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Hell rarely slept, but sometimes, even its noise had a pulse that slowed. The hotel was quiet tonight—eerily so, the silence heavy enough to feel.
Angel Dust stirred from another restless dream. His chest was tight, his throat dry. The dark room felt suffocating, airless. Valentino’s voice still echoed faintly in his mind—mocking, cruel, too vivid to shake off.
He sat up, shaky hands rubbing at his face. “...Christ,” he muttered. “Can’t even get a good night’s sleep without that bastard crashin’ the party.”
With a sigh, he got up, wrapped his robe tighter around him, and padded barefoot down the hallway. Every step sounded too loud. The lobby was dimly lit by the flicker of a lone lamp—its light too warm for a place like Hell.
He stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossing over himself as he stared blankly ahead. The silence pressed in.
He thought about waking Charlie—sweet, always-ready Charlie—but the idea died quick. She didn’t need this.
So he just sat. Still. Empty.
A few minutes passed. Or maybe hours. It was hard to tell.
Then—
A quiet creak.
Angel turned his head, brows furrowing.
In the half-light stood a tall, thin silhouette, grin faintly illuminated in red.
“Well now,” came the old-time voice, soft as a hum. “This seems to be becoming quite the habit between us, my dear Angel.”
Angel startled slightly, blinking before recognition dawned. “...Radio Man? You tryna give me a heart attack or somethin’?”
Alastor chuckled lightly, stepping further into the light. “I assure you, that was not my intent. Your footsteps were… uneven. I grew curious.”
Angel snorted weakly. “You followed me? Creepy.”
“Observant,” Alastor corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other. Then, Angel huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess we’re makin’ a thing outta this whole ‘midnight meet-up’ routine, huh?”
“Mm, perhaps so,” Alastor replied, voice warm with amusement. “Though I suspect hunger is not the culprit this time.”
Angel opened his mouth to joke, but the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sniffle. His smile faltered. “Yeah. Not hungry. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
Alastor’s grin dimmed slightly—not gone, just softer. “A nightmare, then?”
Angel exhaled sharply, glancing away. “Somethin’ like that. Ain’t important. Just my brain bein’ a jerk.”
“Ah,” Alastor murmured. “Brains often are.”
That earned him a quiet chuckle from Angel—wet around the edges. “Heh. Yeah.”
Silence hung between them again. Angel rubbed his eyes roughly, sniffling once. “God, I hate this. Cryin’ like a sap in the middle of the damn lobby.”
“Emotions are inconvenient creatures,” Alastor said softly, taking a small step closer. “Yet necessary.”
Angel looked up just as Alastor extended a hand—steady, unassuming.
For a second, Angel just stared at it. Then, with a shaky exhale, he took it.
The warmth of Alastor’s hand was startling. Real. Grounding.
“Come,” Alastor said gently. “You’ll rest better somewhere quieter.”
Alastor’s room was dim, filled with the faint golden glow of old radio tubes. A soft crackle of static played under the melody of some long-forgotten tune—a woman’s voice crooning gently from a bygone era.
Angel sat on the edge of the armchair while Alastor adjusted the dial, tuning the hum until the sound was clear and warm.
After a while, Angel spoke. “...Y’know, I never pegged you for the lullaby type.”
Alastor smiled faintly. “Music is often the most effective sedative for an unsettled mind.”
Angel leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. “...Guess I owe ya. Again.”
Alastor’s grin curved a little wider. “If we continue this trend, I’ll soon be expecting payment.”
Angel laughed softly. “You and your damn bargains.”
The laughter faded, leaving something gentler in its wake. Angel’s voice dropped. “...I had this dream. ‘Bout Valentino. Felt real again. Like I was right back there. I woke up feelin’—stupid. Small. Like I ain’t ever gonna shake it off.”
Alastor listened quietly, eyes soft but unreadable in the lamplight. “Trauma,” he said finally, “is a melody that insists on replaying itself. The trick is… to learn a new tune.”
Angel smiled tiredly. “You got a poetic way of sayin’ ‘it gets better.’”
“It does not always get better,” Alastor corrected softly. “But it changes. And that can be enough.”
Angel’s breath hitched faintly—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You talk like you know.”
Alastor’s eyes flickered toward the radio, its glow reflected in crimson. “Perhaps I do.”
They sat like that for a while. The soft static. The faint hum of the music. The quiet comfort of company.
Eventually, Angel’s voice slurred slightly with exhaustion. “You ever get tired of all the noise, Al?”
Alastor looked over at him. “Constantly.”
Angel huffed. “Heh. Guess we’re both kinda loud, huh?”
“Terribly,” Alastor replied, smiling. “And yet, somehow, we make a tolerable harmony.”
Angel’s eyes fluttered shut. “...You talk too fancy sometimes.”
“I’ll endeavor to simplify next time.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Angel mumbled, voice fading.
Within moments, his breathing evened out.
Alastor adjusted the volume of the radio slightly, the song fading into gentle static. He looked at Angel for a long time—quiet, contemplative.
Then, softly, almost like a whisper to himself:
“Warm, indeed.”
He leaned back in his chair, hands folded neatly as he watched the faint pulse of the radio’s light.
Outside, Hell still roared faintly in the distance. But in this room, there was only peace.