Trust

The buttons on Alastor’s coat were already half undone by the time Charlie realized he’d stopped listening.

“Alastor,” she said again, firmer this time, fingers brushing the fabric near his chest. “You need to get that looked at. It’s been a month. A month since the war with Heaven ended and only a week since you got kidnapped by Vox. That's not just something you can ignore, Al!”

His hands snapped around her wrists, hard enough to get the point across but not so that he'd hurt her, and pried them away from his shirt.

“My dear,” he said, his smile sharp and fixed, his filtered voice lilting with forced cheer, “this is the forty-sixth time you’ve asked since my return to the hotel. I assure you, if I were in any danger of falling apart, I would be the first to know.”

“But you could have been killed!,” Charlie shot back, brows knitting together. “You can’t just ignore something like this because you don’t feel like dealing with it.”

A disgruntled “mmm” was the only response Alastor gave. Suddenly deciding that this wasn't worth fighting over, he relented.

With a theatrical sigh, he gestured toward the sofa. “Fine. But if only it will put this little crusade of yours to rest.”

He sat down, crossing one leg over the other and watched her intently as Charlie climbed into his lap, summoning first aid supplies onto the cushion next to them.

Alastor froze, his brain trying to process this.

“Well,” he chuckled, the sound a fraction too high, “this is a bold new approach to first aid.”

Charlie let out a small, breathy laugh but didn’t move away. Instead, she reached for the remaining buttons of his shirt, fingers careful, deliberate. One by one, they came undone.

His smile tightened.

“Ah~ No need to rush, Princess,” he said lightly. “I promise I won’t-

The words died in his throat as the shirt slid off of his shoulders.

Charlie’s expression softened immediately. “Oh,” she murmured. “Alastor…”

She started with his arm- the one SHOK.WAV had bitten into. The skin there was mottled, the wound ugly but at least closing. She cleaned it gently, wrapping it with practiced care, her touch warm and grounding.

Alastor stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, every nerve aware of her hands. The filter on his voice made each breath sound like soda fizzing.

Then she moved to his chest.

The gash there was still raw, edges angry and dark, refusing to knit together. The small criss crossed green lines suggested that Alastor had tried to tend to it himself. Charlie’s breath hitched, fighting the urge to start crying. She should have been there for him, the thought echoed in her mind as she gazed slack jawed at his chest.

“This looks horrible,” she said quietly, fingers hovering as if afraid to hurt him. “You should’ve told someone. You should’ve told me.”

Guilt twisted low in her chest as she examined it. He hadn’t gotten this wound by accident. He’d gotten it because she’d asked him to stand between the hotel and an army of angels. It was because of her that he got injured.

Alastor shifted, a subtle squirm he immediately tried to suppress. Giving her an awkward head pat, he closed his eyes and tried to quell the sudden uneasiness he felt. ‘Dammit, Alastor, pull yourself together.’ He snarled at himself mentally.

She didn’t notice- not at first. Too focused, too intent. She leaned closer, checking for other injuries, her hand brushing along his side and grazed the scar just below his ribs.

His breath stuttered.

The room blurred, replaced by the sharp memory of metal and leather, a belt buckle striking the same spot, the sound louder echoing around the room. All the sounds of the hotel gave way to his own frightened child voice whimpering and begging for his drunken asshole of a father to stop. His father's pale face darkened by blazing manic green eyes and a wicked smile as he raised his hand for another swing of the belt in his hand.

Alastor’s fingers dug into the cushion beneath him as imaginary cables tied him to the sofa. Taken back to a week ago, when he was at Vox's mercy watching in disgust and horror- unable to move..

And hands… So many phantom hands.. All touching him, all invading places on his body he didn't even know he had. Pinning him down as a group of older teenage boys laughed at Alastor's small shaking frame as he lay there, broken and shivering and bleeding. Laughing at the suffering they caused him.

Charlie's fingers dancing gently along his other side brought the room spinning back into view.

Unable to hide the trembling now, Alastor rested his head on the back of the couch, his breath static and shaky. Watching Charlie with glazed eyes. He became all too aware of the admittedly gorgeous young woman sitting on him.

He also became aware of a new sensation blooming.

Charlie leaned in closer, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face. Her cheek brushed his lower jaw as she reached behind him to check his back.

Alastor could hardly breathe now. The contact was barely there and yet it felt like too much. A slow, static hiss slid through his pointed teeth.

Alastor trembled, ears flattening instinctively against his head, smile now strained to the breaking point. His red eyes flickered, unfocused, thoughts colliding in a way he wasn’t used to.

He wanted her to stop.

He wanted her to keep going.

The sensation was foreign. Terrifying.

‘Alastor is strangely…hot.’ The thought made Charlie freeze, a blush creeping its way into her cheeks. She frowned, her eyes drinking in Alastor's body.

She felt it then.. The way the moment had shifted. The way her pulse had picked up somewhere between concern and something far more dangerous. The way she was suddenly very aware that she’d wanted this closeness longer than she cared to admit.

She looked at Alastor properly:

The strained smile, his flattened ears. His eyes, whose pupils now resembled radio dial, watching her with an emotion she had never seen Alastor wear but couldn't place.

At the tension in his shoulders. The tremor he was failing to hide. The defensive curl of his fingers. The way his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Her hands drifted—too slowly—down his torso, tracing heat and scar until they reached the waistband of his pants.

Alastor watched her fingers like they were a live wire.

Part of him leaned into it, desperate for grounding. Another part screamed to run.

Then her eyes widened.

“I- oh my God,” Charlie gasped, yanking her hands back as if burned. “I- I’m so sorry, Alastor, I didn’t mean to- I wasn’t thinking…”

The apologies tumbled over each other, frantic and sincere.

It snapped him back to the present.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. The silence stretched, thick and awkward, the air heavy with everything unsaid.

Charlie swallowed, struggling with her impulses, then carefully slid off his lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, softer now. Her face now red, Charlie pulled her long hair over her shoulder. “I pushed too far. Are you… are you okay?”

Alastor straightened, pulling his usual composure around himself like a well-worn coat.

“Perfectly fine,” he said smoothly, his tone- though cheery, was strained. “No harm done.”

She hesitated, then nodded and left the room.

Alone now, he stared down at the bandages wrapped around his chest before slowly pulling his shirt back on.

He was glad- very glad- that his own impulsiveness hadn’t led him to do something he couldn’t undo.

As he buttoned the fabric closed, that unfamiliar, irritating emotion lingered stubbornly in his chest. The ghost of Charlie's fingers lingered on his skin. Her eyes bored into his, swimming in an emotion he couldn't recognize. The way his body had betrayed him to lean into her hands.

He didn't know what he hated more right now:The fact that he didn't have a name for it or the fact that he wanted Charlie to continue…