♡ The Sweetheart Parlor ♡
~CW~ This story contains dark themes including murder, obsession, period-accurate discrimination, smut, and canon-typical Hazbin Hotel violence. Reader discretion is advised. 💕☕📻🍓
It won't let me post the full part so I have to do it in sections on here, full part on ao3 (archive of our own) under the same name "The Sweetheart Parlor"
Part 2
July 14, 193#
It was a rainy afternoon, you just finished cleaning and closing up for the day when all of a sudden the bell above the door chimed, welcoming a visitor.
"Cafés closed, come back tomorrow!" You didn't look up from your mop. There were footsteps behind you.
"Well now...is that any way to speak to a dear friend?" Alastor’s voice ringed out from behind you and you had almost tripped over your mop bucket. "Alastor!!" You turn around and place the mop down "What are you doing here so late? Its nearly 12! I haven't seen you in days!"
Alastor chuckled at your reaction, removing his coat and giving it a light shake to rid it of the rainwater clinging to the fabric. "I've been quite busy these past few days, so I'm truly sorry for stopping by so late. I just thought why not pay my favorite gal a visit?"
You blushed and put your hands behind your back, rocking on your feet "Well..I just thought..you forgot about me?" You said with a soft smile.
Alastor looked almost offended when you said that "Me? Forgetting about you? My dear, you are one of the most loveliest people in this part of town! I could never!" He chuckled.
He draped his coat over the back of a chair and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, completely unbothered by the rain still dripping from his hair. Those crimson eyes swept across the café, the empty tables, the dim lighting, the fresh pastry case still half-stocked for tomorrow morning. "Perish the thought, darling. I simply had some rather... unsavory business to attend to these past few evenings. Nothing a sweet thing like yourself needs to worry her pretty little head about.
"He settled himself into his usual spot at the corner table like he owned the place, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back with that effortless grace of his. The rain hammered against the windows behind him, casting shifting patterns of light across his face. "Besides, I couldn't go another night without one of your lemon scones. It's practically a medical emergency."
His smile never wavered, not even when a crack of thunder rattled the glass display case. He tilted his head, studying her with an almost playful curiosity. "You're closing up awfully late tonight, aren't you? That's not safe, my dear. Not in this neighborhood after dark. A lovely woman all alone..." He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, wagging a finger at her.
You bite your lip, looking down at your shoes as you feels that familiar, stubborn flutter in your chest despite his many past rejections. "You know I don't mind the late hours if it means I get to see you, Alastor." you look up, your expression a mix of warmth and a lingering shadow of longing. "Lemon scones are in the back, fresh from the afternoon batch!"
His smile didn't change, it usually never did. but something flickered behind those red eyes, brief as a match strike. He caught the way you looked at him, the way your voice softened just a hair too much on that word, "see." He'd heard it enough times to recognize it.
"My, my. Aren't you a temptation."
He said it lightly, teasing, the way he always did. But there was a careful precision to it, a deliberate steering away from anything too warm. He reached across the table and drummed his fingers once against the wood.
"Well then, don't let me keep you from your duties in getting me those scones. I'll wait right here like a good boy."
Another crack of thunder shook the walls, and the lights flickered. Just for a second. Alastor didn't flinch, but his gaze drifted toward the window, sharp, alert, like an animal catching a sound in the brush. Then it passed, and he was back to lounging with that infuriating ease.Outside, the street was empty. Rain pooled in the cracked sidewalks, and somewhere down the block a dog barked twice before going silent. The kind of silence that settled over the French Quarter at night like a wet blanket, not peaceful, just heavy.
The back kitchen was cold. The oven had gone out hours ago, and the scones sat on wire racks, still slightly warm. But through the thin wall separating the kitchen from the front, you could hear Alastor humming something low and old, a jazz tune, one you'd heard on his radio show plenty of times.
You work quickly in the back, the clatter of the plates masking a heavy sigh. You return to the front, placing the scones on the table with a polite, practiced smile that mirrors his own, determined to keep your heart under lock and key this time. "There you are. I'll finish up the floors while you eat, then I really must get upstairs." you pick up the mop again, turning your back to him to continue scrubbing the floorboards, your movements sharp and rhythmic.
"I wouldn't want to keep you from your busy schedule for too long.."
He picked up a scone and bit into it, eyes closing with genuine appreciation. A small sound escaped him, almost indecent for baked goods.
"Mm. Heaven on a plate, darling."
He opened his eyes and noticed the stiffness in her shoulders. The way the mop hit the floorboards like she was trying to punish them for something. He knew that posture. He'd seen it before, every time she tried to bury whatever she was feeling under busywork.
He took another bite, chewing slowly. "You've really outdone yourself with this batch, darling."