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The Hazbin Hotel wasn’t usually quiet in the morning — but today, somehow, it was.
Charlie leaned over the front desk scribbling in a notebook, Vaggie fixing a light fixture that had given up on life again, and Husk half-asleep behind the bar even though it was nowhere near opening hours.
Nifty zipped between them all, cleaning something that didn’t need cleaning.
And Angel?
Angel was bored.
That was the dangerous part.
He leaned on the railing overlooking the lobby, one leg bent behind him, tapping lightly against the floor. His fluffy white hair was still messy from sleep, a pink tangle of curls falling over his eyes as he hummed to himself.
Not a song. Not yet.
More like a test. A feeler.
Something soft.
“Big day, Angie?” Charlie asked, smiling up at him.
“Not really,” Angel drawled, shrugging lazily. “Just… got somethin’ stuck in my head.”
“Oh yeah?” Husk said without opening his eyes. “Spare us.”
Angel ignored him and tapped one claw lightly against the railing.
A rhythm.
A heartbeat.
Then he started singing.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just soft.
Lyrics slipping past his throat gently.
"Pack up all my cares and woe,
Here I go, singing low,
Bye Bye Blackbird."
A melody that felt oddly… warm.
Something human. Something old.
Vaggie looked up from the light fixture, surprised.
Charlie’s ears perked.
Nifty gasped and bounced in place.
Even Husk cracked an eyelid. “…Huh.”
Angel chuckled breathlessly. “Don’t get too excited. I ain’t puttin’ on a show. Just—y’know. Singin’.”
The room eased around his voice, a quiet circle of warmth forming without anyone meaning for it to.
And then—
The radio static from down the hall came first.
Soft.
Barely audible.
Like someone adjusting dial frequencies.
Angel froze mid-note.
“Oh no,” Husk muttered. “Here we go.”
Alastor emerged from around the corner.
Poised as always, cane in hand, smile sharp but… softened along the edges. His antlers nearly brushed the old chandelier, and his eyes gleamed with a curiosity almost too calm to be threatening.
“My, my,” he said, voice warm like vinyl static, “someone’s in fine spirits this morning.”
Angel shrugged, a teasing smirk ready. “What, you jealous someone else is hoggin’ the spotlight for once?”
Alastor’s grin twitched. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of interrupting.”
But he wasn’t moving.
He was listening.
Angel’s smirk faltered just a hair. “You uh… want somethin’, Radio?”
“No,” Alastor said simply. “Continue.”
A strange beat passed between them.
And then Angel—slow, hesitant—began to hum again.
The notes floated, light and airy, brushing softly against the warm glow of the lobby lights.
Alastor’s eyes softened — truly softened — and with a small, vintage crackle of static, he snapped his fingers.
An old microphone appeared in front of him, hovering delicately.
Charlie’s eyes widened. “Is he—?”
“Oh you gotta be kidding,” Husk muttered.
Alastor lifted the mic, voice slipping effortlessly into harmony with Angel’s.
"Where somebody waits for me,
Sugar's sweet, so is he,
Bye Bye, Blackbird,"
It wasn’t flashy.
It wasn’t a performance.
It was gentle.
Their voices fit together in a way none of them expected — Angel’s silky, smooth tone blending into Alastor’s rich, antique sound like two records perfectly synced.
"No one here can love or understand me,
Oh, what hard luck stories they all hand me,
Make my bed, light my light, I'll arrive late tonight."
Angel’s ears twitched, startled. “Holy… you actually know this song?”
“Know it?” Alastor chuckled, stepping closer with an ease that surprised even him. “I lived by it.”
Their voices wove together, the melody curling through the hotel in lazy, golden spirals.
Angel didn’t break eye contact.
Neither did Alastor.
"Awhile ago when I was young,
I heard a song and heard it sung,
Bye Bye, Blackbird,
I don't know why it makes me sad,
A happy song should make me glad."
Halfway through, Angel dropped the pretense — the smirk, the teasing, the pose. His shoulders relaxed, posture softening. A rare vulnerability shined through as he leaned forward slightly, drawn to Alastor’s warmth like a flame.
Alastor leaned in too.
"Bye Bye, Blackbird,
Make my bed, light my light,
I'll arrive late tonight,
Blackbird, Bye Bye."
Charlie silently gripped Vaggie’s arm.
Vaggie’s mouth fell open.
Nifty bounced so hard she nearly ricocheted off the wall.
Husk stared, muttered “what the hell,” and sat up straight for the first time that morning.
Angel slipped down the stairs, each step matching the rhythm, and came to stand right beside Alastor. Close. Closer than he’d ever dared before.
The two of them humming the outro slowly together, matching pace.
Alastor didn’t recoil.
He didn’t stiffen.
He didn’t perform.
He simply… smiled. Softly. Sincerely.
And right in the middle of the lobby — with every pair of eyes on them — Angel Dust reached up and gently smoothed one gloved hand along the sleeve of Alastor’s coat.
A touch.
Tender.
Unhidden.
A faint blush — barely-there, fleeting — colored his face.
Then he did something none of them expected:
He placed his gloved hand over Angel’s.
Not for show.
Not as a deal.
Just because he wanted to.
Charlie squeaked.
Vaggie dropped the screwdriver she was holding.
Husk coughed violently into his drink even though he wasn’t drinking.
Nifty screamed into a pillow she manifested for the occasion.
Angel froze, eyes wide. “Radio…?”
Alastor lowered the mic, his voice sinking into something warm enough to melt through Angel’s ribs.
“Thank you,” he murmured, “for the music.”
Angel blinked rapidly. His breath hitched — barely noticeable unless you were looking right at him.
Alastor continued, quieter still.
“But more than that… thank you for inviting me to sing with you.”
Angel’s voice trembled with something so tender it made Husk look away. “…You enjoyed it?”
Alastor chuckled — not the theatrical laugh, but a soft, breathy one, honest and relaxed.
“Immensely.”
Angel’s smile grew slow and real, his hand tightening gently around Alastor’s sleeve. “Well… maybe we could do it again sometime.”
Alastor tilted his head, red eyes glowing faintly — not with menace, but something like fondness.
“I’d like that.”
And without thinking — without hesitation — Angel rested his head against Alastor’s shoulder.
Right there.
Right in front of everyone.
Husk sputtered. “Oh hell no—”
“Shh!” Charlie snapped, eyes sparkling.
Alastor looked down at Angel, shocked for one microsecond —
Then his shoulders relaxed.
Fully.
Alastor — the Radio Demon — leaned his head gently against Angel’s in return.
And the lobby fell quiet, wrapped in something fragile, sweet, and impossibly warm.
Charlie whispered, “They’re… cute.”
Vaggie whispered back, “I’m terrified by how cute this is.”
Nifty was already embroidering a pillow about it.
Husk muttered, “Whatever. As long as they don’t start makin’ out on the rug.”
Angel snorted, lifting his head just enough to shoot Husk a look. “Jealous much?”
Husk threw a coaster at him.
Angel laughed — loud, bright — and Alastor’s smile widened as though the sound was a sunrise.
And for once, the Radio Demon stayed soft.
Stayed close.
Stayed human enough to feel it.
Angel laced their fingers together without hesitation.
Alastor didn’t let go.
Not even a little.