#authors religious trauma is showing a little bit but honestly that's expected in a HH fic

[mono-lee-mmxxii]

Alright I'm posting this bc my cherished mutual on main said they'd read it if I did, sorry not sorry if ya follow for TMNT

Nightlights

Chapter/Part One: Drop With Rosie

Tags: Caregivers & Littles AU; Designation AU; dissociation, non-sexual age regression, autistic aroace Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Little Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Caregiver Rosie (Hazbin Hotel), Switch Vox (Hazbin Hotel), bad to outright negative self care, everyone has a complex dissociative disorder it came free with your designation, Rosie is a little bit codependent but she is self aware as hell and we love her for it

Summary:

Hell is a fucked up place, but sometimes the people in it can do good things for each other. Alastor doesn't know what to do with that.

Seven years away from Hell had left Alastor in relative privacy to manage the most miserable punishment the Divine Eternity could give to sinners. He didn't find any of the “natural wonder” that Charlie went on and on about in his designation. There was no joy when he thought of the inevitable next time it would come knocking on his door, demanding his time and attention and most disgusting, vulnerability. 

Drops were the bane of Alastor’s life after death. 

Now, he was at the Hotel. Things needed to be different than they had been in the last seven years. 

Rosie was the only person that knew his designation and would respect his privacy in how he handled it. She'd always been a confidant and constant in his life, and one of the few individuals he would deign to call his friend. She was his opposite in many ways, from the way they chose to rule as Overlords, to how they took their tea, and up to including their designations. 

She'd think he was a stupid fool for what he was going to ask of her, but she'd do it anyway. 

His headspace was not, in and of itself, a terrible thing. 

Being a Little was not a punishment more terrible than any he'd inflicted on others; he'd done far worse to people than make them dissociate severely for several hours if their social needs went unmet. Dissociation was undoubtedly the right word, but Alastor wished it came with a side of amnesia as well. Being vulnerable as a Little was something he hated to remember. When he recalls the visceral feeling of losing control of himself, of his own reactions and responses, he wants to raze the entirety of Heaven to the ground until the Divine Himself rescinds this curse. 

Social needs. His face threatened to wrinkle at the very thought. Not social needs as he'd known them in life, as a human. These were needs that scratched an itch in his brain, that soothed tensions he hadn't realized were there, actions that had no meaning before suddenly full of a million things to interpret.

Letting people do things for him, letting himself be held or taken care of. Small things could be used to keep full drops at bay, or at least to ease the severity of a full drop. Drops could even be handled by a Little on their own, if it's not a bad drop. He's seen it. Nifty manages her own drops very well, for the most part, surrounding herself with toys and soft things until the fuzzy headspace has faded.

Most Littles had that. They had a method that worked, or they had people, or sometimes could pay someone, to care for them through their drop cycles. 

Alastor was not most Littles. Eventually his body would force a drop. It had been four months since his last drop, with very little happening in between to meet his social needs or ease the building stress. When he did drop next, it promised to be bad. 

Which was why he was in Cannibal Town. 

In all the years he'd known Rosie, she'd always worn a rose perfume that was heavy and sweet, but it couldn't hide the sharp scent of decay that covered her delicate figure. The smell drifted like an invisible cloud, a heavy odor that announced her arrival before she came into view through the parlor door. She was carrying a tea tray, of course. 

“Oh, Alastor, darling!” Rosie's voice was bright and over the top and she set the tray down to press kisses to both of his cheeks. She urged him to sit, gloved hands pressing on his shoulders with familiar authority. 

“It's been seven years! I refuse to count the Overlord meetings or her Highness's favor. Where have you been?” She demanded. 

“I'm afraid I can't share that one with you, my dear.” Alastor grinned, reaching for the teapot. “Allow me.” 

“No, no, I insist, let me pour for you.” Rosie swatted his hands away from the teapot; the sting, however slight, made him bristle. 

“I can do it myself.” He would deny any testiness in his tone. 

“I know you can, Alastor. But let me? I like to do things for you.”

“Rosie, I am capable of pouring my own tea.” He snapped, and she pursed her lips. Shit. He'd made her mad. 

“Fine, fine. You're a grown man, you can handle yourself. What did you need from me, Alastor?” 

He deliberated on how to say this as he poured, but he already knew what to say. He'd scripted his part of this conversation several weeks ago. 

“I find myself in need of suppressants, my dear.” He said it quietly, taking extra time setting the teapot down with deliberate motions. He needed to collect himself a bit more, and he was frankly glad the teapot wasn't trembling, even slightly. She hadn't slapped him yet, thank the stars. 

“Alastor.” 

“Yes?” He sipped his tea. If he didn't look at her, he couldn't see how much she was judging him. 

“How close to dropping are you?” 

“How close of friends are we?” Alastor countered, because he couldn't answer that directly but both of them knew he was far too gone to actively lie to her. 

“I'd say we're rather close friends.” Rosie was eyeing him critically. “Finish your tea, and I'll pour you a new cup.” 

He looked down, surprised to see it was already almost empty. He didn't remember drinking that much of it. Regardless, he followed the first part of her instructions before he thought better. 

When she reached to pour him a new cup, he stopped her. 

“Alastor.” 

He hated how she said his name. With pity, like he was a child who couldn't understand that bedtime meant the lights went out. 

“…” 

How did he explain this to her? That if he let her do this one little thing for him, he'd be falling over the edge of his headspace when he was already grasping for straws. 

“You've been missing seven years. For all I know, you haven't dropped in seven years, haven't had a Caregiver or even a friend, in those years. Do you expect me to give you suppressants when I don't know how long it's been since you dropped? I'm not letting you poison or stress your body into a second death.”

He blinked, and then laughed a bit. 

“No, no! It hasn't been seven years, gracious no! It's… it's been four months. I am going to drop soon, that much is inevitable but I cannot be at the Hotel when that happens.” There was no one he trusted there, and no one he trusted anywhere else. The Radio Demon had far too many enemies who would just as soon use his headspace to kill him as they would mock him. 

“You know my rooms are always private.” Rosie offered, and he hummed noncommittally. 

“We'll see what happens.” He said. “I just need to get past the extermination.” 

“I'll give you one bottle.” Rosie said. “Come back in three weeks, and we'll see how you're doing.” 

He nodded sharply, reaching out to take the bottle. She pulled it back a little, and he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“But Alastor, you know as well as I do, I won't give you a refill until I know you're dropping regularly.” 

He scowled, if one can scowl and smile at the same time. Rosie was one of the best illegal drug suppliers in Hell; she prioritized her clients well-being above all. 

“As you wish.” His tone was as hard as the little tablets crashing around the bottle; he hoped it wasn't nearly as rattled. He didn't know how the hell he was going to manage a single drop in the next few weeks, much less trying to go down regularly. 

But right now, at least, he could afford a moment to relax. He could make it work, if he could get just a bit more soothing before he went home. He could hold out on a drop, no matter how tenuous his threads to the present felt at the moment. 

“Please, stay and eat.” Rosie was saying, and he found himself nodding. A meal with Rosie sounded like a good idea. She'd bring in the plates and make sure he hadn't forgotten his napkin before they ate, and she'd probably see to their drinks just to spite him for the tea. 

“Rosie?” His voice felt strange, and his eyelids were slow and heavy when he blinked. That wasn't good. She hadn't drugged him, had she? She was his friend, surely not. They were friends, right? 

“Yes, we're friends.” Rosie seemed concerned at the question. “Are you okay, Alastor?” 

He bit his tongue, uncaring that the sharp pins of his teeth weren't as sharp as normal, that he couldn't taste his own bitter blood. The pain was still there, more than enough pressure to make sure his tongue didn't slip away from him again. He hadn't realized he'd asked that question out loud, and now the answer to hers eluded him so thoroughly he concluded it must be a no. 

“You know you're safe.” She said, and he nodded again. 

Everything felt soft around the edges. His drop was happening faster than he'd expected. He hadn't taken the suppressants yet, but they wouldn't work now. Everything was out of his control now; weightless in his own body, a falling numbness in his limbs. He didn't want to drop, he couldn't. He'd be a laughing stock and a fool. He'd be dead within a week if word ever got out. They were gonna kill him. Dropping was a risk, a threat; he wasn't safe.

“Rosie.” He repeated her name with a great deal more urgency. 

“I'm right here, Alastor.” 

Except he was safe, wasn't he? Because she had just told him so. Friends didn't lie to each other. 

“This is gonna be a bad one.” His words were slurred, and he hated the sound of them. But he had to communicate, before that slipped away like the ability to move more than a few inches. “May not remember it.” 

“I know, sweetie. I'll take care of you. Food, toys, and a light show, that's all. I'll lay you down for a nap after all that, and we'll talk more about this when you're big again. How's that sound?” 

He nodded, just a touch too eagerly. 

“Please,” he said, and his tongue gave up entirely after that. 

He frowned, trying to form the words he wanted to say.

He knew them, he knew that he knew the words. How to spell them, how to read them, how to say them. Why weren't his words working? 

Al could feel cotton in his brain, making keeping a train of thought difficult. Why did he need to talk again? He didn't want to talk to anyone. No, no he wanted… he couldn't remember. It hadn't been important if he couldn't remember it. 

---

Rosie was sitting across from him, watching as the demon in front of her went from sharp angles to soft curves. His antlers had receded, leaving little knobs of velvet sticking up out of his hair, and his ears flicked about constantly with each little sound, but he probably didn't notice those things. 

“Alastor, honey, are you hungry?” She asked, and he stared at her with round, wide eyes. 

He was smiling, but it was a very small smile. Scooting the platter pinkies she'd brought with tea closer, she nodded at him in encouragement. He slipped off of the chair, pulling the plate closer as he made himself comfortable sitting on the floor. 

Little Al usually enjoyed pinkies as much as his Big self did, and she hoped that hadn't changed. 

It hadn't. 

His teeth weren't as sharp as they could be but he had no trouble making quick work of them. These were prime choices, of course; they wouldn't serve anything less to an Overlord. She'd have eaten whoever thought it was a good idea to send chewy or tough meat to a meeting between her and Alastor, and was glad that such measures hadn't proven necessary. 

He was picky, though, which was something she'd forgotten. 

Currently he was sorting through the tray of provided pinkies, arranging them by size. 

Each mouthful was chewed diligently, and swallowed carefully. After each bite, he’d take out the bone, all the meat cleaned off, and methodically set it aside. 

Alastor started humming, something she'd heard on his radio more than a few times. A favorite song,one he'd enjoyed for a long time. 

He was arranging the bones on his tea saucer, the tea cup moved onto the doily. She moved it onto the tea tray before it got knocked over, obviously already forgotten. 

“Do you want to draw?” She asked when he finished eating and was just playing with the bones. He was making a castle, remnants of sinew the flags flying from the parapets. 

Rosie had to try not to laugh as she watched him sit forward so fast he had to use both his hands to catch himself against the table before he smacked into it. He was nodding, strands of bright red hair falling down into his eyes. He didn't bother brushing them back, just staring at her more, an unnerving gaze as eerie as any cannibal’s in Hell. 

She wasn't sure why the Divine had made him a deer when he was still obviously a cannibal. Why not just make him an eyeless undead like the rest of them? Maybe the All Knowing had known that the demon would tie himself up in the Hotel, and it was to spare the sensibilities of those seeking redemption. But his wide, dark eyes would be considered doe-like on anyone else, and they were as captivating and endearing as the phrase would imply. 

“You can draw, just don't make a mess too big to clean up.” 

He needed no reminding of where she kept her drawing supplies. Within moments he was at her desk, pushing her chair out of his way. 

Rosie smiled, clearing off the tea table so he could color on the table. She'd have the pinkie bones he'd spit out earlier washed and cleaned; they'd look nice strung together as a little bracelet. Maybe she could get his name carved on it? Something nice, to celebrate his first drop since coming home.

Al remained unaware of her wandering train of thought, pulling out stacks of paper and crayons and colored pencils from the drawer in her desk that he knew kept all of it. It was his favorite of her desk drawers, aside from the one that had candy. That one was his absolute favorite. 

He carried the supplies back over to her, ignoring both desk and tea table. Dropping everything on the carpet, it was clear he'd rather be on the floor again. 

Sheets of construction paper were spread out in front of him, blank canvases for when he wanted to draw something new. Everything was ready, he just needed… colors! He needed to pick colors. 

He hummed, picking through the crayons. 

Red and black were his favorite colors as an adult, but it never failed that the moment he was in Littlespace he reached for the cyan and gray crayons first and the red ones second. 

She knew why, of course. No one was friends with Alastor for as long as she was without becoming privy to things the demon hadn't yet divulged. 

He hummed, drawing pictures of televisions and radios arguing, and the radio always won, of course. 

Every picture was presented to Rosie for approval, and she made sure to complement each one. 

His favorite seemed to be one where the radio danced on the television set and had blasted the antenna of the TV clear off with his radio waves. He'd taken care with the detail, one red and one black dot taking up the television screen and two bright blue dots for the irises. 

“Is the TV your friend?” She asked, and he shook his head no so fast strands of hair whipped around. 

“He's your enemy?” 

More hesitant, but still a no. 

“He's your rival. That's different than enemy?” 

Alastor nodded happily. He kept drawing, before he showed her the picture again and she took it with a smile. He'd added Rosie to the picture, smacking the television with a long stick that ended in a crudely drawn skull; her cannibal Overlord scepter. With his coordination at the moment, the entire drawing was imperfect and uneven. 

“Such artistry! This one is going on the fridge!” 

Beaming with a bright smile, Al laughed. He pulled another sheet out of the stack and grabbed another set of crayons. 

While the boy entertained himself with drawings, Rosie put on an old record, one of her favorites. Shortly after the soft music started playing, his feet were kicking in the air. 

It was a sight she never got tired of: little Al, laying on her floor, drawing and kicking his feet. It was his favorite thing to do when he was little, but she'd never asked him why. It didn't matter why he liked to draw and refused a table to do so, it mattered that it made him happy to do it. 

He'd confessed more than enough that he hadn't had someone to ease his drops for a long time, and she missed being able to give him that. 

Taking care of her cannibals was plenty to keep her own Caregiving impulses in check. She had plenty to take care of when it came to her town, and she'd guided more than a few lost Littles back up out of their headspaces. Poor things usually came looking for her, regressed and contracted to her, and she always took them back to their Caretakers. 

If they didn't have one, as most of the new sinners didn't, they stayed with her until she could get them a house, and get them established in Hell and taking part in community drops and guides. No one in her town went uncared for. 

Taking care of Alastor was always a little different though. 

There was some small, selfish, impulsive desire to have him as her Little, to be the only one to take care of him, the only one who got to guide and guard him during his drops; she recognized it was the same selfish, hungry impulse to own that had driven her to devouring her second husband. 

It was only part of why she'd never offered, and why she never would. She respected him too much to pretend that being his Caregiver wouldn't change his public image, which she knew he was already worried about if he was looking for suppressants. No, while she enjoyed caring for him through his drops on occasions he needed it, their interests and paths diverged far too much. 

She'd never let Alastor know she thought this either. To do so would only damage their friendship, and she'd never do anything to betray that trust in any way. 

Besides that, she'd rather not make an enemy of a fellow Overlord. 

Little Alastor snaps a crayon and starts crying, and she knows that her night is far from over.