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Angel will admit, he fucked up. He got addicted to too many things. He could handle one or two addictions, the withdrawals, the cravings. But almost five?
He wanted nothing more than to rip all his skin off.
He sits in the lobby of the Hotel, his foot tapping quickly. He heard chewing gum helps with cravings so he’s been doing that. For the last hour. He vaguely remembers going through two packs already. He can’t even taste whatever flavor it is at this point.
All he can think about is the feeling of being on coke. The lightness of it. The speed. How amazing it feels, how awful the comedown is.
Or the heroin, one he hasn’t done often but often enough that he’s addicted. The absolute ecstasy, ironically one of the few drugs Angel hasn’t done, the high. The feeling of the most happiness you’ve ever felt in your entire life, only for it to be ripped away, causing you to claw for more.
And of course, the one he’s named after. Angel dust, PCP, and the numbness it brings is something Angel looks forward to more than anything else. It’s nice, not feeling. It actually, ironically, helps with his other cravings. Which of course, makes the cravings for this one worse.
Alchohol. Similar effects to coke actually. But a little more dampened. It feels like settling into bed after a long day. That pleasant, tired, happiness.
And the last one, the only one Val didn’t get him into, self-harm. He didn’t even know it could be considered an addiction. But he feels the same way about it that he does for everything else. The craving for more. The punishment for all his sins. Hell isn’t enough, Angel thinks. He’ll just have to do what eternal punishment can’t.
“What’s happening?” Vaggie asks, sitting down on one of the bar stools.
“Huh?” Husk asks, turning around from organizing the bottles for the fifth time today.
Vaggie points to Angel Dust, anxiously bouncing his leg, on the couch. He’s surrounded by empty packs of gum and gum wrappers. He hasn’t said a word for over two hours, just staring into the fire.
“Dunno,” Husk says. “We’ve all tried to talk to ‘im. He won’t talk.”
“Shall I try?” A radio-laced voice pipes up suddenly, causing Vaggie to jump.
No one argues so Alastor walks over to Angel, sitting down next to him in an armchair. Angel makes absolutely no sign of noticing Alastor’s presence. Alastor tries to get his attention, clearing his throat and even tapping his cane in the most annoying way possible.
Nothing.
His smile tightens, causing Vaggie to walk away, needing deniability. Husk just turns back around to the bottles, not caring the slightest bit about anything happening.
“Angel.” Alastor tries. Nothing. Angel just spits out some gum, opens a new pack, grabs another piece, and pops it in his mouth. “That can’t be good for your teeth,” Alastor observes.
Alastor continues trying for almost an hour, seeing this as a challenge at this point, almost forgetting his original objective to help the spider.
“Wow, you are difficult.” Alastor sighs, leaning back against the chair. “Nothin’ phases ya right now, huh?” He asks, dropping the radio effect.
Angel suddenly blinks, his gaze shifting over to Alastor. “What?” He asks.
Alastor’s smile widens. “There ya are!”
“Ya have an accent.” Angel points out.
“Sure do.”
Angel hums thoughtfully, his eyes drifting back over to the fire, spitting out another piece of gum and reaching out for another only to find all the packs empty. “Fuck.”
“I don’t think you need any more gum.” Alastor jokes, the radio effect back on.
Angel shakes his head, running his claws against his inner arm. Alastor has watched him long enough (for his job… no other reason) to know it’s a nervous tic of his. But never this hard, to the point where Angel’s fur stays parted where his claws run through it.
“I wonda,” Alastor starts, dropping the radio effect as that’s the only thing that’s affected the other so far. “Ifya eva met someone from the bayou?”
“Cajun? Is that the accent?” Angel asks suddenly, eyes trained on Alastor.
“Mhm.” Alastor nods. “I’m from Louisiana.”
“Brooklyn.”
“Ah, I heard it’s nice there, yeah?”
Angel nods, smiling fondly. “If ya know the right people.”
Alastor chuckles, the radio effect back. “Ah yes, I heard you were quite the mafia man back in your day.”
“Sure was. Not very good at it, but I was there.”
They lapsed into thoughtful silence, Angel scratching at his inner arm again. “Angel, what are your favorite flowers?”
“Forget-me-nots.” Angel answers before smiling widely. “Why, Smiles? You wanna get me flowers?”
“Maybe.”
“What are yours?”
“Bleeding Hearts.”
Angel snorts, his top pair of hands behind his head. He puts the bottom pair in his pockets, something Alastor is considering a success. “‘Course they are.”
“Favorite color?”
“What is this, twenty questions?”
Alastor just shrugs. Angel rolls his eyes but answers the question anyways. “Pink. Obviously.”
“Red.”
“No shit.”
Despite their less-than-friendly banter, the two ended up talking for the rest of the night and well into the morning. And ever since that day, anytime those thoughts would creep back into Angel’s head, he would ask Alastor to talk.
And Alastor is more than happy to oblige.