A/N: A little extra homophobia and slut shaming this time around, just want you to be prepared.


Chapter 4: Preparing Your Pattern

Angel wanted to blame it on the booze, but he'd only been nursing glass number two. Even the Hotel couldn't make him that much of a lightweight. No, his own damn impulsiveness was at fault. Why couldn't he keep his big fucking mouth shut?

The seconds Alastor spent staring at him seemed to last forever. He examined Angel's face closely, as if he were searching for any sign of motive, any explanation. Angel wished he had one to give. That toothy grin was plastered on, cheeks pulled taut. His manicured brows were low, eyes squinting, almost entirely covering the lovely color on the lids. An ear twitched, betraying his deerlike nature, but Angel felt like the one in headlights. Finally, he hummed. "Okay, I'll bite. Why, Angel, do you want to make me a dress?"

Angel looked away first, watching himself fidget with the hem of his skirt. He was glad Al made him hem the edge instead of leaving it raw, or else it'd be frayed before he even wore it out anywhere. "Just thought you'd look good in one, 's all." He should have known better. Alastor died way before he did, after all. If he hadn't gone to Hell when he had, he'd have been Pops' age, probably older. Angel was lucky he wasn't…less tolerant. The sewing, the skirt, indulging his little runway fantasy? That was the limit. He should've shut up and let himself have just that.

"I see." Alastor said. "And you want to make one for me."

"It's stupid, forget I ever—"

"It won't be easy, you know," Al continued. "A lot of work goes into full-body clothing. You'd do better to try something simpler and work your way up. Perhaps a bowtie, or an unfitted shirt…but if you do want to make me a dress, I would be flattered."

Slowly, Angel's grin returned. "No fuckin' way!" he said. "You don't think it's weird?"

"Oh, of course I do," he said. "Incredibly strange. I can't even begin to fathom why the thought ever arose in your mind!" His grin fell into something more genuine once again, something without all the teeth. "But I've been in Hell for nearly a century, Angel. At this point, I don't particularly care what is or isn't considered normal. I'll try nearly anything once, if only to briefly stave off the aching boredom inevitable in the pit of eternal suffering we sinners now call home."

"Shit, I'll drink to that," Angel said, plopping back onto the sofa. "Where'd the booze go?"

With a tap of his microphone, the table returned, booze and all. Angel did a little toast. "Now I won't guarantee I'll wear it," Alastor warned him. "I'm afraid we have very different tastes in fashion."

"Well duh. I was gonna ask you some shit, make sure you like it. If I'm gonna take all this time, it better be somethin' you'll at least try on." He leaned towards him, lower arms propped inches from Alastor's thigh on the couch. "So, we doin' full drag, or just crossdressing?"

"Pardon?"

"For your makeover," he said. "We're doin' this right if we're doin' it at all. So drag or crossdressing?"

"I—" He paused. He leaned his microphone staff against the arm of the couch, folding his hands in his lap and giving Angel his full attention. "I was not aware that those were different things."

"Right, you're an old man," he teased. "So crossdressing is clothes, drag is the show, y'know?" He watched Alastor, making sure he was following. "Drag is all about exaggeration. It's takin' everything people say a chick's supposed to be—like the hair and makeup and the body and shit—and crankin' it up to eleven, and ownin' it. 's why broads can be queens too, 's all about the persona."

He felt tempted to indicate his chest at that, to lean in close and press the fluff up with his hands, but decided against it. Alastor's face was already pinched uncomfortably, absorbing the new information. "Ah. I…see."

"Crossdressing is…more casual," he settled on. "You're runnin' to the store and you throw on a skirt 'stead of pants. Or you wanna look like a girl for real, not a show, when you ain't a girl. You're not really lookin' for attention, and it ain't a gender thing, you're just…y'know?"

"…I see," Alastor said, head tilting.

Angel sighed. "When I'm onstage, in the club, wig and all," he said, "that's drag. Over-the-top shit. Right now?" He tugged the edge of his new skirt and kicked up a leg to show off his heels. "I'm crossdressing." He let his leg drop and crossed both sets of arms, leaning back into the sofa. "Got it?"

He nodded. "I believe so, yes." He drummed his claws on the arm of the couch and tapped his foot to whatever music was broadcasting just to him. "We'll stick with crossdressing then, I think," he said. "I have no intention of…performing, the way that you do."

Angel felt the derision, the disgust for everything he was, but he ignored it. Not like it was anything new, and Al had already surpassed his expectations of open-mindedness anyway. "Had to try, right Al?" he said with a wink, continuing before he could object. "So I'm definitely thinkin' red and black for the color, obviously, but what about the style? Formal, casual, modern…?"

Alastor's nose wrinkled. "No, nothing modern, thank you. New fashion simply has no class."

"Definitely classic, then. Somethin' below the knee?"

He nodded.

"Right, hang on." He searched the couch for something to write on. "Got any paper?"

With a snap, an open sketchbook landed on Angel's lap, folded over to a blank page. A charcoal pencil soon followed.

"Thanks," Angel said. "So classic and below the knee, probably somethin' from your time, hm?"

"That would be preferable, yes."

They discussed the design for hours, going over the looks Alastor loved and the ones he wouldn't touch. Apparently, the Roaring Twenties looked a lot different than Angel had been told. What did Al mean nothing ended above the knee and no one wore fringe? After they got the look (and Angel's understanding of historical fashion) ironed out came the technicalities. The fabrics used traditionally, the fabrics he preferred, the fabrics that would actually work for the design, how much of the fabric they'd need, plus how to make or find the pattern…but eventually, they had a solid plan.

Angel drew the tape measure from the tin. "So Smiles," he said, grinning, "I'm gonna need some measurements."

"Of course!" Instead of standing, he grabbed the sketchbook from Angel's hands and wrote out some numbers in the corner. He handed the book back. "There you are, my dear!"

He looked over the measurements, pouting, but his grin quickly returned. "You forgot one, Al."

"No, I don't believe so. Chest, neck, shoulder, waist, inse—"

"Hips."

His eyes went wide and he blinked once, twice, four times rapidly. "Hips."

"Yep!" He unrolled the tape and pulled a section taut with a snap and a wink. "So want me to measure you, or just read the tape?"

He stared a few extra seconds, but eventually sighed in resignation. "Fine. You can read it," he said as he stood shrugged off his coat. The tape crossed at his hip when he wrapped it around, so sadly Angel had no excuse to stare at his ass. That didn't mean he didn't take a peek though (nothing to write home about).

"That's about it then, ain't it?" he asked, marking down the last measurement. "I just gotta run to the shop tomorrow to pick up the shit."

"Precisely! And we'll leave around ten just like—"

"Hold up!" Angel interrupted. "You ain't comin'. I'm gettin' the fabric and making the dress myself, alright? It'll be a surprise."

"A surprise," Alastor repeated dubiously. "You are aware I've been watching you sketch the design of this 'surprise' the entire time, yes?"

"Hey, I never said that was the final draft! You don't know what I got up these sleeves, I got fuckin' six of 'em. Plenty a' room for surprises." He closed up the sketchbook, sticking the charcoal pencil in to mark the page. Then he cursed suddenly and checked his phone. "Damn it! Lost track of time. Sorry Smiles, gotta bounce. Val's gonna be here to pick me up in like ten minutes and I still gotta get dressed." He stuck his pincushion on top of the book and poured the rest of his Courvoisier down his gullet before running out the door. Depending on what Val had planned, he'd need the booze. He stopped just long enough to blow a kiss. "Bye, Al!"

In just seconds, he was so far down the hall he nearly missed a muffled "goodbye, Angel!" on his way out.


"So this place looks…interesting," Charlie said. Her ever-optimistic smile looked a bit more troubled than usual. "…what happened to Franklin?"

"Probably better not to ask." Angel hesitated in the limo, parked across from Rosie's, not quite ready to step into that freakshow without another overlord's protection. And she was an overlord, he knew, if a minor one. He wasn't big on politics, but he had looked into it a little. It didn't feel great to know he'd somehow completely missed the Radio Demon, someone so powerful both physically and influence-wise. This time he was with actual hellish royalty, but the princess was just as spooked as him. "Look," he said, running his hand through the fluff at the back of his neck, "this place is freaky as all fucks, but it's the only place I know to get quality shit. I—" He sucked a breath between his teeth. "Thanks for bringin' me out here."

"Of course!" she said immediately, grasping his lower hands in hers. "I'm just glad you've found a hobby, especially one so constructive! And it's great to see you and Al getting along!"

Her eyes met his for a moment, genuine care apparent in her gaze. He twisted around and tore his hands away, fixing his fluff. "Yeah, yeah. 's cheaper than getting shit tailored." He popped open the door. "We goin' in or what?"

"You again," Rosie noted as Angel stepped in the store far more confidently than he felt. It wasn't a greeting or a question, just an observation. "And the princess. What an honor."

"Hi!" Charlie said. "I'm Charlie. But I, uh, guess you knew that!" She made a noise that might have been a laugh if it sounded less like one of Nuggets' squeaky toys being stepped on.

Angel nudged her towards the shelves before she could self-destruct further. "Just pickin' up some more fabric."

"And you've brought another philanthropic soul, I see." She was just as casual as before, hands folded elegantly under her chin. "I wonder, does Alastor know?"

Ears ringing, he grabbed Charlie's hand and tugged her away. Don't piss off overlords. Don't piss off overlords. Don't piss off overlords.

"Hey Angel? Grip's kinda tight there."

He released her immediately. "Sorry, toots." He peeked around a shelf, seeing a rack of furs. "Here we are."

"Oh, these are so nice!" She dove right into the most colorful patterns, all cheap-ass linen and tacky as shit, and not in a good way. "What are you making, anyway, Angel?"

"Just a little something. A gift," he said, looking through the reds. Two rolls of fabric sat before him in very similar shades. "Which one looks more like Smiles?"

The princess didn't even acknowledge the question. She was too busy physically shaking from the effort not to spew rainbows. "A gift?"

"Should not have said that."

Her arms wrapped around his waist, holding tight. Apparently, Charlie stood at the perfect height to slam her face right into his chest fluff. "You're giving Al a gift!" she nearly sang, "That's another great step towards redemption!"

"Watch the volume," Angel hissed, pushing her away with little success, "you don't know who's listening in here! Anyways, he helped me out yesterday, just gettin' even. It ain't even a gift, I dunno why I said that."

She let go, eyes still shining and smile still just as face-breakingly wide. "You're getting him a gift," she repeated in a quiet giggle.

"Whatever. Just…help me pick something that won't clash with his hair, will you?"

Once he managed to draw her attention away from the gaudiest patterns, Charlie was actually a decent shopping assistant. She still pushed for broadening Al's color pallet—"What about something in navy? Oh! Or cyan!"—but managed to contain her excitement long enough to help choose the perfect shade of red. Not quite blood colored, not maroon, not raspberry or wine or scarlet, but something in between them all that made for Alastor's signature look.

"Five yards of the red, two of the black, eight yards of muslin," Angel requested, dropping the rolls on the counter. "And a roll of craft paper."

Watching Rosie unroll and measure out the fabrics, Angel felt a growing sense of dread. Fifteen yards of fabric looked like a lot more than he expected. How much was fabric supposed to cost anyway? The dread grew faster when he realized he never caught the price when Al paid for him. He pushed the anxieties away, though. He'd had a good day filming, so he kept a good chunk of change even after Val's cut, and he'd been saving up some. Having free room and board really made it easy to keep hold of his cash, and being forced to stay clean made it even easier.

The anxiety came back as soon as Rosie read off the total. How the hell was fabric that expensive? He could afford it, sure, but damn. "And how will you be paying, your highness?" she asked, addressing Charlie.

"Oh, this is for Angel!" Charlie laughed, completely oblivious.

"I see." Her voice remained light as she directed her words to him instead. "I'm afraid I can't accept your body as payment. Not the way you sell it, in any case."

He clenched his fists, fuming. "I got cash," he ground out, snatching some bills from his chest and slamming it onto the counter. How he managed to bite back an insult, he'd never know.

"And it isn't all in ones? What a pleasant surprise." She took his money without further complaint, but her dead black eyes never left him until the shop's door closed behind him.

"Everything alright, Angel?" Charlie asked quietly after the short walk back to the limo, or the stomp back in Angel's case. "You seem…tense."

"…expensive as shit," he muttered, head pressed against the window. "Must've cornered the market, the bitch. 's just fabric, can't cost that much."

But as annoyed as he was at spending so much, that wasn't even half the reason he was pissed. It couldn't have been the casual slut shaming, either. He dealt with that on the daily, heard everything she said more times than he could count when he was alive and after his death. It was shitty, sure, but usually he took it with a smirk and a snappy comeback. So what, exactly, made the bitch such a bitch? That'd take a little soul-searching later, if he felt like figuring it out. One more perk of hell: endless opportunity for self-refection. Funny how that one was a downside, too.

Frowning, Charlie placed a hand on his knee. "Well I'm sorry she said those things to you," she said. "That wasn't cool."

So the broad was a little more observant than she let on. She caught the lie, even if she came to the wrong conclusion "I've heard way worse, y'know." He put his hand on top of hers anyway, giving it a light squeeze.

They were quiet for a moment, but Charlie soon grew an impish grin. "So…" she began innocently, drawing out the word, "what are you making for Al?"

"Goddamn it!" He tore his hands away, shoving her lightly. "Shut the hell up, I ain't sayin' shit to you!"

But she laughed, falling into the door, and he forgot all about hating Rosie's guts.


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