Sir Pentious

Alastor had never believed in babying her - or anyone - with his speech and selection of words. Do it enough times, he figured, and she would eventually begin to understand the more complex nuances of his word choice. Even if he had to repeat himself a time or two, to ensure she was not left out of something like an important instruction. Here and now, he was not quite as concerned about it, glancing down at her to watch her little brain working through what he'd said and what it meant.

"Still growing," he corrected. He would not dash her hopes and dreams entirely - but giving her at least some perspective might keep her from tackling challenges that were a bit too grand for her just yet.

There was still time for her to come into her shell, so to speak. And until that happened, Alastor was not especially eager to see her thrust into danger headlong. Not without him being there to ensure that she came out on the other side without incident.

Glancing down at her, he did not move as she nestled in close, his ears perked for what she had to say. The radio demon was uncertain as to what she meant as she spoke, but he nodded all the same.

"I am. Big enough to look after you until you can look after yourself."

Although... Alastor was beginning to understand that he had some rather strong attachment to the little egg. Whenever that time came... he had an inclination that he might be reluctant to let her do as she pleased.

But surely that was still a ways off.

While she was there, he finished the process of rinsing her off, ensuring that she was fully cleaned - and that he was too, scrubbing a bit at his own claws and arms to rid himself of any lingering presence of blood or anything... untoward before he gave her a little nudge.

Before Fitzgerald could go and demand a new pair of boots, a cleaner dress and boots, Boss himself barged through the bathroom door, far too frenzied to consider knocking.

"Alastor, wonderful news! And ah, Fitz, there you are!"

Much less concerned than expected, but his mind had been completely occupied during the smallest egg's adventure.

"Fiona has awoken from her slumber! Preliminary examinations look very promising; I'm expecting a full recovery!"

There had been a couple of close calls, and the cracks in her shell would remain for months to come. Pentious expected a crutch to be utilised for a while, too. But Fiona was awake, and babbling, and concerned whether Nana was tranquillised or not. That was large enough proof for Pentious to be relieved and positive.

His wide grin turned into confusion as he considered the scene in front of him for a moment longer. Bubbles and all.

When presented with the offering of more skin to touch, Alastor does not hesitate to take the opportunity, his palms smoothing down to sneak his fingers beneath the fabric to trace the tips along Pen's pale flesh. It's soft and smooth as his hand ventures steadily upwards, until he is making a small attempt to grasp just a bit more firmly at Simon's thigh. Like in the pictures, he thinks, not wanting to try and replicate whatever it is that Pen has in his mind exactly... but enough to appeal.

"Ill?" Alastor asks in a small inquisitive hum. It's likely that he should have heard of some of the same silly notions... but given how culturally different their worlds are... Perhaps it should not surprise him that there is such a belief. Still, it makes him give a small warm huff of amusement, meeting Simon in the slow and lingering kiss before he speaks again.

"I have. On occasion. It's never been especially thrilling, to tell you the truth," he answers honestly. "But then, perhaps it is because I am alone that it does not seem worth the effort." He cannot possibly know for sure. Not until he ventures down this particular road to see what might differ and how.

"But I've never grown ill from it... nor have I known anyone else who has." In case he is needing to dispel Pen's fears.

Besides...

This is different.

It's different in the way that Alastor's hand begins to suggestively sneak between Simon's thighs - not with intent to rush, but to simply feel more of the warmth there; to get the other accustomed to the feel and press of Alastor's slender, but weather worn hands.

"I am luckier to be here with you instead," he murmurs in a heated tone against Pen's lips, his other arm that remains wrapped around the other giving him a slight tug to press in closer, granting silent permission for Simon to press and touch as he so pleases.

There is no one else here. They can be quiet.

He would be lying, however, if he said he were not entirely thrilled by the prospect of listening as Pen might struggle to do so the further they venture off the cliff of the unknown.

Alastor's romantic remark, and the eagerness of his hand gives Simon the needed courage to be all but done with his clumsy gown. It restricts him far too much, and in a spur of boldness, he decides to rid himself of it.

He pulls back from Alastor with a kiss as an apology for having to do so, but only for the moment it takes him to pull the garment over his head and push it to the side. And just one more thing.

He pulls down one of the bed's four curtains, too, draping it until it hides one side of the bed. Just for some further illusion of privacy. They are just as alone whether they are underneath a canopy of fabric or not.

Now only clad in his short, wide pants, slight top and his night corset, he is far more agile. Pen lifts himself onto his knees and coaxes Alastor to join him and crawl to the middle of the bed instead of its edge. Where he may once again close their distance and kiss him, and nearly climb onto his lap even more eagerly than he remembers the watercolour lady doing.

Pen feels anticipation scratch his body too, almost to the ends of his long hair.

Angel Dust gasped, and then oohed and ahhed while he watched Pentious' dramatic retelling.

He had a lot of love in his heart for that silly, theatrical serpent.

"Yeah!" Angel exclaimed, gleefully clapping his hands together. "Exactly like that!"

His eyes trailed Pentious, and his smile drooped a little bit as his friend noticed that there was no evidence of blood on the walls or the carpet or the floor. It came back upon investigation of the chair, only to wilt again and revive once more when Pentious finally suggested moving further into the house to check there.

"Way ahead a' ya, buddy," said Angel Dust, who scoffed in a playful manner as he brushed past him. "Of course they'd run. As ya know, Penny, I was in the mob, an' in the mob, we don't play around with our lives. There's always an escape plan in place, secret passages in all the houses, yada yada."

He stopped right in front of what would become the hallway, and glanced over his shoulder at him.

"I'll betcha these old folks were very similar. Rich people got a certain overlap to 'em all, even if they ain't Cosa Nostra— and who's ta say they ain't?"

Grinning slyly, the spider flashed his teeth on the golden side and then stepped forward.

Escape plans, secret passages, yes yes! Many old houses followed such structural details. And especially in Pride, they should.

Pen rolled his eyes at Angel's smug enthusiasm, but nevertheless let his lanky legs lead the way through the dark corridor. Pen tried very hard not to let the oppressive atmosphere of the house get to him, instead slithering across the floor with exaggeratedly calm curiosity over the cobwebs on the ceilings and the murky portraits on the walls.

It wasn't that scary, not really. Just dark. Maybe if he imagined that he was simply visiting one of his relatives on Earth, it would be less scary? That's right! The bannisters and the wallpaper, it was all familiar and ordinary, just like at Nana's house.

No, wait. That was actually scary.

Near the back door, the duo came across aged stairs that led down to a cellar. Oh. Ohhoho. That would be good.

The door to the cellar was aged and wooden. Its aged, cracked grain gave the illusion of scratches and tears. Whatever was behind there was bound to be damp, dark and terrifying.

Pen cleared his throat and patted Angel on his shoulder.

Stagtooth paused in his grooming as the other posed his question, his tongue sticking slightly out of his mouth before turning his gaze over to Precious. It was a curious ask, and one that the ginger tom did not quite have an answer to.

"I've never seen them myself," he replied, truthfully. "But the medicine cats say that... they don't quite look the same as you or I. They often appear in... mist or... starlight, maybe. Or they look cold. Frosty." None of which especially sounded realistic to him, but he was not asked for his opinion, and so he would not give it just then. Not when Sir Precious seemed to be genuinely curious.

"Given that they're meant to live up there in Silverpelt," he gestured upwards with his nose towards the sky. "-in the stars, I'm not surprised that perhaps that's how they appear." It was daylight now, however, and the blue expanse of the sky gave away little as the sun continued to rise.

Without thinking very hard about it, he glanced over to the kittypet, noting that in their trek back towards the camp, the other tom's black fur had gotten a bit rumpled here or there. Leaning closer, he gave a few rasps of his tongue over some of those unkempt areas - and if asked, he would simply say that he was returning the favor.

It was about then, that he recalled.

"You sounded like you had a dream earlier. About the kits going missing?" His head tilted, curious.

"What was that about?"

When was the last time he had been bathed? Not bathed like the twolegs bathed him, but properly, with another cat's rough tongue? His kittens did not really count, not yet. They did mimic his own baths, but often forgot what they were doing or fell asleep before they could truly get anything done.

It must have been so many seasons ago. When he still lived with his mother and siblings. When he was just a kit himself.

That felt somewhat sad.

Underneath Stagtooth's idle care, Presh lowered onto his paws, tail wrapping in front of them as he thought about the dream and the embarrassing scene it had caused in the morning.

"Yes... it was a very strange dream indeed. No falling from a tree, or mice-catching, that is certain," he snuffed.

"I dreamed that it was the middle of the night, and I was sleeping here at the camp. But I was woken up by a she-cat, who I thought was my mother, because I recognised her scent. But she wasn't, she was actually a wildcat, and a really big one too. With those long ears from cats who come from very far away. And she... she looked as if she glowed."

Starlight was a good word for it.

"She brought me to the nursery den, but it was completely empty. No kits, no queens. It's as if they had just disappeared. And I was, of course, very alarmed. I asked her where they were, but she said only one thing, which was also strange. Right before I woke up for real, she said: "The enemy only bares their teeth."

Time felt as though it were moving entirely too slow. Through pain and discomfort, gradually Alastor forced himself to stifle most of his response to it down and well into himself. He would need to make an appearance back at the hotel - he could not hide away forever in the shattered remains of his tower which he'd clawed his way to, in spite of everything. Frustration for how he'd almost died for the sake of a gaggle of degenerates who may or may not have even given him a second thought mounted, tempered only by the thought of Pentious who, he convinced himself, must be waiting for him. Worried.

There did not seem to be any other possibility.

When he finally staggered himself up and out, Alastor managed to gather up as much posture and poise as he possibly could, looking none the worse for wear once he manifested his way back to the company of the others who had - rather rapidly, apparently - began to rebuild what had been broken. He'd arrived right at the precipice of their work, taking a peer around the space to determine where Pentious might be -

Only to be informed of what had actually occured.

Amid the casualties, a number of cannibals, plenty of exorcists, Adam himself, and one of the princess's little (large?) dragon companions... Alastor had never presumed that number could have contained another.

His gaze lingered, for likely far too long, on the almost inappropriately placed portrait, reflecting the face that he had thought he might return to see; not on the flat plane of a canvas - but real. In person. And yet for all of the praises that the others sang of the sacrifice made, not a one seemed to pinpoint the hollow stare in Alastor's gaze as he fixated on the memorial that had been constructed for the only person who mattered.

He wanted to turn and rail at each and every one of them - Lucifer, mainly - for allowing such a thing to happen. For not stepping in before it got to that point - for neglecting the one thing; the one person the radio demon gave so much as a sniff about. He could savage them all - leave the entirety of the uptown district razed in his righteous anger as he'd done to the Doomsday District so long ago.

It was only the chains of his Deal that kept the hotel - and all of the uptown district - in tact.

Alastor said nothing to them, sparing a look from a distance that could have turned the hottest dunes of the desert white with frost, before he slunk off into shadow to seek out the one remaining egg. He had been told that Frank had survived, the others having been part of the casualties of the day. No matter. He still had the one. And he would go and retrieve the others from Rosie soon enough.

But first, he wanted to abscond with the remaining piece of Pentious that was in arm's reach, plucking Frank up and into his arms without so much as a second thought and retreating to a remade version of Pentious's room (had they remade it..? Or perhaps he did that himself just then and did not realize...), where he settled into the low pit of a bed and remained more or less catatonic, not knowing how to process. Not knowing what to do.

Only knowing that he might have wished that the holy axe had struck true after all.

Frank brandished his own scars from the battle. One ran down his eye, his shell cracked right below where Alastor's large palm lay over.

"Pentious took his ship and attacked the big angel and the big angel attacked him back and he died. But that made everyone fight harder and we won and, and Pentious was a hero. Wow, I'm so proud of him."

His words sounded rehearsed. Enthusiastic yet just as catatonic and automated as Alastor was at present. The little egg could not really fathom the loss any better than Alastor did.

"But why did he do it, Boss?" he asked, only capable of questioning his other Boss' actions because he wasn't here. Because Boss didn't exist.

Frank did not expect an answer for that question, nor for the dozens of others for the days to come.

Pentious had been dragged into a cell. That's the only thing he could call the place. with four small walls and the chains that tethered him to one by his neck and wrists. What overkill! Where would he go when a dozen golden bars separated him from the angels who hovered on the other side?

They were still quarrelling. The little one seemed to be on his side, which was more than moderately surprising. She fluttered over to him, her severe expression turning into a disturbingly wide smile.

"You're one of Charlie's friends, aren't you? From the Hazbin Hotel?"

"Yes, I am! I'm Sir Pentious," the serpent replied quickly, not remembering any usual pleasantries. "Where is Charlie? And everyone else? Are they alright?" he asked, as close to the bars as his shackles would allow.

"Oh, I don't know! You're the only one who's made it through so far, it's so exciting!"

Before Pentious could ask another question, the taller of the angels interjected.

"Emily, do not talk to him! We must go and summon the jury. The elders, the Speaker, all of them."

The small angel turned around in the air, and swept back to her superior.

"But that could take days! We should hear what he has to say-"

But the taller angel objected once more, in an authoritarian tone that urged the girl to silence and for Pentious to slouch back against the cell's furthest wall, not wanting to evoke her wrath any further. The little angel turned towards him one last time and provided a quick promise that everything would be taken care of, she would make sure nothing happened to him and that he would just have to hang on.

"Wait, do they know that I-" Pentious tried to interject, but the angels had already left. The large embroidered door to the corridor closed with a thump, leaving him in total solitary confinement.

"...That I'm here?"

Pentious tried to gather his thoughts and breathe, but the constriction of the glowing metal around him felt suffocating. He crossed his arms and held onto himself, startled to realise, once again, that his hands had turned periwinkle blue and his clothes white and yellow. Why? What was this?

"Alright. It's alright. I'm alright," he whispered to himself, trying to self-soothe in the manner he had been taught by Charlie. He had not invaded Heaven. He had not a single idea why he was there! But someone would have to know. Yes. And the reason why would eventually be discovered, the angels would make sure of that. And then they would realise he was not a threat, and they would not hurt him.

"It's okay to cry. Yes. It's okay to be scared," he reminded himself. "I'm not alo-"

The grip of his own claws almost tore through the jacket that was not his, but pressed against his body as if tailored to him.

He still had no knowledge of the whereabouts of the others. And the angels did not either. Did that mean that everyone else was still in Hell? If so, how were they? Had they won? Had they lost? Did anyone get hurt, did anyone-

Alastor!

Pen gasped, many of his eyes darting around as if he were able to find a clue about his closest companion from the empty surroundings. Alastor had gone missing in the middle of the battle. He had fought Adam, and then... what? Was he terribly injured? Had he been slain by angelic steel? No! No, no, no, no. It couldn't have been. But then...

The golden chains clattered as he stood up once more, yelling and only getting answered by echoes.

"You're out of your mind. I don't follow any--" Valentino then went silent, and gave the snake a bamboozled stare. "... Caine?" he balked.

He'd never liked the guy. He found that chattering set of teeth annoying at best, and outwardly threatening at worst (after all, Valentino wanted to leave, and Caine was not very helpful when it came to that) but even he thought that dubbing Caine 'Dark Master' was a bit of a stretch.

Whatever.

He squared his jaw.

"I don't like him," Valentino said indignantly. "I'm not sure if any of us do. Some of 'em tolerate him, but..."

Why would an NPC be programmed to have such a polarizing opinion, about its creator, no less? Caine made these adventures and everything in them, right?

The moth's eye twitched.

"I have had my run-ins with that inssssolent gigglemug. Believe it or not, he once sent me to this realm to fulfill his twisted fantasies. On a mission to disengage the very airship we now stand in. But when my comrades retreated, I was left behind. Which was actually good, in the end. I eventually discovered the truth."

Pentious slithered to the window that oversaw the wasteland below. He clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head, melancholic.

"This realm rightfully belongs to the egg-people. They have been mistreated by invaders such as the Dark Lord. A lengthy propaganda mission has hidden and stifled their true history, but that is about to change."

Alastor should be about as paranoid as Pen is, he knows. But there is an inherent comfort in how close they are now - in how much space and time they have together. For some reason, it does not entirely register to him that anyone could possibly sully the moment between them, his head nudging contentedly against the other's for however long they have been granted in solitude. He listens, however, throughout, finding at least some marginal intrigue in what Simon is describing, and does his utmost to not find anything comical about it, lest he frighten the other off from giving it an actual try.

"It is at least something I have a general idea about," Pen says. Much else remained a mystery, hidden behind figurative words in romantic poems and dirty hints from his classmates, street workers beckoning him from the shadows, and men's club goers.

By the time Alastor found himself clawing back to consciousness, the sounds of the calamity overhead had passed, giving way to an almost eerie silence. His ears rang with a lingering migraine that made him feel as though his head might split from the pain, and he was light-headed enough to not open his eyes for several minutes, convinced that if he did, he would only be met with the floor and sky rapidly spinning in his vision. All that he did when he found himself in the presence once more was press his hand again to his wound, still feeling the slick wetness of blood against the fabric of his torn clothing.

He needed to stitch the flesh back together. Or else risk death. A final one. One he could not come back from.

With enormous effort, the radio demon pushed himself up to his knees, then shifted to fall back, painfully, against a nearby wall. The impact made him cough and sputter blood, sweeping out from between his teeth as he finally dared to open his eyes.

The space around him swam - but at least it was short-lived the more his sight came back into stark clarity, the reminder of what he had done and what the first man had retaliated with coming to him with the rush of pain that sent tremors along his limbs. There was an invisible ticking clock on his life, and he had to stop it before too long.

What energy he had was siphoned into the manifestation of his needle and thread - used at least several times before to mend his wounds - and now to begin the harsh and frustrating process of trying to knit his own skin through the pain that blossomed with the jab of the point and the pull of the thread. Alastor did not know what had become of the other hotel residents - and in the moment, he did not care. Not until he began to feel as though he might not succumb to Adam's axe after the fact did he think about much of anything else, only satisfied when he could finally feel the weeping flow of blood slowing to a halt - and he could begin the arduous process of getting cleaned up.

Had they won? He no longer heard the cacophony of explosions - and he did not hear any shouting.

It was only when he had finished his stitching and the wrapping of his wound in a make-shift bandage of torn fabric that he forced himself back to his feet, sweat beading at his temple.

He could not head back like this. Not yet. He would look weak.

But what had happened? Where were the other hotel residents now?

Pentious registered Adam's eye contact for not more than a split second. Afterwards, he grew entirely blind from a light that engulfed his body and each of his five senses. And he went almost weightless, floating and soaring through that disorienting light, though he could not see where.

Shit. He had been caught. Or the ray had blasted himself alongside the first man. Pentious knew it. This was it. He was dying for the very last time.

The light began to dance in various colours and shapes that reminded Pentious of the flames that had cast him down in Hell over a hundred years ago. The serpent pinched his eyes shut in terror, all at once recalling the pain and anguish of the fire and brimstone that had scorched through his human body and rebirthed it as a monster over a hundred years ago.

This is what must have been happening again. Except, he assumed, his body wouldn't transform. It would only break down into dust. Or less.

But it did not happen. He kept breathing. The quiet, translucent flames burnt through his clothes, and they swam over his scales, but did not hurt him. He didn't grow deaf from the death rattles and shrieks of those poor women he had betrayed. Belphegor did not taunt him with her presence and an acknowledgement that through his sin he was hers.

Suddenly, he felt he was flying upwards, but it was only a brief development. With a big thump, he hit the ground.

Not ground. A floor. A white tiled floor in a room where he was not alone, as he soon realised.

Angels. Two of them. Eyes wide. Halos aglow.

He hadn't perished after all?

Oh no. Had he been caught? Was he a prisoner of war now? Is that what this was? Had Heaven had enough of their uprising and swept in to capture him? Or many of them? If so, where was everyone else? Where was Alastor? What were they doing to him?

Pentious could hardly speak through the angels' ambush. One ecstatic and one petrified and angry. They asked questions he could not answer, they quarrelled amongst each other, and eventually decided he would have to be 'contained'.

Contained. Where? Hell had been his prison cell; were they going to send him back?

Oh Lucifer. Oh Lilith.

"That's a very progressive opinion."

And it was. Clan cats were, by nature, fairly traditional. Changing their perspective on beliefs of blood and kin was hard - as now they both knew. But he could not necessarily say that he disagreed with Precious' take on the matter, having never really considered his own blood or lineage to be of any real particular interest. He was just a cat. A rogue. Whatever it was. And now he belonged, however loosely, to a clan who saw at least some marginal amount of value in him; in what he had to offer the collective.

Pausing to give one of his pause a small lick, the camp was not far off, and Stagtooth hesitated to make his way fully back into the hollow where the dens were. His ears, slightly mangled as they were, were still listening. As though perhaps the Airclan warriors were going to ambush them from behind.

Paranoia, maybe.

"Medicine cats do quite a bit," he said once he was sufficiently satisfied that the camp perimeter was safe, guiding Precious back through the gorse and into the small clearing where Stagtooth flopped down with a small bit of a sigh. Tired, clearly. But he would survive. Regardless, he gestured for Precious to settle with him, for a bit, only watching as the other warriors did similarly, stopping to find some fresh kill or get their scratches looked at by the actual medicine cat who was not far off. Morningstar was speaking with Swiftwing and Rainbowpaw, but none of them looked especially worse for wear.

"From what I understand, it's mostly herbs and addressing wounds. Helping the queens birth their kits. Handling illness like greencough and whitecough in the colder months. But beyond that..."

Stagtooth glanced upwards at the sky, the sun having already flared its presence on the mid-morning horizon.

"They have the closest connection with Starclan. The warrior ancestors. They speak to them. In dreams, or what have you. And they'll go meet the other clan's medicine cats every half-moon. To ah... convene with Starclan. Though what they talk about... only they know. And sometimes, Morningstar will be told about it... if there's some immediate danger."

Stagtooth gave a small snuffle, dropping his volume a bit so that he was not overheard.

"I've never seen evidence of Starclan being real, but... Clan cats are very vehement in that belief. So..."

The one-eyed rogue (or perhaps a very wild kittypet), who snuck into his garden. She had been interesting and very pretty. Sir Precious would have maybe taken her as a mate if she hadn't struck her claws in his face after they sniffed each other and been ushered off by his masters. And his kittens. The heavens above knew where they had come from, but they were still the most beautiful kits Sir Precious had ever seen.

And Stagtooth, of course. He was a dangerous warrior cat, and he had saved the kits and Precious from certain death despite their different circumstances.

Yes. All cats, nothing less.

Presh's ears flicked as Stagtooth explained, weaving a tale of the medicine cats and their mysterious purpose. It seemed impossible, but incredibly intriguing. The odd dream from last night immediately re-entered his memory. As did the glowing she-cat's strange response when he had asked whether she was his mother.

Ancestors...

This, unfortunately, rang out as loud as any death knell.

When he had ventured out for the day to further scavenge supplies and bring down something to eat, he'd been careful. As careful as he always was, given how familiar he was with the inherent danger that came with being so relegated to wandering about alone. Every sound, every movement had held his attention as he stepped carefully amid the brittle bushes and piles of leaves which signified the slight changing of the seasons. He knew the patterns of the wildlife; could sense when it was more than just an errant deer grazing its way through the wood and when it was something much deadlier - more venomous - than that. He had not survived as long as he had without that knowledge.

And yet it had only helped him so much on this day.

In his slow and steady stalking pursuit of his next meal - a flock of fat birds which he was sure he could pin down with a well-timed shot of the scoped rifle he carried with him at all times - he had been prepared to possibly stumble onto one or two infected. What he had not counted on was the trodding of his boot into a snare that he was not certain was even meant for a person.

Well. Not his type of person, anyway.

But before he'd been able to reposition his feet, the net had covered him with its weighted press and pulled him up and into the tree, his rifle wrenched from his hold as he was trapped within, a cacophony of noise that he was certain was meant to alert the trap maker that they had caught their quarry soon to follow.

With a frustrated snarl and swear, his head still spinning, Alastor thrashed amid his newly fashioned cage of cord and net, glancing down at his rifle which had unfortunately landed outside of the trap.

"Fuck-!" He expressed loudly. His own makeshift protection was no help in a trap as much as it generally was in something like a firefight. All he was now was a caged animal, his awareness for the approaching stranger sending him sprawling out even quicker to try and escape the net. Alastor had encountered enough selfish, arrogant, and narcissistic others amid the months following the collapse of society - and he had never been interested in permitting himself to fall in step with them if he could help it.

That he was being forced to address one now was not his preference.

But, the darker-skinned man realized as he heard the slight tremor in the stranger's voice, perhaps this would be more of an opportunity than once envisioned. The man who spoke to him now, from wherever his hiding place was, did not seem like a killer.

It could be a trick. But...

"I can't very well answer your questions from up here, now can I?" He hissed, though Alastor did his best to not be excessive in his volume. "You yelling like that will bring them down on you, rather than me. And then you die and I starve. Not very productive, is it?"

Bitterness dripped from his tone. But he was not feeling especially friendly.

"You could have broken my leg."

Pen frowned. The man was really in no position to be making demands, but still tried to do just that. That was a problem, he thought. The complaining stranger was unfortunately right. The longer they stood here, the bigger the chance was that an infected mutant heard them and came running. Or crawling. Drooling. Biting.

Pen looked around in search of such creatures, but his eyes only set on the rifle fortunately dropped by the man. Cautiously, Pen stepped forward, tucking his crossbow behind his back by its sling so he could pick up the large firearm. He pointed it towards the sky, seeing no need to act macho just now.

"Answer just one, then, and I can let you down. Are you alone or with a group?" he said, repeating the most important question for now. If the stranger was about to ambush his grounds with an army of his own, he wanted to know beforehand. So he could run.

Again.

"And if you're hurt- I'll help."

The trap had never been meant for the man after all. As long as the hypothetical broken foot was just that. Smart as he was, Pen could not do anything about a bite. Maybe let the poor person out of his misery at most.

Though he was not certain if he could actually do that. He had never killed anyone before. But it was better for now that the stranger did not know that.

That actually got a halfhearted chuckle out of the deer. Did people sleep there?

"Oh, no, nobody sleeps in a funhouse. It's, ah..." Alastor thought for a moment. How would you describe a funhouse to someone who had never seen one? "It's a game, essentially. It isn't truly a house, moreso a maze of twists and turns that is supposed to be disorienting... er, in a good way."

Didn't want to scare him out of going there, now.

Alastor stepped past Pentious, pulling a pocket watch from his vest. Even in Heaven, he was opposed to having a phone, so Emily had gifted him this: the face of the clock functioned somewhat similarly. Emily could contact him from it, with a projection of herself.

Somehow.

She could also make certain things appear. He was still figuring out how to use it.

"Emily isn't coming," Alastor told Pentious, but did not look at him. He was busy polishing the golden case of the watch instead. "She has something to attend to with the court. I've received her directions through this."

He held it open and showed him. The clock, instead of telling the time, displayed a little map with some writing.

"Emily isn't coming," Pentious repeated, a sense of concern in his voice. Although Alastor's attitude had softened considerably from their initial days in Heaven, he was still a bit more unpredictable than their angel friend. She seemed a figure set on making things comfortable and not so frightening, and her absence would certainly be noticed.

"I like the monorail," Sir Pentious replied nevertheless, bravely. "I see it through the window from my room. It goes away and then comes back."

For some reason, Pentious had found himself to be interested in things that moved. Made up things that moved, that is. Alastor's pocket watch was one such item of interest, and Pentious fought the urge to snatch it for himself, so he could take it apart and see how it functions.

He may have done so with the coffee maker, the clock, and the wall-mounted telephone, which had garnered him some chastising.

His golden and red eyes glinted with intrigue as he observed the watch and the map it projected.

Settling in comfortable silence, Alastor was content to simply watch her fiddle about with the loofah until the water ran a bit lukewarm and he felt it time for them to get out. What he did not expect was the addressing of him and the subsequent question, his ears lifting with some curiosity as he glanced down at her. The egg girls had always seemed much more thoughtful, in general - and that was beginning to show, even with her at her younger age.

But it took him a moment or two to understand what she meant.

"Ah-" He said, when he finally put two and two together.

"The fish that accosted us? I suppose in the grand scheme, they were only doing what they tend to do. Aggravate and be a nuisance."

Alastor did not believe that she would fully understand, but he plodded along anyway.

"They saw you as something to take advantage of. It happens when you are smaller. But I would not have permitted them to hurt you." No matter her size or age, at this point.

It took an immaculate amount of concentration for Fitzgerald to understand any of Alastor's complex words. And what she did understand was only a few choice terms that made her jagged lips pucker and hands splash at the water once more.

"But Fitz so big. Big gal!" she protested, though her argument had truly no standing. Without her fluffy bow, dress and shiny boots, she looked even smaller than usual, easily fitting in Alastor's outstretched palms.

And at that point, she had to admit it too. Or at least realise it. As much as she wanted to be big, she was not. Where her fingers resembled matchsticks and ended at soft points, Alastor's claws only began. He was tall and strong. And he would not let her get hurt.

Fitzgerald felt the need to be close to him, right then. What she could gather was that as long as she was with the Radio Demon, she would be safe. She looked up at Alastor, and felt how her entire body moved just through his calm breaths.

"That's more sentimental than I know what to do with."

But Alastor says it with some level of fondness for the other's desire to be somewhat poetic in mentioning it, and he will not disparage the emotional expression, no matter if it feels odd to be the subject of it now. But regardless, he remains still while Simon's fingers deftly make work of each of the buttons on his shirt, further exposing his relatively smooth skin beneath that was only lightly dappled with a few small spots of sweat from his clamber up and into the room.

He shifts slightly as Pen presses in close, swallowing back whatever of his own anxiety might arise in the moment. Alastor may pose as one who has it all figured out - but he is no more experienced than his friend.

But so too does he trust that Simon will not tug them both headlong into something that they are not especially ready or eager for.

While the other settles, Alastor's own arms draw around him in turn, palms lightly pressing over Pen's back, feeling the smooth, luxurious fabric of the sleepwear he has on - a bit interested in feeling what lay underneath instead, but uncertain of how to express it. So he hums in response to Simon's question instead, thinking back to the memory he is sure the other is pulling from.

"Vaguely. I remember you being very concerned that we would be caught looking at them more than what they were actually about," he replies with a small huff of laughter. "I do not remember them being quite so suggestive, but..."

Alastor's fingertips travel, slightly, in exploratory touches along Simon's spine.

"Are you alluding to something in particular, Pen?"

Pen's eyes briefly wander towards the double doors that lead to the corridor. There is no reason why someone would barge in and disturb them in the middle of the night, but his mind still conjures a dozen scenarios of the exact event. The nonexistent sound of footsteps and the doorknob turning is almost audible in the young lord's ears.

He tries to find solace for his nerves from Alastor's familiar arms, and the warmth of his bare skin.

He clears his throat and then nods, coyly.

"Yes." Pen nestles in closer to his companion and his secure hold, softly muttering against Alastor's jaw. "I saw another picture. A few pictures, actually. They're, I... I keep them between a book."

Hidden well from everyone. Including himself. Pen only dares look when he is feeling particularly rotten and perhaps a little drunk. When he cannot fight against the urges he knows that everyone feels, but that are supposed to be smothered down. Shameful, yet expected. Confusing.