Nothing Sweeter

Now that the constant state of panic you were in has subsided, your eyes start to wander. The scarring you’d vaguely noticed on Alastor before is substantial. Most of his torso is marred with slashes and the occasional burn mark, but what really draws your eye are the large bite marks and ragged tears. The markings almost resemble an animal mauling. Actually, the more you look at him the more it obviously looks like he was torn into by some kind of canine. Maybe more than one, even.

Next to you Alastor stiffens when he sees where your gaze has settled. You decide not to push. Instead you tilt your head to indicate the distinctly different set of scars; clean, sharp, some looking almost intentional.

“What’s that from?”

You wouldn’t go so far as to describe him as relieved, but Alastor’s shoulders drop slightly as he answers, buttoning his shirt back up.

“Like I said, sweetheart. Power comes at a cost. And I’ve made myself very, very powerful.”

His smile is wild and sharp. There’s that self-assured pride rearing its head again. It suits him. The moment is lost as he sways slightly in place.

You sigh, then glare as he pretends staunchly that it didn’t happen.

“Stubborn as a mule,” you mutter, tugging at his sleeve.

“Hypocrite,” he chimes, letting you pull him slightly then stopping. “What are you doing?”

“Getting you to lay down.”

“I’m fine.” His voice is clipped.

“Yeah well maybe I just want to pet your hair, did you think of that?”

(You will pretend to have said that on purpose. You’re couching your selfless request for him to chill the fuck out in selfish motivations. Obviously. Fuck.)

“Excuse me?” He lurches sideways out of your grip, but you snatch at his injured hand. He stops with a gritted hiss of static.

“Quit being so difficult! Besides, you owe me right now.”

Alastor sputters, outraged.

“We made a deal,” he says, tone ominous.

“Not for that-” his expression shifts, confused, “-I mean when you bit me!”

He looks incredulous. “You’re the one who offered!”

“Yeah, well- you’re the one who made it necessary!”

“You bit me too-”

“-You mean I bit you back,”

“You stabbed me!”

“You’re welcome.”

He stares at you, seemingly at a loss. You take the opportunity to pull him forward again. He lets you this time, limbs loose with mild shock.

After a brief and awkward round of limb-placement negotiations that have you taking an elbow to the face twice (the second time was not an accident, damn it), Alastor ends up stretched out on the couch, his head on your lap.

“Never bring this up again,” he tells you.

You don’t answer, hand hovering above his fluffy hair.

“Honey? Agree, right now.”

“Only if I can pet your hair.”

He shuts you down instantly.

“Not a chance.”

“That’s fine! Guess I’ll send this pic to Angel, then. He’ll probably have some fun things to say about it.” You hold up your phone, where the full screen is taken up by a slightly blurry image you’d gotten while he was busy making a nuisance of himself.

His eyes narrow as a tendril of shadow whips out from under the couch and smacks it out of your hand. You hear it land out of sight with a sharp crunch as it thuds against the hallway floor. There’s no way your shitty hell-quality screen survived that.

“...”

“You owe me twice now.”

“You get one minute,” he says, relenting.

“Five.”

“One.”

“Five and I’ll delete the picture.” You’re banking on Alastor being too technologically illiterate to realize how unlikely it is you’ll salvage anything at all from that phone. It pays off; after a brief silent standoff he huffs, throwing his head back so that his antlers smack painfully into your sternum. Asshole.