Chapter 2: Gathering Your Materials

"You'll need to make your own pattern again," Alastor noted, "depending on the length you'd prefer and your waist measurement, and there's a bit of math involved…"

Angel sipped his wine—if you could call it sipping, seeing as he was already on glass number three. The bottle never seemed to get any lighter, though, so he helped himself. He tried to focus on his sewing teacher's technical babbling, but he'd been going on for what felt like forever about the tiniest details. It couldn't be that much more difficult than the pincushion, right? Either way, he never did understand things when someone just said them. Talking it through to himself helped, but he was just a hands-on kinda guy. In more ways than one.

"Al," he interrupted finally. Alastor turned and looked at him with what looked like surprise, stopping in the middle of a sentence. "All this?" Angel pointed his finger and waved it around, gesturing at everything Alastor was doing. "Not helpful. Not yet. Just lemme grab some fabric so I can actually see what the hell you're talkin' about and then we'll figure it out, yeah?"

The Radio Demon didn't speak for several moments. Angel worried he pissed him off interrupting him like that, but a laugh track played to break the silence. "Of course!" he said, spinning his microphone like baton. "I seem to have quite forgotten I had a live audience, rather than just one just listening in. Yes, choosing fabric should be the first step…" He walked off, probably to pick out some fabric recommendations, but stopped short. He slowly turned, grin wider, eyes glowing slightly. "A step you'll do yourself."

"…yeah," Angel said blankly, "I sure hope I would, considerin' I'm the one who's gonna be wearin' the skirt. What're my options?"

"You misunderstand me, Angel," he said, sounding way too devious for someone talking about sewing. "Tomorrow, you'll visit a craft shop and purchase the necessary fabric yourself. The shop will certainly have more options to your taste than my own stores."

"I'm on probation, man," he whined. "How am I supposed to get to a craft shop? You gonna sneak me out a window or somethin'?"

"Your probation prevents you from leaving the hotel…" He paused for effect, meeting Angel's eyes. "…alone."

"So who's gonna—" He narrowed his eyes, smirking. "So you're gonna play my bodyguard, hm? Gonna parade me around, take me to buy some clothes? The Radio Demon and Hell's most famous whore. Oh, how the people will talk!"

Alastor's face didn't change at all. "Then it's certainly a good thing I couldn't care less what they're saying." He looked away, then, and tapped his microphone to the ground. "Now shoo! It's nearly dinner time. You're on probation, after all. You can't be missing meals!"

Angel sat where he was for just a moment, eyes flicking between Alastor and the table. Quickly, he snatched his glass and drained it. He poured yet another overfull glass of Sauvignon before he finally stood and left for his own room, mock-saluting on the way out. "You're the boss, Al."

Dinner was uneventful. So was that evening at the bar, other than Husk's side-eye. Being drunk all the time himself, he was pretty good at seeing when anybody else was tipsy. But Angel still got his last two drinks without a fuss. The next morning was the problem.

He awoke to a loud tapping on his door and a static-tinged call of "Angel!"

He rolled over to check how late he had to have slept in for Charlie to send someone to wake him up and cursed, covering his head with his pillow. But Alastor kept tapping the door. "It's nine in the morning!" Angel yelled.

"The store closes at noon!" he called. "I'm waking you up to give you ample time to eat a healthy breakfast before heading out! It's the most important meal of the day, after all!"

"Shut up and give me another hour."

"We're leaving at ten!"

"At t—" Angel growled. "We don't need two hours to look at fabric!"

"No!" he said. "We need one hour, and half an hour to get there, just to be safe!"

"That's still half an hour till it closes!"

"It's very rude to stay in a shop right until the end of their hours!"

Angel growled again, burying his face further under the covers.

"Be downstairs within forty minutes!" Alastor called. His shoes clicked down the hallway.

He lay in his bed a bit longer. How many hours had he slept? Like four? He debated trying to get a few extra minutes of shut-eye, but forced himself to stand and walk to the bathroom instead. He'd feel more alive after he washed up.

He still looked double-dead as he made his way to the lobby and slumped on a barstool. "Gimme a Pink Lady."

"What about your healthy breakfast?"

Angel nearly jumped out of his skin. He actually did slip off the barstool, but caught himself before he made it to the floor. Still, the motion knocked his head around, doing absolutely nothing to help his hangover. That damn three-drink limit was the worst thing that ever happened to his tolerance. "Shit!" He pressed the heels of one set of hands into his eyes, finally registering what Alastor said. "'S got egg in it. Creepy bastard."

"Not quite what I meant." He snapped his fingers. "Husk, make that a mimosa instead, won't you? Angel, bring it to the kitchen. Niffty has made a lovely breakfast!"

By that point, Angel regretted ever telling the Radio Demon he was bored. He'd take bored over hungover and unable to take the hair of the dog on his own terms any day. But the smell of sausage and coffee wafted from the kitchen. That, plus the promise of leaving the hotel for a bit, stopped him from heading back to bed and forgetting the whole thing. Grumbling, he snatched his mimosa and slouched to the kitchen.

Niffty stuck a plate in front of him the instant he sat down. About halfway through the coffee, sausage, egg, and toast, he found himself conversant. "So what's the occasion, Nift?

"Oh, I make breakfast for everybody every morning!" she said, bouncing around between the many pans on the stove. "We had biscuits and gravy yesterday! I'm going to be busy tomorrow though, so it's just fruit parfaits. But I've got hash browns and bacon and all kinds of good stuff planned for the next day!"

Angel stared down at his plate. "Huh."

"The early spider gets the fly, Angel," Alastor said from behind him, tapping the back of his chair with his microphone.

"Where in hell do you keep coming from!"

"Right here in Hell," he said. "Hurry up, or all the best fabrics will be out of stock."

Grumbling the whole time, he cleared his plate, drained his glass, and they were on their way.

"Couldn't be open late like any reasonable business, oh no, gotta close at grandma hours so they ain't late for fuckin' bingo…"

"Nonsense!" Alastor said brightly, arm around Angel's shoulders as he dragged him through the street. "The owner is a very busy woman! Even more so now, having recently lost a beloved business partner! Show some demonic decency, won't you?" He stopped short, Angel lurching in his grasp, and gestured grandly with his microphone. "Here we are!"

Franklin and Rosie Emporium, the sign read, though Franklin was crossed out in black paint. A very recent loss, then.

"Well what are you waiting for?" he asked. He burst through the door, shoving Angel through ahead of him. "Rosie! Darling!"

"Alastor," greeted a woman with a Victorian-looking dress and a smile to match Alastor's. She stood primly behind the counter surrounded by a variety of spooky-looking knickknacks. A gnarled-looking hand sitting on a pedestal immediately next to her opened its palm and blinked at him. "And who's this you've dragged in? Payment?"

"Not at all!" he announced before Angel could freak out any more. "This gentleman is a customer of your fine establishment. Run along now Angel, my good fellow, we have some catching up to do!"

"We certainly do," Rosie said, smile growing wider.

Angel didn't need to be told twice. He hadn't survived as long as he had in Hell by sticking around to get between two powerful demons—well, outside of the studio, anyway. He quickly stepped away from the counter to get lost somewhere between shelves upon shelves of voodoo bullshit. Were those real eyes in the porcelain doll? And were the symbols on that scroll moving?

Alastor's voice rang through the shop, like it was wired through speakers. "And don't touch anything that isn't a roll of fabric!"

"Whatever you say, Smiles!" he yelled towards the ceiling. Knowing the difficulties he had with keeping his hands to himself, he tore himself away from the doll and the scroll with markings that make his head hurt to look at and sought out the fabrics.

They were in the very back of the shop, confined to a corner and encircled by various leathers and furs. Angel tried not to think about whose skin it may have once been. Even discounting the ones that used to be alive, there were tons of fabrics to pick from, all organized by color. After taking a moment to admire the rainbow, he dove into the pinks and blacks. Silk, satin, velvet, lace, chiffon…it was all so luxurious he could hardly stand it. He'd felt plenty of fancy fabrics before—the studio didn't skimp on the lingerie—but never that much of it. A couple postage stamps with something sheer over it didn't compare to yards of the stuff.

He was getting distracted, though. He was there to look for a fabric for a circle skirt, not one to wrap around himself like a cocoon. The satin and silk were out then. They bunched weird when he tried to drape them, and they'd wrinkle way too much for his line of work. The velvet was out too. It grabbed fur too easily. Plus, it would definitely be a seasonal item, and he wanted to make something he could wear now. Lace was nice, but he'd save it for something a little tighter to do the intricate designs justice. Chiffon had the look he wanted, but it draped almost too nicely, flowing like water around any disturbance. He wanted a little volume, at least.

"Finding everything alright?"

To his credit, Angel didn't jump this time, just jolted. Jolted and whipped the pistol out from where he kept it hidden in his chest, but that was just because of the kind of store he was in. He wasn't about to let himself be sold without taking a cut. "Goddamn it, Al! Quit that shit!"

Alastor looked completely unphased at having a gun pointed at his face. Delicately, he pushed it away with his microphone. "Do you have any ideas yet?"

He rubbed his face with one hand and tucked the gun away with another, two still grasping a particularly delicate black silk. "A couple, yeah. Asshole. Definitely goin' with black, don't need to worry 'bout matching pinks then. Thinkin' chiffon but I don't know, I was kinda hoping it'd flare more…" He uncovered his face. "Could I do a few tulle layers under, or would that look stupid?"

"A short enough circle skirt will flare a good bit on its own. I only worry the chiffon would catch on the tulle, what with the way it's netted…"

They discussed their options for several moments, feeling fabrics and rubbing them against one another, before making a decision. Two yards of black satin for the lining and waist, five yards each of chiffon and tulle for the body of the skirt. Reaching the counter to have the fabric cut, Angel had the distinct feeling his eyes were bigger than his wallet.

"Hey," he said. Two smiley bastards turned to face him. "Uh, I don't really think I need that many layers, actually. Let's make that, uh, fo—"

"Nonsense, Angel!" Alastor said. "We were in agreement. Even if you decide on less volume later on, it is always better to over-buy. There's always use for scraps, and who knows if the fabric will even be available if you must return to buy more?"

"Okay, but—"

Rosie loudly clicked a few buttons on the register. "Your total will be—"

"Add it to my tab, my dear."

Angel stared at the overlord. If he had any less self-control, his jaw would have been hanging open.

Rosie narrowed her eyes, smile small and stiff. It melted back into a wicked grin. "Of course."

"What. The hell. Was that?" Angel hissed once they were back on the street, Rosie safely out of earshot. This time, he was allowed to walk on his own, and Alastor kept his hands folded behind his back, his red-tinted eyelids lowered in a serene expression. He wasn't walking, though. He stopped dead in the middle of the street, snarling, blocking Alastor's path.

Alastor widened his eyes just enough to regard Angel, entirely nonchalant. "Pardon?"

"That!" He pointed one whole arm at the store, palm up, and used another arm to rattle his shopping bags angrily. "This! What the fuck?"

"I anticipated you were…lower on funds than I am," he said delicately. "It seemed pointless to force you to pay for something that would set you back so significantly, when the same purchase would not affect me." A pause. "More so when it was I who incited you to make the purchase."

He swallowed, lowering his arms but not dropping them all the way. His voice was hoarse. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

A laugh track cut through the tense atmosphere, Alastor's own laughter joining it. "Absolutely nothing!"

"You expect me to believe that bull?" Angel snapped. He snatched the overlord by the bowtie before his sense caught up to him. "This is hell, you smiley shitlord, nobody does shit for free! What are you playing at?"

Static crackled in the air. The atmosphere grew thick and red. The Radio Demon's smile grew taught, eyes widening and reddening. His face became uncomfortable to look at, like a glitch on a screen, like the scroll from the shop, like something you're not supposed to see and live. It was then Angel knew he fucked up.

"Five foot rule, Angel," the Radio Demon's voice echoed from somewhere that was definitely not his mouth, considering it wasn't moving.

Angel released the bowtie, all his limbs slumping. His shopping bags fell from his hands and dropped onto the ground.

"Mark my words Angel Dust," the echo continued, "if I want something from you, you will know." And just as suddenly as it came about, the static and red sheen disappeared and Alastor's voice returned to his mouth. "But for now, having a sewing partner is payment enough."

"Is it," Angel said, face blank and voice dull.

"Quite enough." With that, Alastor scooped the bags from the ground with the tip of his cane and held them out for Angel to grab. He did. He wrapped a hand around the bicep of the spider's lower arm and led him back to the hotel.

They didn't speak for the rest of the walk.


Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.