Work Text:
“Tell me a story.”
Alastor wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Angel had wrapped his arms around him the second the door had closed behind him.
“A story?” He asked. Angel nodded, face still pressed to the side of Alastor’s neck. “Why don’t you put that down first?” Alastor tugged at Angel’s backpack.
Angel grumbled something in protest, as if taking his arms off Alastor to shrug off his backpack was a huge imposition. He dropped his coat along with the bag in a swift movement and walked into Alastor’s arms again. “Story.”
“Hard day?” Alastor asked, not quite able to keep worry out of his voice.
“Just.” Angel shrugged.
Alastor gave him a minute, when Angel didn’t elaborate, he leaned to whisper in his ear. “How about we have dinner first and then I’ll tell you a story?”
“Deal.”
Angel was considerably more cheerful after dinner, and by extension, Alastor was too. Not that he would admit it to anyone else.
It was strange, this profusion of feeling, this entanglement, where Angel’s moods affected his own. He had cared about other people before, of course, cared about their happiness, but this was different. Intense, inescapable. Jarring and soothing at once. Irrational.
Case in point, Angel’s current request.
A story. What kind of story? Alastor wondered. He lay down on the bed and tried to think.
Angel always said he loved the sound of Alastor’s voice, that he could hear him talk about anything. Alastor believed him, even if he didn’t fully understand why, which was why he had already told Angel many many things he never thought he would share with someone else, about himself, his life, his stories. He had no problem with telling Angel more about himself, he just didn’t know what else was left to tell.
Then he remembered Angel had once told him he really liked fairytales, the ones with a happy ending, though. Alastor racked his brain for a suitable fairytale, all the ones he could think of weren’t exactly comforting. Hm.
The hall beyond the bedroom darkened but Alastor heard the unmistakable sound of Angel padding hurriedly from the bathroom.
“Don’t go back on our deal, Al,” Angel said. “Ya promised me a story.” He fell backwards on the bed, arms and legs stretched wide for a second before rolling on his side to face Alastor.
Alastor brushed a strand of hair away from Angel’s eyes. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Good, I want many of those.” Angel moved closer and Alastor was enveloped in the warmth of his embrace and the minty freshness of his breath.
He pressed a soft kiss to Angel’s lips and was not surprised when Angel kissed him back passionately, almost greedily. He was surprised, though, when Angel leaned back way before Alastor would have expected him to.
“Story time!” Angel said, slightly out of breath. “Don’t think ya are kissin’ ya way out of that.”
“The thought did not cross my mind.” Alastor cleared his throat. “There was a—”
“What, no ‘once upon a time’?” Angel interrupted him.
“It was implied.” Alastor shook his head. “Once upon a time, there was a prince—”
“Ooh! A prince! Was he hot? What was his name?”
“He was very handsome, tall and lithe, with fair hair and eyes the color of rare gems and his name was An…gle.”
“Angle?!” Angel raised his head, indignant.
“Yes, indeed. Prince Angle, haven’t you heard about him? Then let me tell you his story.” Alastor waited until Angel settled on his chest again. “Prince Angle was the King’s youngest son, the apple of the Queen’s eye, and all of the fairy godmothers in the kingdom vied to give the young prince their blessings, he got beauty and a kind heart but also a rather special gift, for the most powerful of the Fae prophesied he would become the best dancer in the realm.”
“Did he?” Angel asked in a soft voice.
“He did. The Queen often said that Prince Angel, ah, Angle could dance before he could walk. His dancing was said to be so magical as to hold whoever watched in a thrall. Everyone in the kingdom crowded around the castle hoping to catch a glimpse. Then one day, an evil creature tricked the prince with false promises and trapped him in a cage, wanting the prince to dance only for him, to own him.”
“Nooooo.”
“The prince’s situation was dire when he met Ala… ah, Hal.”
“Hal?!”
“Yes, Hal. Please pay attention, Angel. So, Hal. Another evil creature—”
“No.”
“Am I telling the story or are you?”
“Ya are tellin’ it wrong.”
“I thought you hadn’t heard this story.”
“I have heard about Hal an’ he was a knight—”
“With rather questionable morals—”
“Yeah, well, the prince wasn’t a saint either.” Angel slid a hand under Alastor’s shirt.
“That is really not the point.” Alastor grabbed Angel’s wrist for a second, then caressed it gently and drew a line up his arm and back down to rest his hand on Angel’s hip. “The point is that Hal had a history of his own with the evil people that held the prince captive, the Villains, and he might not have been an ideal knight, but he wanted to help the prince; having watched him in his cage, he thought the prince should be free to choose who he danced for.”
Angel looked up. “Did Hal like to watch the prince dance?”
Alastor held his gaze. “Yes, he did. Which he wasn’t expecting at all. He admired the prince’s grace, his obvious talent. He couldn’t help but smile at the way the Villain’s victims fell under the prince’s spell and were relieved of their coin or whatever else the evil creatures wanted from them. Hal wasn’t immune, he was mesmerized too but perhaps he didn’t lose his mind because his head wasn’t filled with lust or envy.”
“He didn’t want the prince?” Angel pouted.
“Not at first, and then not only in that way. He wanted the prince to be free and happy, and he hoped when that happened, that the prince would choose him.”
Angel pressed his face to Alastor’s chest, likely to conceal a tear but he didn't succeed. “Wait, I remember this part. Since the prince wasn’t y’know, a total idiot, he accepted the knight’s help an’ they escaped an’ they lived happily ever after dancin’ an’—”
“And that is quite enough for tonight’s story.”
“Ya started it. All I wanted was any story cause I like how your voice rumbles in your chest, it’s soothin’. Ya could’ve read from the dictionary but ya had to get creative.” Angel nuzzled Alastor’s throat and kissed his pulse point. “Prince Angle, seriously.”
“It’s not my fault you are not as well-versed in fairytales as I happen to be. The story of Prince Angle and Hal, the Red Knight, is fabled and renowned.” Alastor gasped at the feeling of Angel’s teeth grazing his collarbone.
“Will ya tell me more about ‘em some other time?”
“Anytime you want,” he said, lifting Angel’s face to meet his eyes. “Do you know what the best thing about the story is?” He whispered the words against Angel’s lips and smiled, feeling him shiver. “We can keep writing it every night.”