Imitation of an Angel, picture of holiness Part 4
Pairing: Alastor x f!reader
Summary: Alastor and the reader were married in life. Then he got killed. They're reunited when the reader gets sent to hell but her appearance as a sinner eerily resembles angels in heaven. Read part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here.
The house was quiet when he stepped in, quiet in the way that made him straighten automatically, listening, reaching for every sound he could catch. After a day spent smiling too wide for patrons who tipped too little, bluffing men who wanted blood in the local station, and pretending he hadn’t caught the scent of rot on certain alleyways, the stillness of home hit him like a balm.
He hung his hat on the peg.
Then he saw your coat draped over the back of the sofa. He melted. He always did: pathetically, reliably, without resistance.
He loosened his tie in the hallway with a little sigh he would never allow another soul to hear. His shoulders dropped. His posture softened. The mask slid off his face like wax under warm hands.
He was just Alastor here. No smile he had to sharpen. No voice he had to hone to a clever edge.
Just a man coming home to his wife.
You were in the kitchen when he found you, humming, softly, absentmindedly, too sweetly for someone who had no idea their voice could unravel him like a loose thread. There was flour on your hands, a smudge on your cheek, and your hair pinned up haphazardly in a way that made his heart seize because you always did that when you wanted to concentrate.
He stood in the doorway like a man struck by something divine.
He touched the frame beside him, not leaning, not bracing, just grounding himself. You were rolling out dough. He could smell butter warming on the stove. He could see the little crease between your brows as you focused. And he felt that familiar, ridiculous ache in his chest.
The thought came to him the same way it always did:
He would do anything, anything, just to walk into this room again.
“Chérie,” he finally murmured.
You jumped softly, then laughed when you saw him. “Alastor! I didn’t hear you come in.”
He smiled, his real one. Smaller, softer, not meant for the public. “I didn’t wish to disturb such a devoted chef.”
You huffed, amused. “I’m not a chef. I’m just making biscuits.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping behind you, “I would wager a month’s pay that your biscuits will be the best thing I taste all week.”
His hands slipped around your waist of their own accord. He always tried to pretend he wasn’t desperate for touch, but the way he pressed his forehead to the back of your shoulder gave him away.
You leaned into him easily. Naturally. Like you always did.
“You’re tired,” you murmured.
He didn’t answer because the day hadn’t been bad, not by his standards. But it had been long. And loud. And he’d spent hours being charming and cunning and sharper than the people around him to get half of what they were handed, hours watching the worst of humanity and pretending it didn’t affect him.
But here he didn’t have to be anything but a man who’d missed his wife.
He shook his head. “Nothing of note, my dear.” Then, quieter: “I simply missed you.”
You turned in his arms, flour dusting his waistcoat as your hands slid up his chest.
He should’ve complained about the mess.
You cupped his jaw. “You saw me this morning.”
“Yes.” He leaned into your palm like he’d been starving. “But it felt longer.”
Your smile softened. “Poor thing.”
He huffed, embarrassed by how relieved he felt at your touch. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t,” you whispered. “I adore you.”
He ducked his head just enough that his forehead brushed yours, embarrassed by how easily that sentence unmade him.
“You’re cruel,” he whispered, voice warm and frayed at the edges, “when you say things like that.”
“Because I never recover.”
You laughed softly, and he kissed the corner of your mouth.
And yet, even then, the fear lived in him quietly, hidden: that this was too precious to keep. That one day he’d come home and you wouldn’t be here, and the silence would swallow him whole.
And he pressed his face into your shoulder and held you tighter because of it.
The radio crackled as dusk settled over the house, the warm orange glow of the lamps softening everything into honey. You were curled on the couch, listening as the announcer’s crisp voice cut through the static.
“...residents are advised to remain cautious. The Bayou Butcher has claimed yet another victim. Authorities warn that he is armed, highly dangerous, and remains at large…”
You shivered. Alastor, seated beside you, did not. He leaned back comfortably, one arm draped across the back of the sofa, the other holding a small plate of pastries he’d brought home the previous day. The scent of powdered sugar and butter competed with the creeping unease curling in your stomach.
“…victims appear to be exclusively men over twenty found in isolated areas outside the city limits...”
“Here,” Alastor murmured gently, lifting a flaky piece of beignet to your lips. “Open.”
You gave him a look. “Alastor.”
“Open,” he repeated, amused.
Despite your worry, you obeyed, letting him press the pastry to your mouth. It tasted sweet, soft, familiar. Comforting.
Which was more than you could say for the broadcast.
You chewed, frowned, and finally set your hand on his knee. “You’re not even listening. The killer struck again.”
“I heard.” He offered you another bite as if that settled the matter. “And you, my dear, have nothing to fear.”
You pushed his hand lightly away, exasperated. “That’s not the point.”
Alastor tilted his head, smile warm, eyes half-lidded with affection. “Isn’t it? The Bayou Butcher only targets grown men. It’s very consistent. Organized killers often follow a pattern, and this one is nothing if not methodical.” He punctuated the sentence by brushing crumbs off your chin with his thumb. “You are quite safe.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re safe,” you shot back. “Why are you so calm about this? What if he goes after you?”
His smile sharpened a fraction, just enough for something glimmering beneath the surface to peek through.
“My love,” he said softly, almost laughing. “I can assure you, I’m in no danger.”
“On the contrary.” He leaned closer, voice dropping into that velvety murmur he used when he wanted to soothe you. “You’ve seen me hunt. You’ve watched me heft sacks of grain. You know I can shoot. I can track. I can handle a blade better than any man I’ve met.” He kissed your temple with gentle finality. “I’m hardly easy prey.”
You still frowned, unconvinced.
Alastor hummed and finally set the plate aside, choosing instead to pull you gently against his side. “You worry too much about all the wrong things, sweetheart.”
You crossed your arms but didn’t resist when he tucked you under his arm.
“Wrong things?” you repeated.
“Yes.” He brushed his fingers over your hair, slow and affectionate. “The killer on the radio is the least of our concerns.”
“Oh, really? And why’s that?”
His hand stilled briefly, just briefly, before he resumed smoothing your hair.
“Because there are far worse men out there than the ones they report on broadcasts,” he murmured. “Men who don’t make the news. Men who don’t follow rules or patterns or leave evidence behind. And those,” he tapped your knee lightly, “are the ones I want you to watch out for.”
A strange chill pricked your spine. You pulled back slightly to look at him.
He smiled at you with that familiar boyish fondness.
“I mean it, ma chérie. No talking to strangers. No wandering around alone after dark. If you need to go somewhere, you wait for me. Understood?”
“You’re acting like I’m the one in danger,” you said, confused.
“And you are.” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, voice turning firm in that way he used when he wanted the topic to be closed. “I want you to be cautious. Promise me.”
Instantly, he softened again, pleased, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Good girl.”
He pretended not to notice, though his smile said otherwise.
And as another grim warning echoed from the radio, he reached for a third pastry, lifting it toward your lips with a gentle hum, as if the world beyond your living room simply didn’t exist.
The mud was soft beneath his shoes, the smell of the bayou thick with pond rot and sap. Alastor wiped his sleeve across his brow as he tamped down the loose dirt over the corpse, his last corpse for the night, he told himself, and perhaps for a long while.
An excellent mood, in fact.
The ritual with Rosie still buzzed pleasantly under his skin. That old devil of a woman was glad when he completed the summons correctly. The spirit had risen obediently from the hellmouth he’d carved into the dirt, and the deal had bound itself with a clean, efficient snap.
Not that he intended to die soon. He was far too young, too healthy, too careful.
But the world was ugly and full of idiots with guns, and he had no intention of leaving his darling wife unprotected should anything ever happen to him. No, if she ever ended up in that pit below…he would be waiting as the most powerful sinner hell had ever seen.
And if she ended up in heaven, as she deserved, well, then she’d never have to know anything except that he loved her.
He stepped back from the shallow grave, brushing dirt from his hands, mind wandering exactly where it always wandered when his work was done:
You’d been tired lately. The bed squeaked. Every toss, every turn, every shift in the night woke you, and then, of course, woke him, because he always woke when you did. You had mentioned it absently while brushing your hair that morning:
“I know it’s silly, Alastor, but I can’t sleep through the noise anymore.”
He’d kissed the back of your neck and told you he’d think about it. And he had.
He’d need to set aside some money. Replace the mattress. Maybe replace the whole frame. Perhaps he could pick up a second radio narration for the upcoming week, though the thought of dealing with those smug incompetents at the station made his jaw clench.
Still…for you, it was worth it.
He smiled at the thought of slipping into bed beside you later, your warm body curled against his chest. Maybe he’d get home early enough to see you before you drifted off. Maybe...
The distant rustle of underbrush.
His fingers twitched toward the revolver holstered under his coat...but too late.
A lantern beam cut through the mangroves.
“Thought I saw somethin’ movin’ out here...”
Alastor stiffened, weight shifting, not panicked, but annoyed.
Idiots every one of them.
He’d avoided them for years, slipped by unnoticed. But tonight his mind had been elsewhere, full of mattress springs and your sleepy sighs and the promise of coming home to you.
“Hold on, what is that? A buck?”
The lantern swung, its light catching on the curve of his silhouette, his tall frame, the slight shape of his hair the wrong shadow at the wrong angle.
“What the hell...? That’s gotta be the biggest damn deer I ever...”
Alastor opened his mouth to speak.
To step out and show them exactly who they were pointing their cheap guns at.
But he hesitated, just one fatal heartbeat, because he was still half in the world of peace.
The shot cracked through the bayou like lightning.
Alastor jerked...and then stilled.
He would've liked to say that his last thought was of your face. But no. It was just annoyance. At hunters. At himself, for forgetting how the world worked. Kill or be killed.
Then everything went black.
Not the swamp’s humid press, not the wet warmth of Louisiana summer air, but a dry, smothering heat that tasted like iron and smoke.
Alastor inhaled sharply and sat up.
He wasn’t in his own skin.
He blinked, trying to force the world into focus. Mist curled through the barren landscape. The ground was cracked, glowing like veins of magma. A hiss of distant screams echoed like wind.
The thought didn’t frighten him.
He stood, dusting dirt from his vest. His clothes were clean. His hands…different. Clawed. His fingers tapered into elegant, alien shapes. Something heavy sat on his head, horns. Tall, sharp. His shadow twisted on the ground like it was dancing.
He looked around: no bodies, no hunters, no grave, no swamp. The entire affair was finished, cleanly and without his involvement.
Which made one thing hit him like a hammer.
He hadn’t finished burying the body.
His pulse, whatever passed for it now, skipped.
A low static hiss filled his ears, his own breath, unnatural now, like a broken radio searching for a station.
“They’ll find it,” he muttered aloud, voice sharper than before. “They’ll follow the trail. They’ll…”
The townspeople he’d lived among.
The coworkers he’d tolerated.
The neighbors he’d politely smiled at each morning.
They would know exactly what he had been doing at night.
His stomach twisted, a dry, hollow lurch.
She will know before anyone else. They’ll knock on the door, won’t they? They’ll knock and ask where I was that night. They’ll tell her the body wasn’t cold when they found it. They’ll ask why the grave was in the woods. They’ll ask her about my late hours, my absences, my “odd hobbies.” They will tear her apart.
His breath hitched, static warping around him again.
What kind of woman lives with a monster and doesn’t see it?
And you, sweet, trusting, gentle-hearted you, would face all of it alone.
His hands curled into fists.
He imagined you sitting at home, the radio helplessly buzzing warnings that now named him, his face plastered across news bulletins, posters, police reports.
He imagined the knock on the door.
He imagined your expression when they told you your husband had been killing men in the woods. That he’d died like one of his own prey, shot through the skull. That they’d found the body he was burying.
He knew you’d blame yourself.
knew you’d think you should’ve noticed something, knew you’d think your love had made you blind.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He would give anything, anything, to be there. To shield you. To lie if he had to. To take the blame with his own, living hands instead of leaving it to strangers.
And you were left to drown in the wreckage of what he’d done.
A voice cackled behind him.
“Well, well. You’re early.”
Rosie stepped out of the shadows, all soft curls and wicked smile, parasol resting on one dainty shoulder.
Alastor’s eyes snapped open.
“You,” he said, breath shaking with something that wasn’t fear. “You didn’t say anything about this.”
She shrugged lightly. “Darling, I told you the deal would take effect upon your death. I never said you’d have any control over when that death occurred.”
His shadow twitched like a snare.
“I need to go back,” he said.
Rosie raised a brow. “Impossible. You’re rather permanently here, sweetheart.”
“My wife is alone,” he forced out. “They will accuse her. They will tear her reputation to shreds. She’ll suffer for my sins when she didn’t...!”
Rosie’s expression softened, not kindly, not sympathetically, but knowingly, the way someone watches a man finally realize he has lost something that mattered.
“She’ll manage,” Rosie said. “Humans break. But they also bend.”
Rosie stepped closer, tapping his chest with the tip of her parasol.
“And you, dear Alastor…you will learn to live with what you’ve done to her.”
“You wanted power in Hell,” she mused. “And now you have it. But power never fixes the mess you leave behind.”
Alastor’s voice dropped to a razor-thin whisper.
“Then pray she gets there when her time comes.”
He wished, a fragile, trembling thing he’d never allowed himself when alive, that you would be spared any punishment for loving him.
But wishes didn’t change reality.
And the reality was this:
You were alone in the world above.
He was trapped in the world below.
And both of you would pay for the life he’d carved out with blood.
Alastor adapted to Hell quickly, almost suspiciously quickly.
His deal with Rosie held strong. Power built upon itself like a house catching fire. Sinners whispered his name before he even introduced himself. Overlords learned it the hard way, when their territory cracked beneath his heels and their shadows bent to his.
Like something tugging at the place where his heart used to sit.
He missed you in the mornings.
When he would have woken to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of your humming in the kitchen.
Hell didn’t have mornings.
He missed the domestic softness he used to step into when he came home exhausted, your hands pulling him to sit, your laugh filling the room, the warmth of your body against his.
Here, when he came “home,” there was only silence.
And shadows that twisted like restless limbs.
He missed your questions.
You always asked about his day, even though he lied through his teeth about half of it. You asked with such sincerity, such sweetness, as if every word mattered.
No one in Hell asked about his day.
He missed your voice most of all.
Your gentle chastising when he tracked mud into the house.
Your worried tone when he came home late.
Your warm laughter when he teased you.
You’d scold him when he forgot to eat.
You’d nag him to fix the squeaky bedframe.
You’d talk to him about the most ordinary, mundane things...
...and he would give every soul in Hell to hear them again.
Because above all else, you had been his dearest friend. Someone he could trust would never betray him. So even though he never shared his nightly activities, he considered you the one who knew him best, his favorite person.
You never pried, never tried to seduce him, didn't go around town asking your girlfriends how to ignite attraction in a man over tonic water and gin, didn't assume he was cheating. You simply let him be. Accepted his affection when he offered it, didn't question why he'd insist on sleeping in the same bed but wouldn't perform the marital act.
Nothing of the sort. He'd kiss you somewhere other than your lips before bed, and he enjoyed laying his head on your chest while you rubbed the back of his neck which sometimes felt stiff from leaning over the script and microphone at the radio station all day.
The radio helped. A Little.
He built a station from nothing, a tower of bone and metal and stolen tech. He broadcast his voice across Hell not for fame, not even to terrify the masses, but because talking into a microphone was the closest he could get to imagining you were listening.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he would croon in that velvet-murderous tone.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments between songs, he pictured you curled by the old radio at home, listening proudly.
You were alive, human, grieving the monster you’d married.
Static would buzz louder.
His claws would tremble against the controls.
And he’d turn the volume higher to drown his thoughts out.
He avoided looking at his reflection.
One day, he caught a glimpse of himself in a shattered mirror, horns tall and sharp, eyes glowing, a predator’s smile stitched into his face.
You would have been frightened of this.
You would have touched his face anyway.
He lifted a hand to the glass, touching the monstrous outline.
“Would you have followed me here, my dear?” he whispered, voice cracking just once, barely audible.
The mirror didn’t answer.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she’d say, twirling her parasol. “Unusual for you.”
Alastor would smile politely.
She’d laugh. “Thinking about your wife, you mean.”
Rosie sighed, softly, almost pitying.
“She isn’t coming here, darling.”
He knew that better than anyone.
Almost angelic, his only divine thing in life.
You weren’t meant for Hell.
You weren’t meant for him.
But knowing didn’t stop the longing.
But because every battle, every hunt, every overzealous overlord he tore down and absorbed power from helped keep him from thinking too hard.
He needed to keep moving.
Because the moment he stopped…the grief caught up.
His shadow would curl tightly around him and he’d stop breathing (if breathing even mattered anymore), and he’d think:
She must think I lied about everything.
I’d give anything to tell her it was only the killing I hid, not the love.
But Hell didn’t let him say it.
Hell only let him grow more terrifying.
Some nights, when the room felt suffocating, he’d speak into the dark.
As if you were sitting in your reading chair.
As if he hadn’t ruined everything.
“I hope…” he murmured one night, shadow curling around him like a blanket, “I hope they treat you kindly. I hope you’re not afraid.”
He laughed once, quiet, empty.
“You always said I needed to talk more about my feelings.”
“Well…that opportunity has passed, hasn’t it?”
But sometimes, before drifting into Hell’s version of sleep, he whispered the same thing every night:
The decision not to think about it, redemption, heaven, leaving, had been mutual, quiet, almost contractual in the way your fingers threaded with his. You saw the tension leave his shoulders in increments, like a radio dial being turned down from static to something gentler. His shaking had eased. The room was dim and warm. The red-glow lamps cast soft halos across the floorboards. For once, Alastor didn’t bother turning on the radio. He didn’t need the noise.
You sat on the edge of the bed first. He hesitated a beat, an old nervous tic, that flick of his ear, the second of uncertainty, but then he lowered himself beside you with an ease he seldom possessed. He didn’t always understand what it meant to rest, but tonight he tried.
His tail flicked once. Twice. Happy, subtle, betrayed by the soft rustling sounds it made against the quilt.
You lay down, turning on your side. He followed instinctively, as if pulled by a magnet buried under your ribs. His hand settled at your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, curling around you with a kind of reverence he tried not to let show.
“There,” he murmured, voice lower than usual, radio-static softened to velvet. “Comfortable?”
You nodded, and he hummed, pleased.
A moment passed before he spoke again, quieter still. “You…won’t mind if I stay close, I trust?”
He said it breezily, as though it were a joke. It wasn’t. It was a request.
“Stay,” you whispered, tugging him closer by the lapel.
His breath hitched, barely perceivable, but you felt it where his chest pressed to your back. And then all his careful restraint broke, not dramatically, but in the deeply domestic way he buried his face into your shoulder. He wrapped around you with long arms and longer legs, a tangle of warmth and sharp angles that somehow held you perfectly.
You could feel him smiling against your skin.
A real smile. Not the manic showman’s grin. Not the one that meant violence or theatrics or threats dressed as pleasantries.
A tired, relieved, utterly besotted smile.
“Ah,” he breathed, almost sheepish, “I should warn you, my dear, I may very well be…insufferably content right now.”
You laughed softly. He pretended not to melt at the sound.
His fingers traced idle, affectionate patterns along your hip. Every so often, he’d nuzzle your shoulder or your neck, small, instinctive touches, as if making sure you were real. As if you weren’t going anywhere.
“Al?” you murmured sleepily.
“Yes?” He perked up immediately, too eager, too obvious.
An embarrassed rumble vibrated in his chest. “…Nonsense.”
A pause. Then, a tiny, involuntary kick of his hoofed foot in the blankets: pure, unmistakable deer joy.
You covered his hand with yours. He squeezed once.
He did not think about heaven. He did not think about redemption. He did not think about losing you.
He thought about your warmth beneath the blankets. About how you breathed. About how, for the first time since the bayou, since life, since death, since hell, he was going to sleep next to the woman he loved.
He tucked his forehead to your shoulder, sighing like someone finally home.
And god, he clung to the feeling as tightly as he clung to you.
Which was impressive, because Alastor had practically fused himself to your spine sometime during the night. One arm under your waist, the other draped over your stomach, one knee wedged between your legs, cheek pressed between your shoulder blades like he intended to hibernate there.
He only tightened his hold.
“Al…” you whispered, tapping the hand across your waist.
A groggy hum vibrated against your back, low, warm, and unwilling to move. His antlers bumped lightly into the pillow as he nuzzled closer.
“Five more minutes, my dear,” he murmured, voice still sleep-rough. “Or five hours. I am flexible.”
You turned in his hold, and that woke him up properly. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilating, ears perked. He looked thrilled, embarrassingly thrilled, to find you staring back.
“Good morning!” he said, possibly too loud for someone who usually didn’t breathe.
You blinked. “…You’re in a very good mood.”
“Am I?” He arranged his face into aloof neutrality. It lasted two seconds before he broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Splendid!”
He sat up abruptly, pulling you with him so fast your head nearly whiplashed. He was arranging your hair before you could fix it yourself, straightening the hem of your sleep shirt, brushing a thumb across your cheek like polishing a gemstone.
“You look radiant,” he declared. “Positively divine.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I always look like this.”
“Yes,” he said, absolutely smitten. “And it continues to ruin me.”
He reached for your feathers, instinctively grooming them the way he did every time he was anxious, affectionate, or both. This morning it was both. He fussed relentlessly, muttering things like, “Out of place, terribly undignified, I won’t have it,” even though nothing was wrong.
“Alastor,” you said gently, catching his hand. “Are you trying to charm me?”
“Always,” he replied immediately. “It’s a lifelong endeavor.”
A dangerous thing to tell him.
Because he stopped. Completely froze. Blinked at you with a stunned expression like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven.
Then a violent tail wag. He tried to hide it behind a cough. Failed miserably.
“Well!” he said, voice cracking on the first syllable. “Breakfast!”
He practically teleported out of bed, straightened his suit, and held his arm out for you with the enthusiasm of someone presenting a marriage contract to the sun.
Everyone was already gathered, Husk already drinking, Angel sprawled over two chairs, Niffty darting around with a platter. Charlie and Vaggie whispered over coffee.
The moment you and Alastor walked in, still arm-in-arm, the room fell into silent speculation.
Alastor pulled out your chair for you like he always did, but today he practically bowed over it.
Angel choked on nothing. “Since when is Bambi the gentlemanly type? What, did you two...?”
Alastor slammed his hand on the table and smiled politely. Too politely. “Angel, darling, do finish that sentence. I’m positively riveted.”
Angel clamped his mouth shut.
You sat, amused. Alastor immediately shifted your plate half an inch to the left, for optimal placement. He adjusted your napkin. He poured your drink. He hovered behind you just enough that if you leaned back you’d bump into him.
Husk grumbled, “Why’s he bein’ weird?”
“This is normal,” Charlie whispered.
“No, this ain’t normal.” Husk pointed a claw at Alastor. “He’s glowing. Look at him. He’s like…like a happy swamp cryptid.”
Alastor, still beaming, replied, “I simply slept well.”
Angel cackled. “You look like you got...”
Angel leaned back. “Alright, alright. But seriously, what’s got you all…cuddly?”
Alastor’s smile twitched. He did not want to say, My wife stayed with me.
He did not want to say, She didn’t run.
He did not want to say, I’m indescribably relieved and pathetically in love.
So he said briskly, “Nothing of concern!”
You rested your hand on his knee under the table.
He jolted like he’d been tasered.
Husk stared. “Oh yeah. He’s gone.”
You hid your smile in your cup.
Alastor pretended he didn’t notice.
a/n: In the next part, Alastor has to leave to go to an Overlord meeting. The Vees, still baffled by the brief announcement of Alastor's marital status and seeing his wife, attempt to dig deeper. Chaos ensues.
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