Work Text:
It was the odd day off for Angel. He has been working nonstop since the failed Extermination, Val’s way of punishing him for sure. For what, though? Angel doesn’t know. He just knows that Valentino isn’t the happiest currently, and, as per usual, Angel is the punching bag. It’s like Valentino has lost all sorts of sensibility, all sorts of humanity, has truly become a demon. And yeah, everyone in Hell sucks; it’s not like the people are good. Well, the majority of them at least. But a good number have some sort of decency to them. Or maybe Angel has been around Charlie too much. And everyone at the Hotel, actually. A bunch of has-beens all grouped up together, and yet Angel has found himself to be one of the group. A main character, even. Someone Vaggie goes to rant to; someone for Charlie to coddle; someone for Husk to get drunk with; someone for Niffty to be crazy with; someone for Alastor to be weirdly understanding towards-- yeah, Angel doesn’t understand that one either. It’s all a strange vibe in the Hazbin Hotel. None of them is quite sure what the plan is anymore. Except for Angel. He wakes up, drags himself to work, eventually comes home, and then collapses in a mixture of despair and exhaustion. He doesn’t even have the energy for a quick smoke or drink most days.
But today, he’s ready to make the most of it. He took a pill he’s been saving-- nothing too harsh, just enough to make the world blurry around the edges-- and washed it down with a shot of Brandy. And then he’s off. Wandering Pride, enjoying watching people tripping over other people, giggling at the Imps swearing up and down at everyone who pushes them out of the way like they’re insignificant (and let Angel be clear here, he’s not laughing at the Imps, but those who think less of them. Angel swears he saw one of them gut a sinner without looking just because they accidentally stepped on their tail (Angel actually wants to meet that Imp, but he hasn’t seen them since), watching strangers stumble into strangers’ cars drunk or high or some fucked up mixture, seeing the odd happy person. It’s strange how everything can be slightly blurred and yet so clear all at once. Like a pane of frost over a window in the middle of winter, you know what’s outside, you’ve looked enough times to have it memorized, but everything is different with a coat of beautiful white. Not that Angel sees frost anymore. Or snow. Sometimes, he wishes Hell had seasons, but then he remembers slipping, twisting his ankle, and limping around New York City for weeks just because of a thin sheet of ice.
Still, Angel has braved the world of Hell for a reason today: to treat himself. To get an overly expensive and sugar-filled coffee, to shove his feet in a million different boots of similar styles just to buy them all, to grab whatever clothing looks interesting. He doesn’t even bother trying those on; he can adjust them as needed. His lengthy build and extra arms make it difficult to shop. Or expensive. Or, most likely, a mixture of the two. So, he just buys what he likes. And doesn’t think about how difficult any of the work to put in would be. He has his own sewing machine and extra fabric of all varieties. At this point, Angel thinks he has enough fabric to start making his own clothing. And he does, sometimes. On occasion. But it’s easier to modify than start from scratch. So Angel mostly sticks with his modifications.
After a while of shopping and walking and dressing and redressing, Angel’s feet start to hurt and the high is wearing off. Things get clearer, there’s a slight nausea with each step he takes, and the bags hanging off his arms are heavier than he thought they were. So he heads home. Home, where he has actual friends. It’s crazy that he has people he considers his friends; he doesn’t think too much about it, though. With how he’s feeling, he’ll probably end up blubbering. Oh, the joys of getting mostly clean. The comedown always makes him dizzy in a different way. Dizzy with emotions and feeling like he assumes women on their periods feel. He flips from sentimental to angry in a heartbeat. Not that this was a very high high, but it’s enough for his feelings to feel more intense. Maybe he should leave the scissoring for when he’s completely sober. Or for when he has a partner…
Enough of those thoughts, though, because those thoughts turn into thoughts of work and then those thoughts turn into Valentino and Valentino thoughts are all over the place with longing and hurt and make Angel’s chest ache and his heart pound and his fingers go numb.
So, instead, he throws the Hotel doors open, saunters in, waves hello, and goes to his room, where a sewing machine sits, waiting for his new outfits to be altered. And so, the bags get spilled over his desk, his boots are pulled off-- a little too aggressively, but Angel’s ankles have become swollen, what else was he meant to do?-- and his body slams against his bed.
A day off. It felt a mixture of too long and too short. But it was nice. To feel free, in a way. He wasn’t focused on how others would view him or putting on a mask for the public. He was just out. Alone. Ignoring the catcalls and “fans.” Having fun and spending money that he hides under his mattress. He doesn’t even remember where he got the stacks of cash. Probably a mixture of stealing, tips, and Charlie throwing money at him for whatever reason. Still, he’s appreciative, just doesn’t show it enough. Which he needs to do, but that’s a tomorrow focus. Or, maybe, a next-day-off thing. Maybe next time, he can stay in the Hotel. Convince his friends to play charades or some shit. He doesn’t care, right now, Angel is half awake and thinking of plans for a “next time” that he doesn’t even know when it will come. Still, though, it’s nice to think about. It gives Angel a hope he didn’t used to have. And that’s the only thing that gets Angel through the week anymore, so he holds onto it, as if it’ll escape if he were to loosen his grasp for just a moment. And so, he never stops thinking about it, even when he’s focused on a million other things; it’s always in his head, reminding him why he fights.