid we'll have to cut our game short this evening. Now, if you don't mind, I shall leave you to entertain yourself in the library."
Before her eyes could readjust to the sharp contrast of the dark hallway after their time spent in the more properly-lit kitchen, Clover was led into one of many doorways in the neverending expanse of hallways that seemed to fill Alastor's home. The room they entered was pleasant, well-lit enough that it was immediately recognizable as a library, but dim enough that her eyes didn't begin to ache upon entry. The fireplace roared to life as they entered the room, casting long shadows that curled around her heels as she turned to him.
"Where are you going?" Clover's outburst bounced across the high ceiling, the desperation that decorated her voice turning taunting with every echo.
Alastor paused, stepping back across the threshold as his ears flattened. The rapid switching of his radio faltered, rewound, and turned off entirely as he turned to look over his shoulder at her with an almost-unnerving twist of his neck.
"I have a few more phone calls to make." Alastor swiveled his shoulders around to follow, looking over her frail state momentarily before crossing the few floorboards between them. Gentle claws brushed the still-damp strands that were beginning to curl around her chin away from her face. "Don't worry, little doe. You are safe, there is not a soul that would dare to attempt to harm you here. I shall return momentarily."
Clover's whispered agreement barely left her lips before he was gone again, the door clicking shut behind him hollowly in the now too-quiet room. Her fingers ran over the back of a leather couch as she waited, listening to the echoing of his steps disappearing down the hallway until there was nothing left behind before wandering further into the new territory. The high windows that functioned as the far wall drew her to look out over the city, if only briefly; The bird's eye view of the Cannibal Colony and the rest of Pentagram City beyond it combining with the alcohol in her system to create a terrible state of vertigo. Stumbling into a high-backed chair, Clover tried her best to focus on the rest of the room with the hope that she could stop it from spinning. The room was far more eclectic than what his kitchen would had led her to expect, the dark paint barely visible behind the collection of nick-nackery that covered the wall above the fireplace; Paintings, vintage photographs in tarnished frames, and a collection of animal skulls all looked down at her as she perused.
The sharp sound of a radio clicking on startled her, and Clover turned to search out the sound's source. It was quickly found in the small, rounded radio that sat beside the high back chair. Not bothering to wonder why the Radio Demon, a being of constant noise and frequency, needed a physical radio in his library, Clover gave in to the sluggish weight that was settling into her bones. Sitting on either of the seating options felt impolite to her liquor-addled mind, so she did the only thing that made sense; She sank to the floor in front of the fireplace with a content sigh.
She'd planned to wait out Alastor's absence, she'd even made the effort to stretch herself across the floor to grab the worn book that sat on the seat of what she'd begun to assume was Alastor's reading chair to entertain herself with, but it was no use fighting against the warm comfort of his home.
It wasn't long until the book lay limp at her side, her fingers curled around the cracking spine as she was swept away into dreamless darkness that not even static could disturb.