15

It was the early hours of the morning, everyone else was asleep, as Isobel's socked feet padded down the hall. She came to a door, light spilled from the bottom and soft jazz played from the other side.

She clenched her fists. This was a bad idea. Suddenly frozen by indecision she stood there for a long moment, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Ok, she reasoned with herself. I'll knock, count to ten, and if he hasn't opened the door by then I'll just leave.

She raised a fist and gave the lightest of knocks and then counted to ten quicker than she ever had before. She pivoted on her heel to leave, but as she did so, the door knob turned. She froze.

He must have been relaxing in his room, because as Alastor opened the door, Isobel realized that she had never seen him without his coat. He looked almost incomplete without it, just in his dress shirt, suspenders, and bow tie untied and dangling around his neck.

He smiled down at her of course, but his expressive eyebrows gave away that she was the last person he was expecting to be knocking on his door at that hour. He said nothing, just stared quizzically, his long ears tilted to the side.

"Ok," she began, and then suddenly realized she had no idea what to say. Why was this so difficult? It would be so much easier if she could feed him some bullshit line. Whatever lie she told him he would see right through and then probably slam the door in her face. "So, during the day it's different. There are people, and noise, and things to distract me, but now, at night it's too dark and too quiet." She swallowed hard. "Will you," she hesitated, she was so mad she had to put this into words. "Sleep with me again?"

His eyebrows raised, "why?"

"Look, I promise I won't touch you or anything. I'm just afraid I'm going to have nightmares again, and if that happens I don't want to wake up alone. And in a cruel twist of fate and trauma, you are now the only person I feel safe with."

He paused, processing. Would this benefit him?

He disappeared into his room and then almost immediately reappeared, now with his coat on.

"Very well," he said, walking past Isobel into the hall.

"Wait, really?" She was absolutely shocked. This was supposed to be a long shot and with no hope of actually working. She turned to follow him and as the door closed she could hear the sound of an alligator bellowing behind her. "Are you being serious?"

"Who am I to deny a lady in distress?"

"I thought you would tell me to kick bricks. I mean this is kind of a strange request."

He nodded, but said nothing. They walked in silence, he with his hands clasped behind his back and she with hers deep in her pockets. After a while Alastor broke the quiet.

"Tell me," he said. "What are your nightmares?"

Isobel's expression darkened as she stopped walking. He looked back at her.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said. "Is that going to be a deal breaker for you?"

"Ah, but we have yet to make a deal," he said playfully, but Isobel was not in the mood.

"You know what I mean. You going to bug me about this? Because I don't need that."

"No, of course not." Her fears made her a lot less fun. But that was ok. He was close to earning her trust, he could feel it. She wanted a confidante and needed someone she thought would protect her. He could become invaluable to her, and then the moment it was threatened to be taken away, she would do anything to keep it. Perhaps even sell her living soul.

When they got to her room, Isobel opened the door for him, which he stepped through without hesitation. This whole thing felt incredibly wrong to her, but she was desperate to sleep.

Alastor assumed the same position as the night before, on his back still and proper, staring up at the ceiling. Isobel laid on her side, this time facing away from him so as not to repeat what happened that morning. After laying a while in the hushed darkness, she glanced behind herself to see Alastor, eyes wide open, smiling at nothing.

She rolled over and asked, "do you ever actually sleep?"

"Only when I must," he responded. "Sleep, those little slices of death; oh how I loathe them." Isobel laughed. "You scoff at poetry?"

"I scoff at you quoting Edgar Allen Poe at me in the middle of the night like it didn't come from one of the books I just brought back from the library."

"Hmm, still, I thought it fitting for the situation."

"You know, your lack of sleep may be one of the factors leading to your psychopathy."

"I assure you my mental state is very sound."

"So you don't think you're deranged?"

"On the contrary, I know I am, but no mere lack of sleep is to blame."

"Were you always like this? Even when you were alive?"

"Yes, the difference though is that now I do not have to pretend to be anything less than what I am, unless I want to. I embrace my true self, and reap all those in my way."

"Actually sounds kind of freeing."

"Perhaps you should try it."

"Ha ha, very funny." She was quiet again, but then a thought invaded her half asleep brain. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"Are you going to try to eat my eyes while I'm asleep?"

"No."

"Do you promise?"

"I give you my word… for tonight."

Isobel rolled back over and eventually drifted off. For the most part, Alastor's presence chased away the majority of her fears. She only woke once from a nightmare.

As the morning light drifted into the room, she woke, blinking and stretching. She had rolled over in her sleep, but managed to keep her promise and kept her hands to herself. Alastor hadn't moved at all in the night. He laid perfectly still, wide awake, and staring at the ceiling.

"You should sleep," she said. "Or do demon overlords just not get tired? I don't know how it works."

He sighed as he stood from the bed. "Sleep can be dangerous. It makes one vulnerable."

"Maybe it's you who actually needs someone to watch over them."

"Perhaps." He walked to the door, his guard duty over for the night. "A good day to you, Isobel."

"A good day to you, Alastor. Thank you."

As she heard him leave, Isobel closed her eyes, not quite ready to leave her bed. Unfortunately, sleep did not come again so she got up. This time as she looked in the mirror it was less shocking. The cuts and bruises were still there, but less so. However, the jacket remained zipped to the top and Isobel went about her day much the same as the one before.

She sought out company, even to go as far (in a state of desperation) as to follow Nifty from room to room asking inane questions concerning pest control. Nifty was very displeased with this.

By the afternoon, Isobel was beginning to feel displeased as well. The constant energy to be social and amicable was weighing on her and she began to feel the need for silence. The demand for solitude tugged at her in one direction and her fears in the other.

In the afternoon, she compromised and sat at the bar reading Aloysius of the Family Goetia's never ending text, while also listening to Charlie conduct lessons in the lobby.

Vaggie appeared at her elbow holding up a letter. It was in a vibrant blue envelope with glittering gold writing.

"You got mail," she said, setting it down.

Isobel picked it up not fully believing it, but her name was clearly written in pretty, swooping letters on the front. A sudden flash of excitement filled her. Maybe this is what she had been waiting for. Maybe this was from Heaven. A ticket for a celestial train back to the living world, or maybe just an invitation for a talk, something.

She opened it hurriedly and started to read. As her eyes ran over the lines, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What is it?" Angel asked. He had walked up behind her and was trying to read over her shoulder.

"It's an apology letter for what happened at the club."

"What, really? Apology from who?"

"It says Asmodeus?"

"Shut up, it does not," Angel snatched the letter out of her hands and started to read.

"Is that a big deal?"

"Uh, yeah, it kinda is," Vaggie said, now trying to read the letter as well, but Angel was too tall for her to get a good look.

"It says here," Angel apparently had no problem putting Isobel's business out for everyone. "That he apologizes for what happened the other night, that he in no way condones that kind of behavior or actions. Says that to make it up to you, you're getting a raise."

"What?" Isobel hadn't even thought about going back to work again. "The whole place was destroyed."

"Happens more than you think," Vaggie said. "You'd be surprised. They usually just rebuild and carry on like nothing happened."

"Ah," Angel exclaimed, grabbing Isobel's wrist. As he read his volume got louder and louder, and ever more excited. "It also says that he had heard great things about you and that you are invited to perform at the first annual Lust Gala and Spectacular, a televised event!" He gasped, grabbing Isobel by the face, which caused her to wince at the pain in her cheek. "You're going to be famous."

Isobel delicately removed his hand and took the letter. She scanned it looking for a date. The show was months away. She shoved it back into the envelope.

"No, I don't think so," she said, tossing it aside and going back to her book.

"Are you crazy?" Angel exclaimed.

"How am I supposed to get to the Lust ring? And also it's months from now, and I don't think I'll be here for that long."

His face fell. Angel obviously had not thought about it like that.

"Oh, yeah," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Oh, well, still nice to be invited."

"I suppose." Isobel only focused on the book before her. If this was different circumstances, maybe she would have allowed herself to be excited and flattered, but she had learned her lesson. Getting up and making a spectacle of herself was how she got hurt in the first place. Was she supposed to do it on a grander scale now? Invite lunatics from all over Hell to seek her out and assault her?

If only she was capable of defending herself. If only she had power like Alastor's, and could exact her own revenge. She wouldn't have to be in a constant state of fear, others would be afraid of her. But that would mean, first, she would have to die, of course.

She stopped herself. What a terribly morbid thought. She slowly shook her head as if that would remove the idea all together. The only reason she was thinking this way was because of what happened. It would all be fine if only she could get back to the way it used to be.

She realized both Vaggie and Angel were gone. She must have been sitting there lost in her own thoughts for some time. A sadness fell over her. She raised her glossy eyes up from her book and they landed firmly on Alastor standing across from her just on the other side of the bar. How long had he been standing there?

"You seem troubled," he said.

"It's nothing. I'm fine," she replied, breaking his gaze.

"In an effort to plan my evening, I thought it prudent to ask you if you will require my, uh," he hesitated searching for the right word. "My presence tonight?" He spoke in a hushed tone so as to keep their business just between the two of them.

"Oh," Isobel had not thought about it. She tried to assess how brave she thought she was at that moment. Unfortunately, she felt herself lacking and embarrassed, she said, "um, if it's not too much to ask."

"Very well," was all he said before leaving, and Isobel suddenly felt very much alone.

It was late that night when Alastor finally came to Isobel's room. He didn't even knock, just slipped in as a shadow under her door and found her reading on her bed. He could have knocked and kept up the pretense, but he was tired and didn't want to bother. Isobel didn't seem to mind the intrusion. She, after all, had been waiting for him.

For some reason she looked strange to him.

"What are you wearing?" he asked.

"Uh, pajamas?" Isobel looked down at herself suddenly self conscious. It was really just a tank top and sweatpants. She didn't see what was wrong with them. She had been wearing the same clothes she had arrived in none stop for almost three days straight. They made her feel safer and hid most of her bruises, but she wasn't about to tell him that. "I know I've been wearing my other clothes, but these are just more comfortable to sleep in than jeans and a jacket." She also needed to wash her other clothes badly.

"Ah, comfort," he tilted his head thinking. "I never considered that."

"Yeah, that's clear," Isobel said sardonically, returning to her book.

"And what do you mean by that?"

She looked up at him hesitantly. She didn't think he would take issue and wasn't sure how to explain herself.

"Well," she began, putting her book aside. "You don't even take off your coat, or your shoes for that matter. You're up in here with a three piece suit and oxfords, laying there like a Victorian dying of consumption, no wonder you never sleep. Maybe you should try PJs."

"No, I think not." He crossed to the side of the bed.

"Come on, you might like it," Isobel waggled her eyebrows, but he remained unmoved. "It's good for you to try something new."

"I see. When you suggest trying something new, it's 'good for you,' but when I suggest it, it's dangerous and unsettling."

Isobel knew exactly what he was referring to.

"But the 'new thing' you wanted me to try," she said a bit defensively, "was rancid deer meat, which would have definitely poisoned me. This is different." Alastor just stared at her dubiously. She decided to just give up. She gave him a grumpy look and picked up her book. "You know what? You're a grown-ass man. Do whatever you want."

Alastor thought about it for a moment. She might have a point. Maybe comfort had some merit, though he could not go about it the same disheveled way as Isobel. If he was going to wear pajamas they would have to be stylish.

He waved his hand and his trademark green glow briefly encompassed his body. When it dissipated, Alastor's pen striped suit was gone, replaced by black silk notch collar pajamas and a red robe. Across the robe's breast pocket a swirling, black A was embroidered. Isobel gave a light applause.

"Very nice," she said. "Very Cary Grant."

"Who?"

"You are so old," she sighed. She couldn't believe she had to think of an actor older than Cary Grant. She racked her brain for someone popular in the 20s. She snapped her fingers. "Very John Barrymore."

"Ah, thank you."

"You're welcome." Isobel crawled to the edge of the bed and looked over the side.

"What are you doing now?"

"Settling my curiosity," she said. "I've been wondering if you have cloven feet."

Satisfied, Isobel returned to her side of the bed and tucked herself under the covers. Alastor removed his robe and followed suit.

They lay in the dark for a while, both on their backs, hands clasped, and then Isobel said smugly, "see, wasn't I right? It's better."

He said nothing.

Isobel smirked into the dark.

"You're just mad because I was right."