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Angel couldn't sleep. A pretty regular occurrence these days, so all he’d wanted was a drink. A single fuckin’ drink in the dim, empty solitude of the hotel bar - and at three in the morning, that wasn't too much to ask for, right? Some silence, the heat of sweet mental anaesthesia sliding down his throat - only a little, nothin’ wrong with taking the edge off, after all - before stumbling back to bed to pass out for a couple of hours as the sky began to lighten.
The only problem was that someone was already sitting at the bar, posture ramrod straight with a glittering cut-crystal glass dangling loosely from his limp wrist. Alastor. No one in their right mind would be drinking alone - here! - at this time of night; but then all of them were at least a little fucked in the head, and maybe Alastor most of all.
Angel stilled in the darkness of the hallway, debating turning back even as he found his gaze lingering on the bottle of whiskey that sat invitingly within his line of sight. Two of his hands tugged at the frayed hem of the oversized t-shirt that passed as his nightclothes, the shorts beneath so tiny as to be near-invisible. He wasn’t – embarrassed – but his hair probably looked like shit and the bags under his un-made up eyes must be on full display. Meanwhile Alastor sat there dressed like he was about to go out for one of his mid-afternoon strolls, his only concession to the hour being that his jacket was nowhere to be seen, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
That small glimpse of the dark skin of his bared forearms was weirdly fuckin’ scandalous, Angel thought, and his breath caught in his throat as a hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up.
“Please, don’t hover out there in the gloom on my account!”
Shit. Alastor had probably known he was there all along thanks to that creepyass shadow of his. Still, he was here now so Angel was damned if he wasn’t at least going to get a drink out of it.
“...if you say so,” he muttered, suddenly glad for the dim lighting of the room when Alastor’s gaze snapped towards him as he approached, skittering over him as though he were some new and fascinating creature rather than someone that he saw and near-ignored almost every single day. “As long as you’re in the mood for sharin’.” It was almost instinctive, the lilt in his voice of lazy innuendo - but it fell flat in the air between them as Alastor simply tilted his head, eyes now focused intently on Angel’s face, smile unwavering. It was still a little unnerving, being the sole recipient of that stare. At any other time Angel might have been preening, but it was hard to feel like hot shit when he’d quite literally rolled out of bed fifteen minutes before.
“But of course, my dear!” With a snap of his fingers another glass appeared on the bar as Angel slid onto a nearby stool. Not too close - for one thing he didn’t have a fuckin’ death wish, and for another he wasn’t really in the mood for company to begin with. Least of all with a demon who seemed almost as allergic to silence as Angel himself.
Before he could even reach for the bottle Alastor was already filling his glass with deep amber - and a generous amount, too, none of that stinginess that Husk favoured for Angel’s own good. It was always kinda funny how much of a gentleman Alastor was, even while being such an asshole. If it were any other guy pushing that glass towards him there’d be no doubt he had ulterior motives. Which – alright, Alastor certainly wasn’t lacking in those – but at the very least none of them included trying to get into Angel’s pants. It was almost as comforting as it was insulting.
“...thanks,” he said quietly, staring down at the dark liquid that clung to the sides of the tumbler as he swirled it mindlessly. If this was Alastor’s choice it was undoubtedly good shit, not that Angel was any connoisseur. If it got him fucked up that had always been good enough; a pleasant taste was just a bonus. Alastor’s eyes were still on him as he downed half the glass - and it slid down so easily, soft and smoky on his tongue, the burn a gentle warmth rather than the astringent sting of cheap liquor. “Does this count as entertainment for you, then? Watching me fuck up my sobriety?”
Alastor hummed contemplatively and rested his chin on his free hand as he looked back at Angel, gaze now half-lidded. “Perhaps it would,” he said lazily, “if you’d ever been serious about such a thing to begin with.”
“Asshole,” Angel slammed the glass down with a sharp crack against the lacquered surface of the brand new bar. Alastor’s smile flickered as some of the whiskey slopped out to spill over his fingers. Everything was so pristine it made him slightly uncomfortable; even the air still reeked of fresh paint and new fabric. Alastor’s comment had stung, somehow, even though Angel knew he wasn’t exactly wrong. “I’m way better than I was! Ain’t nothing sinful about alcohol, anyway.” He rubbed his finger distractedly over the scratch he’d inflicted on the wood. “If there’s one thing I do remember from bein’ forced to go to church as a kid it was the water into wine stories, they love that shit.” Smirking, he picked up his tumbler again. “Got to drink it at communion too, so Heaven can shove that up its ass.” As though to punctuate his point Angel knocked back the rest of his whiskey as Alastor laughed delightedly.
“I don’t believe that tolerance extends to intoxication, my licentious fellow, but an admirable interpretation of the rules!”
“Well, I ain’t intoxicated yet so where’s the problem?” Angel bit out, and pushed his empty glass back towards the bottle. “But if you’d like to help me out with that…”
There was a soft buzz of static as Alastor’s grin widened and he picked up the whiskey, hands cradling the bottle elegantly as he inclined his head. “But of course! This is Hell, my dear, and we should take our pleasures where we can get them.”
It was weirdly hot hearing our pleasures roll with a purr from Alastor’s proper tongue - though they might differ on the details, the sentiment itself was pretty much the motto of his hedonistic afterlife. “I’ll drink to that.”
At last there was silence, and it was almost— companionable. Several glasses later and it finally felt as though his thoughts were dulling, softening around the edges in that blessed solace that made everything just— less. It wasn’t quite silence though, he realised; there was an oddly comforting nostalgia in the faint hiss and crackle of white noise in the air that emanated from around Alastor. It took him back to when he’d been alive, waking up disoriented in those liminal hours before dawn after passing out in the gently lit mess of his room, music long since over but the record on the phonograph still turning, turning, turning—
He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “So Charlie was tellin’ me about the little trip you guys took to Cannibal Town.” The statement spilled out of Angel without conscious thought, all at once his mind’s apparent desperation to escape being dragged back down into the past overwhelming. Alastor’s ears twitched minutely as true silence abruptly fell. The moment before he responded stretched out like spun glass, Angel’s chest thrumming with tension as Alastor blinked slowly, setting down his drink and at last turning to Angel to smile with a savagely sparkling curiosity.
“Why, yes! It was quite the delightful jaunt.” But there was a hollow, flat tinniness to the echo of Alastor’s voice as his gaze remained distant, and for an instant Angel wondered if he, too, had been in the midst of clawing himself back out from late night dregs of the past. “If you’re curious yourself I’m sure you’d be most welcome.”
Angel gave a strained smile as Alastor lightly crossed one leg over the other and turned on his stool to face him, dark forearms now resting on his knee, eyes now narrowing and gleaming with interest. Angel’s skin crawled, prickling up his spine with an electric shiver. Something in his gut twisted. “Yeah, I dunno. Not really into the whole…. eating people thing. Y’know?”
“How quaint!” Alastor tilted his head to one side, grin expectant and unwavering. “Neither is our Charlie, more’s the shame, but I always thought spiders were rather fond of eating their own.”
Though a part of Angel knew everything that Alastor said was utterly calculated, the seemingly careless slip of ‘our Charlie’ still somehow felt like a small crack in the aloof facade; a dumb, tiny warmth blooming in his chest that reminded him of why he’d been so relieved Alastor had made it back to them. There was also the undeniable fact the asshole was fun to argue with, Angel would give him that.
He turned and mirrored Alastor’s pose, leaning in with a languid shrug and baring his own sharp teeth in amusement. “And deer are herbivores, Al, so what’s your excuse?”
Alastor just looked delighted. “Indeed! So do tell me, Angel,” he murmured, tone dropping to something darker, softly fuzzed with static interference, “if our bodies are no longer human; if it can no longer be said that we even share the same species… can it truly still be considered cannibalism at all?”
“Fuckin’ – yes!” Angel huffed an incredulous laugh and shook his head. “I ain’t eating anything that talks.” The whiskey made this seem like a perfectly valid argument, but the way Alastor immediately clapped his hands together with glee said otherwise. Angel’s gaze lingered on the tendons that stood out against the charcoal grey skin of Alastor’s wrists and the lean muscle of his forearms. Skinny, unassuming; were it not for the sharp shine of his pointed vermillion claws and serrated smile it would be all too easy to forget what that body was capable of.
“Marvelous,” Alastor said, reaching for the bottle to tip the last of the whiskey into their glasses and raising his own as though to prepare a toast. “I know plenty of sinners and hellborn alike who cannot say a word!”
Angel had probably walked right into that one. He snatched up his refilled tumbler and gestured with it vaguely. “Fine, then what about—”
“—intelligence?” The shit-eating grin on Alastor’s face was all too familiar, and so fuckin’ smug Angel could do little but stare at him sourly. He already knew where this line of argument was going. “Is your little porcine companion not more quick-witted than some of your—” There was a brief burst of interference as Alastor’s expression flickered, lip curling into a sneer that made Angel’s hackles rise. “—clients?” Judgmental asshole. But then it was gone in an instant, smile softening to something he could almost believe to be genuine. If he were an idiot, that is. Alastor’s glass swooped in to clink softly against his own. “Some moral standards are so arbitrary, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Angel muttered, “it ain’t a moral judgement in any case, it’s called a preference.”
Clearly having felt he’d won that argument, Alastor simply made a pleased little ‘hm!’ and sipped primly at his drink. Hazily, it occurred to Angel that ordinarily he would have gone back to his bed long before now; turning to squint at the clock nestled in the shadowed rear of the room revealed it to be past six, late enough that he risked Charlie coming down to find him like this. He couldn’t bring himself to stand, though, instead slumping against the bar and pressing his cheek to the cool, smooth surface of the wood, vision swimming and mind blissfully, shamefully fuzzy.
As if from an adjacent room— another life, another time —muffled, slow jazz began to play, and when Angel closed his eyes Alastor began to sing as though to himself. There was no showiness or grandiosity to it, just the soft lilt of his vowels fading into a southern twang amongst his distinct elocution. It was nice, Angel thought distantly, though whether it was something real or simply an affectation for the song he didn’t know. The melody sounded achingly familiar though he couldn’t quite place it, another wave of nostalgia gnawing gently at his heart.
When Angel awoke, he was alone.
It wasn’t as though he never saw Alastor around; it was hard to avoid anyone in the hotel, least of all the guy who seemed to delight in being both everywhere and nowhere all at once. So even if it was only in passing it was impossible not to be aware of the guy whose mere presence was a fuckin’ black hole of creepiness wherever he went. Sometimes it was Alastor’s gaze he could feel crawling over him, distinct and intense; other times it was the shadow with its skeevy grin and unhinged stare. In any case, Angel had his own shit to be dealing with, Val running increasingly hot and cold the longer Angel managed to stay away before the terms of his contract forced him to return. Sleep became frustratingly hard to grasp after returning from work, and even on the odd occasion Alastor deigned to talk to him in front of the others during civilised hours, what was he even supposed to say? Hey, Al, that time you sang me to sleep as I passed out on the bar was the best rest I’ve had in months, mind doing that again?
He’d rather fuckin’ die than open up that avenue of ridicule.
But when it next happened - this time when Angel was slinging back vodka alone at four in the morning, eyes and mind achingly tired - it was Alastor that joined him. And this, this couldn’t be a coincidence. Which meant that Alastor was sliding oh-so-casually onto the stool beside him for a goddamn reason, for all that he looked like he didn't give a shit, not so much as glancing in Angel’s direction.
“D’you ever sleep?” Angel said by way of greeting, skating a fingertip mindlessly around the rim of his empty shot glass, movement stilling as Alastor plucked up the bottle of vodka to eye the label somewhat disdainfully. His nose wrinkled above a strained smile. Fuckin’ snob.
“Almost never!” Though he took none for himself, Alastor did reach out an elegant arm to top up Angel’s own glass. “On the whole an unpleasant experience, and quite wasteful besides!”
It took a moment for him - glass now paused against his lips - to register that the goddamn Radio Demon had as good as admitted to having nightmares. But Angel wasn’t stupid drunk enough yet to voice such a realisation, instead knocking back the shot to focus on the involuntary shudder that ran through him and the blooming heat in his chest and stomach. “Can be nice, though,” he said, trying not to shamelessly stare as Alastor began to remove his blazer, folding it neatly and vanishing it with an easy snap of his fingers. “To escape for a while. Even if the dreams are bad, they ain’t real, y’know?”
When no response came the silence surrounding them was stark and empty; Angel found he missed the white noise, and the tinny faded strains of music from a long gone era. Alastor was still looking at him with a contemplative tight-lipped smile. Maybe he was trying to figure out just how trashed Angel was; what cruel buttons might be entertaining enough to press. Honestly, Angel still couldn’t tell why Alastor was even here. If he considered sleeping a waste of time, surely bothering a mildly drunk porn star in the early hours of the morning wasn’t much of an improvement.
“How was your day, my dear?” When Alastor spoke again it seemed to come out of nowhere, and a wave of cold nausea ran through him at an all too familiar query, a sickening jolt of deja vu. Never before from Alastor, of course; this had always been Val’s favourite question, murmured against Angel’s cheek or the bruised nape of his neck after a day full of shit he’d rather forget, voice dripping honey sweet. The pet names differed; baby, Angie, Angelcakes, but still he found himself frozen, shot glass clenched within his fist.
He’d grown to hate that fuckin’ question. It reminded him of being young, dumb and naive; of the early days when he’d thought that Val actually cared. Of straddling Val’s lap with arms around his neck and hands slipping inside his shirt; feeling Val’s unrelenting fingers digging into the flesh of his hips and groping his chest as Angel had actually answered, prattling on and on to what he could now recognise as increasingly disinterested grunts and wandering hands. And when he’d ask Val in return, it would always be deflected with ‘I’m sure you could make it even better, right, baby?’
As the years had passed Val had stopped bothering to even pretend to be interested in Angel’s answer; Angel himself had learned the rote responses that would usually irritate Val the least. Just great, Val. You know it was good, Daddy. Or: I missed you, it’s not the same without you there.
When he blinked he realised the comforting white noise static of a phonograph that had long finished playing was punctuating the air, and Alastor was still waiting, waiting for an answer that must have taken way too fuckin’ long— “Just great, Al,” he blurted as instinct kicked in, busying himself with tapping his glass in barely veiled agitation against the surface of the bar. He needed more alcohol, needed to be way more shit faced than this—
“Your reaction says otherwise, though of course you’re not under any obligation to share.” There was none of the expected anger in Alastor’s tone, no annoyance. It felt as though he’d read Angel’s mind when in an instant there was a bottle of that same fancy whiskey from the last time they’d drunk together sitting between them, two elegant cut glass tumblers waiting.
The laugh that escaped him was short and humourless. “No one ever wants to hear the real answer to that question. Val sure as shit didn’t.”
Perhaps at the implication that he might be anything like Valentino, Alastor’s smile became brittle, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head in that thoughtful way that was now so familiar, dark hair falling into his face. “Desire for a response is not to be conflated with caring about the content therein.” The bluntness of it forced another choked off laugh from Angel’s throat. He’d known that - of course he had - but hearing another say it aloud still stung.
“Yeah, and don’t I know it,” Angel muttered. “For a supposed gentleman you sure lack tact sometimes.” He exhaled, something in his chest twinging as he at last reached for the whiskey to pour them both a glass.
Alastor blinked and looked faintly chagrined. “Then allow me to rephrase. When Valentino would ask you this, why do you suppose that was?”
Bile rose in Angel’s throat as his stomach twisted. “I— I dunno. Habit? He never seemed to be even listenin’ to my answer, though he’d still get real pissy if I ignored him.” Angel wasn’t sure why he was talking about all this as though it were in the past - his contract was still in effect and he was already at his limit of how long he could get away with staying away from the studio. This scenario would happen again, and again, and again, and surely Alastor must know that too.
“Just another form of control, crude and simplistic.” Alastor touched their glasses together with a gentle clink, before bringing the drink to his nose and closing his eyes with a pleased hum as he inhaled.
“Then why were you askin’? As no offence, Smiles, but I ain’t buyin’ that you care either.”
“Oh, none taken!” Alastor beamed, and his voice was almost fond as he cracked one eye open with a sideways glance. “You’re quite correct, after all - though mistaken in thinking that means I don’t wish to hear a genuine answer.”
Angel grimaced, “Uhh, sure. Okay.” Maybe he was drunker than he thought, or Alastor was just in one of his overly cryptic moods. He took a sip of the whiskey, rich and smooth, and shit - it really did make the vodka he’d just been downing seem like paint stripper. “So your angle is… what, exactly?”
“Understanding,” Alastor said succinctly, “which is not quite the same as caring, though I would argue it’s perhaps more valuable - for both parties.” He exhaled slowly, eyebrows still slanted in distaste. “Still,” he continued, posture straightening as his smile brightened, “at the very least we will all be free from dealing with his tasteless vulgarity before too long.” As though he’d said nothing of any import, Alastor held his tumbler up to admire the soft amber glow of his whiskey in the dim light of the bar.
Angel opened his mouth. Then closed it again. “Wait, what?” Alastor began to hum softly to himself as he drummed his claws against the shine of lacquered wood, strains of fuzzy background music swelling to support his melody. This had to be one of Alastor’s shitty jokes. “I mean,” Angel said, sliding into an easy purr as he raised an eyebrow, “if you wanna get rid of Val for little ol’ me, I ain’t about to complain.” There was comfort in confidence, no matter how forced. Alastor’s casual declaration had left him feeling uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down. “It’s just, uh,” he paused for a moment to knock back the rest of his drink, as though the alcohol would somehow make this situation any less surreal. “I know you’re like, one of the big bads down here, but Val ain’t exactly small fry.” Alastor stopped humming, ears flicking in what Angel knew must be irritation as the music screeched into sudden silence.
“Is that so? Why, I had no idea you thought so highly of him.” Alastor’s voice was dripping with sarcasm, and Angel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. It was actually kinda funny what a petty bitch Alastor could be when it came to his reputation, like a hissy cat that needed special treatment to be placated.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, I know you could wipe the floor with him if you really wanted.” Angel already missed the music; there had been something familiar about it, like he’d known it in his previous life. “It’s just… why ? You don’t do anything out of the goodness of that fucked up heart of yours.”
Alastor sniffed dismissively, shoulders relaxing as he shrugged; even that he did with elegance. “It benefits myself, in that it would be ever so entertaining to watch Vox suffer the loss of his… partner - not to mention reminding the other overlords what I’m capable of; it benefits Charlie, in that our most famous resident would be able to commit full time to the project - and it would benefit you, my dear, in ways I’m sure you know better than any of us.” Spinning on his stool to face Angel, Alastor’s expression was filled with a manic kind of glee as he reached out to grab one of Angel’s free hands within both of his own. “Frankly, he is crass, uninteresting, and in my way.” His grip on Angel’s hand tightened, the uncanny chill of his skin sending a shiver up Angel’s arm. He found himself frozen by it, head swimming with the alcohol and sudden realisation that this was perhaps the first time Alastor had ever touched him with such deliberate intent. “The airwaves could do with a few more screams, don’t you think?”
Angel flinched, and Alastor dropped his hand as though scalded. It should have made him happy to hear those words; he hated Val’s fuckin’ guts, right? But all at once Angel wanted to be sick, the nausea roiling in his stomach. “I mean you ain’t wrong,” Angel said, and couldn’t keep himself from staring down at his now abandoned hand where he could still feel the ghost of Alastor’s brief grip. He wished he hadn’t let go. “But maybe you don’t gotta kill him, y’know? He deserves it - and don't I fuckin' know it, but— it's,” he swallowed, throat tight, "it's complicated."
There was a sharp burst of chaotic static that sounded almost like confusion, and the look Alastor shot him was long and indecipherable. He’d thought Alastor might laugh at him, disdain him - fuck, he deserved it for that weak-ass response - but it never came. There was a fresh burst of music, stuttering and crackling as the song changed, again and again, an agitated radio cycling through channels that couldn’t quite settle.
“I liked the one you were singin’ before,” Angel said quietly, “you takin’ requests?”
“But of course! What kind of second-rate radio host do you take me for?” Alastor flourished his hand in a silly little half bow as he jumped to his feet, and Angel felt a stab of disappointment that he seemed to be readying to leave already. It must be late, after all, and it was pretty fuckin’ ridiculous how long they always seemed to end up talking for. Originally he’d started coming down here just for the chance to drink undisturbed, but now that thought somehow wasn’t half so appealing. “You are a curious one, Angel Dust.”
With an elegant wave of those clawed fingers that familiar song started to play, a comforting energy to it that made him want to tap his foot and savour his drink while leaning against the bar as Alastor sang. But Alastor neither left, nor sang: he simply remained standing, half bent at the waist in a shallow bow as he regarded Angel with an impish smile.
“You alright there, Al?” Angel rarely felt self-conscious, but there was something about the way Alastor was looking at him; not through him, not past him, but seeing everything, His dumb, messy bedhead; his sleep rumpled nightdress that wasn’t even remotely sexy; the rawness that was probably still written all over his face from discussing Valentino. He pasted on a smile and crossed his legs, still uncertain where Alastor was going with this when suddenly a hand was being extended towards him.
Alastor’s hand remained outstretched, palm up, as though inviting Angel to take it. When he spoke at last his tone was soft and almost dangerous, barely audible above the music that now surrounded them. “At the very least, my dear, do you not agree that it’s the spider who should be preying upon the fly? Or, I suppose we should say— moth?” Alastor’s grin sharpened with the faint sound of canned laughter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
This was insane, Angel thought, his heart skipping a beat. Dangerous, dangerous. Alastor didn’t do shit without wanting something in return; though he was no Val he was still an overlord, and a petty, vicious one at that - no matter how charming he could be. Angel eyed his hand, but didn’t take it. “I’ll happily rip his dick off myself,” Angel said fervently, “but I ain’t making a deal with you for it.”
“Funny! I must have somehow missed the part where I asked,” Alastor said, tone dry. “But all in good time, my dear.” He wiggled his fingers, eyebrows raised and expectant.
Angel gave a sharp toothed smile of his own. “Never going to happen,” he said slyly, and Alastor’s answering cackle was irritatingly endearing.
“Well!” Alastor said, still looking far too entertained, “let’s not put a damper on the end of the night by discussing such… worthless beings.” His free arm was now tucked behind his back, proffered hand still expectant and dipping closer as he leaned in. “Must I stand like this all night, or will you join me for a dance?”
Angel was hardly even conscious of reaching out to take Alastor’s hand, cool and strangely gentle as it gripped his own. “I’m, uh,” he fumbled for words as he was tugged to his feet and led away from the bar, “I ain’t exactly dressed for it.” It was the first thing that came into his mind, mundane and utterly redundant as if Alastor hadn’t been aware of his ugly nightdress since he’d first come down to join him. While Alastor had banished his blazer, he still otherwise looked entirely as put together and neat as always. Angel wasn’t even wearing fuckin’ shoes, just some knee-high pink socks he’d tugged on out of habit to cover his ugly feet.
“Nonsense, my dear!” Alastor exclaimed, “you look quite charming.” Angel grimaced, unsure how to feel about the fact that Alastor seemed perfectly genuine. “So long as you have a smile and your multitude of extremely capable limbs, we have everything we need.” A hand came to settle on the thin line of his waist, touch light and undemanding. “You are a dancer, are you not?”
Angel fixed him with a deadpan stare, glancing from where their hands were joined back down to the pleased gleam of Alastor’s eyes. “Sure, though unless you got a pole or a lap that needs some attention, ‘fraid I’m a few decades outta practice.” It probably should have felt weird when Alastor clicked his tongue and the music shifted, becoming something brighter and jazzier, and he almost tripped over his own feet as Alastor gently tugged him along - but instead it just felt— comfortable. Despite the fact that Angel towered over him, Alastor led with an ease and confidence that let him finally begin to relax into the moment, a breathless laugh escaping as Alastor spun him.
“It’s just like riding a bicycle,” Alastor said brightly, and Angel couldn’t help but grin at seeing him so clearly in his element, “one never truly forgets.”
That wasn’t exactly true, though. In life, Angel had always had to lead; had never been able to freely wear the pretty dresses and makeup he’d privately longed to; never been able to publicly dance in a bar with a cute guy just because he felt like it. But this— even if from the outside they looked fuckin’ ridiculous, Alastor in his carefully pressed shirt and bowtie twirling a gangly and plain-faced Angel in his sleep-rumpled nightdress – there was still a bright kind of euphoria in it, bubbling up within him until he couldn’t stop smiling. Sure, he was lacking the makeup and pretty dress, and cute wasn’t exactly the first word that sprung to mind when describing Alastor - but none of that mattered.
The triple steps, rock steps, shuffles and kicks - it was so easy to follow Alastor’s practiced lead, and Angel had always been a natural at improv. It hit him, too, that despite how much Alastor was touching him - weird, weird, weird - there was freedom in the utter lack of any expectations behind it. Alastor just… wanted to dance with him. He wasn’t copping a feel, he wasn’t staring at Angel’s tits, he wasn’t whispering dirty shit that he was planning on doing later as Angel’s skin crawled. At one time, he would have been offended. But this was probably the most delighted and carefree side of Alastor he’d ever seen - kind of like the joy he seemed to take in fuckin’ up his enemies, but lacking the aura of evil - so he really couldn’t bring himself to care. Alastor not wanting to fuck him no longer felt like rejection, but instead like acceptance of every other part of him that Val had never given a shit about.
It was… nice. To enjoy the intimate touches around his waist and shoulders, the closeness that came with physical contact while knowing that it wasn't a prelude to an act he had no say in. It was bizarre to think that - at least in this respect - he genuinely fuckin’ trusted Alastor.
His pulse was racing with his limbs relaxing loose and easy as they picked up speed, and it was fun to twirl and spin and kick his feet, forgetting about how he looked and where they were; a strangely bittersweet collision of his past life with his current. Though ironically he felt more himself now than he ever had back then. Alastor dipped him dramatically as the music at last came to a stop, morphing to something quieter and more relaxed and peppered with the gentle crackle of familiar static.
He knew he was still smiling stupidly, cheeks almost aching with a giddiness he couldn’t quite shake. “Next time I wanna wear a real nice dress, get all dolled up,” Angel said breathlessly, and then hesitated. “I mean— if you wanted—”
“But of course!” Alastor pulled him back up to a standing position, expression immeasurably pleased, and the minute twitching of his ears as he spoke just had to be unconscious because it was so fuckin’ adorable. “Competent and tolerable dance partners who appreciate the classics are in such short supply down here.”
“I dunno about competent,” Angel said as Alastor led him back to the bar, smirking as they resumed their seats. “Not yet, anyway.”
“And I have every faith in you.” The way Alastor reached up to run one clawed finger inside the collar of his shirt to try and loosen it seemed to be the only indication their dance had caused him any exertion at all.
“Y’know, you could always take the tie off,” Angel drawled, resting his cheek on one hand - but there was no real intent behind it, and the mildly exasperated glance that flickered towards him showed that Alastor seemed to know it. Huh.
Alastor pointedly picked up his abandoned drink and took a sip before deigning to respond. “I don't think so. Another drink, my dear? Though I believe Charlie will be down before long.”
“Nah, actually, I’m good,” Angel said, and it was only when the words left him that he realised they were genuinely true. Beside him, Alastor’s smile widened and the music shifted once more as he glanced away, beginning to sing softly to himself.
And when Angel at last made it to bed as the sky lightened and the adrenaline began fading, limbs imbued with a pleasant ache as he curled up in bed - he slept more deeply than he had in years.