Chapter Text
The next time Angel Dust opens his eyes, he…
… Doesn’t actually hurt as much as he thought he would.
He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, and hears a rapid chittering as the sound of small creatures skittering away from him reaches his ears. He’s laying on something soft, and a moment later, the surface dips as someone sits themselves down above his head.
Angel opens his eyes to see Alastor’s grinning, upside-down face. The slowly-ever-more-familiar ceiling of the new hotel is behind him, pinpointing them as located on one of the comfortable new couches set up in the hotel’s front room.
“Why, hello there, Angel Dust!”
Angel is too tired to scream. Instead he closes his eyes again, covers his face with two palms, and pretends he is dead for a little bit.
Alastor bears this with surprising patience, soft, staticky music playing around the both of them as the radio demon hums along to the tune. When Angel decides that it’s too distracting for him to keep playing dead, he groans and sits up.
His head hurts, but as he looks down at himself, he realizes that his palms are bandaged, his wrist is splinted, and from touching his face, he’s already aware that he’s been covered in plasters there as well. And—he’s not in his filming costume. He’s in his own clothes: casual and comfortable, from his less revealing selection, and a little mismatched, like someone grabbed the first thing from the top of his drawers… but far from booty shorts and a tattered, blood-soaked cover-up.
“Good evening, sunshine!” Alastor says, kicking a leg over his knee and leaning back on one arm as he watches Angel groggily coming to. “I almost didn’t think you were going to make it, you know!”
“... Make it?” Alastor asks. “Did you save—?”
“So I suppose I’ll be changing my dinner plans completely!” Alastor finishes, canned laughter playing in the air around them.
“... Eugh,” Angel Dust grumps. “My mouth tastes like shit. What happened? Last I checked, I was…”
“Left for dead in a gutter!” Alastor informs him cheerfully. “I didn’t even know that part of town had gutters! It’s not as though it ever rains anything other than blood, acid, or occasionally angels! But, you know, it’s a very good place to find bodies—that’s why I was out there looking for dinner!”
Jokes aside (...Angel Dust hopes they’re jokes, but isn’t confident about that), there’s a particular part of that that makes Angel Dust go cold. He tucks his feet up onto the couch, wrapping his lower set of arms around them. “I thought you said I almost didn’t make it?”
“Oh, no!” Alastor’s grin widens, gleeful. “You were completely dead! Throat slit all the way through, which made for a downright charming necklace—red is really your color! But you got better. It’s a good thing you weren’t in Cannibal Town!”
Angel chokes down a gasp as another laugh track plays, swallowing, and curls his face into his knees. “Fuck. What? Fuck.”
Fucking Valentino. Angel can’t believe he really thought—but, no. There’s no way that Val thought he would be getting rid of Angel permanently by doing this. So why did he bother? To buy time away from Angel Dust’s presence? Just to be cruel?
Was it Valentino at all, or was it Vox, getting Angel Dust out of the picture for a while? Is Angel going to find his phone somewhere, blowing up with messages from Val wondering where the fuck he is?
“Anyway!” Alastor says, reaching over to give Angel Dust’s knee a perfunctory pat. “How are you feeling, my dear fellow? I’m afraid I haven’t the healing touch, but I summoned some help, and Niffty is a wiz with a needle! She sewed that lovely neck of yours right up and now it’s good as new!”
Angel flinches, a hand shooting up to his throat. But—there’s no scar there that he can feel. Death doesn’t stick in hell, and the scars from it don’t last, either. It’s not the first time he’s died, but it’s the first time it’s been to something so gruesome. Usually somebody just misses the mark when they try to roofie him. Perils of being eight feet tall with the BMI of a—well, a spider, he guesses. When that happens, he just wakes up a few days later with the world’s worst migraine and—eh, it depends on what they do with him after. Usually Val has his body picked up.
But it really hasn’t happened in a while. Not… since he started living at the hotel, actually.
He hasn’t missed the feeling.
Angel Dust summons a smile, looking over at Alastor with—
He shifts the expression on his face slightly.
—gratitude. Alastor is unreadable as always, smiling wide with his eyes lidded in what Angel can only guess is the satisfaction of a job well done.
“I’m okay!” Angel says lightly, stretching his arms over his head. “Pissed that they went for the moneymaker, but, eh, what can ya do? Sorry ya’ had to miss out on dinner!”
“Oh, it was hardly any trouble at all!” Alastor waves him off, bouncing onto his feet. “And now that you’re right as rain, you should see about getting yourself a meal! Oh, Husker!” he sings.
There’s a fizzle in the air as the area around the empty reception wavers, emanating an uncanny green light, before Husk spawns behind the counter. Angel has to bite down a laugh—he’s like a video game NPC, except for the way he stumbles forward and slams into the counter with a loud expletive.
“Fucker!” he yelps. “Alastor! What in the hell?”
“What in hell, indeed!” Alastor says. “It’s time to do your job, my old friend, and take care of the guests!”
“Wh—the guests? What are you—oh, shit.” Husk’s eyes go wide as he finally sees Angel. Alastor offers Angel one last smile, tipping his head, and melts into the shadows. “Shit, Angel, what happened to you?”
Angel Dust smiles, cheeky, and waggles his eyebrows as he slinks over to the counter. “What didn’t happen to me?”
Husk is unimpressed, frowning harder than ever. “Angel, seriously.”
Right. Angel sighs, sliding onto a bar stool and tucking his knees up onto one of the rungs. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Husk shrugs and slides over a glass of water, which Angel grabs and promptly chugs half of. “That’s okay. S’better than being fake about it.”
Angel knows that Husk doesn’t mean it like that—well, he knows it now—but it still hits a bit of a nerve.
“What’s so bad about bein’ fake, anyway?” Angel complains bitterly, crossing his lower arms and leaning on them. He stares at the glass of water, at the beads of condensation forming on the side. “I’m fuckin’ nice when I’m bein’ fake. Trust me, you don’t wanna know what I really think most a’the time.”
Husk hums, frowning. “You ever thought about why you’re fakin’ it all the time?”
Angel rolls his eyes. “Duh. Because if I remind Valentino about how I really feel—” He cuts off, looking down at himself. “Well.”
“Okay,” Husk says, stepping closer so that he can lean onto the counter across from Angel. “What about with us? You think Charlie’s gonna—what, smack you around or somethin’? Kick you out?”
Angel looks down, shrugging. “I mean, not really. But there’s always consequences. Nobody likes an unhappy whore, Husk.”
“I do.”
Angel snorts. “You like seein’ me unhappy?”
“I like seeing you honest,” Husk retorts, and reaches out to grab one of Angel’s bandaged-up hands. Angel is too practiced to jump at the surprise, but he finds his lower arms crossing more tightly even as his hand curls into Husk’s gentle grip. “Like now. How do you feel now?”
“Honestly?” Angel thinks about it for a moment, and laughs nervously when he realizes it. “Honestly, kittycat, I’m fuckin’ starved. Val has me on this—bullshit diet, and I know I gotta lose weight, but—”
“Seriously?” Husk asks, voice flat, and Angel’s shoulders curl in. Fuck. Fuck. Why did he listen to Husk? Now he’s gonna get it for ‘not taking things seriously’ or something, even though his stomach is like a carved-open pit in his abdomen—he really should’ve shut up and just told Husk he was sad or something petty and vague like that.
Husk lets go of his hand and Angel tries not to let his lip wobble as he stares at the glazed wooden countertop. Well, saying that he’s sad would be honest now. Being honest feels awful.
A ceramic plate clicks dully onto the counter in front of him.
There's a glazed donut on it.
Angel Dust looks up at Husk, blinking rapidly.
“I don’t got anything better right now,” Husk says, “but if you gimme a few, Alastor left some jambalaya on the stove.”
Angel stares at the donut longingly. “I don’t think that’s part of my diet. It’s… I’m supposed to be low carb.”
“You don’t need to lose weight,” Husk says firmly, lips pressed into a tight, unhappy expression. “You’re a twig, Angel.”
He’s so hungry. That’s enough of an excuse for Angel to reach out, grabbing the donut before Husk can retract the offer—or change his mind about Angel needing to lose a few pounds. He bites into it, moaning sweetly—and a little reflexively, if he’s honest—at the burst of sugar and breaded pastry on his tongue.
When he looks up, Husk is blushing a little, but also smirking. “Now that was honest.”
Angel laughs. To his surprise, the sound is a little wet. “Aw, hell.”
He scrubs his eyes with a lower hand, more than a little embarrassed to find that he’s tearing up. “‘S a really good donut, okay? And—did Smiles really leave leftovers?”
“I think he summoned a whole pot,” Husk admits, reaching out to hold Angel’s hand again. The benefits of being a spider: he can tear into a pastry and hold Husk’s hand at the same time without getting glazed sugar anywhere anyone doesn’t want it. “After he came in, when I was gettin’ off shift—I think it’s probably still warm. He likes cookin’ from scratch usually, but…”
“Huh,” Angel says. “Y’know, he did say he was out lookin’ for roadkill when he found me.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s already meat in there. It wasn’t his usual kitchen takeover.”
Angel thinks about that for a minute, chewing on his donut and enjoying the way Husk’s hand is warm over his. His hands have been so cold the past couple of months. Ever since he started on the diet—he’s covered in fur but it still feels impossible to get warm.
“Maybe he does care,” he eventually says quietly, aware that he might be stepping in it. “In that mysterious way a’his.”
Husk sighs, and Angel holds his hand tighter—but Husk doesn’t make to drop it. “The Radio Demon’s a weird guy, Angel. No use trying to figure out what’s goin’ on in that head of his. I’m sure he cares about something, but only a fool would bet on what.” He grins, self-effacing. “Trust me, I’d know.”
Angel huffs a laugh through his nose. “Alright, alright. Get me some roadkill jambalaya, then.”
“It’s venison.”
“Ain’t that worse, if you really think about it?”
Husk laughs, finally letting go of Angel’s hand, and turns to head for the kitchen.
“Hey, uh.” Angel pauses, stopping himself from reaching out. “I’m gonna be right back, ‘kay? I gotta go do somethin’ real quick.”
Husk blinks at him but shrugs, waving him off. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just go put the food on.”
“Sounds good!” Angel chirps, cheerful, and lets his smile sag slightly when Husk finally leaves the room. Then he rubs his bandaged hands together, looking up at the ceiling.
Right.
The ride up to Alastor’s new radio tower takes longer than it used to. The whole hotel is larger than it used to be, which is overall a nice thing, except for the way it gives Angel time to pick nervously at his cuticles while he’s in the elevator.
Alastor kind of just… dumped him on Husk pretty quick, didn’t he? What if he doesn’t want to see Angel at all? Actually, Angel still isn’t 100% sure that Alastor wasn’t picking him up on the off chance that Angel was permanently dead and therefore free pickings for dinner.
But he probably also made his mother’s recipe for Angel to have a bite to eat while he recovered. And he bandaged Angel’s injuries and evidently cleaned him up and got him something better than lingerie and a robe to wear, even though Angel doesn’t know how to feel about Alastor having been in his room and it was mostly done with weird summoning magic. Still, now that they’ve made such significant headway on standing up to heaven in Charlie’s mission to redeem sinners, he at least owes the Radio Demon a thank you.
Climbing the ladder up to the tower is a bit of a pain, but the trap door opens easily enough—Alastor clearly hasn’t bothered to lock it, probably because nobody ever dares to come up here except sometimes Charlie. He still checks to make sure that the ‘ON AIR!’ sign isn’t lit up before he goes in, though.
“Uh, Alastor?” Angel Dust calls, looking around the room as he slowly stands up. “... Smiles?”
“How do you do, chum!”
“Augh!”
Angel jumps, nearly falling over as Alastor manifests behind him with his usual enormous, creepy smile.
“Fuck, Al!” Angel heaves for breath, clutching his chest. “I swear you do that just to scare the crap outta people!”
“Naturally!”
Angel groans, straightening up, and checks his face to make sure the screaming hadn’t dislodged his bandages. “Yeah, well, consider me freaked. Look, I just wanted to come up here to thank you, alright?”
Alastor tips his head back a little, staring up at Angel Dust. Despite the smile, he doesn’t really look happy to see Angel. His ears are standing on end, and his perfect posture is stiffer than usual. Maybe Angel interrupted him? Honestly, he’s not broadcasting at the moment, so Angel has no idea what the guy does up here. “Thank me?”
“Uh, yeah.” Angel leans back on his arms, propping his lower elbows on the radio console behind him. “Y’know. Like. Thanks. For savin’ me. I didn’t say it earlier.”
“How charming!” Alastor says, twirling his microphone. It doesn’t look quite the same as it used to, Angel Dust thinks, but what would he know? “Consider yourself very welcome, my dear! Now, was there anything else you needed?”
Well, that’s a pretty obvious hint for him to get out.
“Um.” Angel twiddles his thumbs. “I guess not. I just feel weird leavin’ it at that. Doesn’t really seem like enough.”
Alastor’s smile twitches as his eyes narrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I mean… you kinda saved my ass, there. And it’s a real fine ass, if I say so myself.”
“Oh, it was all in a day’s work!” Alastor laughs, an ambient laugh track playing double over his own voice in a way that is more eerie than the blatant disrespect he usually goes for when he plays canned sound effects. His smile still isn’t sitting quite right, and interference fizzles through the laugh track for a split second. “Hardly any skin off my nose, Angel Dust!”
“Yeah, well, it was a lotta skin off my face,” Angel shoots back with a friendly grin, hoping it’ll win him some points. “Ain’t it in the spirit a’this place to acknowledge stuff like that? And ya even made dinner! Y’know, people got real up in arms when you first got here, but you’re a pretty nice guy, Al.”
“I a̶m̴ n̵̳̔o̶̠̿t̸̞͐.”
Angel flinches back, freezing with his arms in front of his face.
Alastor stares back up at him, his smile a frozen rictus. His hand is on the side console, and his claws have dug deep gouges into the surface. The metal creaks like the chitter of a moth under the pressure of his grip, making Angel flinch again. Fuck. He’s so on edge.
“Uh,” Angel tries, swallowing. “What?”
Alastor’s eyes flicker for a moment. His mouth comes back to life, the edges of his smile arching into a snarl as the red X marking his death wound fades from his forehead.
“I am not,” Alastor enunciates, for all the good that it does through several crackling layers of radio static, “as you say, a ‘nice guy,’ and it would be wise for you to remember that, A̷n̴g̵e̶l̷ ̸D̷u̵s̴t̴. Now remove yourself from my radio station.”
The lights are on but the room is dark regardless, and Angel finds himself shrinking back against the console. He should move. He should leave—but his legs are frozen stiff. “Sorry,” he whispers, feeling wretched. “Sorry, Al—uh, Alastor. Sir. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
There’s a pop of radio static in his ears, and Alastor whirls around with a reverberating screech of radio feedback, the painful noise looping through the speakers as he fists his hands in his hair.
“Can you not cease being so fucking p̴a̶t̷h̸e̶t̶i̸c̷!?” Alastor demands, claws gouging into his own skull. His antlers are growing larger, his shadow a flickering, enormous beast that stretches from the floor to the ceiling. Its mouth is a cavernous maw of razor daggers, arching over Alastor’s head like it’s about to swallow him. “Do you think that I will always be here to save you, Angel Dust? Do you think that I spend my time looking out for you, caring about the pathetic little denizens of this t̴a̶c̸k̴y̷,̶ ̶g̷a̴r̶i̴s̵h̴ building?”
“Alastor—?” Angel finally stumbles forward.
“Do you think I care to wait with b̴a̸t̸e̸d̵ ̸b̶r̷e̷a̸t̴h̴ for ̵̝͆the ̷͇̀͜n̷͎̂e̶͒͜x̴̪̄t̸͓͆ ̴͔͑o̶̹̍p̶̣̉p̷̤̄o̴͕̾ṙ̸͙t̶͖̓ṳ̷̌n̴̙̒i̴̩̊t̵̙̀y̷̟̌ ̴̭͝ţ̶̙̦̓̀͠͝o̵̟̣̥͍͛͑́͛ ̸̮̏D̶̮̭͍̘̣̒̂͂́̂̈̓͊̃͐͊̽I̷̠͎̘̠̗̍̾̊̊͛͋̃͘Ȅ̸͔̘̠̩̥̯͕̹̥̙̠̞ ̶̡̨̨̩̤̱̪͙̙̐͒͊̅̓͂͛͆̅͒̾͠ f̸̲͙̗̀͆o̷̮̖̟͝r̵̢͇̹͕͠ ̴̡͈͋́̕y̵̭̘̩̒̎̎͆̚o̶͇̙̭͛̓͑̚͝͝u̵̥̘̯̹͉͙͛̀̿͘?!”
“Alastor!” Angel Dust grabs his arms, pulling.
“W̵̨̟̗̠̣̯̼̹̫̼͑̊̃͑̒̾͆̂̚͝͠ͅḢ̵̨̨̡̪͚̗̠̀͌̈́͂͠Ả̶̫̺̬̖̟̀̓Ţ̴̧͕̖̗͖̠͖͙̤͊?̷̭̤͚̩̝͇̝̼̐!”
Alastor reels on Angel Dust as he snaps, and the momentum of his sharp turn finally allows Angel to yank Alastor’s hands away from his head.
There’s dark red blood dripping down Alastor’s claws. It comes in rivulets, enough to be a concern—and the red of his hair hides the worst of it, except for the way one of his soft fawn ears is ragged and torn nearly in two, like someone took a jagged knife to him and wasn’t particularly careful about it. There’s flashes of white, too, and suddenly Angel Dust wonders if he’s carved himself down to the bone.
Angel Dust swallows. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he says softly. “Please. You don’t hafta hurt yourself.”
Alastor is silent, staring at his own hands with an unreadable, sickly grin. He’s breathing hard through his nose, and after a few long seconds, he curls over with an angry, snarling noise, wrists still snagged in Angel’s grip.
Angel catches his shoulders with his lower pair of hands, easing Alastor down as they both sink to their knees.
When Alastor next speaks, all Angel hears is his voice, pure and clear and—ragged, like he’s run himself through a woodchipper.
“Don’t I?”
Angel doesn’t know how to respond to that.
Alastor shakes his head. Blood splatters off of him like a dog shaking off a bath. The everpresent ambient radio around him clicks through its dial before tuning into his frequency again, as consistent of a broadcast as ever.
“Is that not what you are asking me to do, with your platitudes and your gratitude?” Alastor inquires, lifting his face to show Angel a smile: big and broad and polite. “Is that not what you are coming to expect from good old Al?”
It’s ruined by the tense lines around his eyes; the way his pupils have gone big and black, turning into yawning pools as adrenaline wrecks its way through his long-dead body; the way Angel can’t tell if Alastor is hideously, tooth-crackingly angry or if—if his eyes are fucking wet.
A dribble of blood runs down Alastor’s face, trailing between his eyes and down the side of his nose. The X on his forehead pulses, ugly and red.
“Who am I to hurt,” Alastor asks tenderly, trailing his bloody claws gently, precariously, along the backs of Angel’s hands, “if not for myself?”
Angel shakes his head, holding on tighter to Alastor’s hands. The blood smears into his bandages, but he can feel Alastor’s fingers shaking, and that’s the part that’s scaring the shit out of him.
“No,” he says. “No, Alastor. I don’t—nobody—seriously, what the hell?”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Alastor crackles, “the constraints—”
“Oh, well!” Angel throws his second pair of arms into the air. “If we’re gettin’ started on constraints! What, don’t tell me you’re on someone’s lea—”
Alastor’s hands become very tight on Angel’s.
“—you made a deal with someone, too?” Angel course-corrects. “Welcome to the club, pal! You and the rest of us! If anything, it makes me feel better to know that even someone like you—”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” Alastor says, smiling wide as his hands turn, gently, to wrap sharp, bloody claws around Angel’s wrists. “I’m not like you, Angel.”
“Maybe you are!” Angel blurts out quickly, glancing away. “And maybe that’s not a bad thing! Maybe we’re all losers, deep down. And—and we both put on a face for everyone, all the time. You’re—never dressed without a smile, right? Well, I’m never dressed without—y’know, the Angel Dust persona. Ugh, what I’m tryna say is that I dunno what’s goin’ on with you but I know how it feels, okay?”
“I don’t give a fuck how you feel,” Alastor says, snarling as he drops the radio static entirely, “because I am not—”
“But you are!” Angel shouts, and then immediately shrinks back when he realizes what he’s done. Screaming at the radio demon—he really must have a fucking death wish. But, shit, in for a penny, in for a pound, right? “You are! You just admitted it! And you can keep bein’ fuckin’ miserable about it and tearin’ yourself to pieces, or you can accept a damn hand for once! Fuck, Alastor, you think people don’t think you’re impressive?!”
Angel Dust gestures wildly to himself. “You think I’m not goddamn grateful that you saved my life? When I couldn’t even crawl outta the fuckin’ gutter Valentino threw me in? Hell, you went toe-to-toe with Adam and lived!”
“B̷a̸r̵e̸l̷y̷.”
“You lived!” Angel insists. “An’ that’s more than Sir Pentious can say—more’n anyone other than Daddy fuckin’ Morningstar himself can say. And…”
Alastor’s ears are pinned back, flat against his skull. Whatever he did to the one ear, he must have sliced through a chunk of the muscle, too, because there’s a sliver of it that’s limp, and the rest of it is just pulled back, yanking the gouge open even further.
“And… aw, shit,” Angel Dust says, losing the wind from his sails. “I didn’t mean to… hey, I’m sorry.”
He reaches out. Alastor’s grip is sharp, jagged—but he doesn’t stop Angel from reaching up to Alastor’s injured ear, carefully prying it up into a less appallingly ragged position. Angel bites his lip, petting a thumb over the scant, uninjured portion of the fur. It’s very soft, and the skin underneath is delicate.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, and pulls Alastor into a hug.
Alastor freezes. Angel Dust tucks his chin over Alastor’s head, carefully avoiding the antlers and the bloody gouges. Fuck, the blood is getting absolutely everywhere and he’s going to look like a horror show right after he already had to get cleaned up once today, but—Alastor isn’t pulling away or dissolving into eldritch shadows or anything like how he usually reacts if someone touches him unexpectedly, so maybe it’s worth it.
Maybe. Alastor still isn’t moving. Or, uh, breathing.
“Al?” he asks, finally releasing Alastor’s hands so he can wrap him up in both sets of arms. He runs one carefully up and down Alastor’s spine like he remembers his mom doing when he was a kid and his parents were still affectionate with him.
Alastor doesn’t say anything, but a stuttering breath shudders out of him, and he leans stiffly into Angel’s shoulder. Angel wonders if he’d still see a smile if he could see Alastor’s face right now.
It doesn’t matter. Alastor’s hands droop into his lap, not quite returning the embrace, and he relaxes slowly in Angel’s hold. He’s very quiet, which is—weird, for Alastor, but—maybe not so weird when Angel realizes that he can feel his shoulder growing wet.
“Fuck, Smiles,” Angel mutters, and pulls him in more tightly. “Y’know, you used to be human, too. People need shit like this every once in a while. When’s the last time someone gave ya’ a real hug?”
“I̸ ̷c̴a̷n̶'̵t̷ ̵s̶a̶y̵ ̶I̶ ̶r̴e̶m̷e̵m̴b̷e̶r̵ ̵t̷h̵e̴ ̸l̸a̷s̶t̸ ̵t̶i̷m̷e̶ ̶o̵n̴e̷ ̵s̴e̷e̶m̴e̵d̶ ̶n̵e̸c̵e̷s̶s̵a̴r̷y̴.̷”
Angel jumps a little at the crackle of Alastor’s voice, but then relaxes again. “Yeah, well, that’s what I got so many arms for! And the fluff—ya thought it was just for lookin’ sexy? Nah, this is bona fide huggin’ material! And—and you’re my friend, so you don’t even gotta pay! All yours, anytime ya like, free of charge!”
Alastor sighs against his shoulder, going limp like he’s heaved his soul out of his body with the motion of it.
“Y’know,” Angel says quietly, “part a’the deal of this whole ‘havin’ friends’ thing is that you get help when you’re feelin’ like shit, too, y’know. It ain’t s’posed to be one-sided. It ain’t just you pullin’ strings or gettin’ hurt for us, and Charlie callin’ daddy up any time she thinks you ain’t cuttin’ it.”
Alastor twitches, ears tipping back again. Angel bonks his chin gently down, chastising.
“Yeah, that’s right!” he says. “I ain’t blind! But that’s her dad, Alastor, it’s different! But—still. You’re all ‘mysterious benefactor’ on purpose, an’ I get that, but that don’t mean people don’t care about you, too.”
He pushes Alastor back gently, giving him time to put his proper face back on before he has to meet Angel’s eyes. Yeah, his cheeks are definitely wet. One of his ears is still caught in Angel’s fingers, the odd softness of it too piteous to just let go.
“I’m sorry,” Angel says.
Alastor tilts his head, pulling his ear out of Angel’s gentle hold. His other ear twitches sharply, like he’s flicking away a bug. He looks tired, even as the tear tracks fade from his face as if they were never there.
His voice is low and dangerous, but no longer any more or less distorted than Angel has come to expect. “Whatever do you have to be sorry for, Angel Dust?”
“...You don’t seem as mad as I thought you’d be.”
“Au contraire.” Alastor grins as mildly as he ever does, visibly donning the transatlantic charm. “I am most assuredly and unequivocally incandescent with rage.” The lights flicker ominously, and then re-light, brighter than ever. “But not at you.”
“Yeah, well, tough nuts for both of us, then,” Angel says, and sighs. “Seriously, though, is your head—hey, hold on.”
Alastor tips his head back upright, and while his hair is still caked with blood, Angel can’t see any sign of the wounds he had clawed into his skull. “If you could just heal yourself like that, why’s your ear still all—like that?!”
“Why, you seemed positively enamored with it!” Alastor runs a hand casually through his hair. After a single pass, there isn’t a single wound left at all—nor a drop of blood.
“Huh!” Angel is reluctantly impressed, crossing his arms. “Wish I could do that. See, that’s what I mean. You’re good enough as you are, Mista Big Bad Radio Demon. …But I’m still sorry for yellin’.”
“You are doing an awful lot of apologizing lately!” Alastor remarks, picking up his cane and tapping the microphone. “And I haven’t even threatened to harm you!”
“Oh, uh.” Angel tightens his arms around himself. “Sorry. I mean—shit. It’s a habit.”
“Hm.” Alastor’s eyes narrow even as his smile widens a smidgeon. “Do you do a lot of apologizing to Valentino?”
Angel shrugs. “I guess.”
“Well, that just won’t do!” Alastor twirls his cane, enveloping them both in shadow. There’s a green-pink-red flash of strange symbols and darkness—and then Angel finds himself standing at Alastor’s side atop the main staircase in the hotel’s entry parlor. “When somebody hurts you, after all, they are supposed to apologize to you!”
The last words drop into a snarl, Alastor’s eyes flickering into something sharper—something ticking—for a second before he starts down the stairs. Angel stares for a moment before running down after him to catch up.
“Yeah, well, that ain’t how it works when somebody owns your soul, does it?” He glances pointedly at Alastor.
“Why, that depends entirely on your attitude!” Alastor declares. “A soul is a great responsibility, after all! Just because one owns a soul does not mean one should abuse it without cause!”
“Yeah?” Angel asks, low. “And what about with cause? What does that even mean, cause, if it's only one person’s opinion that matters?”
Alastor’s gaze slides over to stare at Angel from the corner of his eye.
“...Why don’t we see about paying Valentino a visit?” Alastor says cheerfully, a jazzy swing track crackling to life around them. “I’m sure he will be very understanding once the concept is explained to him!”
“Wait—” Angel Dust stutters. “What?”
“And I do believe that the Vees have been positively begging for attention lately! Did you see that adorable little dance number Velvette shared the other day? Why, that’s practically an extended invitation!”
“Alastor,” Angel Dust protests. “Hold on, Smiles, what’re you gonna do?”
“Oh, Angel Dust!” Alastor says cheerfully, a laugh track playing in the background. “I’m going to have some jambalaya! I did go to all the effort of making it for you, after all! And after that…”
The music cuts off, the atmosphere heavy with dead air.
“I’m going to issue a very f̴i̸rm̷ ̷̭͊ ̷͙͚͌͛r̴̛̼͎̈́e̶͉͆m̷͔̫̉͝i̷͙̪̾̀n̷̖͝d̴̫̊e̷̫͂̕r̶͍̭͗̽.”
… The music stutters back to life as Alastor laughs, giving his microphone a spin and using it to herd Angel toward the kitchen.
Angel follows, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He stares down at his hands—Alastor’s blood is still smeared into his fur, and when he glances up—
It’s hard to remember, sometimes, that he’s taller than someone with as big of a personality as Alastor. But the guy is about Vox’s height, Angel thinks, which is a pretty good spot to be for Angel to get a good look at the top of his head and shoulders. His ear really does look healed, as far as Angel can tell.
But there’s fresh blood on the shoulder of his coat: a couple of droplets, just barely visible red dots scattered on scarlet fabric that had definitely been wiped clean with Alastor’s earlier gesture. How long has it been since Adam hurt Alastor? Hell, when was the last time he saw Niffty clamber over Alastor’s shoulders like her personal jungle gym? He doesn’t let people touch him very much even on a good day, but…
Angel swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Maybe that kinda reminder would be good for the both of us, huh?”
“That’s the spirit!” Alastor declares, hooking an arm into the crook of Angel’s elbow as supportive applause trails behind them. “Now, let’s go get some dinner into you! Why, you’re practically skin and bones!”
“Gee, thanks.” Angel rolls his eyes. “Never heard that one before.”
“You are very welcome!”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“No, thank you!”
“Ugh…”
Angel Dust has no idea how this is going to turn out, and if he’s honest, he’s a little scared to find out. His hands and arm hurt, and his face is so fucked up that there’s no way he’s going to be fit to be on camera for at least a week, which is going to really cut into his profits if Valentino decides he still owes him the money for Charlie’s studio visit.
Still, the jambalaya is spicy and warm, and Alastor’s white-noise laughter as Husk groans at the sight of them soothes some of the animal-terror that spikes through Angel’s chest at the thought of his boss. Maybe Alastor is right: maybe they have come to expect his support and protection. Angel doesn’t want Alastor to get hurt, hates the thought that Alastor’s ace of spades big-bad-overlord ass apparently sees that as the price for having goddamn feelings about other people, but—
But something tells Angel Dust that maybe Alastor got a little more caught up in Charlie’s whole ‘redemption’ thing than he thought he would. And for better or for worse—likely for much, much worse for anyone on Alastor’s bad side—he suspects that big changes are going to be coming to hell very soon.