The air in the lobby shimmers, visibly rippling with the heat.
Half-melted onto a sofa, Vaggie stares listlessly up at the ceiling. Sweating is still a thing in Hell, and little beads of moisture have long turned her grey skin a glossy silver.
Husk has pressed himself up against the ice box behind the bar. His dark fur and brilliant red plumage are bedraggled and drooping; he's even panting.
Niffty's red hair peeks over the top of a bucket she's filled with chilled water and unceremoniously plopped herself into.
Angel could easily be mistaken for a plush white fur rug where he sprawls on the floor, closest to the scant breeze that wisps through the open windows. He's stripped all the way down to his under-most underthings.
(Nobody has the energy to really mind.)
Even Alastor bonelessly slouches in his preferred armchair, his red coat and bowtie abandoned, the sleeves of his undershirt rolled up past the elbows. A native of humid Louisiana he may have been, but this infernal temperature is clearly too much for him too.
Their timeless, motionless, boiling reverie is interrupted by the door.
Charlie bursts in, exuberant as usual, wearing her whole tuxedo ensemble and beaming like Hell hadn't decided to turn into the surface of the sun today.
"It's a bit toasty, isn't it?" she chirps obliviously.
Everyone groans.
A/N:
Written on the spur of the moment, inspired by the fact that the temperature in Auckland right now (at least in my house) is 30°C (86°F) and I Do Not Like That™.
Fun fact, cats will pant when it really gets too hot them, and cockroaches actually go into heat shock and die around 46-49°C (115-120°F).
Charlie, being a native Hellborn, arguably would be used to Hell's weather and temperatures more than fallen Sinners.