Three days had passed since the last quiet moment with Mr. Thompson, Alastor, and Jack at the construction site. The air had grown even colder, with winter knocking on Brooklyn's door. The usual hum of activity on the street was punctuated by the occasional rattle of a passing truck and the distant clang of a hammer.
Inside the apartment that Mr. Thompson and Alastor shared, things were quieter. Mr. Thompson was hard at work on the reconstruction of the Brooklyn Brew café, leaving the apartment empty save for Alastor, who was in the shower, trying to wash away the tiredness from his body. The sound of the water hitting the tiles filled the small apartment as steam began to rise, fogging up the bathroom mirror.
Outside, the faint chime of the doorbell broke through the silence.
Rachel stood on the other side of the door, her finger still on the doorbell. She sighed, glancing up at the building's weathered walls, her patience wearing thin. She knew her uncle had been busy with the café's reconstruction lately, but she hadn't expected him to be away today. It was strange that she hadn't heard from him, so she figured it wouldn't hurt to check in.
Her irritation grew as the minutes passed without anyone answering. She knocked again—more insistently this time—and shifted her weight, a look of mild annoyance creeping onto her face.
"Come on, Uncle Thompson," she muttered under her breath.
When no one came to the door, she tested the handle. To her surprise, the door creaked open. Her brow arched in curiosity. She wasn't the type to wait around, and with no one answering, she figured it wouldn't hurt to let herself in.
The apartment was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of a heater running in the corner. Rachel closed the door behind her, her boots clicking softly against the hardwood floors. She looked around, her sharp eyes taking in the sparsely decorated space—nothing out of the ordinary. Her uncle's tools were scattered on a table near the window, and a couple of jackets hung haphazardly over the back of a chair.
No sign of Alastor or Mr. Thompson.
She was about to turn and leave when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching—barefoot, the sound light on the wooden floor. Rachel's eyes darted toward the bathroom door, which was slightly ajar. Her lips curled into a knowing smirk as she leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing her arms.
Just as she was about to make a move, the bathroom door swung open.
Alastor stepped out, his towel wrapped low around his waist, water droplets still clinging to his skin. His tousled hair and the faint steam rising from his body made him look almost otherworldly, as if he had just stepped out of a comic book, his muscles rippling beneath his light skin. Rachel's eyes widened just for a split second, then flicked up to meet his.
Alastor froze, his face flushing a deep shade of red as he blinked in surprise. His first instinct was to quickly cover up, but he quickly realized there was no need—the towel was already holding his modesty.
"Well, well," Rachel's voice purred with a mischievous edge. She tilted her head, letting her eyes sweep down his form in a slow, deliberate motion. "Didn't think I'd be getting this kind of welcome."
Alastor shifted awkwardly, clutching his towel tighter. "Uh, Rachel? What are you—" he stammered, still not quite processing the situation.
Rachel didn't let him finish, her grin widening. "I was expecting a warm greeting, but this?" She raised an eyebrow, letting her gaze linger just a little too long on his physique. "Guess I don't mind the view."
Alastor cleared his throat, his voice rising in nervousness. "Uh—give me a minute. I'll—uh—be right back." Without waiting for her response, he darted into his room, closing the door behind him.
Rachel laughed softly, shaking her head. "Cute."
Alastor leaned against the door in his room, exhaling heavily as he shook his head, trying to calm the heat rising to his face. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pulling on a simple T-shirt and jeans before running a towel through his damp hair. Once dressed, he squared his shoulders and stepped back out into the living room.
Rachel was already sprawled on the couch, looking completely at ease as she examined a magazine from the coffee table. When she saw him reenter, her lips twitched into a knowing smirk. "Ah, fully clothed this time. Shame."
Alastor rolled his eyes as he sat down across from her, finally regaining some composure. "You could've at least knocked."
Rachel shrugged, still grinning. "I did. You were busy being… well, that." She waved a hand toward him as if gesturing at the memory of his earlier state. "But don't worry. I won't hold it against you."
Alastor sighed, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."
Rachel just laughed, leaning back. "Hey, no harm done. Now, let's just hope my uncle shows up before I start getting ideas."
Alastor raised an eyebrow, finally letting a faint smile tug at his lips. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but your uncle's actually working on the reconstruction of the Brooklyn Brew café today," he said, his tone a little more relaxed now. "He's been putting in a lot of work there lately."
Rachel raised an eyebrow, her playful demeanor shifting slightly. "Reconstructing the café? I knew he was working on it, but I didn't know he was going in today."
"Yeah, big project," Alastor added, a bit of pride in his voice. "He's been keeping busy with it. It's important to him."
Rachel nodded thoughtfully, her grin returning. "Guess I'll just have to wait then." She leaned back, getting comfortable. "I'm not in a rush. But hey, I'm glad I caught you, Alastor. Looks like I'll have to stop by more often."
Alastor, still adjusting to the situation, smiled faintly. "You're always welcome. Just, uh… maybe knock next time?"
"Sure, sure," Rachel said with a wink, her confidence unabated. "Next time, I'll bring the popcorn for the show."
Alastor chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. His mind seemed to drift back to the conversation he had with Mr. Thompson a few weeks ago. The older man had told him that he needed to do something meaningful for himself—something that wasn't just about helping out with the café or rebuilding it. Alastor had mulled it over, but the truth was, he had no idea what that could be. It was hard to even imagine a life where he wasn't helping others, especially after everything he'd been through.
"Rachel, may I ask you something?" Alastor asked, his voice a bit quieter than before. "Mr. Thompson mentioned that I should focus on something that matters to me, instead of just helping with the café or the reconstruction project," Alastor said quietly, looking down at his hands. "But honestly, I'm not sure what that could even be. I've been thinking about it, but… it's hard to figure out what I want when I've spent so long doing things for others."
Rachel leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed thoughtfully as she listened. She had always admired how Alastor seemed to be driven by something deeper, something that kept him going even through the toughest times. But she knew, as well as anyone, that sometimes the hardest person to understand is yourself.
"You've got a point," Rachel said after a pause, her gaze drifting to the window as she thought. "Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in other people's expectations. It sounds like you've spent a lot of time just... surviving, Alastor. Protecting people, fighting for things that were bigger than yourself."
Alastor's eyes flickered over to her. "Yeah. My whole life was about saving others. I'd fight in wars across the cosmos, against enemies I couldn't even understand at the time. It was just… what I did." He shrugged, the weight of those words sinking in. "I didn't have time to think about what I wanted. All I had to do was fight and keep others safe. That was my purpose. And even now, after everything that happened… it's hard to shake that mentality."
Rachel could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight of years and battles that had shaped him. But something in her stirred with a mix of curiosity and concern. Alastor had been through so much, and yet, there was so much more to him than just being a warrior.
"What about before that? I mean… you weren't always a superhero, right?" Rachel's voice was gentle but probing. "What kind of life did you have before all the fighting? What did you want before you got caught up in saving the universe?"
Alastor's gaze shifted slightly, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. He didn't speak for a moment, his mind caught in a web of memories, some of which he had pushed down over time.
"I didn't really have a career before I came to Earth," he said slowly, his voice tinged with a bitterness he rarely allowed to surface. "I was trained to be a warrior. We all were, where I'm from. My people… we fought. That was our life—fighting to protect our universe, our planet, to survive. That's all I ever knew."
Rachel frowned, intrigued and a little concerned. "You don't mean you were just always in battle, right? That was your whole life?"
Alastor nodded, his expression darkening. "Yes. My people... they raised us to think that nothing mattered except protecting the galaxy. A warrior mentality. And I stuck with that even after my planet was destroyed."
Rachel's eyes softened, a flicker of sympathy crossing her face.
"Alastor," she said, her voice quieter now, "I get it. I know what it's like to have something define you, to get stuck in a role that feels like it's the only thing you can do. But you don't have to carry that weight forever. You're on Earth now. You have a chance to be something different."
Alastor chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. "Be something different? What else is there for me to be? A retired warrior? A washed-up hero?"
Rachel shook her head, meeting his gaze. "You're not washed up. And you're not just a warrior, Alastor. I know you've saved a lot of people, and you've been through hell to do it, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve something for yourself. You're allowed to figure out who you are now—beyond all the fighting."
Alastor looked at her, his brow furrowed as he tried to absorb what she was saying. It was a lot to take in, more than he had expected to discuss in a simple conversation.
Rachel hesitated, her hands fidgeting slightly before she finally spoke again. "Alastor… can I ask you something? It's a little personal."
Alastor raised an eyebrow, curious. "Of course."
She hesitated again, her voice softer now. "Have you ever… fallen in love? Or had a family of your own with someone you loved?"
Alastor's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. He leaned back, as though the question itself was foreign. He thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No. I haven't."
Rachel blinked, surprised. "Never? In all those thousands of years you've lived?"
"No," Alastor replied firmly. "There wasn't time for anything else. Love… it wasn't a luxury I could afford."
Rachel's heart ached slightly at his words, though she wasn't sure why. "I see," she said quietly, her gaze falling to her hands.
The two sat in silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them. Finally, Rachel broke it, her usual confidence returning. "But hey, you still owe me an answer. What did you do before all the saving-the-universe stuff?"
Alastor chuckled softly, though the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes lingered. "I guess I did a lot of things, but it's mostly about the wars and the battles. That's what I remember."
Rachel grinned, though her mind still lingered on his answer. "Well, next time, I want to hear about something more exciting than that. I bet there's more to you than just being some cosmic superhero."
Alastor chuckled, though there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "Maybe," he said quietly. "Maybe there's more to me than I even know."
Rachel gave him a nod of encouragement, forcing a smile despite the strange mix of emotions swirling within her. "We'll figure it out together."
For now, she'd let the topic rest, though her curiosity about Alastor—and her feelings toward him—remained.