Work Text:
Classifications were utter nonsense.
He had never been one to be boxed into expectation, to abide by the possible when the impossible was far more compelling. That was why he hadn’t chalked it up to much importance.
The rest of Hell felt differently. They clung to the system as if they’d cease to exist without it, and that posed its own problems.
Of course, he’d accounted for this when he’d been stationed in the hotel, had thought carefully about how to play it, but miraculously it hadn’t seemed to matter. Not without his opposite, not without that pesky classification that sought out his own. The hotel had seemed utterly barren of those nosy caregivers.
Or so he’d thought, and really, he couldn’t have known differently.
Angel Dust hadn’t seemed the type, after all.
But even lies, his own and Angel’s, could not prevent instinct from meeting instinct.
Reputation was valuable. His own was a carefully cultivated thing, with no tells betraying the fragile classification sitting beneath his skin, buried under bravado and will.
Angel’s reputation, on the other hand, had always seemed the opposite. Where he obscured, Angel reveled, flaunting his submissive class like one might flaunt wealth or power. It had always seemed odd to him. One was far more disadvantageous than the other, and yet Angel basked in it, in something he himself tried desperately to avoid.
But reputation was not truth. He had used that to his advantage often enough. It was dreadfully negligent of him to trust Angel’s class was true, foolish to take the headlines at their word, to believe the persona that was so obviously just that.
Gone was the salacious smile and the ditzy expressions; gone was the careful neutrality he’d found himself on the receiving end of. Those days were over. He could tell that much.
Not when the evidence of his classification was so obvious, pitifully so, laid before the arachnid, who was far less dim than he’d assumed.
He’d only been hungry, head foggy and stomach writhing like a wounded beast, craving the specialized sustenance his class required.
He could eat regular means of sustenance, of course, and he did, if a bit irregular in his carnivorous inclination, but it did little to quell his hunger, to sustain his body.
The frivolity of adult meals was always preferable, even when venison only coated his tongue and fell like rocks into his stomach, but he was a spiteful thing. Always had been.
Still, needs must be met, even infrequently, and this was one such night, when he’d sneak into the kitchen, shadow obscuring his frame, and drink himself sick on the nutrients usually denied.
He was half-dropped into the deeper reaches of his classification, hunger dizzying his thoughts and pushing him into a soft haze of dependence he couldn’t afford. His shadow tried its best to pick up the slack, only to spill powdered formula down Alastor’s front, hitching a breath he tried to muffle at the action.
And then Angel had appeared.
A clack against linoleum, deafening against the heavy thumping of his heart.
The light flicked on, illuminating the other, who seemed to be returning from work, and he watched in horror as the mask Angel wore cracked in two, revealing the caregiver lurking beneath.
“Alastor—” it was said in confusion as much as in that lilting tone caregivers favored, a near coo that had him shrinking away.
A part of him wished to flee, to melt away as quickly as his shadow had dared, to ignore and deny and close his eyes tight as if that would make it go away. But it had never been indulging preference that led to his survival.
He couldn’t leave. Not without ensuring this stayed quiet.
His body protested as it contorted, lengthening and sharpening into the hellish figure, as he eyed Angel with pure malice, his smile threatening to drop when the other only stared, unimpressed.
“Sugar, you’d be a hell of a lot scarier if you weren’t covered in formula, looking like a hungry kitten,” Angel informed him with a scoff.
He tilted his head, confused, as Angel dropped his belongings on the kitchen counter and approached him, entirely nonplussed.
Angel had always been susceptible to his brand of intimidation. It burned that he seemed indifferent now.
Bones creaked as he shrank back down, pupils stilling from where they had once spun like radio dials.
His eye twitched.
He sighed, attempting to sound annoyed, but it only betrayed exhaustion. “What’s the price for your silence, then?” he grumbled, straightening his lapels and wincing at the dusting of powder over his clothes.
Angel considered him carefully, and for a fraction of a second he saw the same hungry expression he’d seen cross a million faces down here, self-serving, power-hungry, desperate, but he’d never seen it fizzle away quite as quickly as it did with Angel.
“How’s this, smiles—” Angel began. Alastor leaned forward slightly in anticipation. “—I help you out with your little situation in exchange for keeping my mouth shut about the whole thing,” Angel offered, and his blood went cold.
He reared back in disgust, but Angel only tutted his tongue. “That’s—”
Angel cut him off. “Before you throw a fit, let me make myself clearer,” he started, bending to pick up the tin of formula his shadow had dropped.
“You’re in a tough spot. Surprising, with that whole scary persona you got going on,” Angel teased and his smile tightened, relaxing when the other continued, “—So am I. No one knows what I am, just as much as they don’t know what you are, and ain’t that funny? Ain’t it a perfect opportunity?”
He thinned his lips at the proposal.
“I’m not big on forcing anyone to do anything, even if you overlords don’t feel the same,” Angel clarified, placing the tin on the counter.
He raised a brow.
“But what’s a mutually beneficial deal between friends—” a look at that, “—acquaintances?” Angel finished, one hand propped on his hip as he looked intently at Alastor.
Mutually beneficial. He wanted to disagree. It was a dangerous game Angel wanted to play, though self-interest was one of the better motivators. If his secret was just as much Angel’s, that alone would be reason enough to keep him quiet.
He shot the other a serious look. “Your terms are… satisfactory, but I must stress the absolute discretion of this matter,” he said, the threat implicit.
Angel nodded, and he let his spine sag a fraction from where it had stiffened since his discovery. His shadow returned too, flitting at his feet, and he sneered at it.
“Now’s as good a time as any to make good on our deal,” Angel mentioned, looking pointedly at the near-empty container. He was quick to vanish it from the kitchen. He had already been sloppy enough with his secrets.
Angel looked annoyed, and he was quick to placate him. “Calm yourself, I’ve another container in my room. I’ve just no means of heating it up,” he confessed.
Angel smiled. “That’s fine, toots. How about you bring it over to my room? I’ve got a bottle warmer sitting around somewhere,” he mumbled, and he could see the exhaustion on the other’s face. “We’ve been in the kitchen long enough. I’ve it on good authority that the king is a late-night snacker. We shouldn’t be talking here,” Angel added, gathering his things.
He nodded, watching carefully as the caregiver left.
—
Angel’s room was gaudy, pink, and bright, though he supposed it had its charm. The little in him certainly thought so; that part of him zeroed in on the plethora of pillows and blankets almost immediately. Luxuries he kept to a minimum, lest his smaller half run rampant. Just a threadbare comforter and a singular pillow for him. Angel, however, saw no reason to opt out of comfort.
He squinted at the bright lights as Angel moved aside, ushering him in, jumping as his stomach let out a growl. That seemed to move the caregiver into gear, one of many white-furred arms grabbing the tin of formula from his hold.
“Wait a sec while I heat this up,” Angel told him softly, a low whisper that had his eyes sitting heavier than before.
He stood uncomfortably a moment before sitting hesitantly on a loveseat, jumping in surprise as a round little pig joined him, going as far as to rest its head against his lap, and he barely found himself fighting it as his hands gravitated to the creature.
He really was off his game.
Angel returned then, barely breaking him out of his thoughts.
“It’s a shame to break up this adorable display, but you need to eat and then get some sleep. You look like you’re about to keel over,” Angel teased, and he rolled his eyes.
He reached a hand out for the bottle, huffing when Angel held it just out of reach. “Ah, after your mess in the kitchen, I’d rather feed you. Besides, that’s the whole gig, right?” He turned his head to look at the man. “I’m taking care of you,” Angel said, low and steady.
Having it said so plainly made his stomach flutter sharply in something indiscernible.
He nodded his agreement, a short, barely there motion. He wasn’t one to back out of his deals for anything less than something spectacular; a whiny refusal at being fed a bottle hardly qualified.
Angel’s face noticeably brightened, and he startled when he was grabbed by the wrist, the pig tumbling off his lap as he stumbled upright.
He shot a glare.
“Ah, don’t give me that. I don’t make a habit of feeding tired babies on a cramped loveseat. A bed is much more appropriate,” Angel explained, and he was inclined to agree. Angel was one of the few demons taller than him, and it had a way of making him feel even smaller.
Still, he hesitated at the edge of the bed.
The dynamic of caregiver and little was an intimate thing already. It felt like overkill to add crawling into the other’s bed on top of that, and he had little faith in holding his smaller half back if he was fed and comfortable.
Angel peered over, concerned, the bottle still held out enticingly, and his stomach ached at the sight.
“You okay, Al?”
He swallowed uncomfortably.
This was a bigger decision than he had anticipated.
Of course, Angel had proposed they indulge instinct, but he had expected to skirt by, half-dropped and still in control.
He felt paralyzed, uncertainty winding through spirit and limbs alike at the thought of giving that up.
Angel didn’t move any closer. He didn’t push or prod or take, and that was the bit that gave pause.
“You can say no,” Angel finally said, and he watched as the other sat back, posed in a way even his panic-stricken body could not mistake as a threat.
“A deal doesn’t mean you gotta do anything you don’t like,” Angel told him softly.
He felt his fingers twitch at his sides.
His gaze flicked to the bottle, as necessary as it was daunting, then again to the door.
Both would betray him, be it his cowardice or the softness that had already made itself known, even if subtly.
He finally glanced at the other’s face, a questioning gaze, and it occurred to him this was no typical reaction to an offered place to laze. “I am only considering my options,” he clarified, and Angel nodded easily.
“Sure, sugar, take all the time you need. I ain’t going nowhere.”
That was the problem.
This was entirely his choice.
He straightened. “Very well,” he murmured, more to himself than to Angel. With deliberate precision, he climbed onto the bed. Every movement was carefully controlled, as if the act was one to be carried out clinically.
He almost breathed a sigh of relief when it was done, when he was sat stiffly on top of Angel’s comforter, not quite leaning back, not quite at ease.
Angel watched him with an unreadable expression.
“Comfortable?”
“Immensely,” he replied, unsurprised when Angel gave him a disbelieving look.
“…It will suffice,” he confessed begrudgingly.
Angel sighed, less infuriated and more fond as he shuffled the pillows behind him. “C’mere, then,” Angel instructed, and he hesitated.
The tall wall of pillows and soft nest of blankets called to him immensely, and yet, quite aptly, it felt like climbing straight into the spider’s web even more than climbing into bed had.
He had gotten this far.
The distance closed, and he felt his face warm as he fell into the spot Angel had formed for him, the mattress dipping under the caregiver’s weight enough for Alastor to settle into it, now pressed to Angel’s side. The pillows behind him did not help, drawing him in further, and he felt near swaddled.
Angel didn’t comment nor laugh, and for that he was thankful. He only tugged the blankets over the both of them, Hell’s uncharacteristic nightly chill diminishing immediately, and he felt his tail wag contentedly below his blazer.
From there, he couldn’t fight it anymore, not when Angel had offered the bottle the moment he had settled. No cooing, no stalling, just offered relief.
He latched on immediately, drinking desperately, as much as he could. His stomach warmed with it, the perfectly prepared formula sliding down his throat in a way that felt almost foreign after so long.
And, really, how long had it been?
Too long.
He had never sunk down like this from a mere feed, but he could feel his older mind slipping away, warm from the formula, warm from the blankets, warm from a caregiver’s presence.
In the haze of his mind, childish reasoning bloomed: Angel was not just a contributor to his relief. He was the reason.
His ears moved up and down as he drank, eyes drooping, only to snap open when the bottle was pulled from his mouth. He gazed up at Angel then, knowing, or at least expecting, him to make it better, to bring back the warmth Angel had so carefully fostered.
“Al, baby, you need to slow down.”
Angel’s face creased in concern. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”
Alastor whined, an awful, honest noise, as Angel jostled him upright.
“How long ago was your last bottle, little guy?” the caregiver questioned, one pair of arms rubbing up and down Alastor’s back in an attempt to soothe, but the only thing that would truly calm him was being held just out of reach.
He grabbed at the bottle, huffing when it was held higher.
“A month,” he bit out at last, when he realized the return of the bottle was dependent on an answer.
Angel startled. “A fuc— freaking month?” he exclaimed.
There was a stillness to the room now.
“…A month?” Angel repeated, quieter.
Alastor felt his headspace wane, his mind clearing from the haze. “That… that’s none of your concern.”
“That is my concern,” Angel said firmly. “That ain’t just being stubborn. That’s… you’re starving yourself, Al,” Angel huffed incredulously.
Alastor squirmed, agitation humming beneath his skin, the warmth now thoroughly interrupted. “You’ve made your point. Now, if you’d kindly return—”
“No.”
The word landed loudly, even though it had not been spoken at any great volume.
For a moment, that alone snapped something back into place.
“No?” he echoed, disbelief evident.
Angel didn’t even look at him, busy adjusting his hold, shifting them both until Alastor was more securely propped against him. “No,” he repeated. “You’re not gettin’ that back until you settle, and you’re definitely not chugging it like you’re starving, even if you are.”
The last part slipped out under his breath.
Angel’s fixation on how starved he was felt far more uncomfortable than the refusal itself.
Alastor’s hands curled weakly in Angel’s shirt, whether to push away or pull closer, even he didn’t seem to know anymore. His thoughts felt thick, syrupy, slipping through his grasp.
“I am not…” he started.
Angel huffed, not unkindly. “Yeah, yeah. Big scary overlord. I get it.”
Another hand came up, surprisingly gentle as it brushed through Alastor’s hair, careful around his ears.
Alastor stilled.
Every instinct screamed at him to reclaim control. Even his shadow, little more than a sliver since its return in the kitchen, lashed unhappily where it curled against his back.
But his body, traitorous thing, had no sympathy for his shadow’s distaste or Alastor’s precarious hold on control.
It sagged against Angel again, trusting and pliant.
The bottle lowered again, slower this time, stopping just shy of Alastor’s lips.
“Easy,” Angel coached. “You pace yourself, I’ll keep it coming. Deal still stands, yeah?”
Alastor hesitated.
Then, with far less dignity than he would ever admit to, he nodded.
They fell into a rhythm, Angel controlling the rate at which he fed him, and even when the bottle emptied, he was offered another. His stomach finally settled into something less gnawing and more content, his headspace following suit.
His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, heavy with exhaustion, and he knew distantly that he should leave, that their deal had been fulfilled.
His ear twitched at the sound of a bottle being set on the bedside, twitched again when Angel’s breathing slowed beneath his head, where it had been cradled against the other.
This was it, his time to regain some semblance of dignity.
But he was warm, fed. Nothing ached or throbbed, and his head felt pleasantly settled.
He relaxed then, for once allowing himself a prize unsullied by violence or cruelty. This was not a reward reaped from cunning. This was simply a luxury he rarely allowed.
Contentment.