Lightning Bugs and Jambalaya
(Okay I was gonna work on a different piece but I got Upside Down by Black Gyph0n stuck in my head and then spent all day with this whole fic playing out in my head and refusing to leave and, well, I can't just say no.
Could be considered part of the Doe series (Oh Doe and My Doe) if you want to think of angel!reader as possibly Alastor's childhood friend. You are absolutely not required to of course; it just makes this 1000% more painful.
I did actual research here weirdly enough O.o
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel
Characters: young!Alastor, young!reader, Alastor's mother, Alastor's father
Pairing: Alastor x reader
Genre: Fluff then angst
Warnings: Alastor might be better classified as demiromantic here than aromantic, quite ooc (though it is also a much younger Alastor), both Alastor and reader are about sixteen or seventeen years old here making them underaged, angst, major character death, mentions of abuse, mentions of racism, mentions of childhood shenanigans
Summary: Heaven is the happiness one feels when you are with the ones you care about and who care about you. Alastor experiences it once one beautiful Louisiana night.)
If there was a heaven in this imperfect reality, then this Alastor was sure was what it would be like. A warm kitchen lit by the dying light of day through half open curtains, the soft melody of a radio playing the best sort of music in the background. It mixed with the sound of humming, a voice he knew all too well, that he felt undeniably comfortable in, and the lightness of hands washing dishes. The smell of jambalaya filled the air, mixing with flowers and the smell of home, of linens and food and the bayou just beyond the backdoor. His mother smiled her gentle smile, every so often turned to look at him with such warmth that he could not help but return it, and though the wallpaper was worn beyond normal, the cups and bowls lightly cracked, the edges of poverty visible if only one looked, there was beauty in these things. Because she was there, the woman who he knew would always love him, had always loved him, who made this home.
And because so were you. Out of the corner of his eye he could see you sit there, watching his mother with such awe that it was everything he could do not to chuckle and tease you. For years you had sat with him in his family's kitchen, since you'd both been only as tall as the countertops themselves; a memory of warm hand in hand as you both laughed, running through the kitchen and being scolded in the brightest laugh by his mother, flashed through his mind, a happiness he felt even now. A memory of trembling hand in hand as you pulled him into the cabinet under the sink to hide, clinging tight to one another as the front door would slam and the loud voice would ring, a fear he would prefer to forget.
His father was not there at the moment though, you were; you and his mother and that made this heaven, and even knowing that in no time your own father's voice would ring out to call you home, to have you return to your own family, he did not feel a lacking in that. After all as every day you would be there again the next day and the next; his mother knew this too and when she looked at you both there was a happiness he knew she felt seeing that you two had each other. You were Alastor's childhood friend, his best friend, his only friend, and lonely as that seemed to be to some, inexcusable to his father (what kind of boy had only a girl for a friend), it was everything to him. His mother, warm cooking, warm light, and you: that was his heaven and always would be.
“Alastor, cher, how about you help get the table set for dinner?” his mother spoke softly and he looked at her before nodding.
“Of course, mama,” he answered with a smile and got up, adjusting his bowtie by habit; he heard a giggle beside him as he did and without thinking he pouted and turned to look at you.
You had your hands over your mouth, watching him and he placed his hands on his hips. “Did you have a thought?”
“You're just so cute, Allie, I couldn't help it,” you said and gave a big grin as he let out a sigh, fuddling with his hair to hide his reddening ears.
“I am not cute, and my name is Alastor not Allie,” he said.
“But I've called you Allie all our lives though.”
“Allie is a name for a child; I am not a child.”
“Cher.” He straightened up again, eyes widening a little and then turned sheepishly to look at his mother. She was giving him a light admonishing look, still smiling, still warm, before pointing towards the cabinet where the dishes were. He knew when he was beaten and walked over, taking out what was necessary for dinner. He knew his mother adored you; she talked with such fondness your first meeting, the way your bright friendly warmth had reached out to him, dragging the shy toddler from his mother's side and out into the woods to play. Alastor could never win against you, not against her, not then or now, but instead of anger or annoyance he felt a sort of tickling comfort.
Though he did so wish you'd stop calling him that silly little childhood nickname. You were both no longer toddlers or children; he was very nearly a man, old enough to find his chosen path in life. He had an internship at a local radio station, a future he would work towards until he was most recognized voice on the waves, and who cared if his skin was the “wrong” color or his home rundown? When he got famous he'd make sure to give his mother everything she ever deserved, for loving him, for taking care of him, for protecting him, and for teaching him to always smile. And you, somehow there wasn't a thought of that future without you, that you'd be there, you'd still be smiling and teasing him, still grabbing his hand and still sharing your warmth. But none of that could happen if he was only ever going to be “Allie” to you instead of Alastor, now could it?
It took no time at all for him to set the table, all while you asked his mother all about the jambalaya; you loved her cooking and she loved to share with you. His mother taught you everything she knew, and many a morning and evening was spent with him sitting at the dining table watching you both as you cooked something tasty. And it was his job as the man to prepare for whatever delicious food his mother or you or both put together for dinner.
Four spots were set but no one sat at the fourth at the head of the table; that one was for his father, something his mother insisted be done every night in anticipation he would be there at any moment. Alastor though knew the truth: there was no way his father would be back in time to eat with everyone, he never was. He'd stumble in closer to one or two in the morning, stinking of alcohol and raging about the fact that the food he left for so long was never warm and the sound of a bottle breaking and the softness of his mother's cries would be impossible to muffle enough through his pillow held over his head. Some nights Alastor chose instead to climb out the window when bedtime came; it was so much easier just to sneak over to your home, to sneak in through your bedroom window and stay there instead. His father never knew and he certainly wouldn't admit what comfort he got from curling up in bed beside you and falling asleep with only your soft breathing to fill the silence.
Instead his mother sat on one side of the table and Alastor sat on the opposite side with you, exactly the way he preferred. And the dinner would be full of the best conversation, silly little commonplace things, smiles and compliments. His mother asked about his internship, about how he liked the place and what they had him doing today; he could read between the lines to know that what she really wanted to know was how he was being treated. But even on the worst days he never told her anything but the best, never wanting to see her sad or worried, wanting only for her to smile and think her baby boy was doing well.
“I caught the broadcast earlier while I was out getting milk with mama,” you said eyes sparkling as you looked at him, “You were actually on the air, I heard your voice and knew it was you; I even got to brag to all mama's friends. I said 'that's Allie, he's my best friend in the whole world, ain't his voice so charming?'”
“Oh did you now?” Alastor's mother mused, smiling as her son tried not to melt into his chair, face as red as a tomato. She watched him and giggled. “Yes yes, my little boy has the most charming voice in the world, you got that right. Mon etoile, he's gonna shine brighter than any other.”
You nodded enthusiastically, eyes all wide and happy. “All the rest don't even compare, and he's always been the best showman.”
“Oh I remember the way he'd put on those shadow puppet shows for you when you were both little; he'd practice for days I'll have you know, and only ever show you his best. Used to read every book he could to find new jokes to tell you to make you laugh, it was so cute watching him with his little tongue between his teeth before trying them all out on me.”
“I always did love those shadow puppets; I've tried to get him to do them for me again but you know Allie, he's become so stubborn and willful. I miss the shy little deer who used to need me to stand up for him against the neighborhood boys.”
Alastor said your name and you beamed at him, a smile that made it all the harder for him to stay upset. You were always so hard to be mad at, his loyal friend, his best friend, his near constant companion; you smiled, laughed, giggled, and he could only say your name and sigh and give in because you were as much sunlight in his life as his mother was.
“Hey, Alastor, after dinner how about we go out into the bayou and catch us ourselves some lightning bugs? You used to say that the best shadows are cast by their light after all,” you said leaning onto the table for a moment, at least under his mother cleared her throat and you immediately straightened up with an embarrassed look of your own.
That made him chuckle and it was your own turn to pout. He shook his head. “Can't, I have work tomorrow; I need to rest.”
“Ah come on Allie, please?”
“No means no.”
“Alliiiieee!”
“And if you keep calling me by the wrong name, I won't go out catching lightning bugs with you tomorrow either.”
“That's not fair!” you complained, pouting, half expecting him to give in; he didn't, he had gotten used to your attempts to weaponize your cuteness, and finally you sighed, “Fiiiine, Alastor, please can we go lightning bug catching tonight? I promise we'll be back well before your bedtime.”
“Hmm,” he said pretending to think on it, causing you to fidget and get scolded further by his mother, which made it all the more fun for him; he could tease you just as well as you could tease him and honestly in more recent years he had found himself enjoying doing so more. There was something about the way you looked at him, the brightness of your eyes only on him, your lower lip stuck out in a displeased pout, a soft huff usually leaving you. Sometimes a strand or two of your hair would fall into your face and he'd get to reach out to tuck it back and watch you react before he'd of course do whatever you wanted. It never did turn out to be particularly troublesome after all.
He was about to do just that but the familiar sound of the front door opening sent ice down his spine and his eyes widened, head snapping to look behind him towards the kitchen door. No, no no no; it was too early, it wasn't possible. But the smell of stale cheap liquor wafted in nevertheless and he instinctively placed a sleeve over his nose to keep it out. He saw his mother stiffen, a fear that both broke his heart and made his blood boil filling her beautiful face, and felt a hand grab hold of his; he didn't need to look to know it was you, that you knew and were doing what you could to help him feel centered.
“Alastor, mon cher, I believe your friend is right; it is a perfect night for lightning bugs,” she spoke though her voice was no more than a whisper, a soft tone that sounded more calm than she really was, that he knew she was.
“Mama,” he started but she put up a hand.
“Now get you two; I'll clean up here, alright?”
“But mama, shouldn't I stay?” He wanted to stay, he didn't want her to be alone.
She got up and leaned down to kiss him on the top of the head, an affection at made his heart ache. Softly she whispered into his mass of brown curls. “Oh mon cher, mon etoile, how did I get blessed with such a sweet angel of a boy, huh?”
She spoke your name then and you nodded, knowing what you needed to do. You got up and pulled him along, forcing Alastor after you, forcing him out of the kitchen even as he looked back over at his mother. Something heavy settled in his chest but he didn't protest or resist, knowing his mother just wanted to protect him and that you just wanted him to be safe.
His hand squeezed yours and you returned the motion as the two you escaped into the wetness and wildness of your shared home: the bayous of New Orleans.
Night fell heavy and Alastor couldn't help but keep looking back through the thickness of the trees towards where he knew his house was. A jar containing a small swarm of lightning bugs already was held tight in one hand, supplied as usual by you; you carried many a thing in your favorite satchel, always ready for some event or special. He usually teased you about it, and usually you would respond on how he would thank you the day he truly needed it; the closest though he would say he ever got to that was when you two had come across the injured deer in the woods, tied up by his antlers to a tree by some hunter's trap, and the knife you always kept on you let him cut the poor creature loose.
You were feet away, still able to see him and well aware he was distracted. But of course; every night his father came home was a tough night for your friend and his mother, a woman you respected almost as much as your own. He was terrifying, a monster in human form who stank of booze and anger, thrashing about and blaming everyone for his own faults and the ones he saw in them. The man scared you truth be told, the way he screamed and broke things, but not least of all the way he looked at Alastor's mother and at you. But for Alastor you would brave anything and you knew that anything you felt about this was nothing in comparison to how he had to feel growing up under the same roof. So you kept your window unlocked and you always slept to the very edge of your bed and you made sure you had extra pillows and blankets, and you kept so many things in your satchel that you knew that the day Alastor finally said he was ready to run away, you'd be able to be right there beside him helping him find his best way forward. He was the best showman and the best shadow puppeteer and the best voice on the radio and your best friend and you wanted nothing more than to see him get a chance to shine as bright as possible, away from that darkness in a man's body.
Glancing at him you saw his eyes locked back but it wasn't time yet; you couldn't go back yet, not until you saw him smile, not until the worry left his eyes. Gently you smiled and walked back to him, holding out your cupped hands to him. “Allie, look.”
He sighed and turned to you. “How many times do I have to say not to call me-”
You opened your hands and giggled as the frog you'd been holding leapt out at him, startling him and causing him to stumble back. There was wide eyed surprise on his face and he blinked a few times before yelling your name in what you knew to be exasperation. Still you laughed and smiled at him, glad to see the worry change to something else, even if it was for a second.
Alastor wanted to be annoyed that you pranked him like that but his eyes on you so close up he saw the way your cheek dimpled as you smiled, the brightness of your laughter that echoed through the bayou. Lightning bugs flickered and lazily flew about, some close enough to illuminate your face and make your hair gain a slight glow; for a second he almost mistook you for an angel before he realized that that was exactly what you were. At least to him; you were the angel who always smiled for him, always laughed for him, held his hand and stood by his side no matter what happened. He wanted desperately to become famous so he could give his mother a better life, to help her escape the monster that was his father, but in every version of that was you too. You were the light of his future and he wished he could express what you really truly meant to him.
“You little rascal, whenever will you grow up?” he said instead, smiling as he adjusted the jar into one hand and used the other to reach out and tuck away some errant strands of your hair, “We're nearly adults you know and you act still like we're simply kids, running around at our parents' feet.”
“Can't we always be like this, Allie? You and me, catching lightning bugs and making each other smile,” you said and the hope in your eyes made his heart skip a beat, “Even when we're grown, even when you're rich and famous and every else gets to see how wonderful you truly are, I want to still find the time to be running through the woods hand in hand, making frogs jump up at each other and feeling the night air through our hair.”
What could he say? What would be the right answer? Silver tongued enough to get a radio internship but that meant nothing looking at you. And you two stood there, looking into each others eyes, the only sound that of the wildlife around you, the rustling of the wind through tree branches, a wolf howling far into the distance.
He cleared his throat and straightened up. “I think we have enough lightning bugs for tonight, don't you? If we don't get back now I won't have the time to do a show for you.”
“You promise?” you said excitedly, eyes bigger than the moon and twice as bright to his eyes, twice as pretty, “You can't just say that and not do it you know otherwise I'll be telling your mama on you, Alastor!”
“Of course, but only if we get back quick,” he said and his hand maybe lingered for a second on your cheek, thinking how silly and childish his old childhood friend was. And how he too wished in some way that this kind of night could never end.
You grinned and grabbed his hand before once more dragging the taller boy off; the strength your form bellied never failed to astound him and he smiled bright as the two of you made your way back out of the woods and back towards his house.
The first thing he noticed when you got there was the strong smell: it wasn't alcohol. It was sharper, stranger, colder, and it took him a moment to place where he knew it from but as he did his chest tightened and he felt his grip on you tighten too. All was quiet, too quiet, and the whole house dark save for the light from the kitchen; on any other night it would have been welcoming, it would have been home. But the scent hit his nose hard and you too felt a strong sense of dread as the two of you approached, stepping closer and closer. The radio was off, the radio was only ever off when Alastor's father was home and in a bad enough mood to complain about it, but neither of you heard his voice, heard any voice or any sound at all.
The closer you got the stronger the smell became and the more the dread grew. Alastor noticed the backdoor open; he could have sworn he closed it when he left, that his mama would never have let him get far if he didn't close it properly. But there it was, open just enough to be noticeable, to matter. The two of you stood on the back porch for a second, his hand froze in place, inches from pulling it completely open; it would be so easy, it should be easy, but his body didn't want to move and looking up into his face you weren't sure if what you saw was fear, calm or dread. More likely a mix of all three. You lifted your hand, placing it over his and as he flinched and looked at you you tried to smile, to remember to smile. Reassurance, that's all you were trying to do, a reminder that he was not alone no matter what else. He returned the smile though something felt wrong and he took a deep breath before pulling the door open.
The table was turned aside and the jambalaya was spilled. And she lay there in a heap on the floor, still and silent in a way you both felt made no sense. Alastor's mother should not have been still, should not have been on the floor, should not....should not...and there the smell was so strong it was overwhelming, filling every inch of the air and suffocating you. His eyes were drawn to the pool of brownish-red formed beneath her; it seemed to originate from her head, and broken glass lay strewn about. But his mother was not moving and he couldn't understand why; why was she on the ground, why was she so still, why couldn't he see her face.
You choked, a sob forming but refusing to leave your throat. By instinct you pulled Alastor away, forcing his gaze from his mother, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing his face into your shoulder. He did nothing to stop you, he could do nothing to stop you, his mind trying to unravel it, to understand it.
It took until finally you let out a soft cry that it hit him and his smile, frozen upon his face, twitched but didn't fall as tears started to form and fall from his eyes, his hands digging in as he held tight to you, clinging just as he did back when you'd hide under the cabinets from the monster who surely did this.
If there was a hell in this imperfect reality, then this Alastor was sure was what it looked like. But at least he wasn't alone in this torturous moment.
