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"Can we go home?"

Alastor glanced down at you. His eyes were sparkling with deep thought. "Of course, my love."

After the incident with Rosie at the bar, Alastor walked you to a nearby park so you could both take a moment to... think things through. It was odd that such a quiet garden like this one existed in a place as rambunctious as hell. It wasn't a park for children—no playground material was in sight and, come to think of it, you hadn't seen any kids in hell yet—but it was a quaint, old-fashioned area. Nothing but a small patch of grass housing a couple of rickety wooden benches, a stone fountain with mini waterfalls trickling down in a gentle current, and red and black flowers sprouting out of every crack in the dirt.

Alastor stood up quickly. Before you could rise, he reached over and plucked a thorny black rose out of the seemingly dying rose bush that was growing right beside your bench. He helped you up from your seat with his empty hand, like the gentleman that he always was, and then handed you the rose.

"Watch out," he cautioned as you reached for it. "Every rose has its thorns."

Careful not to prick your finger, you took the rose from his grasp. "Thank you," you replied with a sweet smile.

"Any time, my love," Alastor gave you a charming wink. It made your heart flutter a bit in your chest. "Now let's head home. I can imagine you must be tired from all of the walking we've done."

You shrugged, stepping forward as Alastor began to walk beside you. "A bit." You hesitated then, chewing on your next words before you were sure of what you wanted to say. As you stared down at the dark rose in your hand, your mind was still toiling over the many things Rosie had said and done. The killing, Azathoth, Jack, her offensive introduction... and when she called you pure. Just thinking about the bottomless pits of her black eyes made your stomach twist and your shoulders tense. But all you said to Alastor was, "I'm sorry for making Rosie mad."

"It wasn't your fault. She can have a short temper at times."

"Is she jealous of me?" you blurted.

Alastor's smile didn't flicker for so much as a second. You were looking up at him with curious eyes, waiting for what answer he could possibly give. He returned your question with one of his own, "What does she have to be jealous about?"

You kept staring at Alastor and let one of your eyebrows float upwards. You were obviously referencing him.

Rosie might be jealous of you and Alastor because she is friends with him. You, as a girl, might 'steal' him from her. Earlier, Rosie had been very snippy. She seemed unnerved to have met you and did make it clear. It wasn't that she seemed like a jealous person—Alastor and her seemed like they had a nice friendship. Plus, she supposedly has feelings for that Azathoth guy, but something still seemed off. Maybe you were just overthinking it because you actually cared about her opinion, for some reason.

"No, don't be silly," Alastor said, pulling you out of your analytic thoughts. "Her and I are only friends. I may be important to her, but she knows I would never cut off our friendship for anyone. And I'm sorry to say it, but that includes you, my dear."

You glanced down at your shoes and watched your feet press against the concrete sidewalk with each step. You were approaching the forest, which you going to have to (grudgingly) enter again to get to Alastor's house. The rose was still pinched between your fingers, its delicacy yet to be harmed.

"I just don't want her to hate me," you muttered.

"She doesn't hate you, but she might think you'll get in the way of our business."

You twirled the rose in a little circle, but didn't look at it. Your eyes were still trained on your feet. "Why? Because I'm pure?"

Alastor noticeably paused. It was a long moment before he spoke again. "Yes."

When you looked up, you saw that he was staring at you. His smile was tilted with an emotion you couldn't quite pinpoint. "Uh... what does that mean?" you asked.

"I'll explain to you when we get home."

Little did you know, a long, heartbreaking conversation was about to ruin everything you thought you knew.

You still hadn't gotten used to the raw scent of cinnamon and blood.

You were sitting very comfortably on Alastor's couch, with your legs crossed over the soft cushion beneath you. Alastor was in the kitchen, brewing a cup of coffee. There was no fire cackling in the fireplace, leaving the room in a sort of dimness that appeared, but didn't feel, cold.

When Alastor entered the livingroom, there was a black mug in his hands. The color reminded you of the rose (which was sitting on the coffee table in front of you, slowly but surely wilting away into death) and of Rosie's eyes. It was steaming, but he took a sip nonetheless as he sat down on the other end of the couch.

You wanted Alastor to come closer, but you also didn't. One part of you wanted to pull him into you and attack him with loving cuddles. His hair was looking more frazzled than usual, but his face still expressed the same young, oddly malicious smile as always. On the other hand, another part of you, the stronger part, felt you should let him stay away and tell you what was going on. Something imperceivable told you that his words were going to emotionally rattle you.

You sat in silence for a couple of minutes. When Alastor set his cup of coffee down on the table, you knew he was going to start talking.

"My love, I have some important information for you. It is both good and bad, but that is for you to decide."

You watched him carefully. He blinked. His eyes were glowing.

"Tell me," you said, your voice both firm and soft at the same time.

Alastor cleared his throat. "You don't belong in hell," he began. He paused to let his words sink in. "While you were alive, you must not have done anything to ruin your soul, because it is completely clean. You are absolutely, undeniably pure, which could mean a lot of things for you—"

"But I killed people," you interrupted, exasperated. "I literally killed two children. How in the world does that make me pure?"

"You didn't mean to kill them. Is that right?" he asked, remaining calm.

"Uh... yeah," you said. "I mean, yes, it was an accident."

"Well there you go."

You stared at Alastor, appalled. You killed people, so why would you be considered pure? Who was deciding that your soul was like this? "How can you and Rosie tell?"

"Years of living in hell have exposed us to all sorts of bad people, especially with the business that we run. A few demons, excluding the newer ones, can just tell when someone isn't like the others. It wasn't hard for me to pinpoint you from the rest."

"Oh," you breathed.

"Let me continue explaining," Alastor said. "Lucifer and the angels in heaven above work together to decide who comes to hell and who goes to heaven. It's an elaborate process, and a mistake must have been made with you. This is where it could go good or bad—if Lucifer discovers that they made a mistake with you, they will probably send you up to heaven without a second thought."

A sensation like bleeding out washed through you. It felt like the blood had drained from your face and was pooling somewhere else, somewhere outside of your body. Your chest felt numb, and with each breath your spine shivered. "But I still killed people," you protested. Not only did you do that, but you were sure there were plenty of sins that you had committed in your life that definitely wouldn't be considered 'pure'. "I sinned. I don't belong in heaven."

Alastor shook his head the slightest bit. "And yet here we are."

You felt like screaming, but you held it back. The way Alastor seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing made your insides want to explode. "But... it... I...." you stammered for a moment, completely at a loss for words. You had so much to say but didn't know how to say any of it.

"Maybe you should just sleep on it," Alastor pointed out. His smile was kind and sympathetic. "We can talk about this more in the morning over a nice breakfast."

And then, much to your disliking, Alastor grabbed his coffee, stood, and left the room, leaving you alone with the gloomy air and the flameless fireplace. You had nothing left but your thoughts to accompany you.

Every rose has its thorns.

Don't I have mine?

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