Charlie
The Princess of Hell was quite the fascinating creature. Always spouting her ideas of redemption and friendship. Alastor found it interesting to watch.
While the others may be under the impression that he was there purely for entertainment, Alastor was there for more... personal reasons. Charlie's mother was a force to be reckoned with, that was for sure.
The wicked woman came upon Alastor at one of his lowest moments, snatching up his soul the moment she could. Part of that deal included watching over Charlie and making sure she was safe and happy.
At first, this was all Alastor was there for, but something changed. Her determination and exuberance used to annoy Alastor to no end, but now it was merely another part of her charming personality. No longer was she a childish nephilim in his eyes, but something so much more important.
Alastor never wanted children in life, but he sometimes found himself wishing that Charlie was his.
She often came to him for advice, and while at first he may have been giving her what could barely be considered as such, he soon began to try. He never thought he would want for her to succeed, but alas.
But one day, she caught him singing in French.
"What language is that?" She asked, tilting her head. Alastor paused his vegetable chopping for a moment.
"French. Creole, more specifically. Why do you ask, Miss Charlotte?" He replied, lifting the cutting board and depositing the chopped vegetables into the pot with a practiced swipe of the knife.
"Well, I never got to learn any human languages. I know bits and pieces of Spanish from Vaggie and some Italian from Angel, but otherwise, nothing. I'm a hell-born, and the princess, so I was taught the hellish languages: Imp, Goetian, Scale, Hound, etcetera," Charlie explained, coming to sit on the counter by Alastor, just far enough away that she wouldn't disturb his cooking.
Alastor turned to the young woman with an offended look, ceasing his meat preparation.
"Oh dear, that just won't do," Alastor announced, shaking his head, "If you are going to run a hotel for rehabilitating human sinners, you'll have to learn the common ones, even if it's the bare minimum. Unfortunately, my dear, not everyone who goes to hell speaks English," the radio demon returned to his cooking, leaving Charlie to ponder his words.
"How many do you know?" Charlie asked, a curious glint in her eye.
"I speak English and Creole French. It's close enough to French that I can get by in a conversation, so two officially, three by technicality. I've picked up a few others over the years, but not enough to call myself fluent in any of them," Alastor informed her. She had a mischievous look on her face. He swiped the meat into the pot of stew.
"Well, looks like you don't know that many either," Charlie pointed out. Alastor glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. "What? It's true,"
"True as that may be, violence is a universal langauge, Charlotte. I'm an overlord, you're royalty. A bit different, wouldn't you agree?" He corrected her, moving to stir the pot.
The kitchen filled with the aromatic smell of stew. Alastor took a small sip from the ladle, scrunching his nose and making a small disapproving sound. He reached over and added some salt, then tried it once more, finding it much more agreeable this time around.
"I guess," Charlie agreed, swinging her dangling feet. Suddenly, her face lit up. "Oh! Why don't you teach me?" Alastor turned to face her, surprised.
"Teach you French?" He checked. The princess nodded.
"You said it yourself, I need to know more languages than English, and who better to start with than my co-manager?" She exclaimed, a large smile covering her face.
If you had asked Alastor a few months ago, he would've told you no, then he probably would have eaten you. But this was his girl the princess, he didn't have the heart to. He gave her a soft grin, much different from the severe smile he usually wears.
"Alright then, but I expect you to be an excellent student. I have very high standards," Alastor stated. Charlie screeched and jumped off the counter, rushing over to hug the Radio Demon.
Alastor's eyes turned to dials and he let out a little static at the sudden touch but he calmed himself down quickly. He wrapped his arms around the smaller hellborn, returning the hug. Eventually, she released him, a giddy look on her face.
"When do we start?" She asked, rocking on her heels in excitement.
"How about now?"
That night, the kitchen was filled with laughter and poorly pronunciatated French.
She picked it up quickly, probably helped along by her half-angel heritage. Due to their hectic schedules, they can't always set aside time for lessons. As a result, the two would often practice while doing their duties together. As Charlie grew more fluent, they would have entire conversations in the langauge, must to the dismay of the rest of the staff.
And if Alastor caught her singing an old lullaby while cleaning, well, that's between him and God.