Splitting at the Seams (RadioApple)

Part 2

Alastor felt surreal.

That was the point things had reached. Both himself and the world around him felt utterly unreal.

Had you asked him about his pain tolerance before this entire ordeal (and had you gotten him to answer truthfully, which was an endeavour all within itself) he would have happily told you it was rather high. Better than most he'd known in life, and most in death to boot! He'd once seen Husker drop a glass onto his foot and laughed for several minutes as the beleaguered bartender swore like a sailor as he hopped on his good foot and nursed the feeling, and only stopped when the feline had grumbled something about how ‘you wouldn't be laughing if it was you’. Promptly the radio demon grabbed one of Husk’s little table knives, placed his hand down flat upon the barside, and plunged the blade into the back of his hand without a moment's regret or hesitation.

The cat had been dumbstruck, babbling, sending him straight back into peals of laughter uncaring of the buzzing shoots of pain in his palm. Ha!

By golly, to have that feeling again, to be able to feel the pain but able to disregard it entirely for the sake of a good show and a good laugh. What he'd give for it in the current moment. Instead, unable to truly dissociate, his mind stayed but his perception frayed, everything swimming around him. The lights above bore into his retinas and burned spots behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, the ordinarily quite pleasant sound of the acoustics grating his ears. It took all he had to not allow them to lay flat against his head. Now that would give the game away.

Certainly, perhaps his agony could subside slightly if he allowed himself the kindness to react to it, to grimace and spit curses and double over at the middle. Surely his upright uptight demeanor only made what he felt internally worse. But then he thought of the consequences of such actions - of Charlie rushing to his side and her tones of concern and stress, the pity in her eyes - of Husk's scoffing and disinterest, of Lucifer's mockery, and the idea was vastly worse than the pain.

He did not get hurt for them. He did not nearly die for them, for these ungrateful people who could do nothing for him, who would never do the same in return, and he'd sooner die from this than let them believe he had.

‘Then why did you fight Adam?’ His shadow mused, dispelled of its form but not gone from him entirely. ’You knew you could not win against an angel, and especially not the First Man. You could have just left. But you didn't.’

‘I would not have fled.’ Alastor thought icily, bristling. Around him the room bustled, continually unaware. Charlie's father was healing a cut on her face, the wound healing gold before it vanished. He dearly envied such an ability. ‘Killing that man would have been the greatest success of my life. I would have been the most feared and revered being in all of Hell. Everything I do has been for myself. It always will be.’

There was no response to that, only a light feeling of pity. Alastor ground his teeth. If it wasn't to be Charlie, his own magic would demean him.

Speak of the devil's daughter - “Alastor!” Charlie chirped, having changed back into her regular attire, though her crimson blazer was absent, hair tied loosely, nearly looking… disheveled. Up close he could spot all of the little grazes and cuts she'd accrued, the ones they'd obviously not deemed worth healing magically. It was irritating how relieving it felt to see her so unharmed. “Alastor, have you seen your new room?”

‘New room?’ Was his hesitant repetition, before his expression brightened. Ah, yes. "Indeed! I caught sight before we entered, though I've not had the chance to pop up!” This was a good excuse to slip away. Thank you, Charlotte. “I don't suppose you’ll mind if I excuse myself to take a look.”

It was not a question; he didn't need her permission. Still, it was granted, and he left.

He made it only a few steps out of view before his breathing broke uneven and he had to return to the shadows to make the rest of the way.