Work Text:
The absolute last place Angel wanted to be right now was Valentino's studio. And where was he currently right now…? Valentinos fucking studio. Since the moment he’d woken up, his head was in agony.
He’d been in a bunch of shitty situations in his time, alive and in Hell. And while most of those had been self inflicted, this one wasn’t. And currently? Being stuck at work for the next few hours while your head felt like it was being split apart? Literal Hell.
Nothing could compare to it, the way he could feel the slow building pressure behind his eyes.
It had started dull, it always did. Like someone pressing two fingers into his temples, uncomfortable but still bearable. Which he’d ignored at first.
Migraines weren’t actually uncommon for him, between the constant substances he was around, the smoke, the noise. And working in a place where you had spotlights on you constantly, it was something you just had to get used to. His head often felt like damn warzone, but he was used to pushing through. He always pushed through. Because that’s what Valentino wanted.
And if there was one thing Angel Dust had learned, it was that Valentino always got what he wanted.
“Alright, Amorcito, let’s get you in front of the lights, hmm? I want dazzle. I want glitter. I want you to be a total slut.” Val crooned, the pur in his voice already grating on Angel’s already fraying nerves.
Angel forced a smile, tilting his head as he adjusted the strap on the outfit he’d been stuffed into. It was some gaudy silk number, low cut, the kind of thing that shimmered under the fluorescents. But the problem was, it also shimmered under the strobes. And the strobes… Oh, the strobes were already starting to pulse.
Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.
Angel blinked hard, but the lights were already burning white streaks into his vision anyway. Fighting the urge to rub his eyes, knowing Val would scold him for fucking up his makeup.
“Yeah, sugar. I gotcha’. Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Angel quipped, voice light, laced with the king of forced tone he’d mastered years ago. Shifting onto his knees as he grabbed the toy he was supposed to pose with, bring it to his mouth, battering his lashes at the first round of photos started.
Flash. Flash. Flash.
Each burst of the strobe was a spike, sharp and merciless, each one stabbing deeper into his skull. Angel kept his grin plastered on, posing with practiced ease. Shifting pose again. Hips cocked, legs crossed, arms curled in suggestive lines. He hit every mark Valentino barked at him to his. Because that’s what he was supposed to do.
Because that’s all he was good for, wasn’t it?
“Sluttier! More sultry, Angel! I want hungry eyes. Move! That’s it. Arch your back more. Show them what they want!” Val’s words like a whip crack in his ears.
Angel shifted, arching until this back was screaming at him, twisting his neck to angle his face into the spotlight. The pain behind his eyes pulsing in rhythm with the flashes now. He could feel his own pulse in his face as his stomach turned with each flash. His legs shaking beneath the stockings, he smiled. Still, he preened and still, he gave Valentino what he wanted.
That was the job. And if Angel Dust was anything, he was a professional.
By the second hour, Angel was shaking so incredibly badly that he nearly missed a step when Valentino demanded he strut down the mock runway they’d set up. His feel skidding on the slick floor as it sent a jolt of panic through him, but he caught himself, forcing out a breathy laugh as if it were all a part of the act.
They liked when he looked stupid.
The camera clicked. The strobes popped. Angel’s head felt like it was going to split down the middle.
Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, but he blinked them away furiously. Because if Valentino saw him crying on set? There’d be Hell to pay. He could practically hear Val’s voice in his head. Feel it. ‘Usless little bitch, can’t even handle a couple of stage lights?’
So Angel didn’t cry. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he threw a wink at the camera. He kept going.
“Alright, that’s enough for today,” Valentino finally drawled, waving a dismissive hand after what felt like a century. Calling Angel over as he purred, his head resting in Valentino’s hands. “Go touch up your makeup before you get too sweaty. You did well, we’ll pick this up again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Val.” Angel smiled, using all his power not to let how much his head was fucking killing him show right now. Keeping his grin in place until he was out of the direct glare of the lights.
The moment he stepped behind the curtain at the back of the studio, his face crumpled. Pressing the heel of his palm right into his eye sockets, trying to ease the throbbing. He wanted to curl up on the concrete floor right now. The pressure from his headache growing into a full-blown migraine, stabbing behind both eyes and crawling down the back of his neck.
His hands shook as he pulled out his phone
Alastor answered on the first ring.
“Why, Angel, what a surprise! To what do I owe this most curious call?” He hummed, voice crackling through the receiver, old-timey tilt he always spoke with.
Angel’s throat was tight. He hated how weak his own voice sounded as he forced the words out. “Hey, babe… You busy?”
“Busy? Certainly never too busy for you, my dear.” A pause, “Is something the matter? You sound… Distressed”
Angel bit his lip, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Can you… Can you come and get me? I don’t… Think I can make it back on my own.”
There was no hesitation. “Of course. Where are you?”
“Studio, work with Val. ‘M at the side entrance. Hurry, please.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Stay right where you are, Angel. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
The hallway outside the studio felt colder than it should have. It was never really cold here, only when it rained. But the sun was still baking outside yet he felt so freezing. Angel leaned against the wall, arms wrapped around himself as every sound echoed painfully inside his skull. Distant music thumping from one of the rooms, muffled through the concrete, but each beat of the bass feeling like a hammer striking the inside of his head. Vision blurring at the edges as every bit of light had his head buzzing like a wasp.
Sliding down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, he buried his head into his knees. He just wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. He wanted, for once, to not have to be Angel Dust, the porn star. He just wanted to be Anthony. Just for five minutes.
Footsteps clicked down the hall, steady, confident, unhurried. Not someone who feared being here. Angel looked up, pushing through the wave of pain.
Alastor stood there, grinning as always, though his eyes softened the moment they fell on him. Crouching slightly as he extended a hand.
“My, my, Darling. You look miserable. Let’s get you out of here, shall we?”
Angel’s chest tightened. He wanted to say something witty, to crack a joke. But all that came out was a weak, choked sound. Reaching out as he let Alastor gently pull him to his feet.
The moment he was upright, the room tilted as Angel’s knees wobbled dangerously. Without missing a bear, Alastor’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist, steadying him.
“Easy now, It’s alright. I’ve got you.”
Angel’s eyes burned as his throat closed. He hated how close he was to fully breaking, how fragile he felt in that moment. But Alastor didn’t laugh. Didn’t mock him. He just held him steady, guiding him slowly towards the exit.
As the hot air hit them, Angel let out a shuddering hiss. Whole body sagging against Alastor overwhelmed, too tired to keep up with appearances anymore.
Alastor shifted his grip, without a moment of hesitation as he scooped Angel up into his arms, as if he weighed nothing at all. Angel burying his face against Alastor’s shoulder, unable to stop the trembling as he wrapped his legs around Alastor’s waist.
“There, there,” Alastor murmured, his voice gentler now, “We’ll have you home and comfortable in no time at all.”
And with that, Alastor began the walk back, Angel snuggled close against him, the city’s noise fading in the background as his head burned.
Angel’s world blurring in and out as Alastor carried him through the city. Every movement was steady, rhythmic, almost soothing compared to the chaos of the studio. He had no clue if anyone was watching them right now, but he didn’t care.
Every step Alastor took felt soft, barely an echo against the pavement. Angel clung to the silence, focusing on it instead of the stabbing pain behind his eyes.
When they finally reached the Hotel, the familiar creak of the doors and lightbulbs greeted them. Angel flinching from the change, curling further into Alastor’s chest as he closed his eyes weakly, even forcing them shut bringing him discomfort.
“This is the worst headache ever…” Angel sniffled, shaking as he gently buried his face further.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Alastor whispered, voice unusually low. Without a thought, snapping his fingers as the overhead lights dimmed to the softest glow, sparing Angel from the harshness of the brightness. He didn’t ask for permission. He simply did it.
Angel could barely mumble a thank you as Alastor carried him up the stairs, pushing open the door to Angel’s room with a single hand, door closing behind them. Once inside, Alastor gently settling him down. Angel immediately kneeling on the floor, curling in pain. His hands gripping at his temples as his knees tucked in, body shaking with each wave of pain.
“Angel…” Alastor murmured, crouching besides him. Snapping his fingers again as the room plunged into near-darkness. Every LED light turning off within a second, the curtains closing themselves in pure silence. The only light, a faint glow from under the door.
Almost everything was silent, he didn’t know what Alastor had done, but even the hum of the electric in the walls seemed almost vanished, the entire space wrapped in quiet.
Angel whimpered, pressing his head to the hard-wood. Shoulders trembling, as finally the tears broke free. He hated crying, he hated the stupid weak feeling. But the pain had been way too much. He sobbed, muffled and raw. The sound barely more than a broken whisper.
Alastor didn’t flinch, didn’t mock. And didn’t leave. Instead, he pulled a soft heavy blanket as he draped it carefully over Angel’s curled frame. Gently moving his hand as he began to rub slow, gentle circles against his back. No theatrics, no dramatics. Just simple, silent gestures.
“There now,” Alastor said quietly, the sharp edges of his usual sing-song tone softening to something warmer. “You can cry all you need, you’re safe here.”
Angel buried his face into the blanket, tears soaking the fabric. Body trembling with each sob. The pain clawing at him, but Alastor’s steady hand anchored him. The gentle weight of the blanket, the darkened room, the quiet comfort of it all had wrapped around him like a shield.
Minutes passed like that, Angel’s cries breaking, ebbing, and then rising again with each wave of pain stabbing through him. While Alastor stayed, patient and unyielding. Whispering soft reassuraces, soft enough to not hurt Angel’s head, but just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.
“You’ve carried the weight all day, It’s quite all right to put it down now. Rest, I’ll watch over you.”
Angel hiccupped, trying to breathe through the sobs, trying to fight back the shame that slowly crept in with the tears. But when he felt Alastor’s hand rub another slow circle across his back, the fight drained out of him. Allowing himself to curl tighter, allowing the tears to fall as much as they needed, allowing himself to lean into the comfort knowing there were no strings.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like Angel Dust the porn star. He felt like Anthony, the person who just needed someone to care.