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Midwinter is bearing down on New York, and people who don't have to work are hibernating. That includes Pixie, although it's not fair to say she doesn't work, she does, she works at being the light of her husband's life. That's a tough job considering that his shtick is darkness.
“It's cold, Az. May I borrow a hoody please?” she asks one day, while sitting at the window looking out at the white city.
“Huh? Hoody? What's that?” Never seen in anything that's not either a designer suit, ermine cloak, or tight black leather trousers and no shirt, Azazel genuinely has no idea what she's talking about but decides that he'd better find out when she looks around with a disappointed look on her face. An intellectual vision of a shapeless piece of black fabric manifests in his mind. “Of course, bug. Just a moment.”
He vanishes, reappearing in Riptide’s walk-in wardrobe, an act which sets off the fire alarm and sprinklers, ruining the clothes. The door wrenches open from the other side, the owner of the wardrobe leaning against the frame and looking in at his pal with his version of a long suffering look. Luckily for him he has been left with at least one item of clothing - the baby blue bathrobe he's wearing.
Riptide says nothing, because what can be said?
Azazel takes the lead. “I told you to install special anti-demon sprinklers in here, Jan.”
“I did. They're working.”
“Too well.”
“What do you want, Az?”
“A hoody. A black one. Do you know what a hoody is?”
But Riptide is already making a disgusted face, the corners of his lips minutely turned down. “Don't use such foul language! I thought we were classy?!”
“Where can I get a designer hoody?”
“Alexander McQueen.”
“Please don't make light of such a serious situation. My wife wants to borrow my hoody but I don't own one.”
“That’s your punishment for marrying a hero, you sell-out.” And with that Riptide slams the door shut, leaving Azazel in the rain.
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“Angel-”
But as he's hailing Angel Salvadore in her grungy little Fijian loft apartment he realises it's completely pointless as her own hoodies are much too small for him, and she wouldn't know a designer item if John Galliano himself offered to dress her.
“What do you want?” she asks, turning away from giving Sabertooth an ear piercing. The latter Azazel completely ignores as he barely wears what can even be described as ‘clothes’, following the X-Men spandex fancying line. And also he continues to hold a grudge over that one time Azazel chopped his head off.
“Nothing.”
“Go shill Avon somewhere else then. I'm busy.” Angel yanks the growling Sabertooth’s head down by an earlobe, readying a needle.
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“Doc, advise me on acquiring a hoody. Designer hoody. Dolce & Gabbana threatened to ban me from their mailing list when I asked.” says Azazel, suddenly and out of nowhere.
Doc Ock, interfered with for the millionth time while at a crucial stage of his scientific slash engineering process, stands up straight, turning upon his friend and colleague a chest bare of either hoody or shirt. And this is not solely a suspect fashion choice, as anyone who realises that he has some insane shit permanently strapped to his middle will readily realise.
“You know, Azazel, you live a very charmed life, unusual malformations aside. A very charmed life. I do believe there is not a word for what level of First World Problem this is.” he says, making a twisty turny gizmo thing buzz threateningly, a sinister smirk gradually taking over more and more of his face, his tentacles flexing their claws.
Azazel teleports away.
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It's always the last place you look. Versace is selling a black and gold hoody which proclaims that the wearer loves the Baroque aesthetic, which is certainly true in the case of Azazel. The gold accent is not his thing, but it'll have to do. Now, how much do they want for it?
Twenty thousand dollars.
An insane amount of monopoly money. His evil boy scout Club prints money, so it's not like he has a physical problem paying, but it's about the principal of the matter…
Back home, Megan receives some breaking news courtesy of Hellfire News.
‘This just in. Versace reports that their warehouse in Milan has experienced a raid by what reports are describing as an ‘army of alien ghost pirates led by Captain Satan himself.’ Motivations remain unclear.’
“Oh, Az!” Not good to laugh at theft, but she has to laugh or otherwise give herself earache.
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“Here, dear. My, ah, hoody.”
A brand new designer hoody transfers ownership, Megan noting that it is in fact Versace. She'll make a payment out of Azazel's account later.
“Put it on first please.”
“Huh?” Azazel is not sure if he's constitutionally capable of putting a hoody on. That might be a feat too extreme and daring even for him.
Megan purses her lips. “It defies the point to steal your clothes if you've never actually worn it. I tried to steal one of your suits earlier, but it's not made for women.”
“Yeeeeah…It's made for me.” Azazel stares at his wife like she's lost her mind, while she becomes increasingly frustrated but hides it under a sweet smile. Men, women, some things simply cannot be explained.