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For the first week, Angel didn't leave his room. Cherri brought him his meals. Sometimes she’d go in and eat with him, but mostly Angel just wanted her to leave the tray by the door. It went against every one of her instincts. She was fiercely loyal, sometimes to a fault. Over the years, she’d had to learn how to tamp down the fiery need to be by her friend’s side, and instead just take him at his word and leave him be. So, in most instances during that first week, she’d knock on the door, say, "Angie? Got some food for ya," then put the tray on the floor and go back downstairs.
An hour later, she'd walk by Angel’s room again. If the tray was still sitting there, untouched, she’d return to the kitchen, put a new meal together, and swap out the first one for the warmer food. She would repeat this routine until the tray finally disappeared from the hallway.
No one could text Angel while he was in there. He refused to keep his phone with him, refused to even look at it. He’d asked Cherri to find him an analog clock—the kind that specifically made a ticking sound that couldn’t be ignored—so he could obsessively keep track of the minutes as they passed. He logged his time to make sure he wasn’t losing any significant gaps. He barely slept. On the rare occasion that he let Cherri in to hang out for a while, he asked her if he’d left his room at all that day without realizing it, if he’d talked to anyone.
Cherri always reassured him that he hadn’t. Better than that: she assured him. And Angel could trust her. She had always been forthright, sometimes to the point of abrasiveness. She had no capacity for guile, for softening her words or withholding information just to spare someone’s feelings. Even his. She said not just what needed to be said, but what needed to be heard.
Eventually, after his week of self-imposed isolation, Angel tentatively started to wander the halls, even venturing out into the common areas for an hour or so at a time. It was rough at first. The light was jarring. He always kept his room dimly and softly lit—the opposite of a film studio. Small lamps and scented candles and string lights only. No overhead lights, ever. No blues, reds, or pinks. Green was nice. Lavender. Soft, buttery yellow. In comparison, the well-lit red of the hotel’s hallways and common areas were garish and harsh. They felt like a sensory assault.
Everyone was being gentle with him—that was rough, too. Cherri was good at keeping the tone casual, not dwelling on the heavy stuff if Angel didn’t bring it up first, and absolutely never in mixed company. If anyone else, during a lull in conversation, started to say, "Hey, Angel…I never really asked…" or, "I never got a chance to say..." and tried to dip their toes into a serious topic, Cherri drew their attention away, cannonballing into a complete different conversation. It was an obvious deflection and disruption, but Angel didn’t care. It took the pressure off and made the point clear. Even Husk learned to stop trying to initiate those conversations, though he seemed to be erring on the side of caution now and avoiding conversation altogether, more often than not.
Angel wasn’t sure if the "fragile—handle with care" approach was because everyone still didn’t trust him, or because they just pitied him that much. Both options were bad, he thought. Both were extremely bad. It was taking everything in him not to scream these days, every time he left his room and had to interact with anyone but Cherri or KeeKee. But his room, despite the scented candles and perfumes and sprays, was starting to get that stale "lived in" smell. He was starting to get that smell. He needed to walk around, to air his body and his brain out.
He didn’t scream, even when it was all he wanted to do. There was no need or reason to, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t. It would’ve been cathartic, but he wouldn’t. He was in control of himself and his actions. Now more than ever, it was crucial to know that. It was crucial to prove that.
Charlie and Vaggie—or Vaggi—Oh, fuck it, he thought, whatever—saw his daily ventures outside his room as a sign of obvious progress. Charlie said it was so nice to see him out and about again. She’d start to reach out to take his arm, and then pause, with her hands still slightly outstretched, when Angel tensed up despite all his efforts not to. He could keep from snapping at her, from letting the inexplicable spike of rage in him erupt past the surface. But he couldn’t control physical responses like that. He locked up before he knew it was even happening. Charlie’s hands hovered before her for a moment, like a pair of paper kites held aloft by a breeze. She almost reached out again, then withdrew them, clasping them before her chest, wringing them slightly, so very concerned and confused and conflicted and just wanting to do the right thing, the nice thing. Go fuck yourself, Angel thought, and then—to himself and to Charlie, equally—he added, God, stop it.
He knew something was wrong, and he decided it was best to just avoid crossing paths with her for a while. But after a few days, he had to address something about the hotel that had been bugging him, in more ways than one. He approached Charlie in the parlor on a quiet afternoon, when most of the other guests were out, and told her that he'd really, really feel a whole lot better about spending time in the common areas if they got rid of the TV.
"Oh, Angel," Charlie said, with so much sympathy that it made him want to hurt something. Maybe himself. Maybe someone else. No, he thought, trying to course-correct from that thought. Himself, if anyone.
"I can't even imagine what you're going through right now," Charlie went on. Angel gritted his teeth so hard his gums ached, just to keep from saying, You could if you tried. "I did think this might be an issue. We already got rid of the big-screen TV Vox gave us when he visited—which, again, I am so sorry about. I mean, that one was such an obvious surveillance attempt, there was no way we were going to keep it around."
"Yeah," Angel said, unconsciously hunching his shoulders a little as a guest walked through the lobby. He was so tired of feeling overheard. Watched. Monitored. "Yeah, no, I get that. And, uh...thanks for that. But the thing is, he's been spyin' through these things for decades. Way before he had the newer models. Like, back when he had one o' those wood-paneled heads, he still...look, it's just his thing, ya know?"
Charlie pondered this. "I guess so," she said. "But we never had an issue like that before. If he could spy on us through one of these older sets, he wouldn't have made you—I mean, he wouldn't have needed to—oh, geez, Angel, I'm so—"
"It's fine," Angel said, his voice clipped. "It's fine. And I know it's a long shot. But after...everything he did, we just gotta play it safe. Don'tcha think?"
Charlie gave him a gentle smile. She thinks you're nuts, Angel thought. She thinks you're fuckin' nuts and she's gonna tell you in the nicest way possible. She's gonna say you're safe now and how it'd be a great step forward to just let the stupid TV stay where it is and learn not to freak out about it. He'd have to get more personal, he realized, if he wanted to effectively plead his case. He'd have to admit that it wasn't just about being smart or pragmatic. He'd have to tell her that the glow from the TV when it was on made the rest of the room get darker for him. He'd have to tell her that the darkness from the TV when it was off made him unable to take his eyes off it, dreading and anticipating the moment it would blink to life with a leering grin on its screen. He'd have to tell her that just the sight of a television set quickened his pulse, made him feel twitchy. Made him want to shield his eyes or just gouge all of them out of his head so he'd never have to worry about any of this ever again.
"Look," he tried. "It'd just...it'd really be nice to not have this thing around. I wanna be able to hang out somewhere that isn't my room or Cherri's for a change. And I just can't with this thing here."
"I hear you, Angel," Charlie said. "I mean it, I really do. I totally get where you're coming from with this, and trust me—"
Angel's body temperature plummeted at that phrase.
"—your feelings are so, so valid. But...well, you're not our only guest anymore. We want to hold space for you however we can, but we have a lot more patrons now, and we have to consider what they—"
Charlie cut herself off with a startled hiccup and Angel performed a full-body flinch at the sound of exploding glass from the corner of the parlor. The noise was followed by the sizzle of shredded, sparking wires. Angel and Charlie stared at the carnage of the television set, with bright green smoke billowing out of its broken face. Then, slowly, they turned their attention to the other side of the room, where Alastor now stood. His smile was placid, but his shadow writhed, and his cane was glowing.
"One down!" he said cheerfully, as the light around his microphone faded. Charlie gaped while Angel tried to take some deep breaths to bring his heart rate back down. To the surprise of both of them, it was Angel whom Alastor addressed next. He beckoned gallantly to the staircase as he said, "Care to lend me a hand with the rest of them, my good fellow?"
It only took a few more seconds for Angel to overcome his shock. "Oh," he said, cracking all three pairs of knuckles, "fuck yeah."
"Splendid," Alastor said. Without any further explanation, he began to walk toward the staircase, pausing only when Charlie gathered her wits enough to say, "Whoa, whoa. Wait a sec, Al."
Alastor turned neatly on his heel and rested both hands atop his cane, regarding her with well-trained professionalism. Angel, who had taken a few steps in Alastor's direction, paused as well. Charlie raised her hands, palms facing out, and grimaced. "Okay, so...wheeew," she said with a nervous laugh. "Broken TV in the parlor. Broken glass in the parlor. That's, um...not, like, the most ideal thing in the world, guys?"
Alastor's gaze darted over to the dead TV set, then back to Charlie, pointedly. When she looked at the mess again, some of Alastor's shadowy puppet minions were already at work, sweeping up the glass and gathering wood shards and cables. Charlie returned her attention to Alastor, who raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," Charlie said. "Look...all right. No more TV in the parlor. That's okay, we can totally, um...implement that change in the hotel. But, you guys, people's private rooms? We can't take the TVs out of there just like that. Our guests have every right to—"
"I am the facility manager. Aren't I?"
Charlie hesitated. Angel waited for her answer, looking between the two. Alastor's smile was different from usual. Something in the eyes. It was almost as if he wanted Charlie to try to challenge him.
After a moment, Charlie deflated. "Just...make sure you knock before you open any doors."
"But of course!" Alastor said, his tone bright, pleasant, and agreeable.
"And ask them if they'd like to keep their TVs or not," Charlie added, "instead of just taking them."
With the same bright, pleasant tone and bright, pleasant smile, Alastor said, "No!" and then turned back around and started making his way up the stairs. Charlie stood there, at a complete loss for what to say to that, and Angel couldn't help it. He laughed. He didn't mean to, and he felt a little like an asshole when Charlie looked at him in surprise.
But not enough to stop him from leaving her where she stood and following Alastor up the stairs.
He caught up to him at the top of the flight, where Alastor had paused to strategize. "Hmm. Shall we divide and conquer? I'll start on the top floor, you can start here on the second, and we'll meet somewhere in the middle. Sound like a plan?"
"Uh," Angel said, "sure?"
"Wonderful." Alastor regarded him almost skeptically while Angel stood there in his boots, shorts, and crop-top sweater that covered only one of his four arms. "There's a lot of heavy lifting ahead," Alastor remarked. "I hope you're stronger than you look."
"Back atcha, beanpole."
Alastor barked out a little laugh, and then he dissipated into shadow and whisked himself up through the ceiling. Angel, with a shrug, headed to the first door and knocked. The room was empty—it was a surprisingly nice day, at least for Hell, and most of the guests had left for town hours ago. Angel went to the TV and yanked the cord out of the wall a little harder than necessary. He hefted the set off its stand using all four hands, and then, once he was resting it on his narrow hip—which was not at all designed for carrying anything heavy, and had probably started to bruise on contact—Angel realized he had no idea where he was bringing the TV. Down to the lobby, he figured? But he was exhausted by the thought of carrying even one television set down those stairs, never mind the dozens upon dozens that lay ahead. Maybe he could just leave them outside each room in the hallway for now and see if he could track down a hand cart later.
While Angel was mulling this over, something huge and dark dropped past the window at frightening speed. Angel flinched and almost dropped the television on his foot. He set it back down and went to the window. He opened it, poked his head out just enough to look up and make sure nothing else was coming, and then leaned out and looked down. A shattered TV set lay on the ground at the foot of the hotel.
Huh, Angel thought. That'll work.
He retrieved the TV again, brought it to the open window, and pushed it out to join the other one. He shut and locked the window, dusted his hands off, and went to the next room with a strange bounce in his step. His arms were gonna get tired fast, he knew, but man, this was gonna be fun.
One room after another, Angel went in, detached each television set from the hotel walls, and dumped them unceremoniously out the window. A few rooms had guests in them, and he simply avoided those for now. He made a note of which ones they were and decided to let Alastor handle them afterward. He was the manager, after all.
As Angel shouldered another TV set out the window, he thought about that straightforward, unflinching "no" Alastor had given to Charlie. He'd been almost gleeful to say it. Alastor was cut out for this job, Angel thought. He tried to remember the last time he'd been able to say no to anyone, about anything, with such unrestrained and obvious pleasure. And then to be able to go about his day unbothered by it. That was never an option at work—the very idea was absurd. And it wasn't even an option here, most of the time. In his early days at the hotel, Angel had thought that Charlie would've been the easiest person to say no to. In a way—in many ways, really—she'd turned out to be the most difficult.
He put all this aside for the time being. He'd think about it more later, maybe that night, when most of the other guests had turned in and Angel was still awake at three-thirty in the morning, scratching Fat Nuggets behind his ears while the little pig twitched and snuffled softly, mid-dream.
But right now, he didn't have to think about it. He didn't have to think about anything. All he had to do was throw TVs out of windows to his heart's content.
A little over an hour later, when Angel had taken care of all the unoccupied rooms on his floors, he and Alastor reconvened. They were much closer to the ground level than the top—Alastor had gotten through his floors quickly with his shadow powers and puppet minions. Angel didn't mind the disparity in their speed. He liked doing the work with his own hands. He'd always been a tactile person, and he was even more so since taking on a spider form in Hell.
"Ya done up there?" Angel asked when he saw Alastor walking down the hallway toward him.
"Indeed," Alastor said. "And how are we faring down here?"
"Same," Angel said. "Just finished the last room on this floor. Lotsa bare dressers and tabletops now."
"I'm sure," Alastor said approvingly. "It gives the space more breathing room, I think. And it's good for the brain. Maybe some of our residents will pick up a book for a change, instead of turning to mindless entertainment."
"...I've never seen you with a book in all the time we've been livin' here, Al."
"Nor I you."
Angel shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe now I'll start. Niffty's always readin' something. Bet she'd loan me a book or two."
At this, Alastor burst out laughing—real laughter, not the snide, controlled little chuckle Angel was so used to hearing. Angel was almost startled by the sound, and even more thrown off when Alastor actually raised his hand to wipe a tear from his eye. "Ohhh," he said, sighing in amusement. "My dear. Even you would blush reading one of her novels."
"What, for real? She into some freaky shit or somethin'?"
"Well, it's not my place to say," Alastor said. He gestured down the hallway with his cane, indicating the way back to the lobby. As he and Angel started their return trip, Alastor added, "She has certain, ah...predilections. Husker and I learned that the hard way ages ago. She'd left one of her books lying around—no cover art, and a title so innocuous that I can't even recall what it was—so we took a peek inside to see what she'd been reading. Let me tell you: curiosity very nearly did kill the cat that day."
"Fuck," Angel said, surprising himself with a laugh. "Niffty? Our Niffty?" Alastor smiled and shrugged, and Angel shook his head in disbelief. "Damn. Who woulda thought?"
They reached the main staircase, and Angel did a quick visual sweep of the lobby on the way down. Charlie was nowhere to be seen, and although Angel felt slightly guilty about it, he was relieved. He felt himself relax a little more. "Well, that was kinda fun," he said to Alastor. "Good day's work. Thanks for lettin' me tag along."
Alastor looked surprised. "Oh," he said, "the job's only half-finished. We've made a mess; we must clean up after ourselves."
"...ehh. I dunno. Seems like a job for the facility manager. I don't have all those..." Angel wiggled his fingers. "Shadowy powers, ya know? Can't afford to throw my back out—at least not doin' this."
Alastor sighed. "I suppose I can handle this next part myself. It's just that..."
Angel knew what he was doing. Alastor was coy, but not very subtle. "Just what?"
Alastor fiddled with the microphone on his cane. "Well, that colossal monstrosity—that gift, from our charming and generous benefactor—is still sitting out behind the hotel. Someone was supposed to have it removed, or donated, weeks ago, and they've been dragging their feet about it."
"Okay...?" Angel said, still not seeing where he came into play. "Well, it's like, fifty feet long, so good luck with that."
"I can handle the relocation," Alastor said. "But the thing of it is, unlike the rest of these contraptions, this one went outside from the ground floor. No chance for it to break." He'd been inspecting the microphone until now, but here, he gave Angel a sly look. "Shall we remedy that?"
Angel's room was calling to him, his soft and comfortable sanctum where he could hide himself away, relax his upper body, and not deal with anyone for the rest of the day.
The enormous flat-screen that sat out behind the hotel—smugly intact, its surface sleek and shining and offensively unmarred—called to him, too.
After a moment's consideration, during which Alastor waited with pressureless patience, Angel sighed and said, "Ah, what the hell."
Somehow, the thing looked even more stupidly enormous outdoors. They had to pick their way through the broken TV sets to get to it. At one point, Alastor offered his hand to help Angel over a pile of debris. Angel turned him down with a polite but awkward, "Uh…nah, thanks," and Alastor dropped his hand without a fuss and continued on his way. Angel couldn’t tell if the offer had just been a product of Alastor’s old-school manners, or if it was meant to be some kind of subtle insult, treating Angel like a woman. Angel decided to just give the guy the benefit of the doubt and assume it was the first one.
As they approached the giant television, Angel said, "Man. Thing's a fuckin' eyesore."
"Isn't it, though?"
Angel put his hands on his hips and sized up their target. "So...how we doin' this?"
Alastor scanned the ground at his feet, then went down on one knee, picked up a fist-sized rock, and tossed it up to Angel. Angel caught it and handled it skeptically. "Seriously?" he asked as Alastor rose to his feet again and dusted off his pants. "Rocks? You're not gonna use your weird freaky magic or nothin'?"
Alastor shrugged one shoulder. "Frankly, I'm running on fumes at the moment. Throwing ten stories' worth of television sets out the window is quite a drain, even when one uses magic the entire time. For now, I think the good old-fashioned way is best, at least until I replenish myself."
Angel hefted the rock in his hand a couple times, testing its weight. Then, without warning, he wound up and pitched it. It hit the TV screen and left a perfect impact mark, one sharp white spot with fractures rippling outward. Alastor raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "Good arm."
"Thanks," Angel said, rolling his shoulder and looking for another rock. "Got a lotta practice as a kid. Some of our favorite hobbies were throwing rocks at cars, pigeons, bottles. Dogs. But with dogs it was, like, self-defense, y'know? So we could climb down from the fence and keep runnin'." He crouched on the ground, picking up and tossing away a few stones that weren't quite heavy or aerodynamic enough. "I played a lot of baseball, too," he went on. "Couldn't run for shit; I always tripped on my shoelaces or feet or whatever. But I was a great pitcher. Threw curve balls like you wouldn't believe. Pissed the other guys off so much, I'm amazed they even let me keep playing with 'em."
"Hmm," Alastor said, leaning on his cane and inspecting his nails. Lightly, he added, "I would've assumed you preferred to be the catcher."
Angel paused in his search for rocks. He stared at Alastor, who simply raised his eyebrows, still smiling as confidently as ever. Finally, Angel said, "Okay, I gotta ask. Do you realize what the fuck you just said?"
Alastor grinned at him. "My boy," he began, "you’re not the only one who made his living in the entertainment industry. I cut my teeth on low-budget talk shows, both on the air and backstage. I wouldn’t have survived if I couldn’t hold my own and keep up with the lewd banter."
Angel snorted. "All right," he said, grabbing a few more rocks and tossing one to Alastor. "Good to know."
He threw another rock, and it created a second ripple of cracked glass. Angel got a sudden chill at the two points of impact. They looked like a pair of swirling eyes. He didn’t know if Alastor saw what he did, but either way, the radio demon was quick to use one of his shadowy tendrils to whip a rock at the screen, with more force than he’d have managed with just his arm. It created an entire web of cracks and splinters. It didn’t look like eyes anymore; it just looked like a mess. Perfect, Angel thought.
They continued to throw rocks together for a while. They didn’t talk, which Angel appreciated. He had no intention of starting up any kind of conversation in particular. If Alastor wanted to talk, then obviously nothing would hold him back. But Angel would leave the ball in his court.
Still, he did wonder. It was impossible not to pick up on Vox’s deranged obsession with the guy. Angel had caught some of Vox’s public meltdowns, and he had some behind-the-scenes knowledge, too. He’d heard Vox rant at Valentino more than once about the radio demon.
Angel had never quite been able to pin it all down. They were enemies, obviously. Rivals, sure. Radio vs. television—riveting stuff, Angel had never thought. The weird sexual fixation? Duh. Angel would've had to be a complete moron not to pick up on that. But there was something deeper and darker to it, something enduring, and Angel didn’t know exactly what it was. All he knew was that it was fucked up. He knew what Vox was like, and even for him, it was fucked up.
Angel knew where he stood with Vox. Even before he’d known the full extent of it, he picked up on it on an unconscious level. Vox despised him. Vox looked down on him for being a whore. Vox relied on Angel being a whore to promote their company's brand and serve as a living mascot. Vox resented that his entire enterprise had come to rely on Angel in this way. Vox was possessive and jealous. Vox hated that Angel was special in Valentino’s eyes. Vox was a sick fuck and a sadist and he utterly loathed Angel, and at the end of the day, that was chillingly easy for Angel to wrap his brain around.
With Alastor…it was different. It was weirder. In Angel’s case, Vox enjoyed seeing him abused. It didn’t have to be by his hand. As long as someone was doing it—and, better yet, as long as they could commodify and profit off of it—Vox was satisfied. Vox was gratified.
In Alastor’s case? It had to be Vox himself. It wasn’t enough for harm to be done to him. Vox had to be the one to do it. And Alastor had been his captive for weeks. (Or was it over a month? Angel’s sense of time was still fuzzy.) Husk and Niffty had told them all that Alastor had gone willingly, that it had so obviously been part of some greater plan of his, that the ulterior motive couldn't have been more shriekingly clear.
But Vox had massive blind spots when it came to Alastor.
And yet, at the same time, he always had Alastor in his crosshairs.
And then he’d had him in Vee Tower, held hostage under the binding contract of an Overlord deal.
Angel didn't know what Alastor had been like after his initial return to the hotel. He'd lost a week of his own life staying in his room. He'd lost a week by trying to make sure he didn't lose time. He hadn't exactly had the opportunity, wherewithal, or desire to try and gauge anyone else's behavior.
But this, he thought, as he threw another rock at the TV while Alastor did the same...this alone was a huge deviation from their usual dynamic, and from Alastor's usual behavior. Alastor himself barely moved. But those shadowy tendrils twisted like striking snakes as they launched one stone after another at the television screen.
Angel didn't think too hard about it all. He had his own shit to think about. And he had even more shit to try not to think about.
They kept throwing rocks for a while, even after the television was broken well beyond repair. It felt good. Angel followed the impulse to throw and to damage and to break, to leave a mark. He followed the impulse to mutter things under his breath, too. He wasn't even sure what he was saying. As he started to get tired, his aim worsened. Some rocks even missed the target altogether, despite its towering size.
Finally, Angel had to wind down. All four of the arms he'd been using were aching, and his back hurt. His head hurt, too, and he realized it was because he'd been crying. He had no idea how long that had been going on. There were no sobs, but tears streamed freely, his jaw was tense, and his face was furrowed. "Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his fists against his eyes and pulling his hands down his face to dry it.
He wouldn't have guessed it, but Angel found that he wasn't particularly embarrassed to be crying in front of Alastor—at least no more than he would be in front of anyone else. Alastor didn't even acknowledge it. He paid no attention, ignoring Angel's emotions completely, and Angel realized how much he loved that. He could spend an entire afternoon dropping television sets out windows, throwing rocks, breaking shit, saying who knew what out loud, and crying, and Alastor didn't say a word about it. He just kept on smiling, and Angel didn't even mind. No matter what Angel did, this man was never going to regard him with a carefully pained expression, with brutally gentle sympathy, or with platitudes about "giving himself grace" or "protecting his peace." He'd simply appear out of nowhere and invite Angel along on an impromptu afternoon of busting up TVs.
God, Angel thought, this is fuckin' it right here.
They spent the next few minutes taking a breather. Angel leaned forward and braced his hands on his knees to give his back a break. He was a mess. Even Alastor was a little disheveled—not hugely, but his hair was mussed, and he wasn't standing quite as upright as usual. He was tired, Angel could see. He'd likely been tired since he returned. And it occurred to Angel just how badly Alastor hadn't wanted these fucking TVs around, either. He'd taken the first step in actually destroying them, but it was Angel who'd spoken up about it and gotten the ball rolling. Fuck, he thought. This whole time, he'd been walking on eggshells at the hotel, trying to figure out what he was and wasn't allowed to ask for, trying to figure out how to explain what he needed without having to explain why. And this whole time, he'd had an ally in the building, one who felt the exact same way about it? The combination of thoughts almost made him want to cry again.
Instead, Angel took one deep, slow breath and let it out audibly, not bothering to hide the drying tears on his face. "So," he said. "You must really fuckin' hate the guy, huh?"
Alastor looked at him. His eyes were tired, but bright with something just a bit manic. "Oh," he said, his voice dripping with sarcastic surprise, "was it obvious?"
Angel laughed, then brought one hand off his knee to gesture to the TV. "Well, I dunno about you, but I feel like we did a pretty good job messing this thing up."
"Agreed. There's just one final step involved." Alastor tilted his head toward the cliff's edge. "May I do the honors?"
Angel nodded. "Send it."
It took a few seconds for Alastor to gather his remaining strength, and then he summoned up huge tendrils of shadow. They lifted the TV off the ground, gave it a couple preliminary swings, and then, on the third one, they heaved it over the edge. Alastor and Angel both went to the cliffside to look down on their work: a mammoth contraption, state-of-the-art technology, reduced to smithereens.
They stood there for a moment, not sure what else to do or say. Even after a whole afternoon dedicated to literal and symbolic destruction, it didn't quite feel like enough. Angel didn't think it would ever feel like enough.
He patted his pockets until he found his cigarettes, taking one out and then offering the pack to Alastor, who looked mildly surprised for a second, then accepted one with a little nod of gratitude. It was weak shit compared to what he usually smoked, Angel knew. He'd crossed paths with Alastor in the hall a couple times after the man had come in from a smoke break, and just a whiff of him in passing was enough to make Angel's eyes and nose burn. But Alastor had too much of that Southern hospitality to turn the offer down.
Angel took out his lighter, but it failed to ignite the first few times he tried. "C'mon," he muttered around the cigarette in his mouth. He gave it a couple more clicks, then he heard the sound of fingers snapping. He looked up and saw Alastor offering his hand, a bright green flame hovering just above his fingertip. Angel paused, then leaned forward, letting Alastor light the cigarette for him. He took a deep, soothing breath while Alastor lit his own and blew the flame out.
After a few moments of smoking in silence together, looking down at the wreckage, Angel ran his hands through his hair to push it back and fluff it up a bit, then rested his hand on his hip. "Think we should...I dunno, piss on it or somethin'? Just to add a little insult to injury?"
To his surprise, Alastor laughed—faintly, tiredly, but still an indulgent little chuckle. "I'll leave that to your discretion," he said. "I think I'll be taking the rest of the day off. I'm overdue for some sleep."
"Huh," Angel said, pondering this as he tapped away some ash. "I didn't think you slept."
Alastor exhaled some smoke and rolled his eyes. "How flattering that my sleeping habits are a point of intrigue at this hotel."
Angel held two hands up placatingly. "All right, didn't mean anything by it. It's just that you're...kinda a weirdo, yeah? You gotta know that by now."
Alastor smiled like he was pleased to hear it. After a moment, Angel added, "But...y'know. You're all right, Al."
Alastor didn't have a response to that. He didn't look too thrown off by Angel's statement—just uninterested in engaging with it. Angel found that he was oddly okay with not having the compliment returned. It was nice to have the focus be on someone else, to not have to worry about being gracious, or accepting support and praise "correctly." After a few more minutes, Alastor dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. "Well," he said, "we've made a thorough mess of the place. If you see Charlie, would you be so kind as to let her know that I'll clean all this up later? Whenever that may be."
"Yeah," Angel said, "I, uh...might not be seein' her for the rest of the day, I think."
"Hm. Fair enough!" Alastor said, without needing any further elaboration. "I'll leave a note."
Angel still didn't get him, but man, did he appreciate his candor right about now. "All right. Well..." He started gesturing to the graveyard of TVs, then stopped halfway and dropped his arm back to his side, deciding against something as overt as a "thank you," or even a slightly more casual "thanks for this." So much had gone unsaid already, and Angel figured they might as well not break their streak. Eventually, he settled on: "Have a good nap."
Alastor held his cane behind his back, put his hand over his heart, and bowed slightly as he turned into a smoky shadow and drifted back to the hotel. Angel watched him go. He still found Alastor's mannerisms cheesy. And spooky. Somehow both at once. But his behavior wasn't so cheesy that it felt embarrassing, nor so spooky that it felt threatening. Just a little odd, at the end of the day. Angel was more than capable of rolling with that.
He looked at all the TVs. He was wiped out, but he didn't want to go back inside yet. The skies were clear; no cameras hovered overhead. Security had been tighter around here lately.
Angel hadn't realized how much he'd needed to be outdoors, and he decided to stay for a while longer. He sat down on the edge of the cliff to finish his cigarette, looking down at the broken television for a bit, and then lifting his gaze and looking out at the horizon instead.
Angel was still sitting out there when Cherri returned an hour later. She picked her way through the detritus on the lawn, kicking some of the larger pieces aside. When she reached Angel, she sat next to him and said, "Well, looks like I missed out on some fun here today."
"Yeah ya did."
"What happened?"
Angel shrugged. "Alastor decided the hotel should be a TV-free property. Figured I'd help him clear 'em all out. Not like I had anything else lined up for today."
Cherri raised her eyebrow, but she said nothing about that other than, "Huh. Well, good."
For a while, they sat together, just enjoying each other's company. Eventually, Angel said, "Where you been, anyway?" Cherri shrugged, overly casual.
"Oh, I had some stuff to do downtown today. Added some more graffiti to the entertainment district. Punched out the lenses of a few CCTV cameras. Might've blown up a drone or two. You know: basic errands."
Angel laughed. "You fuckin' nutcase," he said, and Cherri grinned, leaning against his arm to give him a little push to the side. He did the same to her, the two of them gently shoving back and forth until they found equilibrium again, arms pressed together as they leaned on each other and looked down the cliff at the start of a glorious, healing mess.