Chapter Text
On the first night of the newly-named Hazbin Hotel, the Radio Demon had taken over the kitchen. Chicken and spicy-smelling sausages crackled in seasoned oil and a massive cast-iron skillet, even as the demon himself chopped up peppers, onions, and celery at a frightening speed. There was garlic being smashed by a shadowy tentacle, while another kneaded bread dough. A shadow-helper washed what looked to be okra and collard greens. Spices and herbs flew across the revamped kitchen from a magically-appearing cabinet. Jazz flowed merrily from newly-installed classic speakers, while Alastor hummed along. Fresh chicken broth somehow steamed away on a nearby counter, waiting at attention with precisely-measured rice.
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” Charlie asked, again, only for Husker to finally carry her out over his head.
“Just let Alastor do his thing,” their new concierge told her gruffly, as if he hadn’t only stepped in after a look from Alastor. “Try the damn food and then see if you think he needs any fuckin’ help.”
“Um… Okay, I guess… It just seems rude? You all just got here! And are already doing so much! I should at least bake cookies, or something! Or a--! Vaggie, do you think”
“Here we go,” Angel whispered to Husker. Husker looked torn between ignoring him, again, or listening to a heads-up.
“I think if you want to bake that welcome cake, you’ll have to fight the Radio Demon for the oven,” Vaggie informed her, even as she snatched Charlie from Husker. Husker didn’t look grateful, but he didn’t complain, either.
Also, Vaggie would fight for Charlie over anything. But she would never fight for that Radio Bastard to get a cake. Or his totally-suspicious helpers.
“But it would be a Welcome Cake!”
“Wouldn’t be a welcome interruption,” Husker grumbled.
“I’ll give ya a welcome interruption,” Angel offered. “And the strawberry pimp, at the same time, if yer both inta that.”
“Alastor’s baking baguettes,” Niffty agreed with Vaggie, oblivious to Husker ready to strangle Angel behind her (and Angel actively encouraging it). “And he doesn’t like sweet things, anyway.”
“Do you like sweet things?” Charlie tried, maybe a little desperately, finally back on her own two hooves.
“Oh!” Niffty blinked her single huge, surprisingly adorable eye. “Yes!”
What followed was a surprisingly (mostly) nice game of getting to know Niffty, with Vaggie joining in with a suspicious glare. Favorite foods (Niffty’s was Jambalaya and maybe boded well, and Husker answered with “liquid bread”); favorite drinks (Niffty “wasn’t picky,” and liked anything from sherry to Fireball, and Husker mentioned “more booze”); favorite hobbies (guess and guess)… Frankly, with the way Angel answered every question (“Bananas… and I’ll even try fuzzy ones”), favorite drinks (“a tall drink’a hard liquor”), favorite hobbies (guess), Vaggie was amazed that Husker stuck around as long as he did.
Of course, the second he vanished behind the new bar was the second before Alastor announced that supper was just about ready. And that everyone should give Husker their drink order.
Angel grinned. “Where’s that tall drink’a hard—”
“You’re gettin’ water,” Husker snapped. “If you shut it now, you’ll at least get lemon.”
“Husker, my good fellow! What reason is there to be so stingy?”
Angel smiled at Alastor and batted his lashes--
“He suggested you, me, and him for a threesome.”
Radio feedback sounded. “I’ll leave it to your discretion, old friend,” and Alastor vanished back into the kitchen.
(Vaggie had to give him props, though. That damn smile never wavered.
“We’re gonna have to talk to Angel about boundaries,” Charlie sighed.)
Soon, Angel did not get lemon with his water. Nobody would pass him theirs, either… not even Charlie with her gloriously pretty (and decidedly booze-free) Shirley Temple, on which the lemon was literally only one of the garnishes. Once Angel sulked enough to tempt Charlie’s resolve, Vaggie suggested loudly that this could be a lesson on consequences—and when Angel flipped her off with four hands at once, Vaggie smiled.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
“This is AMAZING! This has all. Been. A-MAZING!!!”
“I’ll say! This guy knows his meat!”
“…”
“Thank you, Sir!”
“… I guess it’s alright,” Vaggie grumbled, so disappointed at how good it all was, that Alastor clearly took it as another compliment. He absolutely preened.
To be fair, the table was spread with a one-man feast. French bread, freshly steaming beside a generous dish of butter. Side dishes of fried okra and broth-stewed collard greens. That massive cast iron skillet of jambalaya. Fucking Jambalaya. Flavor bloomed on their tongues with every bite of it… melt-in-your-mouth chicken and spicy smoked sausage, perfectly-cooked rice rich with broth and herbs, tender vegetables popping with sparks of perfectly-balanced spice… How the Hell? How the actual fucking Hell?
“Did you say this was your mom’s recipe?” Charlie asked. Clearly, since she’d already gotten to know Husker and Niffty a bit, she was going for broke. For now, Vaggie bit her tongue, but this man’s mom had probably been a witch. “For Jambla… Jam…”
“Jambalaya, my dear! A staple of New Orleans, and all of Louisiana! Haha! Next, I’ll have to make a pot or three of Gumbo. Or perhaps an Étouffée, if I can still source out some good crawfish…”
“That all sounds wonderful! Really, I don’t want to put too much on you…”
Vaggie bit down on her snarls and a bite of fried okra. It was fucking delicious, just like the collard greens (she didn’t even like collard greens; she’d taken some only to insult them and now she couldn’t, why was the ham in them so good), just like the fresh-baked bread, just like apparently everything made by this damned jambaliar…
“Nonsense! Why, it’s been far too long since I’ve cooked for such an appreciative audience!”
“I missed this a lot!” Niffty cheered. When Alastor raised his glass to her, she beamed.
Smarmy bastard. Vaggie did her best to communicate her distrust with her next, blatantly begrudging bite of exceptionally flavorful chicken. Bastard.
“Still, thank you! Really, Alastor, thank you!” Charlie looked so happy, and that only made it worse… God, aside from Vaggie herself, this was the most support that Charlie had gotten in years. This! This smirking, scheming, FUCKING—
“My pleasure, my dear! Can’t struggle for impossible redemption on an empty stomach, eh?”
… There it was. Reassured, Vaggie jumped in to defend Charlie and her dream, until Niffty launched herself at a roach under the table. Panicked, Angel yanked his feet out of the way—he’d been in the middle of grabbing more fried okra, so that flew everywhere—until fucking shadow mini-tentacles looped out of the basket, grabbing them all in midair?! Husker had pushed himself back from the table, booze in hand and plate in lap, and Niffty was still chasing the thing! Angel was making signs against evil at the okra basket. Alastor was laughing!
“Is this normal for you malditos lunaticos?!”
“Yup.”
“Hahaha! Normal is overrated, my dear!”
“Ah, jeez, what the fuck? Eatin’ tentacles ain’t my kink, ya know…”
“Gotcha, you filthy roach…”
“Vaggie, Vaggie please don’t…”
Things degenerated from there, and it definitely set a tone for the newly-renamed Hazbin Hotel (for better or worse).
(The fact that Vaggie knew that she would never, ever like that tone? That, of course, was beside the fucking point.)