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Forgetting to eat wasn’t something that Angel tried to make a habit of, things came up and he got busy. Between balancing work and then playing good for the Hotel and joining on on Charlie’s little trust games, a lot of the time he never really got to focus on how his body was feeling. So forgetting to eat until his stomach was literally screaming at him? It was more common than he’d liked.
The past few weeks he’d been tired, not just a, “Hey Al, can ya make me another cup of coffee?” Type of tired, but a bone deep exhaustion. One that had his bones aching in misery and having him feel like utter shit. Where your eyelids felt heavy even though you slept four hours more than normal.
It wasn’t fun, but it was just one of those things where he chalked it up to stress, another thing to blame it on. Sure he was tired, but everyone got tired. He thought it was fine, he’d been a little snappier sure, but even Alastor had noticed.
It was hard to ignore the growing tension in the Hotel. Angel had been snappy lately, defensive. And Alastor wasn’t good with dealing with those emotions, not without growing defensive himself. He could be dismissive, prickly. They had been arguing a bit lately, other stupid things, small things. Dishes left undone, Angel being a few minutes late to Alastor’s broadcasts, Alastor’s need for order and control.
And yet, tonight was supposed to be different.
Supposed to be. It was date night. They’d circled the day on the calendar in bright red market weeks ago, back when things felt lighter, and not like there was a knife looming over their backs ready to backstab each other at a moment's notice.
They had reservations, an actually respectable restaurant. Which was a rarity in Hell, a place that made you forget that Hell wasn’t all blood and misery. A chance to wind down and relax.
Neither of them had been doing either of that, yet Angel had still taken extra time applying his makeup. His eyeshadow shimmering in the low light, his lipstick sharp and applied perfectly. Sharp enough to cut glass. But underneath it all? He was exhausted, tiredness clinging to him. Smile not quite reaching his eyes.
And he was hungry, really hungry.
Alastor looked Dapper as always, a crimson suit. One slightly fancier than his casual attire. Offering an arm, “Shall we, my dear?” His grin was wide, but it was sharp. Forced, Angel hated it.
Angel sighed, forcing on a smile as he grinned back, hooking his arm through Alastor’s. “Yeah, let’s go before I fall asleep on the couch again.”
The restaurant buzzed with low chatter, no yelling, no annoying drunkards. The most obnoxious sound being glasses clinking, and that was barely bothering at all. A faint hum of music coming from the band. It should’ve been romantic. The night Should’ve been easy.
But the moment that they sat down, something was off.
Angel blinked with a frown, staring down at the menu like it was written in another language. He felt off, not able to focus. Like the words were melting on the page in front of him, scanning it once, twice, three times. Not making any sense.
He gave up, disguising it as he tapped his claws against the laminated paper.
“So, what are you gettin’, Al?” He asked, voice thin.
“Hmm, the gumbo sounds serviceable. Though I doubt it compares to the Cajun recipes from my day. Still, one must settle when one is in Hell, hmm?”
Angel snorted, grinning weakly. “Always gotta find somethin’ to complain about.”
Alastor’s grin twitched. “And you always have to poke, don’t you?”
The jab had hit sharper than intended. Angel’s tired eyes flicked up. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to poke if you didn’t snap at me every two seconds.”
The waiter arrived, tension thick enough to slice through the air. They ordered, but Angel’s stomach churned even as he tried to choose something. He was so hungry yet nothing looked appealing. His appetite wasn’t right, but he thought maybe once the food came, it’d help.
Except… The food never really got the chance.
As he waited, Angel let his mind wander, trying not to focus on how shit he felt. He felt nauseous, to be quite honest. And dizzy? Like everything was slightly lighter and a few seconds more delayed than it should be.
Halfway through sipping his drink, Alastor’s patience snapped like a violin string. “You’ve been sulking all evening,” He said flatly, static crackling in the air sharper now. “If this is how you intend to spend our date, perhaps we should have simply stayed home.”
Angel flinched. “Seriously? I’m just tired, Al. I told ya. I wanted tonight to be nice.”
“You always have an excuse.”
That one landed like a punch. Angel’s lips parted, then shut. Eyes shimmering faintly, glassy. Even under the warm glow of the restaurant lights. He wasn’t going to cause a scene here, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to cry over five words. He looked down at his barely-touched drink.
“...Maybe we should just go,” Angel muttered.
Alastor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “If that’s what you want. I won’t argue further.”
They both rose in silence, unspoken words thick between them.
The walk home was quiet, leaving the restaurant without a bite to eat felt awful. Everything felt awful after leaving hungry. The air felt colder, Angel’s mouth felt dryer. The city’s glow painting their path in reds and pinks, the shadows of tall buildings looming over them.
Angel walked slower than usual, his heels clicking faintly on the pavement. His breaths coming shakily. He felt weird, he knew he felt weird. Blinking with a frown as his head felt light, as if blinking would stop the way his vision was doubling slightly. He tried to shake it off. He was just tired. Just stressed. Just-
He stopped walking.
Taking in a breath he couldn’t force himself to move, not sure what was about to happen.
Alastor, a few steps ahead, turned back after a moment, seeing Angel far behind. An exasperated chuckle leaving his lips. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. Pouting in the street doesn’t suit you.”
But then he saw.
Angel’s eyes glassy, unfocused. The way he was staring at the ground while not quite locking onto it. The way he was swaying like he was 100 feet high.
“Angel-?”
And then he dropped.
The sound of Angel’s body hitting the ground wasn’t graceful or theatrical. It wasn’t dramatic. It was heavy, horrifying.
Alastor’s heart jolted in his chest. Breathing in sharp, quickly. At Angel’s side in an instant, cane dropping on the concrete, gently holding under Angel’s head as he held him up, hands trembling as he did so. “Darling? Are you alright?”
Stupid question.
Angel groaned weakly, one hand twitching against the pavement, letting out a whine involuntarily. His face was pale under the makeup, sweat dampening his fur. Clenching his eyes as he hissed in discomfort.
“‘M fine… Just… Give me a minute.”
“Are you alright? He asked again, needing an answer.
Angel pushing himself up, barely enough. Just enough to turn his head and vomit onto the sidewalk. Forceful, unwell. Or hurt? He’d been so terrified watching Angel drop, he hadn’t seen how he dropped. Had he hit his head? Was he sick?
“We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
Angel only whimpered. Alastor scooping him up into his arms, ignoring the stares of anyone by. But it was late, there was nobody. Just him, his partner and his guilt.
“Hold on, mon amour,” He whispered, “Just hold on.”
Alastor always hated hospitals.
A blur of flickering lights from the moment he carried him in. Orders were being shouted, a nurse taking his husband away from him. Not away, in a wheelchair? He wasn’t really focused, he was just following along. He knew he wanted to hold Angel, but he couldn’t. But he moved where he was told, waited where he was told and so pissed off he had to try calm himself when a young nurse was shaking, trying to calm him enough to stop him from breaking the hallway lights from how much they were flickering.
Minutes had stretched like hours. Alastor paced, over and over. Hands clasped behind his back, the static sharp as it cut through the air. His grin had faltered into something tight, brittle.
Finally, a doctor approached. Explaining.
Low blood sugar, that had been it. Severe hypoglycemia.
Alastor being asked if his husband had been eating properly.
Alastor blinked. His mind replaying the evening, the untouched drink, the way Angel had stared at the menu with unfocus, the way they’d stormed out before the food even arrived. Angel never ate before their dates.
“... He wanted to,” Alastor murmured, more to himself than to the doctor. “But we left before he had the chance.”
The guilt slammed into him like a freight train.
The doctor nodded. Explaining how they’d stabilized him with glucose. That Angel was awake, but tired. That Alastor could see him now.
“... Hey,” Angel whispered, voice raspy.
Alastor pulled a chair close, taking Angel’s hand in both of his. For once, there was no performance in the way he smiled. Just raw, aching worry.
“You frightened me half to death, dearest.”
Angel tried to chuckle, but it came out weak.
“Guess I really know how to fuck up a date, huh?”
“Don’t you dare make light of this.” Alastor’s voice cracked, squeezing Angel’s hand tighter. “I should have seen. I should’ve noticed how unwell you looked. Instead I… I snapped, I dismissed you. I nearly-” His words cut off, throat tightening in guilt, upset.
Angel's eyes softened. “Hey. It ain’t your fault. I shoulda said somethin’. I could’ve ate this morning. I just didn’t wanna drag the night down. Just thought maybe I could push through.”
Alastor shook his head, “Never again. If you need to stop, we stop. If you need to eat, we eat. Nothing else matters.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Ey, that sounds almost romantic, comin’ from you.”
Alastor let out a breathless laugh, relief washing over him instantly. Angel wasn’t mad, “Well, perhaps I can still salvage our evening…”
He reached into a paper bag at his side and pulled out food, greasy fragrant fast food.
Angel blinked, then snorted with a laugh, the sound raspy but real. “Ya’ brought me fries?”
“Not just fries,” Alastor said with mock grandiosity, holding up a burger wrapped in crinkled paper, already wet with grease. “A feast fit for royalty. Hardly fine dining, but I daresay it suits us better tonight.”
Angel’s stomach growled audibly, making them both snort louder.
“Fine, you win my love back. Now hand it over, I’m fuckin’ starving”
They sat together in the hospital room, sharing fries and burger straight from the bag, grease staining their fingers. Angel ate slowly at first, but with each bite, some color returned to his face.
Alastor watched him like he was the most precious thing in Hell. Every laugh, every smirk, every fry stolen from Alastor’s hand felt like a miracle.
“Y’know,” Angel said around a mouthful of fries, “This might be the best date we’ve had in a while.”
Alastor chuckled, leaning over to press a kiss to Angel’s grease stained cheek. “Then consider it the start of many more. And next time, I promise… Food first, arguments later.”
Angel grinned, eyes finally bright again. “Deal.”
And finally, for the first time in weeks, they’d found their peace again.