Chapter Text
Holding banquets and dinners was becoming a common occurrence at the Hazb—Happy Hotel. At the start, Angel didn't understand the use of them. the first turn out was abysmal. One or two demons had shown up and the whole 'dance' had turned into a boozeless party that was more like a 'meet and greet' than a party. Charlie had managed to get one of them to sign up. But, the demon never came back. Angel had felt a little bad for Charlie at the time.
Over the months, however, the dances and banquets started to turn out a bigger crowd once Charlie agreed to give supplying some light booze a shot. The turnout had been growing more and more each attempt and as the manager Alastor had started to take more interest in the hosting duties. Which was why Angel was only slightly confused at the sight before him.
Alastor slammed the end of his microphone staff into the dance floor. Music started up immediately from the head of the microphone, the crackle of radio soon being drowned out by the tunes. Alastor let his hand slip from the staff as he moved towards the bar to harass Husk for a while. 'Dance' night had become one of the exceedingly rare times Alastor let his staff out of his hands. The Radio Demon treated it as an extension of his own body. Sometimes, demons theorized that it was. Given the vast variety of demon anatomy, and that one of the Overlords had a TV for a head, it wasn't too farfetched. That said, everyone in the Hotel had eventually noticed very early on that Alastor had… a peculiarity with his staff and how vehemently he held it close to him when he summoned it.
He hated to be apart from it.
Alastor would give absolutely no opportunity for it to leave his grasp once he had it, save for rare occasions such as this, even going so far as to use his own power to do trivial tasks to keep it in his hand. Angel didn't think he ever saw him hand it off to anyone, either. Even to Husk or Niffty. Not that knowing very little of the Radio Demon was anything new. Being shrouded in mystery was a whole part of Hell's perception of him.
No one at the Hotel had even known if Alastor slept until months after the Hotel had officially opened and he'd been caught napping in the lobby. Charlie and Vaggie had come in from an unsuccessful day of trying to get new patrons. Despite being curled up looking almost like a deer sleeping in the woods (and Charlie had made Vaggie swear she would never bring it up so long as they both lived) with his top arm bent to be used as a pillow and his other flung out in front of him over the edge of the loveseat, the staff was still being held loosely in his hand. The whole position was at once slightly contorted and also seemed strangely comfortable. What Charlie was really interested in was the fact that Alastor managed to keep a hold of the staff even when he was asleep.
But what had really gotten them shocked—and Vaggie to take a photo—was that he wasn't smiling. True to form and legend, the Radio Demon was never seen without a smile, no matter how small. But, with the serenity of sleep it was missing from his face and he looked almost peaceful.
"Peaceful if you forget the mass genocide, eldritch horrors, and torture," Vaggie had whispered.
Charlie had tossed a blanket over him and let him be. She made a mental note to get Alastor some kind of sofa in his office. A futon, an ottoman, something so that no poor demon accidentally walked in on a similar sight and "disappeared". When Angel had walked in on the display he had to fight INCREDIBLY hard not to go over and rustle the tufts of hair that looked like ears. It as the first thing he'd noticed himself (with the staff being the second and the lack of a smile a shocking third). The reason the hair had been his first thought was mainly because Angel had a theory.
He'd heavily debated with himself often if the tufts in question were ears or not, given that they acted like them constantly, but given Alastor's Five Foot Rule he could never quite get a close enough look at them. They made little twitches, flicks towards sounds, and the way they conveyed far more emotion than the Radio Demon himself would ever admit all had Angel veering towards 'they're ears'. Angel had learned in his work, though, that many demons with mammal ears had that same issue of 'is it an ear or not' and sometimes they weren't. Which made it all the more frustrating.
But it did have the knock-on effect of making said demons far easier to read.
All that said, Angel dared to sneak up to the deer demon and climbed the wall. He hung over Alastor and lowered two of his arms. His fingers grazed the hair at the crux of the tuft and the head. Angel almost dropped right then and there—they were ears. The touch was only for a second, however, because Alastor's eyes shot open and his hand gripped the staff so hard Angel thought afterward that he was shocked it hadn't snapped. Angel yelped, falling and hitting the back of the sofa, and then crumpled onto the floor.
Alastor sat up, staring down at Angel with what could only be identified as his most neutral smile. Angel chuckled nervously up at him.
"Uh. Hey, doll. Were you playing dead?" Angel asked. Putting aside that Alastor rarely heard Angel address him without a flirt first, he tilted his head at Angel.
"Oh, I could never do that, mon ange," Alastor says. He readjusted on the sofa, letting his head rest above the armrest. Angel had sat up, popping his back. At the sound, something in Alastor seemed to click and his head bent back over the armrest, looking like the neck had snapped. "ACTUALLY—"
"AAAH!"
"My dear effeminate fellow, just what were you doing?" Alastor asked. Angel had stared at him a long moment before he decided cutting his losses as opposed to trying to talk his way out of it was a far better way to go.
"Nothing," Angel said, and was scrambling away before Alastor could whack him with his microphone.
Angel stared at the microphone now, situated square in the center of the dancefloor and blasting music for the whole room to swing to. It was always odd to see dances in Hell—the mix of generations certainly made it a sight to see with the mountain of different dancing styles regardless of the song playing—and it was always fun to see demons introduced to new kinds of music. It was just one of the reasons Angel went to clubs. While the music tended to stay on the side of 'modern'—whatever that happened to be at the time—some venues did have theme nights based on the decades and he'd picked up quite a few songs from eras before and after death that he'd listen to.
It was a grand night when they'd learned Alastor could play anything from the microphone and song requests had been abound for days.
Angel flicked his gaze over to where Alastor was presently distracted with Vaggie and Husk at the bar. He wanted to go over and join in the fun of ribbing on the two easiest to annoy demons on staff, but he refrained. He had a mission in mind. He was going to be the first one to touch that staff. Just once.
He could feign being too drunk if he got caught and pray that Alastor took pity on him. Slaying the 'poster child' for The Hotel certainly wouldn't reflect well on the Radio Demon, after all.
That line of thinking is exactly what gave Angel more courage to do that task than he was probably rightfully allowed. He could see that the demons on the dancefloor were having fun, but paying close attention to how close they were to the microphone staff, and avoiding touching the staff at all costs. That would make getting close harder. Angel couldn't just take up a partner and swing his way over if said partner would bail the second they got closer than the circle of demons giving it a wide birth. He'd have to get creative.
He started to move through the crowd, dancing on his own when he had the space after slipping between bodies. Most of the demons were having fun on their own and finally paying him little attention for once. He was grateful if only because it let him get closer without distractions. He reached the edge of the ring of demons and waited for the few seconds it took for the song to change and the movement of bodies to shift. Once they did, he took a bold step forward and grabbed the staff. The eye swiveled in his direction almost immediately once he'd taken that step, before he'd even touched the handle, and Angel almost halted his momentum before he realized he couldn't stop his hand in time anyway. Just so that he didn't risk pushing the staff away and toppling it—he would definitely get killed for doing that—he'd gone and grasped it.
The first thing he thought was that it was unusually warm. The staff itself felt like normal metal in his palm, but the metal had a warmth to it, a thrumming of life just under the surface that gave him chills. It was thrilling and disturbing to think that it had any kind of living interior. Logically, Angel knew that while that was possible, he doubted it really did. It was magic—nothing more and nothing less—and he hoped that assumption was correct. The second thought to hit his head was a great, big self-congratulation. A pat on the metaphorical back. The third thought was that it was comforting to know that the microphone wouldn't stop playing just because someone got handsy with it. The possibility had run through Angel's head, for sure, but he'd been caught in more compromising situations than that.
Angel bit back a satisfied laugh and glanced up to check on the bar. He froze, staring into the red eyes of the very Radio Demon, and the crushing reality of the grave situation he'd impulsively dove into came crashing into his head. Angel's brain broke for a moment. Overall, less than two seconds had passed since he had reached the edge of the dance circle and taken that step, but it felt like hours. Alastor's stare was unwavering and unbreaking. It was the least to expect from him; and was an incredibly tame reaction to what Angel had been expecting given what he was touching, and it was intimately unnerving. It was more unnerving than seeing the Radio Demon without a smile—which said quite a lot.
Angel couldn't tell, for the life of him, what Alastor was feeling.
His ears were straight up. His smile was strained. He was making unbreaking eye contact with Angel. His back was ramrod straight and looked stiff.
Oh, he was pissed.
Angel was sure of it. He abandoned the staff, almost leaping over the crowd of demons as he hastily danced his way through the crowd to where he could see Charlie and Vaggie sharing a slice of cake. If nothing else, he would bet his afterlife that Alastor wouldn't try to swallow him up in a mass of eldritch tentacles when he was right next to those two. He reached them before a full five seconds had passed and was both grateful that Alastor hadn't tried his trick on the dancefloor and confused by it.
Charlie looked up, a piece of cake in her mouth with the crumbles tumbling to the plate, and waved enthusiastically in his direction. Angel didn't need any further encouragement to join them. He slid in beside Vaggie, trying to do his best impersonation of not having just projected his soul from his body. He shot both of them finger guns.
"How ya doin', toots?"
Nailed it.
Vaggie sighed, taking her own piece of cake instead of answering. Charlie was more than happy to take up the role.
"I'm having a great time! Look at the turn out! We might get guests from tonight!" Charlie exclaimed. Angel didn't have the heart to break it to her that he might have just ruined that chance. He simply nodded.
"Got the biggest turn out yet."
"A few might sign up, but it could still be a while, Char," Vaggie says, patting the blonde on the shoulder. Angel was grateful at least one of the pair was a realist. Charlie's optimism wasn't exactly the least biased thing Angel had ever seen. "Niffty did wonderful on the cake, though."
"It's soooo good! Angel, you have to try it." Charlie pushed the plate to him.
The cake slice was half-eaten already, but he could tell that it was a higher craft than he'd ever had while in Hell. He cut a chunk off with his claw, ignoring Vaggie's disgusted face, and popped it in his mouth. His eyes went wide immediately.
"Oh my god."
"Right?!"
"That's better than—"
"Do not finish that." Vaggie warned. Angel gave her a knowing smirk, which only served to earn him a harsher glare, but it was worth it.
"Angel!"
The tell-tale static of the voice had Angel's fur standing on end. He whipped around, sweat already beading on his brow beneath the fur, and gave a strained 'I'm innocent, I swears by my grandmother's grave' smile to the Radio Demon. Angel caught half a second later that the tone of Alastor's voice hadn't been angry. He still didn't have the microphone in hand, occupying one hand to remaining behind his back for the time being and the other with toying with his own claws.
"H-hey, Al."
"May I have a word with you?" Alastor asks. His voice went from playful to thoughtful seamlessly. Angel caught the undercurrent of annoyance laced in, as well. He gave what he hoped was a playful hum in return, but the nerves broke through anyway. He cleared his throat.
"I'm hanging out with Char and Vags right now," he says.
"You can always come back, Angel. We'll have a whole slice of cake ready for you!" Charlie says, popping another piece into her mouth.
Angel wanted to slam his hand on the table and scream at her but at the same time he saw a small saving grace in her words. She expected him back, so Alastor couldn't kill him or leave any visible marks if he didn't' want trouble with the owner of the only place he could get any decent entertainment. It was the only thing that gave Angel the balls to stand and follow Alastor to another table a few spaces away.
Alastor motioned to a seat and Angel hesitantly took it. He was berating himself for not acting more drunk when Alastor had come up to the table in the first place. He may have been able to pull it off. Alastor sat down across from him and Angel got the distinct feeling that, no, he probably wouldn't have been able to pull it off. But he'd be damned twice if he wouldn't have tried it had he just remembered to.
Alastor set his hands over his lap, crossing his legs, and lacing his fingers over his topmost knee. He looked far more composed and calm than Angel was feeling.
"So, my effeminate fellow, mind explaining what you were doing out there?" Alastor asks. Angel fought the urge to gulp.
"An impulse, that's all, babe," he says. Alastor gives him a sly side-eye.
"Mon ange, I do believe I've discussed the pet names with you."
"Right."
"Now, what possible impulse could you have had to do that?" Alastor asks. Angel wasn't sure if the chipper tone in his voice was a ruse or genuine. He doubted he would ever know.
"I just wanted ta' know what it felt like!" Angel confessed. "Ya never put the thing down!"
"There is a reason for that, but, I supposed I can't stay angry over some harmless curiosity," Alastor says. Angel was about to let out a sigh of relief when he spoke again after a short pause. "But, do not. Do. It. Again."
"Right," Angel squeaked.
Alastor gave a short chuckled and stood, brushing off his jacket, and sauntering away. Angel deflated in his chair with a gurgling whine. He didn't need a slice of a cake after this. He needed the whole thing.