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Cigarette smoke is the only thing that hangs in the night air between the two Sinners sitting on the balcony. The city flashes in the distance, alive like some breathing, moaning beast of sin, but the hotel is removed enough that the balcony is quiet. Still. Peaceful, almost.
For once, Alastor isn’t speaking. Not a single word. He just leans on the railing, one thin arm propped up on it. He’s not even in nightclothes, despite the late hour, just without his coat; his eyes glow faintly in the dark, like the tip of the cigarette clasped loosely between his fingers.
Angel knows Alastor doesn’t sleep much. Hell, it’s not hard to tell, not once you know where to look. But it’s been more apparent since… well, since everything. So much has happened in the past few weeks alone that it all spins wildly around Angel’s head like a roulette wheel or a demented carousel—finding out Pentious has been redeemed, Vox campaigning against the hotel, Alastor getting kidnapped, defeating Vox, Angel finding out he’s been a spy this whole time without even knowing it—
—But he’s not going to think about that.
It’s worn on everyone. And for all Alastor has been prancing around like a winning show pony with all his victories under his belt, Angel isn’t so easily fooled into thinking everything’s fine and dandy. Not with Alastor, not with himself, not with anyone.
Angel likes to think him and Alastor have gotten closer over the months—Alastor seems to tolerate him, at least, and Angel’s been trying to get better at being with people in general. Him and Alastor, they’re not too different: they’re both performers, artists, and Alastor seems to understand that. He’s never degraded Angel for his job or disrespected his expression, even if it’s not his cup of tea. Angel’s long since apologized for any boundaries crossed by his flirting. And if Alastor can see through Angel’s mask like Angel can Alastor’s—the outer layer of it, at least—then, in his mind, they’re plenty close.
So, when the ghostly rippling of curtains drew Angel Dust out to the hotel balcony a few nights ago, he decided to test his luck and approach the Radio Demon in his solitude. And, to his surprise, Alastor didn’t make him leave; he didn’t talk to him, or even acknowledge his presence much at all, but he didn’t snap or kick him out. Progress is progress.
Angel has come out every night since, and Alastor is always there. Same old balcony, smoking as he looks out over the Pentagram. Alastor’s even started offering Angel cigarettes when he comes out, which Angel accepted once and immediately regretted it. Alastor smokes something vilely bitter, like sticking your nose in corpse fumes, and even Angel can’t take that. Which is really something, considering his usual vices of choice, but to each their own. He didn’t even know Alastor smoked before these little outings began, but he supposes it makes sense. Old habits die hard.
They’ve started talking. Only when Alastor asks him questions—if he doesn’t want to break the silence otherwise, Angel doesn’t try to force it. His nonna always said that the best way to catch a stray is to let it come to you, and that logic seems to apply to Alastor as well. He doesn’t want to push too hard and scare him, like startling a deer by stepping on a branch.
But not tonight.
Tonight is for questions.
He’s worried about Alastor. Who knows all of what he went through in Vee Tower while Charlie was losing her mind at the hotel and the rest of them were twiddling their thumbs? He must still be injured, too. Angel doesn’t want his new maybe-friend kicking the bucket or getting sick now because he’s too stubborn to admit that he’s struggling after going through God knows what with a massive hole in his chest. It’s not something he can just stand by and watch anymore—not after what he’s done. He has to make up for it. All of it.
He leans on the railing, a good few feet away from Alastor—close but not too close. He taps his nails on the cold metal, feeling the carved ridges of the wrought iron under his skin. Smoke wreathes Alastor’s face like a devilish little halo, seeping from his lips. What to ask? And how? Angel doesn’t know. He’s not good with these things.
Static crackles particularly loudly, drawing his attention to Alastor, who’s staring at him now. His eyes are lidded, as usual, his face drawn in as much of a neutral expression as his permanent smile allows, but his eyes are sharp. Searching. They flit over Angel’s face, making him slightly uneasy with their intensity.
“You should be asleep,” Alastor finally remarks, not looking away from Angel. Angel stares back this time, raising an eyebrow.
“So should you. Also, I’ve been out here every night for the past week.”
Alastor laughs, a canned sound, and shakes his head while his smile curls into something smugger. “Oh, cher, I don’t need to sleep. You, however, ought to be resting your little head with everyone else. Your recent lack of it is all the more reason.” He takes a quick drag. “Not to mention that you look an absolute mess.”
The condescension is positively dripping from Alastor’s self-important, catty words. It should be annoying, infuriating even. But Angel Dust knows better than to bite at the bait. In fact, now that he knows Alastor a little better, it’s almost a little funny.
So he just snorts. “‘Don’t need to sleep’ my ass. You look like you’re about to keel over, no offense. Maybe you should be takin’ some of your own advice.”
Angel makes sure none of his words come out as anything more than teasing; they even slip into something softer towards the end. He’s not wrong. Alastor does kind of look like he just clawed himself out from the grave, more than usual. It doesn’t seem like he’s slept much, if at all, since destroying Vox’s weapon, and who knows how long he’d stayed up before that. Even if he can function on less sleep than the rest of them, Angel is shocked he hasn’t konked out yet.
It’s brief but there: Alastor’s pause, his mental stumble, as he realizes Angel won’t rise to his bait. His tone changes, going from slick and preening to sweeter, seemingly more sincere.
“Oh, nonsense,” he replies, smile spreading. “There’s no need to worry about me. I’m fit as a fiddle! Couldn’t be better, actually.”
The bags under his eyes disagree. As do the shadows under his cheekbones. And the fact that this is the tenth cigarette Angel has seen him smoke today.
Alastor pauses, thoughts shifting behind his eyes. He seems to be mentally weighing something, tapping sharp claws against the railing in methodical order—first finger, then middle, then ring, then pinky, slowly and repeatedly.
“I don’t wish to be indelicate,” he eventually says, voice lower. He poses his question carefully, tactfully, so much so that Angel can’t tell whether there’s any genuine concern or if he’s simply morbidly curious. “But I can’t help but wonder if this… avoidance of sleep, let’s say, has been brought on by your recent experiences with Vox.”
Alastor’s eyes flick around before settling intently on Angel again. It’s in moments like these that Angel is well and truly humbled by how impossible Alastor can be to read; nothing is revealed by his eyes besides carefully measured interest.
Angel shifts, eyes flicking down to his hands. Damn Alastor, with his observant questions and unreadable expressions. There’s nothing prying about the inquiry, but the expectation of an answer is enough to make him stumble over his words.
It’s not just about Vox. Hands grabbing at him, in life or in his nightmares, is nothing new, just now accompanied by swirling eyes and electricity digging its claw into his skin as a silky voice twines around his mind. Now, it’s words being pulled from his lips without his permission; never being able to relax, because he could be being watched. Paranoia creeps up on him when he doesn’t work to keep it at bay, laying dormant in the corners of his mind until it’s time to strike.
Okay, maybe it’s about Vox.
But it’s also about Alastor. Angel likes these nighttime hangouts of theirs, even if they don’t speak a word to each other. It’s nice just being with someone else. Someone with no expectations and a whole lot of secrets to reveal. Angel finds himself morbidly drawn to the guy, like the junkie he is for getting too close to dangerous, oozing sores of human beings. Not that he thinks Alastor is all bad, or that this is any of the infatuation he had for all his horrible exes, but it’s a pattern. For both of them.
Not to mention that he doesn’t feel like leaving Alastor alone for extended periods of time is a good idea right now. However misguided that idea may turn out to be.
“It’s not—” Angel wets his lips, “it’s not about him. Vox. O-or any of that. Well, okay, maybe a little bit. But I’m fine, I swear. It’s just… just a lot to deal with, y’know?”
Alastor takes a drag of his cigarette, exhaling a silvery cloud of bitter smoke before answering. He’s pausing more than usual—thinking. “I can imagine,” he replies simply. His face turns towards the Pentagram, and the neon-choked sprawl of the entertainment district reflects in his eyes, visible even from here.
“If it’s any comfort to you,” Alastor continues, “there are no cameras here. I had Niffty search again, and then did a sweep myself to be sure. Besides, Vox currently isn’t in possession of the limbs required to operate said cameras, even if he wanted to use them.”
Angel huffs out a little laugh, surprising himself and, if the sudden pricking of his ears is any indicator, Alastor as well.
“I guess you’re right,” Angel says. But he sobers quickly. Alastor is correct: there’s no cameras. No one to watch him. Hell, any technology they have in the hotel is Alastor’s own or sourced from Hellborn manufacturers, not Voxtek. But it’s not about the cameras, or the tech. Vox didn’t watch the hotel through those, he watched through Angel. His eyes, his ears.
His upper pair of arms wrap themselves tightly around his front. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “It’s just—it’s not about the cameras. It’s about me. I was the one feedin’ him all that info, and I put everyone in danger. I-If weren’t for me, Vox never would of—”
Angel tries to swallow back the painful lump building in his throat, choking him. Something hot and wet burns the backs of his eyes, and he blinks, dropping his head into his head when that doesn’t work. God. How pathetic he is, crying over something like this. In front of Alastor no less.
Breathing shakily, tries to stop the tears from trickling down his face, bracing himself for the rebuke. The laughter, the snickering, the condescending and obviously amused “comforts.” But after a few moments he realizes that there’s nothing. Not even a sound.
Finally, he risks a glance up. Alastor is blinking at him soundlessly, shock drawn into his slightly widened eyes and raised brows. He seems stripped of a response, until it hits his face like a slap. His smile twists into something between a frown, a laugh, and disbelief, and he looks at Angel with incredulousness.
Angel shrinks, preparing for the laughter to come.
“Sainte Vierge Marie,” Alastor mutters. Then, his head tilting to one side, comes a strangely huffed chuckle. “You don’t seriously believe that, do you?”
Now it’s Angel’s turn to blink senselessly. “What?”
Alastor shakes his head, puffing on his cigarette. “Well, my fine fellow, all I mean to say is that whatever you just said is the silliest thing I’ve heard since Prohibition was proposed!” He gestures broadly, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake.
What in the world?
“What do you mean?” Angel questions, his voice coming out sharper than he intends. If Alastor is cowed, he doesn’t show it, humming and shrugging.
“I mean that what happened is no fault of your own, of course,” Alastor replies. “It’s not as if you asked politely to be hypnotized and unwittingly spy on everyone you call a friend, invading the place you thought was your sanctuary.”
The bluntness of Alastor’s blasé words shifts into something else, more intense; his voice seethes from behind his clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Claws screech as Alastor drives them into the railing, nearly crushing his cigarette in his other hand.
“No, it’s not your fault.” His voice is lower, colder. Static cakes it in a poisonous layer. “It’s all the fault of that rotten excuse of a man. Vox. Taking, always taking, as those vile bastards always do.”
He spits the name with so much venom Angel can nearly feel it sizzling across his skin. Alastor’s breath trembles for a mere moment, as do his hands—both from the force with which he’s clutching the railing and something else. Something Angel doesn’t like.
Balking from the wild oscillation, he watches in silence as Alastor takes a deep breath in, chest hitching briefly, and calms himself; he smooths his hair and straightens his bowtie as if wiping away his outburst, clearing the excess static from his throat. The next drag he takes is long and jittery until he exhales.
“No,” he says simply, definitively. “It was not your fault.”
What the hell is happening?
Alastor’s brief lapse is startling—he’ll have to get to that later—but everything before that…
He wasn’t nice.
But he wasn't mean either.
Even though Alastor’s words were unconcerned and rather incredulous, they didn’t come from malice or some notion of Angel being dramatic. They were more like a light slap on the wrist for being down on himself, something his brother would do in their younger, kinder days, not a genuine rebuke.
Angel had to admit that it doesn’t feel… bad. It’s an awkward stumble in the direction of care, but it’s something. Something genuine. Some special, roundabout Alastor way of doing things that Angel has come to learn is just how he works, and it’s admittedly a little sweet.
“Are you tryin’ to comfort me right now?” he asks Alastor, leaning forward onto the railing.
Alastor pauses, before a wide grin slides across his face. “Depends,” his cooing voice responds. “How are you feeling now?”
Angel opens his mouth wide, about to make a joke, then stops himself—Alastor’s deflecting, he can see it, and he doesn’t want to shut him down.
“Better,” he eventually admits, allowing a smile to grow on his face.
Alastor’s eyes flash. “Then yes!” he chirps, his smile curling at the edges like a satisfied cat as he puffs on the remains of his cigarette. A genuine chuckle makes its way from Angel’s mouth as he drops his chin into his hands. Believe it or not, he does actually feel a bit better now.
“Thanks, Al.”
Alastor waves a hand, the gesture fairly animated. “De rein, dear. I don’t tolerate foolishness, that’s all.”
A silence falls between them after that, underneath it a gentle murmur of static, soft and fuzzy. Like the faint crackle of a record, the sound as it spins. Faint strains of city sounds, cars honking and the bang of gunshots, barely reach Angel’s ears, drowned out by the breeze that toys with his fur and Alastor’s hair.
Angel’s eyes slide over to Alastor, watching him as he cleanly stamps out his cigarette under his heel. Alastor settles onto the railing, propping his elbows on it. His chin falls into his hand, and his ears drop just the slightest bit, losing their rigidity. With his eyes lidded and his breathing calm, he looks like he could fall asleep where he stands.
Too bad Angel has to ruin it.
He feels bad for disturbing the guy’s peace, he really does. But he can’t stop the worry gnawing at his insides. Maybe the hotel has softened him, made him too empathetic, but he wants to make sure Alastor’s okay. For his own peace of mind.
“Hey, Al,” he mutters, voice low as if trying not to break the fragile quiet. “I wanna talk to you about somethin’.”
Alastor’s ears prick again, his posture straightening slightly and eyes opening fully. His eyes flick over Angel’s face, like they’re searching for something. But his voice is casual. “Yes? Well, go on ahead.”
Angel shifts—it’s now or never. “Well,” he begins, trying not to sound as nervous as he feels, “I just wanna make sure you’re alright, that’s all. I know I’ve already bitched about my problems, but I know you went through stuff too, with the Vees being…” his fists clench, “y’know, the Vees. And Vox.”
Alastor’s expression falls into blankness around his smile—far too blank. A look that Angel unfortunately knows very well, both on his face and others. The nerves in his stomach build, making his words come out faster.
“I just want you to know that you can talk to me. About anything. Especially this. I won’t judge, ‘cause—‘cause I know how awful it can be to just have to deal with it. So, yeah. I just wanted you to know that.”
The pause that clings to the end of his nervous words stretches on, far too long. Moving so slowly and methodically it’s as if he’s scared to shatter something, Alastor pulls a carved, silvery case from his pocket. He opens it and pulls out another cigarette, setting the tip aflame with the sharp click of a lighter. The livid end bellows one great cloud of smoke as Alastor inhales, then calms to a trickle.
Stalling.
When Alastor answers, it’s with a tight grasp on his Transatlantic diction and a smile that looks like it’s been tacked on, not like a real expression. He laughs, but it’s brittle as plastic; his amusement is spread so thick that it’s sickening.
“Talk? Why, what is there to talk about?” Alastor chuckles with that same forced, canned quality. “Nothing happened! Well, besides that messy breakup—which I helped incite, thank you very much—and Vox’s petty delusions. I appreciate the sentiment, my good fellow, but it’s all well and good.”
He finishes with a flourishing gesture and a cool shrug, grin wide across his face; there’s a subtle strain at the edges, as it doesn’t sit right on his cheeks. Angel’s hands tighten on the railing. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Alastor is lying through his teeth, but he didn’t think it’d be such a complete falsehood. Maybe he’d embellish a little, gloss over some of the uglier parts of his time in Vee Tower to save Charlie and the others, but not completely throw the rug over it all. Angel thought he’d at least admit to something happening, even if he’s vague and cagey about it. At least in front of Angel, who’s been trying to prove himself trustworthy to this prickly, repressed demon for weeks.
Angel knows it’s much worse than Alastor says—certainly a lot more than “nothing” happened.
He still remembers it, clear as day. One of the first days Alastor was gone, Angel went into the studio for work—Val and Vox were on one of the upper balconies, talking about something. Laughing obnoxiously as two hyenas who got the best corpses, they were gloating about something. Angel hasn’t paid attention to them for a long time, but one sentence snagged his ear and wouldn’t let him go:
We really showed Alastor what he’s missing out on.
Even after Vox left, Val kept gloating. For being a virgin, Alastor’s such a whore, Valentino said. I wonder if Voxxie will let me borrow him for a film or two. People would eat him up.
He never said what happened—what they did to Alastor. Not knowing was nearly worse than understanding every horrible detail, because Angel knew Val. He knew how he worked, and how far he was willing to go. What really happened all depended on what Vox would allow, and with how obsessed he was with Alastor, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume… that. Horrible, absolutely sickening, but not unreasonable.
It made Angel ill. Just the mere thought of anything even close to that happening to anyone was enough to make him nauseated, but Alastor especially. Alastor, who’s so private, who loathes being touched in any way and won’t even wear short sleeves.
He’s spent the time since hoping, pleading with whatever sick fuck up in Heaven that’s listening, that it wasn’t the case, but he didn’t know. He still doesn’t know. He can’t be sure of anything, and it’s horrible.
“Don’t lie to me, Al,” Angel says quietly. After holding eye contact for a few moments, Alastor pointedly faces forward, tilting his chin up. His eyes narrow slightly.
“Bold of you to insinuate such a thing,” Alastor says, voice tight with how he tries and falls to keep it light. His shoulders have risen, tension in the sinewy muscles there. “Nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
“Bullshit!” Angel clutches the railing so forcefully his knuckles define themselves under his fur. Why is Alastor clinging so hard to this lie? Angel knows. Alastor knows. They both know something more is going on, why can’t he just admit it? It’s not like Angel is going to judge him.
“You can tell me, Alastor,” he says, voice gentler. “It’s okay. You don’t need to—”
“Nothing happened! ” Alastor snaps, head whipping around with a crack, filter like nails on a chalkboard. Claws screech against the metal, his ears pinning back, antlers threatening to expand. Sharp static hisses and whines along with his heavy breathing, shuffling like it’s being torn between two channels.
“Nothing happened,” Alastor insists in a low, cruel hiss, his eyes narrowed near to slits. “Nothing. I’m perfectly fine. That spineless rat didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t beat me, I had it all under cont—”
With an intense flinch, Alastor stops. A curse slips from his lips as he shakes out his hand, which now bears a circular wound from the tip of his cigarette. Fresh and raw, it’s pinkish against his gray-brown skin.
“Hey, hey, calm down.” Angel tries to soothe. Alastor is still shaking his head out, blowing on the burn a little as a high pitch of static drones around him. A wince is written on his face.
“Do you, uh, want somethin’ for that?” Angel asks awkwardly. He didn’t expect this, not Alastor’s freak-out or for him to burn himself by accident.
“I’m fine,” Alastor snaps again. He crushes the already destroyed cigarette with the toe of his shoe, muttering something under his breath. Angel watches out of the corner of his eye as he shifts, looking anywhere besides Alastor’s still angry eyes.
Guilt trickles in slowly. He really shouldn’t have pushed. It wasn’t right, no matter what he thinks might be best for Alastor or what good intentions he had. If Alastor doesn’t want to tell, he has to respect that decision. He can’t come on too strong.
“Look, Al,” he begins to say, “I’m sorry about that. If you don’t want to talk about it, then… that’s fine. Just know that I’ll be there for you if you do decide to ever say somethin’.”
Alastor huffs a small sigh. “Oh, it’s perfectly alright. I should not have lost my temper. You meant well.” The apology is stilted, clearly quite forced, and Angel doesn’t really think he needs it, but he accepts it with a smile anyway.
To his surprise, Alastor continues. Quietly, but he continues. “And, if it were the case that something did happen,” he looks pointedly at Angel for a moment, “which I’m not saying something did, but…”
His gaze wanders away again, tracing over the lines of the Pentagram hanging above them. “It really wouldn’t be anything to apologize for. I gave myself over willingly, after all. Anything that might’ve taken place was a possibility I was aware of.”
Angel stares at him in shock. No, that’s not right. That’s not fair. Especially if what he thinks happened actually did happen, then most definitely not.
“No!” The word comes out plaintive. “No, Al, no, that’s not how that works. It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do, nothin’ that was done to you was your fault. Not even close. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
What’s worse than Alastor blaming himself in the first place is that he looks genuinely confused. It’s not even exaggerated or something he’s trying to mask, just narrowed eyes and a tilted head as he looks at Angel with a mix of surprise and puzzlement.
“But it’s true,” he says simply, as if wondering how Angel could misunderstand such a basic fact. “I proposed the deal. It was my plan in the first place. I knew the Vees and I did it anyway, therefore I bear partial responsibility for whatever happened.”
A pang stings Angel’s heart. Poor, poor Alastor. It’s such a casual sort of blame, too, like it’s just common sense to think so lowly of yourself that your torture becomes your own fault. The logic doesn’t even make sense, yet Alastor seems so sure of it.
He shakes his head, voice firm. “That doesn’t matter, Al. That’s not how consent works. You can’t just say that it was your fault because you knew it might’ve been a possibility, that’s not how that works! Whatever Vox or Val did to you wasn’t your fault. It never would be.”
His voice grows rawer, shakier, as he goes on; the implications weigh heavy in the air. What Angel really means is too thick to force from his throat, stuck there like bile.
Alastor senses it. He looks at Angel, ear flicking once, eyes narrowing. “Consent? Whatever do you mean—”
His eyes jump fully open, like a deer in the headlights, before flashing with recognition. “Oh,” he says dumbly. “Oh, no, that’s not what happened. No, they never laid a hand on me in that way.”
And just like that, the lump in his throat is gone. Angel can breathe again, unobstructed. Alastor didn’t go through that. He didn’t.
“God,” Angel breathes. “I—I just heard Val and Vox gloating about somethin’, and I assumed… guess that serves me right for jumping to conclusions, huh?”
Alastor waves away his apology. He seems more upset by the fact that Valentino and Vox were gloating about something than Angel’s horrendously incorrect assumption, scoffing and squaring his shoulders.
“Pompous rats,” Alastor mutters, almost to himself. “As if their insidious display of lust was anything more than Vox showboating.”
Angel’s head whips around, staring at him. “‘Display of lust?’ What do you mean by that?”
As if realizing his mistake, Alastor’s ears straighten. “Well,” his eyes dart around as if he’s looking for an answer on the skyline, “just how they are, as you know. Always flirting and whatnot.”
He’s lying. It’s so obvious Angel can smell it. His voice is tense, his answer is as close to a nervous stutter as Angel’s ever seen him get, and the truth is lurking just beneath the surface. Angel’s brows furrow as he thinks over it, then his eyes blow wide.
“Al, did they make you watch ‘em fuck?”
Alastor’s shoulders creep upwards, and his chin raises as if he’s trying to puff out his chest like a threatened animal. “It was nothing,” he insists cagily. He looks out over the city again, away from Angel. “Just Vox trying to show off.”
It’s not nothing. It never is with Alastor. Angel can see the discomfort ingrained in every line of his posture, the subtle tremor in his hands. His heart pangs again.
“It wasn’t nothing,” Angel insists, quieter. “Y’know, everything I said earlier still applies. That was wrong. That was abuse, Al. And that isn’t your fault, whether or not you had some reason to get yourself kidnapped or what you knew about the Vees.”
Alastor’s hands clench, the sharp points of his claws pressing at the tender skin of his palm. Just when Angel thinks he’s going to pierce the skin, he forces himself into a straight-backed, rigidly upright posture, fists unclenching.
“I’m awfully tired,” he declares, straightening his collar with a decisive flick of his hands, “aren’t you, my fine fellow?” Finally, he faces Angel, his face as pinched as the fragile, plasticky levity of his voice. But Angel knows the true look in his eyes: fear, discomfort, shame. All the same emotions that have greeted him almost every morning since the day he sold his soul to Val, and maybe even before that.
Angel doesn’t want it to end here. He doesn’t want Alastor to retreat, because he may never open up again.
But Alastor’s eyes are silently pleading him to drop it. Angel has to check himself: it’s not his place. He shouldn’t push. He doesn’t want to scare Alastor away.
So he sighs, and he nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says, but his voice is hollow. He tries to sound more sure. “Yeah, I’m tired too. It’s getting late—well, later. Don’t want Charlie thinkin’ we’ve stayed up all night.”
“No, we do not!” Alastor replies too quickly, too cheerily. “I shan’t keep you from your bed any longer.”
He turns sharply on his heel, shadows gathering in a puddle at his feet, and Angel Dust can’t help himself. “Wait!” he calls out, even louder in the still night. His hand hovers over Alastor’s arm, not touching but stopping the other nonetheless. Alastor turns around, ear flicking.
Angel’s voice is quiet again, but he hopes it’s as assured as he wants it to be. “If you ever want to talk, my door is always open. Any time. No exceptions.”
Alastor’s eyes slide warily over Angel’s hand, then up his arm, then finally to his face. Angel tenses, but the slightest dip of Alastor’s head has him relaxing, sending a small smile to his face.
“Bonne nuit, Angel Dust,” Alastor says, a gentleness Angel hopes is sincere softening the edges of his words. Darkness licks at the toes of his wingtip shoes, slowly crawling up his legs.
“Don’t be a stranger yourself, Al,” Angel tosses out in reply, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s a little much, but he hopes Alastor catches the undercurrent of care Angel is trying to beam into the mind of this stubborn demon.
Alastor laughs, a rare, real laugh, as the shadows swallow him. “Steal that from old Husker, did you?” Alastor teases. Heat floods Angel’s cheeks, and he sputters at the insinuation.
But Alastor is already gone. His cackle echoes in the air even after the shadows swallow him for good, and he sinks into nothing but another shade of darkness in the night. Angel’s mood falls somewhat, watching the narrow shadow slip across the floor. He sighs, wishing he could stop Alastor but knowing it’s not right.
Some things have to happen in their own time.