Eighty five years living with people who'd stab you in the back for a cold beer and a crisp high five did tend to leave one a bit suspicious of the motives of others. Throw in the fact that the being before him was his utter antithesis and Alastor frankly, honestly, only trusted Raphael as far as he could overhand huck him. In the end, the fault wasn't truly Raphael's. The angel was in an extremely difficult position; Alastor didn't trust anyone.

The angel was also, however, an excellent means to an end, and Alastor didn't need to trust someone to use them.

The rest of the beignet vanished down that fanged gullet, the former pressure and air of threat vanishing like a brief afternoon storm.

"I'm more than willing to work for Heaven up until that one hundred year mark rolls around. I don't want to hurt anyone I don't have to." While up here. He'll hurt anyone he likes in Hell.

"Nothing to worry about, friend, my word's my bond! Good as gold."