Chapter Text
“Mon ange, it’s dinner time! Come before the food gets cold!” Maman’s voice called.
Alastor stood up from the couch, following the sound of love and the smell of home to the kitchen. There, he found his Maman untying her apron, a steaming pot of étouffée in front of her.
“Mmm,” Alastor inhaled, on cloud nine from the scent alone. “Crawfish?”
Maman leaned up and pecked his cheek, moving past him to retrieve plates from the cabinet. “Well, it’s certainly not chicken! What, does Hell not have seafood?”
“None you are familiar with, no,” Alastor admitted, grinning impishly at her. “Hell has its own ecosystem. Courtesy of Lucifer’s whims, so I’m told.”
Maman looked at him, surprised. “Is that so? Didn’t you say damned souls still have human needs?”
“Quite,” Alastor’s gaze shifted to his hands, which had fingers, not claws. “It’s been…strange, experiencing a body that doesn’t starve.”
Maman handed him a plate, giving him a sad look. “Well, it wouldn’t be Paradise if we had dreary things like that, now would it?”
Alastor chuckled, eyes softening as they darted all over her face. Memorizing. Basking. “No, indeed it would not!”
They scooped rice from one pot and the étouffée from another, then made their way to the dining table.
Alastor had been delighted to find out that his Maman also wasn’t very fond of modern technology (“Stovetop is the only proper way to cook rice; I won’t hear of anything else!”), owning only a phonograph, several radios, and a few hundred books (“I’ve been collecting them!”). Like Alastor, she preferred going out on the town over watching that blasted television all day.
Alastor eagerly took a bite of the home-cooked meal, then practically melted on the spot. Smiling genuinely, he murmured, “I’d almost forgotten this taste.”
“Oh, mon chou,” Maman said, reaching out to place her hand on top of his. “I’ll cook so much, you’ll have to roll yourself out the door!”
Alastor flipped his palm over and squeezed. “Don’t do all the work, now. I was taught how to cook by the best chef left of the Mississippi!”
She giggled, squeezing back and teasing, “Only the left?”
“Well,” Alastor took another bite, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’d say the right, too, if we’d ever gotten that far!” His ghost audience tittered.
Maman released his hand, swatting playfully at his wrist before picking back up her spoon. The mother and son pair ate their dinners in quiet content, just happy to be in each other’s presence.
To fill the silence, Alastor began playing a rag piece. One that made you sway your hips instead of tap your feet. Maman’s eyes lit up, recognizing the tune. She hummed along before they reached the chorus.
“Won't you come home Bill Bailey, won't you come home?” She sang, her voice just as beautiful as Alastor remembered. “She moans the whole day long~”
She took Alastor’s hand again, and he laughed, allowing her to pull him to his feet in a gentle dance. He absentmindedly waved the fingers of his free hand to cover their unfinished plates with a sheath of holy flames, willing it to keep the food warm without burning it.
Maman twirled them around the room, still singing. “I'll do the cooking darling, I'll pay the rent; I knows I've done you wrong~”
“Never,” Alastor murmured, raising their clasped hands and kissing her fingers.
“‘Member that rainy eve that I drove you out; With nothing but a fine tooth comb?” Maman continued, her grin toothy but her eyes solemn. “I know I'se to blame; well ain't that a shame?”
Alastor started to pull away, his ever-present smile dimming, but Maman wouldn’t let him. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth to sing the last lyric. “Mon Allie, I’m glad you came home~”
Hearing the modified line, Alastor felt more brittle than he had in almost a century. He stopped trying to pull away, instead moving closer to wrap his arms around her.
“I’m here, Maman, I’m home,” he whispered fiercely into her hair. “It wasn’t your fault, nothing is your fault. You did everything right.”
Maman hugged him back briefly before gently disentangling them. It made Alastor’s heart swell, knowing how much she respected his person and space. He was so lucky to have her.
Alastor remembered being a child, telling his Maman that every touch felt like fire ants on his skin, and her reaction had been to stop rubbing his back immediately and take a step back. Daring to meet her gaze, he braced for scorn and dismissal, only to be met with contrite eyes and a reassuring smile.
“My apologies, mon cher,” she had said. “Let me know if it’s too much, hmm?”
Alastor had shakily smiled back (“That’s the face I want to see!”) and purposefully reached for her hand, squeezing it. She’d squeezed back, then they both let go and she taught him how to cross-stitch.
He’d gotten better with touch the older he got, mostly attributed to Maman’s unwavering acceptance and her encouragement of his progress. Alastor loved her for it, loved how she swatted even her own friends’ hands for trying to pinch his cheeks. She was everything to him.
“I disagree,” Maman responded simply, bringing Alastor back to the present. She then pulled away from him fully, moving back toward the table. “Now, then! This grub isn’t going to eat itself!” She waved a hand through Alastor’s holy flame food cover, dispelling it.
Alastor grinned wryly (if anyone else dared to dispel his magic, he would’ve skinned them alive) before following after her. Always chasing her image.
Looking at his Maman from across the table, gloriously and wondrously within reach, Alastor knew he’d finally caught up to her.
The next day found Alastor sitting at a piano bench, playing all the swing pieces he could remember. The speakeasy Maman had taken them to was lively and spacious, housing well over two hundred people. The masses were bright and joyful, dancing rhythmically and laughing freely.
It should’ve been overwhelming, but it wasn’t. Noise had never been an issue for Alastor, and even if it was, no doubt Heaven would ordain a solution.
Everyone was moving to their own beat, but it didn’t look messy. Rather, it was a veritable spectacle with how people swept along the ground and weaved through the air, twirling enchantingly throughout the room.
I suppose a short break is in order, Alastor thought to himself, playing the final chords of the song. But I mustn’t disappoint my captive audience!
He summoned eighty-eight cherubic dolls exactly and removed his fingers just as they settled down on the keys. With no pause between his last notes and a new round of ragtime music, they began hopping in place, moving in tandem to recreate the sound as perfectly as if Alastor was still playing.
A gaggle of children ran up to the piano, oohing and ahhing at the miniature performance. Amused by their fascination, Alastor’s smile grew genuine as he turned to leave.
“Alastor, dear!” Maman called out to him from a high top; waving her hand. “Over here!”
Alastor settled into the seat beside her, then slid his gaze to the unfamiliar angel across from him. “And who might this be?”
“A friend,” they said, waggling their eyebrows. They had slanted eyes and a flat nose, telling him immediately that they were Asian.
Alastor still wasn’t used to how human some angels looked. There was an unspoken understanding that the more inhuman someone appeared, the less holy of a life they had lived. Or, to be precise, the more they had sinned. Yet despite that, there didn’t seem to be any anti-inhuman sentiments floating around. Alastor knew they must exist, of course, but it certainly didn’t appear to be the norm. He supposed it helped that hardly anyone looked fully human, even in Heaven.
That in mind, it was hilarious how human Alastor’s soul body had always looked. He had distinct deer traits, yes, but he’d always been more human-looking than the average demon. His angel body even more so, which probably signified something, but Alastor didn’t care enough to ruminate on it.
“Oh, quit it,” Maman huffed out a laugh, smacking the stranger’s arm. “This gal goes by a lot of names, but if she’s true to her word, then I guess Sazerac would do!” She smirked at her.
‘Sazerac’ leaned away from Maman’s assault. “Hey, hey, hey! Treat your elders with respect! I’ve got the goods; don’t get your tail in a twist.” At those words, she reached beneath the table and pulled out a few crystal tumblers and a bottle of holy water.
Oh, pardon. Alastor meant rye.
He could feel his ears snap forward, focusing intently on the precious nectar in her hands. “Where in Heaven did you acquire this?”
“Made it myself!” Sazerac stated proudly. “Heaven doesn’t sanction any alcohol except grape wine, which gets boring. I drank mostly rice wine when I was alive, but was lucky enough to try beer once before I kicked the bucket. Since then, I’ve vowed to sample every drink in existence.”
Alastor watched eagerly as she set the glasses down and poured them a few fingers each. “What an endeavor! I must say, if you’ve your own brewery, then you must have been successful in your endeavor.”
“Hardly!” Sazerac laughed. “New souls tell me about new cocktail recipes every day; now that’s Heaven! Too bad we can’t get drunk up here, eh?”
Alastor blinked. That was new information. He supposed it made sense, considering inebriation was a sin in the Bible.
Maman rolled her eyes playfully, taking the offered tumbler and swirling it. “We get it, darling; alcohol is your whole personality.”
“Well, I could always take back—“
“Don’t you dare!”
Sazerac laughed, loud and buoyant. “That’s what I thought. Besides, aren’t I likable this way? I was so quiet and obedient when I was alive. It took dying to realize my life is my own.” Her gaze became hazy and distant.
“Nothing like death to give you a fresh perspective!” Alastor agreed, sampling his drink. It was spectacular. “Goodness! Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were Antoine Peychaud himself!”
Sazerac’s eyes refocused, landing on him. She smiled widely, and raised her glass to him. “That’s actually who I learned to make this from! Great guy. He runs an apothecary-style cafe not far from here. I hear he does pharmaceutical research, too.”
“You never told me you knew Antoine Peychaud!” Maman slammed down her glass. “How could you?!”
Sazerac looked at her, surprised. “I didn’t think it was that big a deal. Haven’t you been to his place before?”
“I don’t think you understand,” Maman said seriously. “I can’t just casually introduce myself to him! That man is a celebrity among New Orleanians. And to us Creole? He’s bigger than Jesus!”
A bark of involuntary laughter escaped Alastor. What a statement to make in His house!
Studio applause began playing from his person, which was entirely unnecessary in the already boisterous room. He could feel his ears start to lower in embarrassment, so he forced them back into an upright position.
“So, Sazerac,” Alastor widened his grin, fighting to regain control of himself. “Surely, that’s not your true name?”
She winked at him, looking amused at his display. Alastor allowed it, as she was the best conversationalist he'd met up here (besides his Maman, of course). “I like naming myself after cocktails and such. It’s an easy way for people to let me know what they want, and to keep things on the down low in front of the Heavenborn. Smart, right?”
“Very much so!” Alastor's smile became more genuine. “I must say, you seem quite dedicated to your craft. How long have you been at it?”
Sazerac hummed around her drink. “Since I died, so around five hundred years? I can never remember the current date, especially since they changed calendars.”
Alastor's mind screeched to a halt. He just barely stopped himself from playing a record scratch.
Abruptly, Alastor realized that, of course, the majority of souls in Heaven would be significantly older than what he was used to. His radio wave travel was so fast, he’d forgotten how ludicrously large Heaven was. Maman preferred to live around Louisianan Creoles from their time, so Alastor hadn’t been exposed to the vast majority of divine souls. As such, he’d gotten used to being seen as ‘middle-aged,’ comparatively.
How foolish of him. With how old humanity was, even Sazerac—who was five times his age—would be considered relatively young.
The cultural divide from Hell made his head spin.
“It truly does show,” Alastor heard himself say, his grin kept up through sheer habit.
Sazerac beamed at him, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Thanks!”
“Don’t give her too big a head,” Maman snickered. “She feeds off compliments.”
Sazerac put a hand over her heart. “How dare you? I’m doing charity work! My blood, sweat, and tears go into this!”
“Your ‘charity work’ just so happens to be illegal,” Maman snorted, giving her a wry grin.
“That’s subjective.”
“It really isn’t.”
Alastor felt his nerves settle as watched them, amused. It was always nice to see Maman in her element. They used to slip away to Storyville together, dancing the night away with the flappers and the prostitutes, and drinking their fill. Maman always paid them with her food and musicality, either cooking and baking for the whole house or singing her heart out on stage with Alastor as her accompaniment. It didn’t hurt that she was young and pretty enough to outshine many of the employees.
Those star-filled nights were the highlight of Alastor’s childhood.
“Why do all this in the first place?” He wondered aloud. “Wouldn’t it be less of a risk if you kept your brewery to yourself?”
Sazerac gave him a sardonic smile. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m told you’re a radio host. You should know that half the fun comes from having an audience.”
Indeed, he did.
Alastor reveled in the terror he inspired in sinners, in how they shrieked and stuttered around him. It was incredibly amusing how reactive people were to his unique blend of charming showman and sadistic serial killer. He occasionally became jaded from people being scared of him all the time, but a quick trip to Cannibal Town usually fixed that.
“Hey, so,” Sazerac continued. “You’ve been dead for about a century, right? How come we’ve never met? I’ve been friends with your mom for a while, and she’s never brought you along.”
Alastor mulled over his answer. The seraphim had given him a cover story days ago, but he’d never been afraid of going off-script. “My death was dramatic enough to draw attention from the higher-ups. I’ve been doing some of my own charity work ever since, and only recently have been able to reunite with my mother.”
Maman gave him a sharp look, but said nothing. Instead, she raised her tumbler to her lips and continued to listen quietly as she drank.
Sazerac whistled. “Seriously? You must’ve lived quite a life! Does that mean you’re a Saint candidate?”
“A what, dear?”
“I guess not,” Sazerac sighed, draining her glass before pouring herself a new one. “I doubt a Saint candidate would be so happy to drink illegal whiskey, anyway.”
Alastor tilted his head. “Aren’t those ordained by the Catholic Church on Earth?”
“I mean, I guess,” Sazerac shrugged. “But they have their own system up here. It’s essentially a promotion, ‘cause it boosts your Status.”
Alastor could feel his ears prick. “Interesting.”
They continued talking, Maman rejoining the conversation. Alastor was happy that she was able to find such good company while up in Heaven. As an entertainer, he could easily match pace with the two, despite not having their shared history.
Sazerac was a rebellious sort, for sure, but still enough of a follower to not cause any ripples. Despite her claim that her afterlife was her own, she couldn’t seem to help but to take care of others, listening to and learning from every new angel she met. Apparently, Sazerac also had a predilection for ascended souls with animal traits, as she had none. It was what drew her to Maman. Bug types made her slightly squeamish, but cutesy mammals endeared everyone.
“I’ve picked up a lot of languages over the years,” Sazerac babbled, not drunk but mirroring the atmosphere. “Most of us do; it’s hard not to. I'm also pretty good at sounding modern, right? Plus! Earth seems to be getting better and better!! I honestly don’t know how I’ve existed so long without a phone.”
Maman gave her a haughty look. “Those gadgets sure are convenient, but convenience isn’t always better. Where’s the connection? The personality?”
“Indeed!” Alastor agreed cheerfully. “There’s no entertainment value to be found in those tiny boxes, no soul!”
“You two sound like my dad. Always going on about tradition,” Sazerac groaned, thunking her head on the table. “Āi yā, what an asshole. He raved about ‘family values’ all the time, but sold me off to some rich geezer! If Hell has phones, he’s probably smacking them out of people’s hands during his morning walk.”
Alastor was glad she was face-down, otherwise Sazerac would’ve seen his ears flick at the casual mention of Hell. Maman was in a similar state, her own doe ears trained tellingly on Sazerac’s relaxed form.
Alastor had known that the other angels had no idea that almost all of their associates in Hell were long gone. However, it was quite different hearing someone take it for granted that a family member, no matter how hated, was going about their afterlife the same as them.
“Dear, are you not of the opinion that Hell is all fire and brimstone?” Alastor asked, keeping his tone neutrally pleasant.
Sazerac waved a hand, head still pressed against the wood. “Not really? That was never in my belief system in the first place. I was Taoist, you know, so I thought my soul would be eternally reincarnated. Turns out that wasn’t too off the mark; I just also ascended to the god realm.”
How intriguing. Most sinners Alastor had met were Christian, as they were the most prepared to survive Hell’s environment and the Extermination. There were exceptions, of course, but none who were willing to risk their existence by indulging Alastor’s curiosity.
“Excuse me?”
The group turned, only to be faced with the big blue eyes of one of those baby-looking Heavenborn. A cherub?
“Sorry, but are you drinking alcohol?” The cherub asked, flying a little higher to peek around Maman’s shoulder. She shifted so their view of the conspicuously amber, half-finished bottle was blocked. “You know that’s illegal, right? I-I’m going to have to report that!”
Alastor tossed the rest of his drink back and stood up, his smile stretching menacingly across his face. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re referring to. Now, I must insist that you be on your way! I’m awfully protective of my mother, you see, and you appear to be bothering her.”
“W-what?” The cherub looked at him, then between the two women. “N-no! Apologies, sir, but inebriation is in direct violation of Ephesians 5:18, Proverbs 20:1 and 23:20, and Isaiah 5:22, so I’m going to have to ask you to—”
“As you can see, none of us are drunk,” Alastor interrupted smartly, leaning closer to the cherub. “Now kindly take your leave!”
The room was still in full swing outside their tense group. The music, which Alastor could still feel his puppets playing, sounded as if it was dampened by a wall of water. People spun around and over them, smiling and laughing without a care in the world.
Confident, Alastor grabbed the insolent creature by the collar of their shirt and swung them in a dramatic motion, flinging them into the crowd of angels at the center of the room.
He then hijacked the speakers, summoning more dolls and conjuring up instruments in preparation for his performance.
“We hope you’ve all been having fun!” Alastor announced in his transatlantic accent. Fortunately, it held strong despite him not using it the past couple of days. “Because the night is still young! Everybody get your Lindy Hop on for “All the Cats Join In” by Benny Goodman!”
Rapturous applause broke out throughout the room, and everyone grabbed the nearest person to partner with. The poor cherub got swept up in it all, forced to swing along to a tune they didn’t seem to recognize. Their disoriented and distressed face brought a sparkle of true delight to Alastor’s eyes.
He wasn’t too fond of this song and dance, as both came after his time, but it was a necessary compromise. Humming happily, Alastor turned to rejoin his drinking buddies.
He froze at the looks on their faces.
Maman had stood up and was two paces from her chair, one hand on her chest while the other was stretched out towards him. Behind her, Sazerac was still seated, both hands over her mouth and giving Alastor a wide-eyed look. The pair seemed shaken by something.
Alastor took stock of the last sixty seconds to ascertain the issue (he didn’t think he’d been that harsh), only to realize he had subconsciously let out some of his angelic traits. He’d gotten used to using them as an intimidation tactic, and had apparently opened up some eyes and ignited his halo during the fuss.
His antlers, thankfully, had retained their small size. Alastor’s remnant demonic ability to manipulate their growth would’ve been troublesome to explain.
Slowly, Alastor closed his extra eyes and dimmed his halo, tamping down the no doubt over-amplified sadistic expression he wore.
Hmm.
Well.
Whoops?