Chapter 9: The Fitting

"Absolutely not."

Angel stared in disbelief. "What do you mean 'absolutely not'? How the fuck else am I supposed to do a goddamn fitting?"

He'd finally finished the muslin mock-up of the dress, for some definition of "finished." Most seams were sewn together now, but certain sections were still just pinned. The sections that were sewn were done about half an inch wider than he thought they needed to be, partly because it was easier to take in a dress than let it out and partly to be sure Alastor could actually get the thing on. Not that it mattered anymore, apparently, considering he refused to get naked.

"I fail to see how that's my problem," Alastor said, eyes flashing.

"What, are you going to wear it over your fuckin' coat?"

"No, I believe the coat can come off."

"But the shirt and pants stay." Angel rubbed his face. "Fuck, why do you have to be such a prude?"

He had the nerve to laugh. "Come now, Angel," he said, removing his jacket and hanging it up, "I've given you quite a bit to work with here. I'm even lifting the five-foot rule for the occasion. Surely you can use a little creativity."

He sighed, hunching in his seat and leaving his face in his hands for the moment. Could he work with that? Well, the dress wasn't supposed to be skin tight anywhere, so maybe…and it was supposed to hang around the waist and hips anyway, so maybe…he groaned. No, no matter how loose the dress was supposed to fit, a fucking button-up, slacks, and belt underneath would make the fabric bunch up weird. There's no way it would lay right over clothes. Besides, he was trying to make Alastor look good, not like a five-year-old playing dress-up.

"You know damn well this isn't going to work," Angel said through his palms before bringing his head back up. "If you really didn't want to do this, you could've fuckin' told me, 'stead of lettin' me put all this work in and sabotagin' it at the end."

Alastor's smile was pinched tight. Uncomfortable, of course, like he was with the whole thing. Angel should've known he'd never go through with it. "I'm not against the dress," he claimed despite the evidence to the contrary.

"Could've fooled me."

"Allow me to rephrase: it's not the dress that I'm against."

He was going to bring out the riddles now? Bullshit. "Yeah? And what is it you are against, the fuckin'—the pins? The fabric? The temperature? The—" Angel paused, fishing for any other possibility, then stopped cold. When he spoke again, all venom had left his voice. "Is it me?"

He would have missed it if he weren't looking for it, but the way the corners of Alastor's smile twitched was all the answer he needed.

"It is. It's me."

"Angel—"

The anger came back all at once. "No, you know what, fuck you," he snapped, standing. "It's not like I'm gonna grope you or some shit. I'm a porn star, not a fucking—I wouldn't fucking—" He stopped again. What wouldn't he do? He wouldn't do anything now, of course, but just a few days ago…no, of course not. He never would've done anything. But the way he talked, the way he pushed, Alastor had no way of knowing that. "I wouldn't," he said firmly.

"It isn't about logic," Alastor said.

Angel sighed. "No, I guess it ain't."

They stood, each silently appraising the other, for several long seconds. Angel finally shook his head and returned to sitting. Alastor joined him on the sofa, though he pressed further into the opposite arm than he strictly had to. He wanted to be as far away from Angel as possible, it seemed.

"It isn't just you," he continued much later.

"Lucky me," Angel said before he had a chance to think, then immediately cursed himself because that had sounded dangerously close to an admission of some kind. He shut himself up then, but it was too late. Alastor had already done the same. Damn. But maybe all wasn't lost. "You know," he said casually, "me and, uh, Niffty, we had an argument yesterday."

"Let's not bring Niffty into this."

"Right, sure." He cleared his throat and tried again. "But last night Husk really pissed me o—"

"Husker, either."

"Yeah?" Angel raised an eyebrow. "I'd love to hear your recommendation, then, Smiles."

Alastor's foot bounced manically where it sat on his knee. He was pulled tight and tense as a spring, liable to snap at any moment. "We talk," he said, "like any reasonable people."

"Right, 'cause talkin' reasonable worked so well last time."

Al shot him a look.

"Uh-huh, touchy, got it," Angel said. He sighed again. "Look, do you have any clothes tighter than these? Anything at all? Some fuckin'…long underwear or somethin'? A tee shirt? Would that work?"

He seemed to consider the suggestion. "…one moment," he said, standing and heading towards the bathroom.

Angel waited. He'd seen Alastor's dance routine, so he knew the overlord was more than capable of changing clothes with a snap, but he let it be. Al probably needed the opportunity to psych himself up, as weird as that idea sounded. Who'd expect the Radio Demon would need to psych himself up for anything, especially wearing some fucking clothes?

The bathroom door swung open a few minutes later. Well, 'swung' was a strong word; it opened just enough for Alastor to slip out, with folded trousers draped over his arm conveniently covering most of him. From what Angel could see, he had on some white old-fashioned underwear. They weren't the boxer shorts popular in his time, with elastic that cinched in at the waist and legs that draped almost like an A-line skirt. No, it mimicked the preferred ladies' silhouette of the 1920s instead, the cut straight as a board all the way down with buttons across the front. It fit just a bit tighter than the dress was meant to.

The white fabric would get confusing under the muslin of the same color and the buttons would cause just as many problems as the ones on the dress shirt, but it was definitely an improvement. Alastor probably didn't own anything better, anyway. "There we go," Angel said rather than complain, "that's what I was talkin' about. You know I didn't mean for you to actually get naked, right?"

"I admit the thought crossed my mind." He stepped across the room briskly, ending in front of the large mirror. He had much less pep in his step than usual. Despite that, his shoes still clicked as he walked, because of course he kept his shoes on. "A single rule before we begin: you keep your hands on the dress, not on me."

"I'll do my best," he said, and quickly continued as his ears began to ring, "which I only say because I can't promise I won't bump your leg on accident or somethin' and I don't want you havin' an aneurism thinkin' I did it on purpose."

The static faded to just above the usual level. "That is…acceptable," Alastor conceded. "Where did you put the dress?"

Angel gently lifted it from the bag and held it up. "Right here! Lemme help you get it o—"

With a snap of his fingers, the dress was on.

"…or not, that's cool too."

Angel leaned in. It looked more like a toga than anything, but he tried to see beyond the shit fabric and shittier fit. The general shape was right. He had that going for him, at least. But the seams were puckered down the sides, and he'd definitely added way too much extra give to the waistline, and somehow the front of the dress wound up longer than the back. Guess that's what happened when you tried sewing a dress without a model.

"Goddamn it."

"Something wrong?" Alastor asked.

He glanced up, meeting the eyes of a very nervous-looking deer. Alastor's smile was more of a grimace. If Angel had just seen the expression, he'd have guessed the guy had recently been stabbed. "Just seein' all the mistakes now you're actually wearin' it," he said. "Can't believe I thought I was doin' alright."

"Oh, but you are," he said. "It's terribly difficult to make most clothing without using a form. Many fittings begin with a worse fit than this. I can nearly imagine the way the dress will look when finished."

"Stop imagining, it's supposed to be a surprise."

He chuckled. "I have no doubts it will be, Angel."

"You bet your ass it will be!" Angel reached for his pincushion and a pair of scissors. "Alright, let's see, where do we start this shit…" Probably the most glaring flaw, the too-wide waistline. He slipped off the sofa and crouched. "I'm takin' in the waist," he said as a warning. As soon as Alastor nodded in acknowledgement, he held the fabric out as far from the skin as he could, just to get a good look at how much extra he'd actually used. A shit ton, it turned out. Al was a skinny bitch. Appreciating his three sets of hands, Angel kept both sides even and started pinning.

Alastor remained stiff as a board, red-tipped claws digging into his blackened hands. They'd clench, then flex with fingers splayed, then clench again, drawing blood from wounds in his palm that healed over the second it began to drip. Itching to move, Angel guessed, but not daring to lest Angel accidentally touch him.

"You ever make any dresses?" Angel asked conversationally. Maybe if he kept him talking he'd chill.

"Not many. My mother was a seamstress, you see. I helped her make several, but I've only ever made two myself."

"Y'know, if you didn't get in the radio business, I bet you'd be a pretty good seamstress yourself."

His smile loosened into something more humorous than painful. It still looked like he'd been stabbed, but now he was joking about it. "I believe the term would be tailor."

"No way, a tailor is just the guy who fits suits and shit," he said. "Doin' the other side now. You make clothes, you'd be a seamstress."

"I believe that's what a tailor does, as well," he said, turning slightly to give Angel better access. "They make clothes especially for a client's measurements. Or perhaps a clothier, if 'tailor' doesn't satisfy."

"Nah, nobody says that."

"Un couturier?" he suggested. "A bit pretentious, but perhaps I'd have high-end clients. Haute couture."

French? Well, Alastor wasn't the only one who could speak another language. "Un sarto," he said only to show off, "or keep it simple. Be a seamstress."

"Or a spinster."

"Yeah?" Angel leaned back to look over the dress again. "Gonna do the skirt now. So does that mean the Radio Demon is a confirmed bachelor?"

"Indeed. That sort of thing never did interest me."

He tugged at the fabric around the hips, checking how loose he'd made it, and Alastor jumped. Angel let go immediately, but the damage was done. The quieting buzz shot up to a roar of static. His pupils turned into slits like radio dials.

"That," Alastor hissed, "was not the dress."

Angel would have laughed if Al weren't freaking the fuck out. "Sorry, man," he said instead, holding up all six hands placatingly, "not tryin' to get your pants off. Can't see what I'm grabbin' underneath."

Slowly, his eyes returned to their usual shape, but kept glowing. The static continued to shriek.

"…wanna take a break?" Angel asked.

"I don't need a break," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Didn't ask if you needed one, I asked if you wanted one." He leaned back to sit with his ass on the floor. "'S cool if you do. Hell, I could use one. It ain't easy crouchin' like that. I'm used to bein' on my knees instead."

"You could just as easily—oh, you are vile."

He winked. "It's my job, babe."

Alastor didn't respond. He tapped his foot, and oh, his shoes were off. The click came from a pair of hooves. Angel probably should have expected that, with the antlers and ears and all. "Perhaps a break would be beneficial," he said after a moment.

"Sure thing."

A snap later and the dress was folded on the coffee table. Alastor was back in his usual shirt, pants, and shoes, but the coat remained off. He sat on the couch. Angel chose to remain on the floor.

"So," Angel said, "I know I said I wanted this thing to be a surprise, but what do you think?"

"Your sizing was off the mark, but you know that." He leaned back into the cushions, eyes closed. He seemed nearly boneless after how tense he'd been before. "A few seams puckered. I believe your thread is a bit too elastic, try not to pull it so tight next time. Still, it's certainly coming together. Very good first attempt."

"Think so?"

"I know so," Alastor said. "I am the seamstress here, aren't I?"

He snorted. "Yeah, that makes you the expert." He flopped backwards onto the floor, then rolled over to lay on his stomach, resting his chin on his arms. Alastor's words from before his freak out started to prickle in the back of his head. "But a spinster? Really?" he asked after a moment. "No interest at all?"

"I went on a few dates in life, simply because that's what was done, but no. No interest."

"Huh." He kicked his legs in the air, looking at the floor and trying to imagine that. It seemed lonely. "You know," he offered, "could just be 'cause they were dames. Before I found my scene, I never thought I was interested, either."

"I never said they were all women."

Angel lifted his head. "What do y—"

"I believe I've just found a solution," he said, standing suddenly. "Frankly, I don't know how I didn't consider this sooner." He stood beside the mirror and waved his microphone. As it slid through the air, it revealed a mannequin. "Here we are!"

"Oh," Angel said. "I mean, yeah! That'll work, sure."

"I'll transport it to your room once we're done today. I'm sure it will make the work on the finalized design far easier." Alastor snapped his fingers, making the dress appear on the mannequin, and returned to the sofa. "The dress form has my measurements. However, fabric can be a bit finicky when working with a form versus a live model. Movement and posture can change everything. So, I will still be available to try on the mock-up, but you'll be doing any adjustments on the mannequin."

"So no touching," he said. "You're a genius, Smiles."

He chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Even in your pants?"

"No, I've changed my mind, it's nowhere. Flattery will get you absolutely nowhere."

Angel snorted. "Whatever you say. You know you love it." Then he pulled himself onto his knees and walked on them to the mannequin. He had way more adjustments to make.

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading. As always, all comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated!