Not a Bad Boy - Onlymostydead (2024)

At first, it was purely tactical.

One thing Angel had learned between a mix of personal experience and trash TV, was that the maid? Always knows everything. You can’t keep secrets from housekeeping, and if you think you can they just haven’t let you know. Everything, from cheating, murder, and money laundering to food preferences and menstrual cycles.

Maids. Know. Everything.

So Niffty? Terrifying, maybe harmless but probably not Niffty? Immediately concerned him, on multiple levels. From the moment Alastor summoned her in the fireplace he knew that he needed to get in — and stay in — her good graces. He had a lot to hide, after all.

Which was to say: drugs. He was hiding a frankly disturbing amount of drugs in the hotel. And there was no way she wasn’t going to find them.

Unfortunately? Just talking to her was proving to be more difficult than anticipated. The girl was everywhere, chasing bugs, trying to clear all the cobwebs in the decrepit building, and otherwise running up and down the halls giggling like a lunatic.

It wasn’t until he found her scrubbing at a trail of suspicious stains on the carpet that he had his chance.

“Hey, girlie.” Angel glanced up and down the hall, making sure no one was nearby before he crouched down beside her. “Need an extra hand or six?”

Niffty just shook her head. “No.”

And went right back to scrubbing.

“Good, ‘cause as many maid costumes I’ve worn? I don’t make a very good one.”

“Obviously.” She didn’t look up from her spot on the floor. “Otherwise this place would look a lot better! You’d think that with just a bunch of ladies living here—“

“You know I ain’t a girl, right, toots?”

That got her to stop for a moment. Blinking her giant eye, she looked him up and down.

“…nope.”

“Well, I ain’t a girl. Just have fun dressin’ up as one.”

“Huh.” She shrugged, tipped her head to the side. “Cool?”

“Yeah— what can I say? Gender’s a stage, an’ I’m nothin’ if not a performer.”

Angel couldn’t help but flinch back as Niffty leapt to her feet, in an instant close enough that he was afraid she would head-butt or kiss him. He wasn’t sure which would be stranger.

“You like shows?”

He scoffed. “‘Course. Who doesn’t?”

“A lot of people…” Her face scrunched, twisting up in thought. “Do you like puppet shows?”

“Not gonna lie? Haven’t seen one since I was a little kid, probably.” Angel raised an eyebrow. “Why? You do puppets?”

“Yeah! Ooo, I’ll have to show you some time!” She jumped up and down in excitement. “Sometimes, when they’re still alive, or in big enough pieces? I make the roaches into puppets! I haven’t caught enough here for a full show… but you could always come to a rehearsal!”

He blinked. Definitely not what he expected.

“That sounds f*ckin’ batsh*t— sure? If I’m here, that is. I work crazy hours, these days.”

Niffty frowned, enthusiasm dampened. “You can just say no, you know.”

“No, seriously— I wanna see this. No way my friend Cherri’d believe me if I told her I got to see a puppet show with live roaches. That’s the kinda sh*t that if you watch it high you’ll like, invent a new religion or some sh*t.”

And just like that, she was back, giggling. “A roach religion!”

Angel had to laugh along at the pure absurdity of it.

“Mm, you’re okay!” She declared after a moment, giving him a nod. “You’re no bad boy, though.”

“I do have a lotta sex an’ I do a lotta drugs.” He pointed out. “Killed a buncha people too, at this point.”

“Ooh, maybe a bad boy?”

“I ain’t into girls though, if that’s what you’re really askin’.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Niffty looked him up and down again. “You look gay. And… familiar?”

“I do p*rn.”

“Explains the maid dresses.”

“…what?”

“You mentioned having maid dresses earlier?” She reminded. “You’d better not be coming for my stains— I claimed these ones first!”

“Definitely ain’t here for your stains.” Angel assured her. “You must really like your job then, huh?”

“Yeah.” Niffty went back to scrubbing. “I like fixing messes. It gets boring sometimes, though— I like a challenge!”

He snorted. “Oh, I never have a shortage of weird ass stains— sometimes literally. My boss’s spit is f*ckin’ pink an’ it doesn’t come out of sh*t.”

Her eye lit up. “Pink spit stains?”

“And more, trust me.” Angel never thought he would be listing out things from his job, but hey, it worked. “Spit, cum, some kinds of lube? Blood, piss, sh*t, food, resin, love potion, all kinds of liquor… hell, I got a wine stain on my wall an’ there is no way that’s comin’ out—“

“Challenge accepted.” She cracked her knuckles. “Which room is yours?”

“The one with the heart on the door, but—“ He once more glanced up and down the hall. “If you find sh*t that ain’t supposed to be in there technically, with princess’s rules, can you keep it ‘tween us?”

“Of course.” Niffty just shrugged. “Why would I tell anyone?”

“Eh, felt like I should check.”

“Ooh, did you kill someone? Is the body in your room?!”

The amount that excited her was genuinely terrifying.

“Nah, no bodies, unfortunately.”

“Bummer.” She pouted. “But fun stains?”

“I wouldn’t call ‘em fun.”

“So I can have them all to myself?”

“Be my guest.”

Niffty snickered at that. “Technically I work here, so you’re my guest!”

“Hey, I’ve lived here longer!”

“Doesn’t make a difference!” She grinned. “You’re my guest! Oh, damn it! I don’t even have any refreshments to offer. I always was a lousy host, do you need to put your coat somewhere? We are on the floor, though— are you naked under there? No, never mind—“

“Eh, seem pretty good to me.” He interrupted before she hurt herself bouncing around. “I mean, you’re hard at work keepin’ the place clean.”

“That’s right!” That seemed to perk her right back up. “My job is just to keep the hotel clean! And kill the bugs.”

“Good thing, too. Ain’t as bad as my last place, but it’s not so fun to wake up to take a piss in the middle of the night an’ find a co*ckroach waitin’ for ya on the toilet seat.” Angel shuddered at the memory.

“No fair!” Niffty huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, if that ever happens again— call me.”

“You got a cellphone, toots?”

“Oh, yeah!” She scrambled for it, rifling through the contents of her apron pocket and eventually producing it. “Here, type in your number!”

The phone was all but shoved into his hands.

“Yeah, Alastor doesn’t like technology, but I don’t mind it.”

He typed in his number, surrounding his contact name with little heart emoji’s and texting himself that it was Nifty’s phone.

After all, his phone number had been leaked a couple of times over the years, and if he thought he got a lot of unsolicited nudes on his social media DM’s—

Normally, when he actually exchanged numbers with someone (sober, or as sober as he got) it tended to be for work purposes. People he knew he’d need to send measurements or times or whatever to. Charlie and Vaggie had been the first people he’d added (remembering it the next morning) not at work since Cherri, probably.

And besides hook ups. Did hook ups count?

Either way, even though beginning the conversation was a tactical decision, he was surprised to realize that… maybe talking with Niffty wasn’t so bad. She was genuine in a way not a lot of other people were.

Genuinely terrifying, but no rose was without its thorns, right?

He handed back the phone when he felt the buzz in his own pocket. “There you go. Got me in there.”

“Thank you—“ She took it back. “That way I can let you know when I’m practicing my roach puppet shows! I work here, and Alastor hasn’t said anything about a schedule? So as long as I’m doing my job I can do them kind of whenever.”

“Wish I could predict my hours enough to set a time for ya, doll.” Angel took out his own phone, setting Niffty’s contact name as the eye, knife, and co*ckroach emojis. “Unfortunately, only predictable thing ‘bout my boss is that he’s gonna be unpredictable.”

Niffty hummed, face screwing up in thought.

“…Your boss owns your soul?”

“Yep, you guessed it.”

“Mm, not much I can do, then.” She frowned, eye narrowed. “Bummer.”

Angel blinked, stunned into silence. It was a good moment before he could let any kind of sound pass his lips.

“…I didn’t even say anythin’ ‘bout him.”

But, by then? Niffty had moved on.

“Die, stain! Die!”

If she heard him there was no indication of it— so he scrolled quietly on his phone, ignored the weird shadows flickering in the corner of his vision, and did what he said he was there to do: keep her company.

She didn’t push it. He didn’t say anything to open the topic back up.

It was… nice. Maybe, despite her obvious crazy, the two of them could be friends.

Friends. Angel Dust, having friends. What a concept.

Still… he couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to what the hell her puppet shows were like. Most likely, it would be disgusting beyond belief, but there was a first time for everything, right?

He was looking at her contact, newly added to his phone, when one took its place at the top of the list.

Of course, he knew who it was, and what he wanted. Reading the message was just a formality, really.

Angel stood, cracking his stiff joints from sitting on the floor too long. “Gotta go, Niff. Good luck on the stains!”

She cackled. “They’ll need it!”

And how could he not smile, at that?

***

Once he and Niffty were friends, and she told him she didn’t care what he had in his room as long as it wasn’t a mess, Angel largely forgot about why he’d been motivated to talk to her to begin with. He wasn’t worried about the why, he was just happy to have someone else to talk to— someone who didn’t push away his every attempt at conversation, that is.

Because he could talk to Charlie… if he wanted a lecture. A well-meaning one, but he would inevitably say something screwed up and she’d have a whole tearful speech prepared. And talking to Vaggie or Husk was a recipe for getting yelled at which, contrary to what seemed to be the popular opinion? Wasn’t something he enjoyed.

So it was fun. So fun, in fact, that he forgot that most crucial fact: that there was no hiding things from housekeeping. Not to mention what exactly that meant here.

And that meant he wasn’t expecting the knock on his door.

Firstly, because he had been asleep., but it wasn’t like it was an ungodly hour, to most people— just past seven thirty. He woke up at eight, usually, on days he actually made it to Charlie’s morning exercises, so it wasn’t too bad.

Or wouldn’t have been so bad, if the night before hadn’t been literal… well, literal and figurative hell.

The studio had been a disaster. While he himself was a spider-ish demon? There were varying degrees of horror in people’s demon forms— case in point, his co-star for the first film, who honest to god just looked like a massive centipede. Yeah, he was probably chill if you could get to know him, but by the time he showed up Angel had spent a half an hour with Val, so he wasn’t exactly in his right mind.

So there he was, high as sh*t on Love Potion, his namesake, and probably some ecstasy? He didn’t know but he was already losing his mind, f*cking a centipede guy.

Okay, he might have been less scary to anyone on less PCP, admittedly.

But that was his first shoot, and after that nightmare all he wanted was to curl up into a ball and hide under the covers. So he did, which meant Val was there.

They had lunch together. Or, Val had lunch, and he drank whatever he had Kitty serve him. Which, he should have just been grateful for the calories, honestly, but he was genuinely getting hungry—

Which led to snorting some co*ke and doing whatever else it was he was given and told to swallow, then Val f*cking him on the table, because of course it did.

Once the blindfold was on, for the next scene? He lost track of everything. Where he was, who he was, what was going on—

It was just a bad trip. Probably. He really didn’t like blindfolds.

And by the time that was over? He was fairly certain his body had dissolved entirely, scattered into dust and debris and wouldn’t that be something? To just… dissipate? To disappear?

But nothing anyone was saying was making sense even after, and yeah he was usually foggy after shoots but not usually this bad, this was why you shouldn’t mix uppers and downers and hallucinogens and whatever else he was on— because the world was terrifying and liquid and he just wanted to be home. Just wanted to go home.

He went through the motions on autopilot, showering, getting dressed, realizing he was still wet when he put his clothes on and wasn’t that an awful feeling— but it was fine. He called a cab.

…and was too incoherent for them to understand, really. Eventually a guy did show up, and he must have just told him that he wanted to go home because next thing he knew they were pulling up to an apartment complex, and he was trying to say that no, this wasn’t where he wanted to be, he wanted to go home—

He fought the cabbie, which was a dumb choice considering the fact that he was so delirious he wasn’t sure if the guy actually had slime oozing out of him or if it was just the combination of the touch and the wet clothes and the way he felt filthy as he was shoved to the ground—

Blood always looks worse when you’re already wet, though. Dripping from his nose and scraped on his hands and knees and dripping between his thighs. The guy’s dick must have been sharp or something, because how else could he tear something with how sloppy and f*cked out he was after his day at work?

So he limped back toward the hotel, got something for the pain from a vending machine paid for with what cash he had in his damp tit-fluff, and caught a ride paid for with a blowj*b.

Guy must have gotten off on the blood. It was the only real explanation— but this was hell, so that was pretty tame. At least it was quick.

So finally, still dripping with blood and cum and maybe ooze from the cabbie, he stumbled into the hotel. How he made it up the stairs, he had no idea, but he did manage to make it all the way to his room, strip off all his clothes, only finally passing out in the bathtub after scrubbing himself raw (haha) trying to get the ooze off.

At some point he’d woken up and relocated to the bed, abandoning the shower cap on the floor yet still holding a towel that he didn’t really think he’d needed at that point, already air-dried.

And now he was being woken up, at seven f*cking thirty, to knocking on the door.

“What the f*ck do you want?” Was what he tried to say, but mumbling into the pillow made the words completely unintelligible.

“Housekeeping!”

So it wasn’t Charlie’s too-cheerful-for-it-being-this-early voice. It was Niffty’s. Joy.

The confusion, at least, had him pulling himself upright— a poor decision apparently because his ass hurt in too many ways.

Had they done impact play while he was blindfolded? He had no clue. Was he even conscious?

“…what? Niff, girlie, what in hell you wanna come in for?”

“I already cleaned up the part of the mess out here,” She explained, as if that was obvious. “And now I need to clean the part inside! Can I come in?”

“…I’m naked?”

“I don’t care! But I can give you a minute, if you want.”

He thought about it, for a second. With his legs under the blanket, though, there wasn’t really much to hide. “Honestly, don’t care either. You got a key?”

“Nope!”

“…need me to let you in?”

The answer to that came with a twist of the lock and Niffty quickly slipping through the door, closing it behind he’d before his sleep (and drug, probably) addled mind could process it. She was holding a spray bottle and a bucket, a couple different scrub brushes peeking out of her apron pocket.

Her eye focused on the carpet first, following the trail of blood and whatever else to the bathroom where it was no-doubt splattered on the tile.

Gross.

He expected her to close in immediately, going to work killing the stains (or naming them, if they survived)… or, at least, he wasn’t expecting the look on her face. Or the fact she set down her cleaning supplies.

“…I’m not good at this kind of mess.” Niffty admitted in a soft voice, not looking quite at him but clearly taking in his appearance regardless. “But it should probably be first.”

“…what?”

She just nodded, taking a deep breath as if to gather courage. “Alright! I’ll be right back with the supplies.”

And, just like that, she scurried out, leaving Angel sitting there, alone and baffled by what the hell that was. If it weren’t for the cleaning bucket and spray bottle by the door? He’d think he’d just hallucinated it.

It definitely wasn’t a hallucination, though. It wouldn’t have been so internally consistent if it was. Probably. Or, then again, he could just be high and thinking it made sense, like that time he was convinced that he needed to slather himself in salad dressing to throw the cops off his scent. That made perfect sense at the time, too. Or the time he spent an entire weekend in and out of awareness, only to find out the real parts were the ones he’d thanked god were probably just a hallucination.

Regardless of whether or not Niffty showing up was real, though, he needed to clean himself up. The shower from the night before was both good and bad in that respect— good because he didn’t currently have dried substances to scrub off of himself, bad because all of his fur still looked kind of pink from how irritated his skin was underneath.

His nails were dirty and broken, polish chipped. His knuckles were bruised and split, palms scraped from hitting the concrete. Similar marks were echoed all across his body: forearms, knees, jaw, nose. Split lip. The unmistakable striations from being flogged all across his ass and thighs. His makeup was f*cked in its entirety, one lash strip missing entirely.

He’d gotten socks and underwear on when there was another knock.

“I’m back!” The knock was, apparently, just to let him know she was there because Niffty wasted no time in slipping back through the door. “Got the supplies!”

The ‘supplies’ in question referred to a first aid kit large enough that she had to carry it like a suitcase, lugged behind her with both hands on the handle.

“You really don’t gotta—“

“It’s my job to clean up messes.” She declared, for the first time that morning meeting his eyes.

There was a seriousness there that he didn’t expect, that he didn’t know how to respond to. Determination, but not the headfirst way Charlie leapt into problems— No. It was a quiet, smoldering thing. An understanding that he desperately hoped didn’t come from experience.

Angel sighed, letting himself relax his shoulders. “…okay.”

And just like that, it was like that moment of eye contact never happened.

“Great! Where’s your makeup remover? Sit down! You really do look like a mess— I’ve gotta get the makeup off to properly clean up those scrapes—“

“Bathroom counter, righthand side.” He limped back over to the bed, wincing as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “There’s a jar of ponds an’ a bottle of micellar water. Cotton rounds ‘n washcloths are in the cabinet.”

“Got it!” Niffty grinned, heaving the first aid kit over to him. “Here— oh! Do you need something for the pain? You look like you’re in pain. I think there’s some aspirin or something in there…”

Angel took the first aid kit and set it on the bed. “Promise not to rat me out?”

She tipped her head to the side. “Why?”

“Because I’m about to ask you to give me drugs?”

“Oh! No, I meant why would I rat you out? It’s not like the princess and her girlfriend are my bosses… not really, anyway. Where are the drugs?”

“Oh, f*ck, where are the drugs?” He wracked his brain for any coherent memories from after the vending machine the night before. “Uh, check my shorts pockets? The ones in the bathroom.”

“Okay!” She nodded, and sped off into the bathroom.

While she was looking for things, Angel looked at the first aid kit. Normally, he didn’t worry about medical attention unless it was absolutely necessary— just wasn’t worth it. But, hey, if she was already so invested in the idea…

Niffty skittered back into the room with cotton rounds, a damp washcloth, and his water bottle. “Right! Here you go—“

She reached up to hand them to him, then stopped.

“…I’m forgetting something.”

“Are ya?” He took the water bottle, gratefully chugging half of it— he hadn’t noticed how thirsty he was until now. “I figured you were just makin’ a few trips.”

“Oh. That makes sense… what else am I getting?”

A bit of back and forth between the bathroom and the bed later, and Niffty seemed satisfied. Finally she climbed up onto the bed to join him... and immediately, she zeroed in on the open first aid kit.

“No! Bad boy— that’s my job!” She scolded, crossing her arms. “Have the pills kicked in yet?”

Thankfully, there had still been a couple pills left in his pocket, saved from the moisture by their plastic baggie, if a little more crushed up than intended. He couldn’t remember what they actually were, but his brain was already feeling a little floaty so he supposed that didn’t matter.

Though, that was probably just him disassociating. Pills took f*cking forever to kick in.

“Mmhm. Not all the way, but doin’ better, that’s for sure.” Angel gave her a few thumbs up. “Thanks, doll. An’ no worries— didn’t get anythin’ productive done anyways.”

Though not fully pleased, Niffty did look placated by this answer. “Okay… now give me your face. Time to get to work!”

Eventually, they decided it worked best for him to lay down, that way she could actually reach his face without either of them straining. She was quick and methodical with it, humming to herself as she cleaned off his makeup with surprisingly gentle hands.

“There! No more makeup, now it’s alcohol time!”

He groaned. “I wish! What I’d give for a drink right now…”

Niffty scoffed. “Silly— now, this is gonna sting!”

She sounded altogether too happy about that fact, but hey, he was already this far, right?

“Go ahead, bumblebee— sting me.”

Giggling — either at that or what she was doing, he couldn’t say — she began disinfecting the scrapes across his jaw, cheekbone, and brow, the split of his lip.

“Add some antiseptic… and bandaids!”

Angel couldn’t help but chuckle at her glee. “Don’t go too crazy with ‘em, yeah?”

“We got Felix the Cat.”

He blinked his eyes open. “…you got who?”

“Did I guess wrong? I thought you were probably a little older than me, maybe Husk’s age? Younger than Alastor.” Niffty held up a bandaid in front of his face. “Felix the Cat.”

It took a moment for the familiar character to come into focus.

“I haven’t seen this sh*t in… wait. How the hell’d you guess that?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess?”

“You can’t guess that f*ckin’ lucky.” Angel relaxed back down, closed his eyes again. “…you can go a little crazy with ‘em.”

He regretted that decision a little bit, with the way she giggled, but he decided to just roll with it. Besides, he was way too busy trying to figure out how the hell she guessed that close to his age. Sure, he didn’t know how old Alastor or Husk were, but from what she said? Older than her, and she hadn’t lived past the fifties. He’d guess she was pretty young, too.

He didn’t want to think about that.

From the face, he sat up and she moved down to his arms, taking one at a time to clean them up, disinfect them, put on the antibiotic ointment, and cover up the worse scrapes and cuts with little black and white cartoon bandaids. Any time he offered to help, he was met with a light smack, insistence that it was her job, and that he was being bad for some reason? He didn’t exactly understand, but that also could have been the pain meds.

“You know, it’s rude to assume a lady’s age.” Angel joked as she moved on to the third arm, looking closer at the first bandaged hand. “But seriously, how’d you get that close? Most people assume I kicked the bucket in like, the eighties or some crap.”

“Well, you use cold cream, for one.”

“Hey! Pond’s is a f*ckin’ classic, okay?”

She cackled, at that. “You still do a wash and set?”

“f*ck you!” He was laughing, though, rolling his eyes. “Of course I do— you think I could get this amount of volume otherwise?”

“Not to mention— you smoke inside! At least you use the ashtrays, but seriously! Dirty.”

And suddenly, despite all the warm, fuzzy feelings from the pain pills, Angel felt his mood sour. He knew she was talking about how ashing your cigarette wherever was dirty— which, it was— but something about being called dirty…

“I could just be an asshole who likes old school beauty products.” He pointed out, taking a deep breath the way Charlie taught them, keeping himself from lashing out. “An’ of course I use the ashtray! I may be a smoker, but I’m not a goddamn heathen.”

“Mm, true…” Niffty continued her humming. “You’d have to really like old school cosmetics to be using cake mascara.”

“I swear it’s better than that tube sh*t.”

“And you immediately knew how to use that ancient TV downstairs.”

“…damn. Pretty perceptive ‘lil bug, ain’t ya?”

“Plus, you sound like every mob boss in every mafia romance movie.” She added. “And then literally hiding money under the mattress…. Plus, keeping extra food in the back of your closet just in case…”

“Okay, yeah, yeah— I get it.” Angel rolled his eyes, scooted to sit up better without pulling back the arm she had currently. “Don’t gotta keep rubbin’ it in.”

“It’s not like you’re that much older than me. Besides, hell ages us all differently.” Niffty set down the arm she was working on, apparently done. “Next?”

Maybe he was higher than he thought, because that thought had his brain spinning. “How do you mean?”

“How do I mean what?”

“Hell. Agin’ us all different.”

She took the arm, twisting it in her hands. This one has taken the worst of the fall, when he his the pavement. That shoulder would probably still be sore if he didn’t currently feel like his entire body was a cloud. He was pretty sure it was one he’d twisted weird at the studio, too. Clicking her tongue, she started the process of cleaning it off.

“It just… does. Don’t know, really.” She shrugged. “Like Husk was already an old man, but now he’s a really, REALLY old man.”

“Been told I got a thing for older men.”

That earned another snicker. “Bad boys?”

Angel couldn’t help the way his smile drooped, just for a moment but it was enough to give him away, by the look in her eye.

“…you could say that.”

It was that look again, that look that was too piercing, saw too much of him somehow when there wasn’t a part of him not bared to all of hell—

“That isn’t being a bad boy.” Niffty decided firmly, attention thankfully going back to his arm. “It’s just bad.”

“This ain’t from him, Niff. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

She didn’t look up, didn’t stop the pattern of disinfecting, antiseptic, bandages. Some of these ones had gotten gauze, but there were a fair share of Felix the Cat bandaids, too.

“…but he does hurt you.”

“The guy owns my soul, what do you expect him to do? Throw me an ice cream social?” He tried to scoff, to laugh it off. “I’ve been with him almost fifty years. Ain’t anythin’ I can’t handle from him, okay?”

“…okay.”

He could tell Niffty wasn’t happy about that, but her lips remained sealed.

If anything, though, the silence was more concerning. She’d stopped humming, too. Even as high as he was, Angel could feel the tension in the air.

“Please don’t worry about him, Niff.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about him!” She chirped, suddenly right back to cheerful. “Not yet. This arm is done! Are the other two okay?”

“How did—?” He stopped, remembering that, yeah, there were no secrets from the maid. “Never mind, an’ nah, didn’t get ‘em out.”

She gave him a critical once-over, eye narrowed. “Show me.”

At least after he showed her his, perfectly fine, third set of arms, she seemed satisfied.

“Give me your knees.”

“You know, doll, I really do got this han—“

Niffty nearly growled.

“Got it! Two knees, comin’ right up.” Angel swung his legs onto the bed, careful not to sweep her off with them. “Nothin’ below the socks, boots kept me from gettin’ my shins too banged up.”

She raised her eyebrow, but continued. It didn’t take long to clean up those scrapes, too, and from there it was just little, scattered things. A scrape on the front of his shoulder. The flog marks on his thighs (that he assured her he would take care of for the most part, thank you, because as determined as she seemed to clean up the mess something about it felt too much— besides, what was she going to do, wrap his whole ass in gauze???).

“There! Now, to get to the good part…” Niffty giggled, hopping off the bed. “Time to get the stains!”

Just like that. No awkward questioning, no waterworks. No promises to murder whoever hurt him if they ever got the chance. Not even getting upset to the point he had to be the one doing the comforting.

He was just another mess. Cleaned up sufficiently, and moved on from.

Was it odd to call that a relief?

So he got dressed while she went to town on the carpet, did his makeup around the black and white print bandaids.

Molly always liked the cartoons more than he did. He could never sit still long enough to follow the story for more than one episode, had to be doing something with his hands.

Some things never changed.

Hell aged them all differently, and he wondered if heaven had the same effect. If Molly would recognize him anymore— not by appearance, but…

He just wasn’t making sense. He always got weepy coming off Love Potion.

…would he even recognize her?

And this was why he didn’t usually do pain pills— too spacey to think, too conscious to forget about it all.

Not like he could ever forget it all.

“I’m goin’ down for some breakfast— you comin’, Niff?”

“I’ll eat when I’m done!” She called from the bathroom and, goddamn, how had she moved that quick?

Though, judging by the time, he was only just going to make it downstairs and shove something in his face before morning exercises started.

“‘Kay— just lock the door when you’re done, yeah?”

“Got it! Now, what to name you…”

***

Angel never felt as much like a drug addict as he did trying to get clean.

Realistically, he knew he should tell someone about it. Getting clean meant getting sober to begin with and that meant detoxing and Jesus f*cking Christ, if he wanted to do anything less than that? It was doing it alone.

But he was in the pride ring for a reason, wasn’t he?

Because on one hand, nothing was so sobering, so humiliating, as being an addict. Being so utterly dependent that he would do anything, literally anything to get that next fix. Only really existing when he was getting high, everything in between a dull blur of pain and nothingness.

Being a blur of pain and nothingness. Realizing there was nothing left of him anymore, really. Hating himself for it, but hating himself more without it.

At least when he was high he didn’t have to deal with how much he f*cking hated himself.

Well. High and not alone.

But the princess made him really want to be better, to get himself to a place where he could feel good about anything he did.

So, as stupid and pointless as he thought redemption was… he was going to try to get clean. Actually clean. Which, so far? Hadn’t been the most successful. As in, hadn’t been successful in the slightest because the most he did was feel bad about it when he got high, ruining the only good part of the whole thing.

Telling someone was going to be necessary, and he knew that. But…

Charlie, for all her love and good intentions, didn’t know what the f*ck she was doing with him. Which he was almost glad for, because anyone who did know what to do had experience with sh*t no one should have to go through, and he’d never wish that on her. This was going to be messy, and he really didn’t want to make the poor girl cry.

Vaggie, on the other hand, was more likely to make him cry, which was arguably worse. She was what people seemed to think would work, strict, demanding, and not sympathetic in the slightest. She would expect him to cut everything cold turkey, and he may have been crazy to try to quit at all after this long, but he wasn’t that crazy.

Alastor? Haha. No.

Husk, he was sure, would find a way to lord it over him, to make some snide comments about how f*cked up he was. At the end of the day, he wanted to f*ck Husk, and that was pretty much where their involvement should end. The guy already thought he knew too much, and he did not need to give him extra ammunition.

Niffty was the one he was most certain wouldn’t judge, but he knew that she had a hard time with the more mental and emotional sh*t. He could rely on her, but he didn’t want to burden her with that. Besides, he was bound to be a complete mess, and he wasn’t sure how that would play out.

So that left… no one.

Cherri was a wonderful friend but they barely saw each other anymore, these days— and there was no way she would get it. If he was given a choice between explaining to her why he wanted to get clean and chopping off a limb? He’d ask if he got to choose which one.

And anyone he knew through work was an immediate no.

So here he was. Trying… and failing. It always went the same— he woke up and felt like sh*t, managed to convince himself that he could do it and that things would be fine, got more and more desperate throughout the day, and caved in before he could even get two hours into his shift.

Miserable, and with nothing to show for it.

Because yeah, he was using less, but ‘less’ for him was still a f*cking lot to most people. Hell, using at all was a lot for most people.

It had been a long time since he felt so guilty about it. But thinking about Charlie’s face, those big, sad eyes—

f*ck. He really did care, didn’t he? Goddamn it, when did that happen?

And he cared way too much, cared what they thought of him, because that was part of why he couldn’t tell them. Because if he told Charlie he was really trying to kick the habit? She’d be so proud and excited and supportive—

And he couldn’t see his sister’s face reflected in hers when he eventually relapsed after barely any time at all.

So keeping it from her and the others was the point— so why was he so desperate for someone to notice? Angel knew he was an attention seeker at best, but this was ridiculous.

Because Charlie still tried to have conversations with him when he was strung out, completely out of his mind. Vaggie still chewed him out when he got home late, tripping over himself and unable to tell if she really was there or not. Husk still listened to his nonsensical rambling with a blank expression. Niffty still showed him her little puppet shows, told him about her most recent pest control escapades. Alastor still avoided him like the plague.

No one had noticed anything.

Which was what he was trying to do! He was doing his best to hide the exhaustion, the ache in his bones, the trembling hands. No one could see anything visibly wrong. If he was puking? He was probably hungover, drank too much, took something that upset his stomach. If he was twitching, unable to sit still? He was probably on co*ke. If he was near catatonic, unable to move, to stand, to even speak coherently? He must just be on some really good sh*t.

If he was irritable, wasn’t he always? Nothing new there.

In fact, all this had done was make himself even more miserable which, in turn, made everyone dislike him even more and wasn’t that just hilarious? He tries to get better and everyone hates him for it.

Because they didn’t know, but still.

So he tried to keep it together. Kept on like nothing was happening, went to Charlie’s redemption exercises, went to work.

Speaking of her exercises, though— until recently it had been pretty much just him, Vaggie, Charlie, and Sir Pentious, but recently Niffty had been joining them, too. It was fun to have another person, especially one who didn’t give a single f*ck. She always managed to throw a wrench in whatever plans they had, which never failed to be amusing.

But along with showing up, she would bring things with her. Snacks. Everyone’s water bottles. Stuff like that.

Actually, come to think of it? She’d been giving him water a lot, lately. Not usually with any explanation, just shoving a cup or bottle in his hands and running off. It wasn’t like anything could be disguised in it, so she wasn’t sure why she was doing it.

Drinking more water had been good, though. He forgot even on the best of days, so it wasn’t unwelcome— just an odd show of care. And with how alone he had felt with the whole ‘getting clean’ thing? He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hell’s favorite p*rn star, lonely. Sounded like the start to a bad joke, but was unfortunately just the next chapter of his bad joke of an afterlife.

God, he didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to be doing literally anything, anyone else, not lying on his bed thinking about how easy it would be to get his hands on—

A quick knock on the door startled him from his misery.

“Dinner time!” Niffty chimed from the other side. “Are you coming or what?”

Part of him wanted to shout “Or what!” back at her, but he knew that wouldn’t accomplish anything. Besides, he really should have some dinner. It might at least keep him from breaking into a stash for another hour or so.

He groaned, prying himself up out of bed. “I’m comin’, I’m comin’. f*ck me—“

But he made it down there. Small victories, right?

And if he thought about the pills stashed at the back of his underwear drawer for the entire time, well. No one knew, did they? No one would be there to rub it in when he went upstairs and failed again. When he proved once again that addict trash like himself couldn’t change.

At least he ate something.

***

So, Angel stopped eating.

Not entirely on purpose— it wasn’t like he was completely crazy, but, well…

Without so many appetite suppressing things in his system, he’d begun to actually eat with regularity— breakfast and dinner at the hotel at the very least, and occasionally bringing snacks with him to work to tide him over, just for his more ridiculously long shifts.

Did he still feel weak and achy and tired and generally awful all the time? Yeah. But he wasn’t so faint, at least.

Saying he should have seen it coming wasn’t fully accurate— he had seen it coming, he should have cared more.

Val had always been particular about how he wanted his body to look, and that look was rail-thin. Not too thin to the point of being scary though, of course, even though his fur already did a lot to smooth things out, to hide his protruding ribs and too-prominent spine. He was never correct no matter what he did, and that was the intended result: keeping that control over him by constantly changing the goalpost.

And Angel knew every time he sat down for a meal with everyone, every time he saw himself in the mirror, that it was only a matter of time before he paid for each and every pound he’d put on.

So that day didn’t come as a surprise. Not really— it was a matter of when, not if.

And it had come. Val had invited himself into his dressing room while he got ready for the day, sitting back on the sofa, smoking a cigarette, as always. Watching.

“Angel.”

Just the way he said his name sent shivers down his spine. “Yeah, Val?”

“We aren’t going to be able to get any filming done, today.”

His voice was too level for that news; normally missing out on any shooting, any chance at making money, had him livid.

Angel forced himself not to tense up. “Oh? What’re we doin’, then? Pictures? A bit early for a party, private client book me out or someth—“

“I didn’t say we aren’t doing any filming, did I?” There was the anger— he was positively seething. “I said we won’t be able to do any. Do you have any idea why?”

He had a few guesses.

“…if it was on the news, I didn’t see it. You know I don’t keep up with—“

Val slammed his fist down on the side table, shattering the ashtray and sending glass and ashes everywhere. Angel couldn’t help but flinch at the sound, feigned nonchalance gone in an instant.

“Ah, so now you’re taking me seriously. Brat.” He stood, in no hurry as he stalked forward. “Now, tell me: do you have any idea why?”

There was no winning, here. Admitting to knowing meant he was complicit, but pretending to have no idea would possibly piss him off even more.

“…I’ve gained weight.”

“Oh, so you do have a couple braincells still alive up there!” Val tugged him closer, chain wispy in his hands but biting into his neck like steel. “I was wondering there, for a moment. Maybe all those drugs have gotten to your brain, hm? Maybe you’re seeing things?”

Angel stumbled, falling right into him. “No, I’m sorry, I—“

“Because otherwise how could you look at this—“ He took him by the shoulders, spun him around to face the mirror. “And think it was acceptable?”

He had only been in his robe before, a set of hands coming up to slip the fabric off his shoulders.

If it were anyone else he didn’t think they’d see the difference.

That body didn’t really even look like his own.

It wasn’t. Not really.

“It’s only a couple pounds, Val— I-I’ll lose it quick, I promise.”

“How quick? Because you’ve already made me have to cancel plans for today, and don’t you think you aren’t going to pay me back for every.” The chain was tight around his throat. “Single. Second.”

“O-of course, I will!” Angel choked out, feeling his heart jackhammering against his chest. “Yes, Val.”

“Oh, and now you’re receptive?” Val scoffed— his hands were wandering now, stroking, squeezing, pinching at ‘problem areas’. “You think that’ll do you any good?”

“I—“

“Because it might have, about ten pounds ago.” It was closer to five, but he always did exaggerate; not to mention the fact that this was the first he was hearing about it… this time around. “There’s no question of whether you’ll lose it. You will.”

“Yes, Valentino.”

“Really, how do you let yourself fall into such disrepair?” Val clicked his tongue. “You look awful, Amorcito. You should count yourself lucky most people have so few standards for what they get off to.”

Nothing he hadn’t heard before.

“This, along with the lackluster performances you’ve been giving? Honestly, Angel, baby— do you think you’ve been up to standard, as of late?”

“…no. No, Val.”

“It’s been like this ever since you moved out.” He did his fake sad voice, acting concerned. “Losing motivation, gaining weight— if you’ve become depressed I can get you a prescription for that.”

Again, he pulled the chain tighter. “But no matter what, I’m not going to let you, or any of your little friends from that sh*tty hotel, decrease the value of my property. Understood?”

Angel choked. “Y—“

“Understood?” Val growled, breath hot against his ear.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Valentino.”

“There’s a good boy.” With his three available hands he squeezed one shoulder, both his hips. “Now, you’re going to make it up to me that you’ve ruined a perfectly good shooting day. The same tomorrow, the day after— until I’ve gotten you camera ready again.”

“Yes, Valentino.”

“You know how much I dislike having to punish you.”

Angel breathed in slowly, counting it out, trying to keep himself calm, to let everything fade into the background. “I’m sorry, Val.”

“That’s a start, I suppose.” Val scoffed, abruptly letting him go. “And to start, you should apologize to me properly, don’t you agree?”

He knew too well what that meant; he dropped to his knees.

“Yes, Valentino.”

At least this? This he could handle with ease. It might not have been the most enjoyable blowj*b he’d ever given — he really did enjoy giving them, sometimes — but he was easily able to lose himself in the rhythm of it, the pattern, knowing what to do to get Val clenching his hands in his hair, to get him off as quickly as possible.

“There, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Angel shook his head, covertly working to fully catch his breath. He’d need it, he was certain.

Val yanked his head backwards, tugging hardly at his hair. “To start, at least.”

He wasn’t so dumb as to believe that was going to be it. No, he had no doubt this was going to get a lot worse.

“Now, I think you should apologize to everyone who came to set for nothing today, hm?”

And at that scale? He didn’t buy that it wasn’t being recorded for a second. Whether it would be posted online or not he had no clue, but he knew it was being filmed.

“Yes, Valentino.”

“Good. Here—“ Val dropped a tube of something into his lap. “Prep yourself with this and be out there in ten.”

Yeah, he probably should have expected it to be numbing cream. Being given any time at all to prepare was too generous to come from Val without caveats.

“…yes, Valentino.”

And he definitely did “apologize,” if your definition of an apology was letting someone do whatever they wanted with your holes. He had no idea— courtesy of the blindfold and earplugs he was given the moment he left his dressing room. The numbing didn’t do enough to stop things from hurting entirely, but it definitely kept him from enjoying any of it.

Because that was one of the things Val knew: even pain was better than no sensation, to him. Pain was more satisfying to give, but it was really the absence of anything that got to him worse. Especially since none of them touched him at all— not just org*sm denial, or not trying to get him off too. No, he was put on his hands and knees and ordered not to move himself to start— and he could count the number of times he was so much as adjusted in his position on one set of hands, the number of times his junk was touched on a single one, and that was pretty much only to reapply the numbing cream.

It was all day like that. How long all day was he had no idea— but he knew at one point they must have taken a break for lunch or something because he was just waiting there, cold and alone and unable to do anything about it, unable to get his bearings. Not only that, but he was way too sober to be doing any kind of work at all, shaking, sweating, and if he thought his heart was pounding before—

That was something no one told you about overdosing, that you feel every second. Unable to do anything about it, watching yourself seize and spasm and lose control of your bodily functions, thinking about the fact that you’re going to be found dead in the bathroom in a puddle of your own piss and vomit—

Detoxing was too similar, too close.

By the end of the lunch break, if that’s what it was, he was begging, pleading for anything else, to be given something, for someone to touch him, anything else—

There could have been no one there to hear him. They could have stayed there the whole time. He didn’t know.

All he could hope for was that they would come back. Part of him was waiting for the pain to start, because he’d said he’d take anything else and that meant it was coming, right? Valentino was predictable.

Right?

But they picked right back up where they’d started, just using his body, and god he’d kill to be able to give a blowj*b or something, to be able to do anything because that was the one specific order that he couldn’t move—

When he tried, it was met with solid smoke, holding him down.

And it hit him, really hit him, that nothing was going to change. That he was going to stay here as long as Val wanted, aching, muscles burning, body giving out, cold and sweaty and beginning to panic because the withdrawals were getting really bad, now, if they weren’t already before—

It wasn’t until he could tell that, whatever was being put into him? Wasn’t even a part of someone, wasn’t a toy, was just some random object, that he started to cry. Object insertion wasn’t that crazy; he’d done tons of it before (not like THAT was any indication of how crazy it was) and even enjoyed a decent portion, but like this? Already humiliated, exhausted beyond belief, shaking and in pain? Feeling his heart pound in his head, spasming and seizing like it was threatening to stop, like the way it had before he—?

He knew he couldn’t die in any way that mattered, down here. Not of withdrawal, not of anything short of an exorcist blade, but that didn’t stop the fear. At least with an overdose you were high for it, even if it felt wrong and terrifying there was that plausible deniability, that reassurance that it was just a bad trip, a bad high, that it would become a funny story, later, until you went comatose on the bathroom floor.

But no. Instead he was dizzy and nauseous and he couldn’t even switch which set of arms he was resting on, and he really didn’t want to try to figure out what it was they were f*cking him with—

Because at the end of the day, even with the worst of shoots, he knew that somebody was probably going to have the best org*sm of their afterlives to it. Even with the most annoying, awful, disgusting clients he knew they were enjoying themselves. Even when people drugged him or ignored what he said or pushed him down into the pavement while they used his body, he knew that they liked it.

He could make other people’s bodies feel good, even if he couldn’t do the same for himself.

But this? Even knowing it was being filmed, he had no idea if anyone would ever see it. He couldn’t hear if they were having a good time. The only indication he had was the feeling of liquid running down his thighs, but he wasn’t going to make the mistake of assuming he knew what it was. The only thing he could smell was the lingering scent of smoke in the air, enough to tease but not enough to get any kind of buzz off of.

And there was no knowing how long he would stay there, how long he’d been there already.

It was almost a relief when Angel felt his stomach heave, when he couldn’t choke back the bile any longer. Sure, the stench of vomit, the warmth of it seeping into the fur of his arms, was less than pleasant, but at least it was something. At least, as he gagged and retched until there was nothing left to come up, dry heaving and sobbing, it was an indicator that he was still here, he was still alive.

He had no idea what he was saying anymore, just that it was desperate, throat hoarse from screaming.

Because his heart rate was getting uneven now, still pounding in his head like it was going to break through his skull. It was impossible to know if his vision was going dark with the blindfold still on but he could feel it, could feel limbs burning and going numb—

Finally, his body collapsed and was yanked back up, manhandled by familiar hands even as he lost consciousness.

The last thing he thought, before everything went dim, was how thankful he was that at least, this time? He wasn’t alone.

…

…but he knew that wasn’t the end of it.

Angel came to with his face pushed into a pillow wet with something he knew distinctly to be his own puke, which, yeah, had happened more times than he cared to admit.

That was the only thing that was different, though: his face was in the pillow, neck and shoulders taking the weight when his arms gave in, still propped up with his legs spread. There was still someone behind him who couldn’t care less about him, or just cared more about however much Val was paying them. He was still in so much pain that moving, even if he was allowed to, felt impossible. He still needed something, anything in his system to stop the shaking desperation that felt like the entirety of his existence—

Nothing changed but the position and the smell.

He faded in and out of consciousness, after that. Time didn’t exist when his only way of measuring it was by counting thrusts, which he was not about to do. Nothing came up when he dry heaved, his tears had long since dried up. After a certain point he stopped making noises entirely, stopped having any energy to react.

How much time passed after that, he didn’t know. It could have been an eternity, could have been ten minutes. But when it became clear he wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t break down further, things stopped again.

Inside, he was begging for them to just f*cking kill him at this point, that it would be better than lying there waiting. On the outside he was unable to move, unable to force words from his lips.

But there were hands on him, now, unbending his legs with a surprising amount of care. The earplugs and blindfold were removed, though the sounds around him made no sense, and he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. After so long under sensory deprivation, everything was always too overwhelming.

He was rolled over and picked up and he knew those arms, those hands, the fluff that he was no doubt getting dirty with his filth, and if Angel was able to cry any more? He was certain he would have, from the simple kindness of the gesture.

Because he was being carried away now, with soft apologies and praise and other such meaningless gestures murmured so sweetly. He hated how much he loved it.

Everything hurt too much to keep track of where he was, of what was happening, but there was water running now. The tub in his room at the studio being filled, being submerged so carefully in the perfect temperature of water, scented with his favorite bath oil.

Val knew what he liked, what he wanted, what he needed. It was what made everything hurt so much worse.

“Shh, Amorcito— you can rest in a moment, but you really must drink some water first, you’re so dehydrated.” He was whispering so tenderly, supporting him, lifting the cup to his lips. “I’m sorry, darling. You know I love you, I don’t want to do these things to you.”

It didn’t matter what was in the glass; Angel drank it all with desperation.

“Good, good boy.” Clawed fingers ran through the same hair they had pulled so harshly before. “Do you want something? For the pain?”

He knew that he was trying to get clean, that he would still need to detox, still need to go through the pain and the fear and everything that went along with it again if he took that offer—

Angel nodded without hesitation. He hated himself for it, but he did.

And when the pills started to kick in, started to make everything a little more bearable again, he wondered why he was ever trying to quit. Why, when he could slip out of reality and pretend that the man carefully helping him bathe actually loved him. Why, when he finally felt good for the first time in weeks. Hazy and the closest thing to free he’d ever get.

He knew he’d remember later, but right then? He didn’t need to. He could let Valentino kiss him on the forehead, on the eyes, on the cheeks, and forget that he was the same one who caused the pain he just went through.

For once he could fall asleep in a bed that wasn’t empty, warm and happy, and leave the rest of his troubles for the morning.

…the morning that came with a sore, weak body and a cold, empty bed.

It didn’t surprise him, anymore.

So after popping another pill or three, he forced himself out of bed on wobbly legs. He looked like a wreck, but at least he was clean enough and not torn to shreds. Nothing a little bit of makeup couldn’t cover, the right choice of clothing couldn’t hide.

Checking his phone revealed that it had been two whole days since he’d been back at the hotel, since he’d responded to anyone.

Vaggie was going to kill him for worrying Charlie that badly.

“Can I get a cab for one, V’s tower? Yeah, name’s Angel. Make it quick.”

And yeah, when he got back, he was in for it. But when Charlie asked if he needed anything, if he was hungry? He didn’t hesitate to say that he’d eaten at the studio.

He wasn’t going to stop eating completely, but just the thought of putting anything in his stomach—

Eventually, he’d have to eat. But for now… he couldn’t bring himself to. It was fine. It would be fine.

No one had any idea that anything was wrong, and that was just how he liked it.

No one had any idea. Vaggie, Charlie— everyone just thought he’d been out on a crazy bender or something, because that was exactly what he’d implied.

No one would notice when he stopped eating either, no doubt.

Just how he liked it.

***

That night, Angel turned down dinner, even after he’d gotten the text from Val saying that he would have that day and the next off. Charlie seemed disappointed when he said he didn’t want to join them, but that was that.

It was the next morning that started trouble.

When he only got downstairs in time for exercises (because f*ck, he owed it to princess to do her little redemption activities after disappearing for so long) and not breakfast, Niffty made sure to bring him over a muffin and some orange juice.

And when he didn’t go down to the kitchen around lunchtime, she invited him to have a tea party with her and her friends… which ended up consisting of a taxidermy roach, a floor stain, an egg boy, Alastor (who he was assured had nothing to do with the food), and a very disgruntled Husk who had definitely been forced to attend. Charlie and Vaggie were working on something very important (or probably just on a date), and Sir Pentious and most of the egg boys had declined the invitation.

Which he was going to do as well, but then she specifically invited Fat Nuggets too and, well…

Even with the knowledge that the other guests and staff took care of him when Angel was working, he felt bad for leaving his baby all alone with no warning.

“Yay! Everyone’s here!” Niffty giggled, clapped her hands together. “Take your seats, everybody—“

Despite what she had said on a couple occasions about not being a good host, even he had to admit the spread on the coffee table was lovely. Each place (sitting on the floor, so fairly loosely defined) was marked with a little handwritten place card with their name in careful cursive. Everyone began to take their seats, looking over the dishes and plates on the table. There was tea and coffee, but also cookies, those weird little sandwiches, fruit, and—

“Oh my god.” Angel wasn’t sure whether to be thrilled or horrified. “Are those f*ckin’ jello molds?!”

Alastor’s smile seemed to strain when he saw the bright red, shockingly opaque abominations, single serving sized, out and proud on a serving tray in the middle of the table. Husk’s eyebrows shot straight up.

Niffty cackled. “They sure are! My own special recipe!”

He and Husk met eyes from across the table and, despite their differences, seemed to be in agreement. As bad as it looked… Niffty was still their friend.

Angel himself had never minded jello molds that much— it was fine. Nothing great, but decent.

Both of them, however, had picked up on Alastor’s immediate aversion, and watching him squirm was well worth a few mediocre jiggly bites.

“…thanks, Niff.” Husk managed to get out between gritted teeth, wings and shoulders tense. “What all’s in ‘em?”

“I can’t give you all my secrets!”

“Okay… what’s some of what’s in ‘em?”

“Oh, you know…” She trailed off, as if they weren’t all waiting to hear her answer with bated breath. “Cherries, tomato, cherry tomatoes, sardines, cranberries… vienna sausages…”

Every ingredient she listed seemed to make Alastor cringe more. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that he looked a little pale.

“Well, you know me. I just can’t say no to sausage.” Angel winked, reaching over to dish himself one. “You want one, Niff?”

“Of course!”

He put one on her plate as well.

“Whiskers?”

“Don’t call me that.” Husk still offered his plate for one.

“Egg guy?”

“…sure?” He poked at it with a spoon. “Wait, we can eat?”

Angel, ignoring that, cut the second to last one in halves. Half went to Fat Nuggets, and the other half was split between the roach and the stain.

Leaving just…

“Al? Last one— you want it?”

If looks could disintegrate things, that last jello would be nothing but dust. Unfortunately for Alastor, though, it was still there, jiggling menacingly.

The guy literally ate people and rotting flesh— what a weird hill to die on. But, Angel supposed, as a p*rn star who hated his own feet? He wasn’t one to talk.

“…I suppose.”

Niffty cheered.

The rest of the snacks were passed around without incident. Tea and coffee were poured, cookies and silly little sandwiches were served.

Everything was pretty small, really. He could skip the cookie, not look like he was being rude, and not eat too much. But…

“There you go, bud.” Angel set Fat Nuggets’s plate down on the floor in front of him. “Man, the girls’n Pen are really missin’ out… the f*ck are you starin’ at me like that for?”

Husk was looking at him like he’d just murdered a child and pissed on the corpse.

“Are you seriously askin’ me that?”

“Why else would I ask it?”

“You just gave your pig sausage!”

“…and?” He shrugged, giving Fat Nuggets a little scritch behind the ears. “That’s like, barely cannibalism. ‘Specially when we got Radio f*cker right here.”

Alastor looked up from his cup of tea. “Hm?”

“You eat people.”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded. “I do indeed do that.”

“Don’t worry! There’s no people in the jello!” Niffty assured, like someone who definitely put people in the jello. “I didn’t think you guys would like that much.”

Husk nodded, putting far more emphasis on cutting a bite off his jello than could ever be necessary. “Yeah. Thanks, Niff.”

Alastor twitched.

“No problem!”

Angel followed suit. “‘Sides, Nuggs likes it! Don’t ya, Nuggs?”

Fat Nuggets was far too busy mowing down the jello in search of more cherries to provide comment.

“…still think it’s f*cked up.” He shook his head.

They both took their bite at the same time. Blinked. Looked down at their plates, then back at each other.

“That is…”

“…shockingly, good?” Husk shook his head. “It really is. Worth writin’ down the recipe.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Angel didn’t expect himself to be going in for another bite, but lo and behold. “Thought you said you ain’t a good cook, toots?”

Niffty giggled, blushing. “You don’t have to be able to cook to make a jello mold! Why do they call it a mold, though? Sounds gross! They should call it something else.”

“I’ll be honest, Niff— I think that’s most people’s last concern with jello molds.”

“Yeah… first concern seems to be cannibalism, for some reason?”

Husk nearly choked. “Not what I meant, but sure.”

The egg boy, having seemingly decided he could eat, set down his half-finished sandwich. “Wait. It doesn’t have eggs in it, does it?”

“Nope! No eggs in the jello!” She shook her head. “The egg salad sandwiches, though…”

He immediately began to gag.

“Eh, you said there’s no people in it— I’ll trust you on that, Lady Bug.” Angel made a point to jiggle the bite on his fork; Alastor’s nose wrinkled. “Seriously though, Al— you should try it. Real good, even without bein’ full of orphan’s ’n rotten flesh an’ whatever else you normally eat.”

“Perhaps if you enjoy it so much, you would like some of mine?”

“You at least gotta try it.”

His ear (hair??) twitched.

Niffty tried, and failed, to suppress a snicker.

“Very well, then—“ Alastor stabbed his fork into the jello. “Thank you, my dear.”

“Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine!” She giggled.

All of them watched as he took a bite. Tensing, chewing. Gagging, shuddering…

And swallowing, shockingly.

Angel laughed. “Damn! Didn’t take you for one to swallow, Smiles. Proud of ya.”

Alastor’s head snapped to him, menacing for a moment, radio static building—

“I’ve tried it.” He declared, setting down his fork. “But enough of that— my dear, these cookies are positively scrumptious! My compliments to you!”

Husk met his eyes, though, as if silently looking for confirmation that yes, someone else saw this, too.

Until Fat Nuggets snuffled, drawing both of their attention.

“See! The pig didn’t eat the sausage.” He pointed out, smug asshole. “Told ya that was f*cked up.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Again: Al is right there.”

“And that being more wrong makes him eatin’ other pigs okay?”

“Hell if I know— I’m in hell, ain’t exactly an ethics expert…” He paused, took another bite of the surprisingly okay jello. “And, to be fair, vienna sausage has pork in it in the same way as some guy with three dick enlargement surgeries, a viagra prescription, and Botox in his balls has a penis.”

Husk grimaced. “Do us all a favor an’ shut your mouth.”

“Funny— normally guys like me better with it open.”

“You really only know how to talk ‘bout one thing, do you?”

Angel crossed his lower arms. “Not f*ckin’ true— I can talk ‘bout plenty of things!”

“Really?” He raised a fluffy eyebrow. “Name two.”

“Sex and drugs. Done— Easy.”

“That does not—“

“Is that a hint of iron, I detect?” Alastor’s voice brought them both back to the rest of the table. “You didn’t— did you use blood in the baking?”

The two of them paled.

Niffty smiled wide, clearly quite proud of herself. “Yep! We were out of eggs after I made the sandwiches, so I had to make some substitutions with the cookies.”

Husk gagged, hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Angel was suddenly even more grateful he hadn’t taken one.

“I mean…” He gestured at the egg boy. “We weren’t all outta eggs.”

“Wh-what?! Me?!”

Niffty considered that for a second. “I’ll have to try that out next time!”

“Next time?!”

“…I’m so f*ckin’ done with this sh*t.” Husk growled, pushing his plate away. “No offense, Niff.”

“None taken!”

“Maybe, for next time? We can write out some of the ingredients an’ sh*t.” Angel suggested. “Just so people know what they’re gettin’ into.”

“Oh! Like for allergies?” She frowned. “No one told me they had food allergies! You said you didn’t have any! Did you lie to me? Bad!”

“No! No—“ He raised all a hands no surrender. “I mean ‘cause we got like, three kinds of cannibalism goin’ on here.”

“Yeah… I guess that makes sense.”

Husk was looking at him weird, again. This time more… critical. Not necessarily negative, though? Interested.

“If you wanna say somethin’ you gotta say it, Whiskers. What, cat got your tongue?”

“Wow. Never heard that one before.” He huffed. “You just really sounded like Charlie for a second, there.”

“You take that back right now or I swear to god—“

“There you are, back again.” Husk smirked. “But add ‘violence’ to the list.”

Angel blinked. “…the what?”

“Sex, drugs, and violence. The only three things you seem able to talk about.” He sounded amused, sure, but also vaguely… disappointed? “Or can’t seem to stop talkin’ ‘bout.”

The only things he was good for, more like.

“Only things worth talkin’ ‘bout, baby.”

Husk rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.

“So, Niff— I ain’t gotta work tonight. You wanna do puppets?”

“Yes! Yes yes!” Niffty cheered. “I only think we need a few more rehearsals before it’s perfect— I just need to catch a replacement for Roachnaldo, then we can practice…”

It wasn’t until everyone started going their own ways that Angel realized he’d cleared his entire plate, and most of what remained of Husk’s (cookie not included). He wanted to panic about that, wanted to try to make himself puke (with his gag reflex? Not easy) or something— but he couldn’t. Not with Niffty dragging him along to rehearse with her.

…and that’s when pieces started to click. It was only confirmed by her continuing to bring snacks to redemption exercises, always fetching him for meals when he was at the hotel.

There was something terrifying about her knowing, something terrifying about anyone knowing— but he knew she wouldn’t tell. And besides, she didn’t force him to go if he declined, didn’t make him take the snacks. Just… offered. As odd as it was? He trusted her.

And that was a weight off his shoulders.

***

In the hotel it was easiest to just stick with pills. Angel knew that, knew that powder was more risk of a mess, that they could smell it in a heartbeat if he smoked, let alone if he went back to injecting—

He knew better. But what was knowing better to a brain, to a body run by his vices?

Because no one else would get it, the difference it made— pills were slow. He could take a pill and lay there for an hour before he felt anything, before he got any kind of relief.

And since Val had confronted him about his weight—

Funny, how being denied any kind of substance for days, getting through withdrawals, had led to his biggest relapse so far.

Was it a relapse if he hadn’t really managed to quit?

Probably. Angel had been doing pretty well at limiting himself, honestly— cutting doses, spacing them out as far as he could bear, sticking to pills because he f*cking knew better.

A lot of good knowing better did.

But he could keep things well hidden. Niffty wouldn’t rat him out, so his stashes were safe on that respect. He injected into his lowest arms because he knew they would be retracted most of the time, and even when they weren’t his fur covered marks well enough for no one to notice a thing.

They hadn’t before. They wouldn’t now.

Besides, with how work had been? He needed it. He was still making it up to Val for gaining weight, and the shoots reflected that. Taking that pain, plus withdrawal? Just… wasn’t doable.

Whatever he had to tell himself to justify it.

Because Angel knew better, goddamn it, and nothing highlighted that just as much as sitting there on his bed, door locked three times and chair pushed under the knob (just in case; no he wasn’t being paranoid), pulling a hair tie up over his arm. After so long he could do this in his sleep, had done it blackout, that was for certain.

The powder was already dissolved, loaded into the syringe. His veins had begun to show through better, easy to locate with how pale he was, easy to find even with how badly his hands shook, how it took two to steady out the one holding the needle—

Deep breath.

—and relief. He let out his breath, careful as he drew the needle back out, wiping it off. He’d get around to actually cleaning it later, but right now…

Guilt.

He didn’t even feel good about it, even as thinking lost its trail and his body faded away into nothing. There was a body there, yes, but it wasn’t his— he was… something else. Someone else.

Except he wasn’t. He was still Angel, thinking about the fact that he’d been down this route before and he didn’t know where it ended yet because hell was just a continuation of the same cycle of abuse and addiction he’d always been trapped in.

And he was doing so much better, too.

But now his whole body felt warm and liquid and was he crying? He might have been crying, but honestly it was hard to tell. His arms didn’t respond right when he went to wipe away the tears.

He didn’t want to keep doing this.

Of course, he didn’t want to stop doing this—

Part of him wondered if that was what his family thought about his death. That he just couldn’t keep doing it. He could ask, he supposed— just none of the family members that mattered.

He was crying. Strange.

Stranger still that he did have family down here— it didn’t really make sense. For Angel Dust, at least. He was Angel Dust but he knew realistically that he was also all of his other experiences, his father’s child, his sister’s twin. He knew that, but it still didn’t quite fit.

How could it, when he wasn’t even real?

He hadn’t meant to die, when he did. He was just stupid, careless, shooting up somewhere new and going into convulsions, knowing that someone would find him dead on the bathroom floor.

But he didn’t mean to die.

It would be lying to say he’d never considered it, of course— suicide was dishonorable, an immediate path to hell according to his Nonna, but wasn’t hom*osexuality? Wasn’t addiction? Wasn’t murdering other men in cold blood?

To him who knows to do good and does not do it? To him it is sin.

He never was a good Catholic, though. Molly was. Molly was in heaven without a doubt, the same way he was rotting in hell. Everyone knew their paths. Everyone knew where they were going.

She tried to save him.

He tried to save himself— and what good had it done? Pink lights swirling around and a room that wasn’t filled with smoke despite what his eyes were seeing.

But that had always been his failsafe. There wasn’t a place he went unarmed, not even mass, not even Molly’s house with his baby nephew around.

He’d never really prayed the way he did, when he met that kid for the first time. That he wouldn’t end up the way he did. That he wouldn’t get roped into this life, the life of drugs and blood that never came of his hands. The life of carrying a pistol everywhere just in case, bullets reserved for himself if things went wrong.

Things had already gone wrong. Things had gone wrong the moment he was born.

Hell ages everyone differently, but had he really aged at all? Wasn’t he just the same kid, hiding from his life with whatever he could get to numb the pain?

He didn’t recognize himself anymore, didn’t know the spindly body lying there in the bed, but had he ever? Did he ever know who he was?

The thought made him angry, made his heart pound, his blood boil, and yeah that was probably just the PCP, he knew that, but knowing didn’t piss him off any less. He wanted to bite something, to break something, to go shoot some sorry f*cker until he was nothing but a bloody pulp.

Yeah. Same guy, alright. Even knowing what he knew now, a century later, he’d probably do it all the same, too. He didn’t deserve a chance to do it over.

The anger came with energy, though, as odd and disconnected as he was; he had gotten more than used to functioning like this. Feeling the echoes of his movements in his eyes as he packed away his things, went to the bathroom to at least sort of wash the needle— they were in hell, it wasn’t like he was going to die from reusing it.

No. He was stuck here.

Because to fall back on old plans now would take angelic steel he didn’t have, would mean leaving behind the friends he’d made—

And f*ck, he would feel guilty as hell for that, too. The only thing he’d picked up from the church, apparently.

He made the mistake of looking in the mirror.

He’d gotten back from work early, today— lord knows why, but hell if he was going to question it. By now, though, normally his makeup would be needing a touch-up, fading away from sweat and time. His mascara was smudged a little under his eyes. His lipstick was all but gone from the center of his lips, the rest of it wiped off on a co-stars dick, probably. He didn’t really know.

Was that today, or yesterday?

Was this even him in the mirror?

What was that creature, with white fur and jagged teeth, hickeys and eye bags and eyes themselves unable to focus, twitching, moving, unable to look at himself straight—

He spent so much time in the mirror, perfecting every movement, every expression. He had to be perfect. Angel Dust was perfection.

He was nothing.

A pit in his chest that felt like it was pounding outward, a void consuming him. Red smoke pouring out from his nose, his mouth, his eyes—

Perfection.

What was that in the mirror?

What was he?

He was sharp teeth and red smoke in the mirror, eyes nothing but a void.

Was this what perfection felt like?

Was he perfection to himself, or just under the hands of another, grabbing and pulling and holding him down?

He was wanted.

What was he?

Was that really him?

But Angel knew he would feel the same if the body in the mirror had two arms, if the teeth were only slightly crooked, nose curved from being broken a few too many times. He wouldn’t recognize him.

He had been under Val longer than he had been alive to begin with. What did that make him?

Guilty. Of sinning, of failing, of relapsing and goddamn it he wanted to be better—

Hands were swiping at tears (his own?) knotted in hair, pulling to try to feel anything at all.

Was it a relapse if he never really quit?

Was he a failure if he never really understood the game?

He wanted to hit something, to stain something red for once not from smoke, to make something pay for the pain he’d inflicted upon himself.

A glass bottle was in one of those hands (his?), clutched tight—

The shatter was deafening. Mirror and bottle and the pink poison inside because of course it was a little heart-shaped bottle of love potion—

The smell was overwhelming.

Everything was him, everything was red smoke and everything had a film of crimson red over it, his hands were white before but now stained with the blood that had been there all along, that had been there since he first leveled a gun at a man before he was even a teenager—

Hell aged everyone differently. Had it aged him at all?

Was he different at all?

Was he right where he started?

Another bathroom, another century, still shooting up the same sh*t.

At least he couldn’t see himself anymore, not really. Not in any way but the eyes outside of himself, the way he could always watch himself from an outside view. Smudged makeup and white fur with those damned hearts dyed on—

He broke the mirror.

How that managed to be a surprise, he didn’t know. Probably the drugs, the fact that he thought about doing those things, throwing those punches, all the time but nearly never did.

How many times had he, when he was too f*cked up to remember?

Was he just another piece in the cycle?

When Val hit him, was it because he’d done it first? Did he do what was in his mind, dig his teeth in and tear away, punch and kick until ribcages gave in—

No one liked a violent whor*. They didn’t want a lapdog with a history of biting, a lapdog who would bite again. That was why Val liked him better on other sh*t, Mo—

MDMA. Not Molly. Never Molly— he couldn’t say her name like that, couldn’t put her under his tongue before trying to f*ck everyone in sight. He couldn’t, couldn’t say her name, couldn’t filthy it with his mouth—

He’d broken the mirror and now he was on the floor, rippling and hazy. The floor was cold. It felt nice, against his burning skin, against the blood that coated him from head to toe.

Even without the mirror, he could see himself. Could picture how he looked on the video, on the cameras—

The cameras. How had he forgotten the cameras?!

Angel scrambled to his feet, looking around, trying to find them. They were hidden better than normal— regularly Vox didn’t even try to hide them, didn’t bother.

What was he going to do, leave?

He searched for them, desperate, needing them covered or broken or something immediately. Sure, he was always on camera, this didn’t matter, he was just acting crazy and paranoid because he was high, but he had also broken the mirror and there was still red smoke pouring out of where it had been on the bathroom wall and maybe he should investigate it, maybe he should leave, run before someone inevitably came to—

A knock on the door.

Frantically, like he was back living with his dad again, he went to hide anything drug related, anything that could possibly give him away. He shut the bathroom door, to hide the smoke, the blood, the mirrors— the chair under the knob would only hold for so long—

“The hell do you want?!” He snapped, tugging on gloves to cover the blood on his hands.

Who knew how long the door would hold—

“Uh, I just wanted to let you know it’s dinner time?” Niffty was asking from the other side. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

And oh, he couldn’t help but laugh at that, at how f*cked up this was, how nothing he ever did was right—

“Yeah, like I’m gonna f*ckin’ fall for that.” Angel sneered. “I ain’t doin’ that again. f*ck off.”

Because he’d kept the weight off, partially because he was back to using more like he used to, just wasn’t nearly as hungry, but he wasn’t going to forget that punishment anytime soon. It was easier to stay on the skinnier side of alright. Meant co*ke, caffeine, and cigarettes were just about all he had, but—

He wasn’t doing that again. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that but it was the worst and he hoped to god it was the last.

Not that any of his hopes to god had done any good.

“…what?”

“I ain’t hungry.”

His fur kept him looking presentable enough, anyway. Covered his visible skeleton, his needle wells, his scars—

Sometimes he wondered what it would take to really scar, to be enough that he’d be undesirable. It wouldn’t be too difficult, what with the glass shattered in the bathroom—

“You don’t sound okay.”

Angel froze.

She could tell— she knew. She always knew but now she definitely knew—

And that was fine. It was Niffty, she wasn’t going to do anything.

Was she?

He took a deep breath, counting it out the way Charlie taught them and wasn’t that funny, thinking about Charlie because he was high and got too worked up?

This was supposed to be a good time.

(It hadn’t been a good time in decades.)

“I’m fine, Niff.” Angel eventually managed, pulling himself together. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Mmm… okay!”

He could hear her little feet skitter down the hall.

There was a little shuffling sound to his left, though— tiny grunts letting him know that Fat Nuggets had woken up from his nap.

“Oh, sorry bud— did I wake ya?”

Another snort.

“Well, no need to be rude about it— I apologized, didn’t I?”

He didn’t look convinced, but did climb down his little steps, trotting over to his feet.

“You wanna cuddle to make up for it?”

The way he snuffled, pawing at him, was definitely a yes.

Angel scooped him up, holding him close to his chest as he flopped back onto the bed.

“I don’t think I can keep doin’ this much longer, Nuggs.” He confessed, giving him a scratch behind the ears. “Don’t wanna be like this.”

Fat Nuggets stepped up close enough to lick his face. Which he did. He always did that when he got upset, when he cuddled with him while high, all the time back when they lived with Val.

The weight on his chest alone was calming, fighting against the way his heart was pounding. Forcing him to breathe deep. Five things he could see and all that crap.

“…did I really break that mirror?”

He snorted, gave another little lick.

“…goddamn it.”

***

Angel was used to coming back from work to Husk manning the bar; sometimes he swore Charlie put him up to waiting on him.

He’d come home to Charlie too, after all— all nerves and worry and fluttering hands she couldn’t figure out what to do with.

He’d come back to Vaggie— interrogating him (not in a sexy way) about where he’d been and what he’d been doing, who he’d been doing, what substances were in his system… just about everything she could get mad about.

Hell, he’d even gotten startled by Alastor when he was coming home from work late at night. f*ck that guy.

But seeing Niffty there, beating the dust out of that nasty couch with a stick? Was new.

He was internally debating whether he should say something or not when she turned toward him.

“There you are!”

Angel’s body tensed, mind tried to picture exactly what he looked like to her right now.

At least it had been a fairly normal day— fairly normal for a month ago, but fairly normal regardless. Shoots blurred together, Val was still on his case but with the amount of sucking up he’d been doing (literally) it hadn’t been so bad.

So he was sore and tired, but not battered at least. Starting to shake a little bit again, damn his tolerance, but not so much that she would immediately notice.

Overall, then? Fine. Even if he took off his clothes he’d look fine— he had a few hickeys that had probably become visible through the makeup at this point, but that wasn’t anything crazy.

“Hey, Niff— couch owe you money?”

Of course, she chose to ignore the joke entirely, skittering up to him. “You look tired. Sorry, that isn’t nice, is it? Just come on!”

“Okay, okay— where we goin’?”

“Your room.”

Angel choked. “As much as I like you, Bug? You’re still a chick, an’ I don’t think they pay you enough for that.”

“Not like that!”

Niffty huffed, scampering on ahead up the stairs.

He had no real choice but to follow after. “Yeah… didn’t think so. I ain’t enough of a bad boy for ya.”

“Not a bad boy.” She agreed. “Not even close.”

“…you know I’ve killed like, a lot of people, right?”

That just earned him a shrug. They continued on to his room, only just getting through the door and closing it, when—

Niffty shoved an empty, clear tube into his hands.

“For used needles.” She explained. “I got rid of all the old ones you had.”

His stomach dropped. There went his plans for the night. He was already feeling antsy, so there was no way he’d be able to just fall asleep, no matter how exhausted he was—

“And put some fresh ones in there.”

“Oh, thank f*ck— ow!”

Without warning, she batted him in the leg with the stick she’d been using on the couch.

“Bad!”

“The hell—?!”

“Reusing needles!” Niffty shuddered at the very idea. “And bad boys get punished.”

Her idea of a punishment being a little swat on the leg that only stung for a moment? Made that a lot less scary.

“Thought you said I wasn’t a bad boy?”

“Hmmm…”

She thought about that for a good moment, long enough for him to decide to start getting ready for bed. Stripping off his gloves, peeling out of his jacket—

“Doing bad things sometimes? Doesn’t make you a bad boy.” She eventually decided with a firm nod. “You’re too nice to be a bad boy.”

Angel couldn’t help but laugh. “Me? Too nice?”

“Yeah! You’re too nice.” Niffty nodded, a warm smile on her face. “You think you’re bad, but you care too much to be a bad boy.”

He had to turn his face away, avoiding her eye.

“No offense, Niff? But I’ve done a lotta terrible things over the years. I ain’t sayin’ I’m a bad boy— but I definitely ain’t good, neither.”

“You don’t have to be good to not be bad.” She said simply, as if it were the most obvious truth. “And you’re trying a lot.”

“Yeah— tryin’ an’ failing.”

Another smack with the stick. “Bad!”

“What now?”

“Being mean to my friend.”

Angel frowned. “Who?”

“You, duh!” She pointed at him with it. “You better be nice!”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Right! Got it, got it— I’ll try to be nice.”

Niffty smiled, pleased as she lowered the stick. “See? You’re good.”

“…thanks, girlie. You ain’t so bad yourself, you know.”

Her face scrunched. “No.”

“Hell you mean, no?” Angel scoffed a laugh. “You’re a good friend— an’ I know I don’t really return the favor.”

“Nope! I’m pure evil.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Bug.”

“And! I’m just doing my job.”

“And that is…?”

“Cleaning up the mess!” Niffty gestured at him, giggling. “Speaking of which— anything else for me?”

He could tell by the way her eyes glanced over him, she was looking for injuries. Not making a big deal of it. Just… asking if she could help. Sincere.

It was a bit embarrassing how emotional that made him.

“Nah, nothin’ tonight.” Angel answered honestly for once. “Gotta shower, but I’ll handle that mess.”

She snickered at that, then once more pointed her stick at him. “Shower! Then get some sleep. You don’t sleep enough.”

“Alright, alright— you get some rest too, yeah?” He bent down to ruffle her hair. “Can’t keep everythin’ all spick’n span if you’re too busy fallin’ asleep on your feet.”

“Mmm… yeah…” In a whirlwind of movement, Niffty squeezed his leg in a tight hug, nodded, and headed to the door. “Okay! Sleep time— goodnight!”

“Night, Niff.”

The door shut behind her.

“…Thank you.”