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Alastor woke with a sudden start, eyes adjusting slowly to the familiar sight of his ceiling. With a low hum, he stood, kicking off the blanket draped over him.
It wasn’t morning—no, it was well past midnight, if anything.
That made him pause.
He stood still for a moment before striding briskly to the door. Opening it, he peeked out and padded into the hallway, steps light and deliberate. Hell was rarely quiet, but during these hours, even chaos needed its rest.
Alastor moved through the main lobby, the familiar sight greeting him as always. With a quick flourish, he made his way into the kitchen, grin sharp as ever, eyes narrowing slightly.
He had left his microphone cane in his room by accident, but it didn’t bother him.
What did was the reason he’d woken at all—his stomach.
Hunger. How peculiar.
He began rifling through the upper cabinets, standing tall, his shadow stretching across the tiled floor—thin, warped, and long.
“Hm,” he hummed thoughtfully, his voice rich and vintage as always. “My, my… it seems there is yet to be anything fitting for a quick fix here.”
He moved from cabinet to cabinet, irritation building as he found nothing even remotely satisfying. His fingers twitched, a sharp click of his tongue breaking the silence. He leaned back, arms crossing over his chest, chin tilting high in mild disdain.
“Fine,” he said at last, voice smooth as cream.
If there was no proper meal to be found, then he’d simply sleep the hunger off.
Just as Alastor was about to turn and leave, the kitchen light flicked on with a click.
He froze.
For a brief, humiliating moment, he looked like a deer caught in headlights—wide-eyed, rigid, a tall silhouette framed in the sudden brightness.
“Well hell-o there, sunshine.” Angel Dust’s voice drawled from the doorway. “Didn’t think you were the midnight snack type.”
Alastor’s head jerked toward him sharply, his grin snapping back into place like a mask being forced on. “Ah—! Angel Dust. My, you nearly startled me half to death.”
Angel snorted, leaning lazily against the counter. “Nearly? Damn. Guess I’ll try harder next time.”
The Radio Demon’s smile twitched. “You shouldn’t be prowling the halls at such an ungodly hour.”
“Says the guy raiding the cabinets like a raccoon in a tuxedo,” Angel fired back.
Alastor’s laugh came out a little too quick, a little too tight. “I was merely… browsing.” His tone thinned with mild irritation as his gaze flicked over the countertop. “There appears to be nothing of value in this kitchen whatsoever.”
Angel blinked, then grinned. “Oh, you hungry-hungry, huh? Damn, didn’t think you ate like normal folks. You want me to whip somethin’ up?”
That made Alastor pause. His brow arched, and for once his grin faltered into genuine surprise.
“…You’re offering?”
“Yeah, sure. Nothin’ fancy, but I can make somethin’ edible. Ain’t no one else awake anyway.”
For a moment, Alastor simply stared at him—skeptical, conflicted. This was benevolence. From Angel Dust. It was baffling.
He cleared his throat, smoothing his expression back into civility. “How… generous.”
Angel chuckled. “Don’t sound too thrilled, sugar. You want a sandwich or not?”
Alastor’s jaw tensed. His pride demanded he refuse—but the faint, persistent ache of hunger clawing at his gut suggested otherwise.
“…Very well,” he said finally, voice stiff but composed. “A… sandwich will do.”
“Good choice. Sit your fancy ass down, I got this.”
Alastor huffed and perched on the nearest stool, hands folded neatly, expression somewhere between irritated dignity and cautious intrigue.
As Angel hummed and worked, the kitchen filled with the quiet clatter of dishes—oddly domestic, almost peaceful.
And for just a fleeting second, Alastor wondered when the last time had been that someone had offered him something without fear or demand attached.
Angel hummed some lazy tune as he worked, tail swaying in rhythm. The sound of a knife on a cutting board, the soft pop of a juice carton opening—it all felt absurdly normal in this place.
Alastor sat in perfect stillness at the counter, back straight, hands folded like he was waiting for a sermon to begin. His eyes flicked toward Angel now and again, more out of cautious curiosity than impatience.
When Angel finally turned around, he set the plate down with a little flourish. Two neat triangles of a sandwich, crusts trimmed, stacked just so. Beside it sat a glass of juice, condensation beading down the side.
“Voilà,” Angel said with mock pride. “Gourmet after-midnight dining for our very own Radio Daddy.”
Alastor blinked once. Then twice. His expression didn’t move for a long, awkward beat. “...Triangles.”
“Yup. They taste better when they’re cute.” Angel plopped himself onto the opposite counter, one leg swinging freely. “Go on, it ain’t gonna bite ya.”
Alastor’s grin twitched—too polite, too tight. “I don’t recall requesting juice.”
“Yeah, well, hydration’s important. Humor me.”
His eyes narrowed. Slowly, almost theatrically, he reached forward, inspecting the sandwich as though it were a suspicious artifact dredged from a tomb. He tilted it this way and that, sniffed faintly, even glanced under it like he might find something sinister hidden between the slices.
Angel rolled his eyes. “Relax, fancy-pants, it ain’t poisoned. Unless you count mayonnaise as a biohazard.”
Alastor’s tone dropped lower, more cautious. “...One can never be too careful, dear boy. Especially when one’s chef is an unpredictable sinner with a history of... questionable hygiene.”
“Hey! I washed my hands, thank you very much.” Angel crossed his arms, mock-offended. “You gonna eat it or you just gonna stare at it ‘til morning?”
After another moment of deliberation—and a quiet hum that was half suspicion, half reluctant surrender—Alastor took a small, deliberate bite.
…
He blinked.
Angel grinned. “See? Not so bad, huh?”
Alastor swallowed, eyes flicking away like he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit it aloud. “…It is… adequate.”
“‘Adequate’? Please. You’re lovin’ it.”
“I am tolerating it,” Alastor said, tone clipped, though his grip on the sandwich didn’t loosen.
The silence that followed was—unexpectedly—comfortable. Angel sipped from his own cup, watching the demon across from him who looked like he was trying not to enjoy something so utterly mundane.
When Alastor finally finished, he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, composed as ever. “...Thank you,” he said softly—too soft to sound rehearsed.
Angel blinked, grin softening just a touch. “Heh. You’re welcome, dollface.”
Alastor stood, pushing the stool back neatly. “Do not make a habit of this.”
“Sure thing, sugar.”
As Alastor turned to leave, Angel smirked to himself. “See you next midnight snack time.”
The Radio Demon paused mid-step, shoulders stiffening ever so slightly before he disappeared down the hall.
And in the quiet that followed, Angel just laughed under his breath.
The halls of the hotel were silent when Alastor left the kitchen, shoes clicking softly against the old tile. His expression was neutral, but something tugged behind it—an unfamiliar heaviness beneath the surface.
He was halfway to his room when it hit him.
A small, quiet pang. Not hunger this time.
He stopped.
The memory of Angel’s grin, of the careful way he’d cut the sandwich into neat little triangles and set out the juice, flickered through his mind. Something about it—so domestic, so strangely gentle—sat uncomfortably in his chest.
He blinked, eyes unfocusing for a moment, his grin faltering into something uncertain. He hated that feeling. That softness creeping in uninvited.
“…”
He turned sharply on his heel.
Angel was still in the kitchen, phone in hand, idly scrolling through something and humming under his breath. He nearly jumped when the Radio Demon reappeared in the doorway.
“Well, well—back already?” Angel teased. “What, you forget to rate my cooking?”
Alastor’s gaze darted to the counter, to the empty plate, then back to Angel. His grin was there, but smaller, uneasy. “I… found myself in need of another sandwich.”
Angel blinked, then smirked. “Ohhh, so you did like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Uh-huh. Sit down, sugar.”
Alastor obeyed—almost stiffly—perching on the stool again like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing there. Angel started making another sandwich, glancing at him now and again with mild curiosity.
After a moment, Angel broke the silence. “Y’know, I didn’t think you’d actually come back.”
Alastor chuckled softly, though it lacked its usual edge. “Neither did I.”
Angel paused mid-slice, looking over his shoulder. “...You good, Radio Man?”
The question hung in the air longer than it should have.
Alastor’s smile flickered. He glanced at his hands on the counter, fingers drumming lightly. “I—ah—don’t typically find myself on the receiving end of… gestures. Simple kindnesses.”
Angel blinked, then looked down at the sandwich he was making, his voice softening just slightly. “Yeah… I get that.”
A quiet hum came from Alastor—barely audible. “It was… thoughtful. Your effort.”
Angel laughed quietly. “Geez, you make it sound like I gave ya my kidney. It was just a sandwich, doll.”
“To you, perhaps,” Alastor said, tone lowering, more thoughtful than usual. “But to me—it was… unexpected.”
That silence again, softer now. The hum of the fridge, the faint buzz of the overhead light.
Angel set the second plate in front of him, this one just as neatly cut as before. “There. A whole extra helping of unexpected.”
Alastor stared at it for a moment—then, without ceremony, took a bite. He didn’t speak, but his expression softened, almost imperceptibly.
Angel leaned on the counter, chin in his hand. “Y’know… you’re not so scary when you’re half-asleep and hungry.”
Alastor chuckled under his breath, eyes half-lidded. “And you’re not so intolerable when you’re… quiet.”
“Ouch,” Angel said, grinning. “Careful, or I’ll think you like me.”
Alastor’s grin turned just a touch more genuine. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
They sat like that for a while—two sinners under the dull kitchen light, sharing the calm of a rare, quiet hour.
When Alastor finally finished the second sandwich, he lingered. No rush to leave this time.
Angel tilted his head. “Feelin’ better?”
“...Perhaps,” Alastor murmured. “Though I suspect I’ve just been… well-fed into sentimentality.”
“Good. You could use a little sentiment.”
Alastor laughed softly—an old, tired, genuine sound. “You may regret saying that someday.”
Angel smirked. “Eh. Worth it.”
The silence lingered long after the last bite was gone.
Angel leaned back on the counter, watching Alastor with that lazy half-grin of his, while the Radio Demon sat motionless, fingertips tapping idly on the plate’s edge as though debating with himself.
Eventually, Alastor exhaled softly—a breath that almost sounded like defeat. “Well,” he said at last, smoothing his tie even though it didn’t need fixing, “I suppose I should retire for the night.”
“Yeah,” Angel murmured, though he didn’t move either. “Guess I should too.”
But neither of them made any motion to leave.
A few beats of quiet passed before Alastor stood, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. He straightened, eyes flicking toward Angel. “...Allow me to walk you back to your room.”
Angel raised a brow. “Oh? Chivalry ain’t dead after all.”
Alastor’s grin tugged faintly wider. “Consider it… repayment. For your late-night hospitality.”
Angel laughed, low and easy. “Heh. Sure thing, sugar.”
They walked side by side down the dim hallway, the flickering lights casting long, warped shadows across the walls. Angel’s footsteps were light and uneven; Alastor’s were measured, perfectly in rhythm.
Neither spoke for a while—until Angel finally broke the quiet.
“You know… you don’t gotta act like it’s weird to let someone do somethin’ nice for you,” he said, voice softer than usual, missing its usual teasing lilt. “Not everything’s a deal, or a setup, or whatever. Sometimes it’s just… nice.”
Alastor’s gaze slid toward him, red eyes faintly glowing under the hall’s failing lights. “You say that as though it’s a simple thing.”
“It is,” Angel replied, shrugging. “Simple don’t mean easy.”
That earned him a hum from the Radio Demon—a low, almost thoughtful sound.
Angel shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, I ain’t tryna preach or nothin’. But people do stuff for ya ‘cause they want to, not ‘cause they expect somethin’ back. You don’t gotta feel guilty for that, ya know?”
Alastor’s expression flickered—something small, almost unreadable passing behind his grin. “Old habits die hard, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, well,” Angel said with a grin that didn’t quite hide the empathy behind it, “so do old demons.”
Alastor chuckled at that, genuine and low. “Touché.”
When they reached Angel’s door, the spider turned and leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely. “You’re somethin’ else, ya know that? All that scary radio host shtick—and underneath, you’re just some guy who gets hungry at midnight.”
“Careful,” Alastor said, grin faint but real. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They lingered again, neither quite ready to end the moment. Then, quietly, Angel added, “...Hey. Thanks for walkin’ me back.”
Alastor tilted his head, the smile on his face softening by a fraction. “And thank you, Angel Dust… for the sandwich.”
Angel laughed quietly. “Anytime, sugar.”
Alastor hesitated, as if weighing something unseen, then gave a small bow of his head before turning away.
As his silhouette disappeared down the hall, Angel watched him go with a faint smile—something tired, but warm.
And when the Radio Demon finally reached his room and closed the door, he stood there for a moment in the quiet, hand still resting on the knob.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate.
“…Triangles,” he murmured under his breath. And for once, the grin that followed wasn’t sharp at all.