Chapter Text
No, I'm not afraid to disappear
The billboard said, "The end is near"
I turned around, there was nothing there
Yeah, I guess the end is here
“BREAKING NEWS: it seems like all of Hell has broken loose in the Vee Tower. Our sources have given us intel on the situation, and it appears as if the renowned porn star Angel Dust has fled the place, not for the first time, causing chaos and raising questions within his fandom. We have yet to understand the circumstances, but one thing is certain: our esteemed overlords are not happy with him. If you see him, contact this number, and as soon as he’s retrieved you will have a 50% discount off your next booking with him."
Charlie and Vaggie stare at the TV dumbfounded, with a concerned look on their face, while Cherri squeezes the glass in her hand so strongly that it shatters.
“What the fuck is going on there?” Charlie still needs to get used to Cherri’s, um, eloquence, but for once it seems appropriate.
“I have no idea, but we need to find him immediately. Vaggie, could you go fetch Alastor? We might need help looking for Angel.”
Without having to be told twice, her girlfriend gets up and leaves the room.
They look back over at the news, and above Katie’s head a phone number is plastered in a big, bright, bold font, right next to a picture of Angel. She’s saying more and telling them nothing at the same time. Now, that’s news, Charlie thinks sourly.
“Wait,” her attention is once more on the explosive girl, “Where’s the kitty?”
Oh, shit. Husk.
“He’s out on a walk with Nuggets, I’m sure he’ll be right back.”
“He’s going to lose his shit when he finds out,” and, yeah, he is.
FOUR DAYS PRIOR
The view is surprisingly nice up here. The red sky, the other overlord high rises, the tall buildings with big, colorful signs. It’s almost like the cheap, knock-off copy of New York. In a way.
That’s one of the few privileges of being at the top floor of the Vee Tower. Another one being that he can’t quite hear the pandemonium coursing through the streets of Hell.
He probably wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway, considering the ringing in his ears.
To be fair, Val had been on his best behaviour these past few days, so he really should’ve expected it should be grateful.
The bruises on his body sting, but it’s more like an afterthought in his mind. The pain is not what really bothers him. It’s the numbness inside him that worries him.
Like when you always forget that one small step at the end of the stairs, and you keep tripping on it, over and over. The first few times you can feel your stomach drop in fear, but after a while, you become used to it. Though sometimes you still trip, it doesn’t scare you. It doesn’t make your heart pound at the thought of it happening again. You know it will at some point, but at least now you’re used to it.
Now that thought should scare him. But it doesn’t, because, again, he’s used to feeling this way. Mostly.
The first month of being back here Angel actually had to readjust. As much as he hates to admit it, the Hotel had managed to snake a malign sense of… safety, inside of him. He obviously couldn’t have that here, as it would only make his days harder than they are already. He had spent years learning Val’s tells, tailoring his actions accordingly, and living in a constant state of weariness that saved his ass more times than he can count on all his hands.
Charlie’s welcoming attitude, Cherri’s shoulder to cry on, Husk’s cradling arms… they were of no use to him here. Not if he wanted to survive.
…
And that is a whole other can of worms.
He can still feel the hands around his throat, his thighs, his– he shakes his head. What is happening to him? It's not different from what he's used to. From what he deserves.
He's the one that chose to come back here. He's the one that left despite the pleading eyes of his friends. You chose to come back to Val.
He gives one last, longing look at the outside underworld before turning on his heels and limping towards the elevator.
He presses the button for the floor under the one he's on. He'd walk there but... he doesn't trust his legs not to give out under him on the steps. The last thing he needs is another concussion.
He exits the elevator and bumps into a million people without apologising or looking back.
He spots Val immediately, yelling orders and insulting every employee that has the misfortune of breathing too loud next to him.
As soon as Val's eyes meet his own a shudder runs down his spine. He's going to vomit, he's sure.
He knows what’s coming for him.
"Amorcito, finally! We've been waiting for you forever."
They haven't. They're still setting up the scene and Angel showed up early.
He simply moves closer and stops in front of Val, hoping the other will accept it as a sign of silent remorsefulness, instead of refusal to talk. Val seems to be too distracted to care; he takes Angel's wrist and pulls him closer, so that they're face to face.
“Why the long face, baby?”
He knows exactly why, but Angel’s not dumb enough to answer that.
Val knows how he feels about this sort of scene. They’ve talked about it before, and Val has even agreed with him at some point, telling him that it's too sick a fantasy; but it’s been a long time since then. Val has changed, and so have his so-called principles.
And, of course, Angel’s being punished. So his feelings are something that Val has an interest in hurting.
He’s suddenly manhandled into his dressing room, hands working over him. Touching him, pulling him, doing his make up, his hair, undressing him and covering him with a red, laced two-piece set that leaves nothing to the imagination.
He finds himself sitting on the bed in the middle of the set, unsure if he can remember getting there. He can sense people walking around him, talking to him maybe, but he keeps staring off into space.
He comes back to a pair of fingers snapping before his eyes.
“Angel. We’re rolling in two,” says the shark demon standing next to him. He nods weakly and lies down, fixing his eyes on the high ceiling.
He zones out as soon as he hears the word “action”.
Why is the ceiling that high? With the number of floors the Tower has, it seems like a waste of space, other than a safety hazard.
It’s almost like everything in this place is uniquely fabricated to stress him out. As hands travel up his body, he thinks about the ceilings, the sheer amount of doors that make it seem impossible to run away, the maddening height of the stupid building. He’s not even afraid of heights, but sheesh… he wouldn’t go on the roof for anything other than jumping off.
He briefly comes back to reality as he feels fingers press to the side of his neck.
The employees, too. Why are there so many? The better half of film-making happens in post production, what do they need to be here for? It’s unnerving.
The air in the room suddenly feels too far away, he feels his throat trying to draw a deep breath, in vain.
Don’t think about it and it won’t hurt. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t–
He raises both his hands to fight the grip his co-star has on him. He kicks his legs. He squirms. He arches his back trying to free himself.
His mind becomes clouded, he can’t even distract himself. What was the bullshit he was telling himself not two seconds ago? Don’t think? Yeah, good luck not thinking of the air that’s missing in his lungs as he slowly loses perception of his surroundings.
It’s not unusual to play around with a choking kink, especially within the porn industry, but this is entirely different.
What they don’t tell you about suffocating is how much it fucking hurts. It’s like your insides are being ripped out of your body, slowly, agonizingly so. His mind is about to implode. He wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes were to leave his head.
He can feel himself slipping. He knows the fight is leaving his body, the same way his consciousness is. He stops struggling.
The last thing he hears is Valentino’s laugh.
When he awakes, it’s as if he’s still actively dying. He gasps for air, trying to remember how to breathe correctly.
When he manages to steady himself, he notices he’s in his room, alone.
It doesn’t relieve him in the slightest.
He's lying on his bed, in a fetal position, while pain radiates from his neck, limbs and stomach. He moans in pain.
He tries to sit up but gives up halfway through.
Realisation hits him like a truck. Val had just had him killed. He had killed him.
He stares wide-eyed at the wall in front of him.
He… had killed him. Val had made someone choke him to death for a movie.
Angel draws his hand up to the marks left by the other actor's enormous hands. His own are trembling.
He breathes in slowly. He can feel his pulse thunder in his ears- a pulse that wasn’t there until a few minutes ago.
He should’ve seen the wave of nausea coming from a mile away. He painfully limps to the bathroom, just in time to get to the toilet and puke his last meal.
When he’s done he wipes his mouth with his robe, he pushes himself against the wall and pulls his knees to his chest.
Val had stopped pretending to give a shit about what he put Angel through the moment Angel had followed him back to the Tower. He made him work hours on end without a break, made him skip meals only to punish him when he finally fainted, and he isolated him from the outside world in every conceivable way. No phone, no computer (not that he had one of his own, but now he wasn’t allowed to use Val’s, either), no TV, though he sees it everyday, still- ha ha.
Angel knows it's because Valentino is sure that he won't leave anymore and he can’t really blame him for thinking it. He’s not even sure he has the right to be upset about any of it, really.
What can he be angry about? Valentino isn't doing anything that Angel hasn't agreed to the moment he decided to come back. He's not doing anything that he isn't allowed to do.
And he sure as shit isn't doing anything that Angel doesn't deserve.
You’re nothing. Why should anyone care if you die?
And yet, he feels hollow with the knowledge of what it's like to not be- well, nothing.
He was something, at the Hotel. Not sure what, but he finds that it's not that important now. He had a life, he had friends, he had a… family, of sorts. Which is why this hurts even more.
He was someone. He’s sure of it. And now look at him.
He wishes he had never been anything.
Then he wouldn't miss any of it, now that he can't be it.
He feels his face getting wet with tears, but he does nothing to stop them. His head has been hazy since he woke up. He's thinking too much for someone who can't think straight.
He's tired.
He wishes to be nothing forever.
He wishes he'd just die.
Is that selfish to say, knowing that there are people who care about him?- though Angel likes to tell himself a different story to make himself feel better (or worse), he knows for a fact that his friends love him, but it's easier to forget, especially when there’s drugs working their way through his system, rather than face the truth. That he hurts them by simply existing. By being their friend.
Because of course they'd miss him. Angel doesn't know why, he doesn't even understand why they'd be his friends in the first place.
Truthfully, he prefers to not consider them at all. It makes his skin crawl; particularly when he's thinking of his own life. Or lack of.
And whose fault is that?
He's barely his own person, what does he need a life for?
He should just die, die, die.
He cries into the pillow silently, until his head feels like it’s going to explode.
He reckons he might've fallen asleep at some point, but he's been awake for a while now, not sure of the time or the day. Not that he cares.
There's only one thought in his mind now.
It's not the first time it's crossed his mind, but it's the first time he believes he might have the means to accomplish it.
He gathers enough strength to laugh at himself. He's pathetic, truly, through and through.
His small chuckles die down though.
He could do it.
What does he have to lose anymore? Worst case scenario: he fails miserably, Val finds out his plan and punishes him for it, making his life a living hell. So nothing would change, really.
He spends the next two hours debating with himself. But, in the end...
He knows what he has to do.
He knows it’s stupid.
He knows he will try anyway.
He hopes it saves him.
He hopes it kills.
When he got ready this morning, Vox was in a relatively decent mood. He’d had a good night of sleep, a good early morning of fucking Val, a good breakfast, and he was about to have a good goddamn time watching Vel at the overlord meeting this afternoon, shitting on Alastor– though he’d much rather be the one doing the shitting on, he has been permanently banned from all public meetings with the rest of the big guys, after his “crazy fucking manic episode”.
All in all, it had all the premises for another above average day of his afterlife.
That is until this shitshow started.
"Vox!"
As soon as he hears the whore's grating voice he rolls his eyes. Every time he briefly considers the idea of hypnotising Val into forgetting Angel's existence and slaughtering the bitch. But then he remembers that Val is, unfortunately, immune to his tricks. He settles on keeping his rude as fuck attitude towards him instead.
"What."
"It's Val!"
And that does make Vox's metaphorical ears stand up, because Angel Dust sounds panicked, and if it was for something Val had done to him, then he certainly wouldn't come to Vox with it.
"What about him?" He asks, with ten percent less revulsion in his voice, and a tad more edginess.
“I think someone attacked him! He’s bleeding out in his office!” He yells, his eyebrows furrowed and his breathing erratic.
Someone trying to hurt overlords isn’t a rare occurrence at all; someone succeeding, on the other hand…
He’s not worried though. Most of the demons down here have died multiple times, and Val is no different. He’ll hurt for a while and make it everyone else’s problem, but he’ll recover.
“So? He’ll come back soon enough,” he sips his coffee and turns to the door, heading for the elevator.
“Something isn’t right, Vox! I think they used an angelic weapon:”
Vox’s eyes grow big so fast. He bolts into a camera and emerges on the other side of the floor, in Valentino’s office.
He whirls from one side to another trying to find him, until he stumbles upon a body laying atop of a pool of blood. Still as stone.
He can feel his breathing hitch. A panic attack looming over his shoulders, waiting for him to process the sight before kicking in.
Three seconds later, Velvette comes rushing through the threshold, gasping and immediately turning her head.
For a while their heaving is the only sound present.
"Who the fuck would do this?"
Velvette's voice brings him back to reality.
He honestly hadn’t even considered that until now. He was busy gathering enough oxygen back in his brain to think rationally. But her question raises a million different possibilities.
Val had many enemies. Probably almost as many as Vox, if not more.
Anyone in Hell could’ve done this, but his mind will only provide the name of one person.
"Oh, I think I might have an idea of who," he says through gritted teeth.
Velvette looks both confused, before realisation hits her, too.
"No. You don't think... he wouldn't. He's not smart enough to– how could he have pulled this off?"
She yells after him some more, but he's already marching through the doors, headed to the exit.
"Make sure no one leaves, Vel. I want this place under lockdown," he growls, "Stay here with him, make sure no one finds his body for now."
A thunder-like sound plays in his ears, and he realises it’s a lightning bolt that hit the top of the building.
He feels a degree of wrath he wasn’t even aware he could muster.
That cunt is going to pay like he’s never done before.
And with that he blips via a camera.
Unfortunately for him, Angel had planned ahead, and as soon as Vox had left the room, he had started running faster than his own legs, heading for the bottom floor.
He manages to get to the second floor before the lights go out.
It’s fine, he’s thought of this; it’s the reason he took the stairs and not something that runs on electricity. Doesn’t make it any less scary.
He keeps on going in spite of his trembling legs, almost faceplanting multiple times as he misses several steps.
He gets to the bottom of the stairs, considers the door that leads outside with a mournful look, and makes for the basement.
He has to finish this.
No one uses the basement for anything other than storage; It’s no surprise it’s covered in dust and bugs. Niffty would have a field day here.
He hides behind a prop and waits.
It's dark, the only light in the room is coming from his screen. It's also silent, unnaturally so, considering there's two people here.
Vox saw him enter, and he’s positive there’s no other way out of the building than the main door. He’s here.
He strolls around, his hands behind his back, an unaffected look on his face.
“You know, Angel Dust, Valentino always reassured me that you were smarter than you looked; despite his best efforts to paint you in an angelic light,” he scoffs, “I never fell for it. Call me old fashioned, but I believe that someone who has to resort to selling their body to achieve anything… well, they’re not really first-class material.”
He chuckles, before turning abruptly and pulling the plastic foil off some weird dentist-like machine. Not here.
“It seems like I was right, in the end,” he carries on, “You had the exit right in front of you, and you chose to come here,” he laughs.
“But, thanks to you, I won’t ever prove him wrong. You are so predictable, dear,” he peeks under a rugged bed.
“Given your history with your father, we should’ve expected you to jump at the first chance to kill the person who’s given you everything. The one who saved you, and made you who you are, who gave you a purpose and–” from the ceiling, a figure leaps and lands on his shoulders.
He stumbles, and before he can blink he's being hit repeatedly in the face, his screen cracking. He falls to the ground, and the most he can make out of the person in front of him is the crazed look in his eyes, and the unmistakable number of limbs, each ending in fists, except for one.
A gun is pointed directly at his screen. Valentino’s gun.
“I see you recognise this,” Angel’s voice cuts through the silence. “I’m sure you’re aware of the angelic bullets it carries, then?”
Red eyes are trained on the trigger, more specifically on the finger resting there. Panic flashes over him, before it’s washed away by an overconfident smirk, "I didn't think you were this stupid,” he cackles maniacally.
“Actually, scratch that, I did. I just thought Val had knocked some more sense into you, by now. Apparently, I was wrong," his words are a bit static, not entirely clear, but he knows Angel Dust hears himself just fine by the punch that strikes him in the face again.
Aside from that though, the spider’s expression doesn't falter. Nor does it show any indication that he's registered what he said.
"You don't scare me Vox.”
The grin on Vox’s face wilts. Annoyance, anger, disgust, all paint his face.
But Angel is undeterred.
“If you did, trust me, I'd have listened to you and obeyed like a puppy since the beginning, the way I did with Val. But I didn't. Because I know you.”
He steps forward, his legs surprisingly steady, "You're just a pathetic, powerless man. Who relies on others to get things done, and then takes all the credit. If you actually were who you pretended to be, maybe Val wouldn't have needed me, maybe Alastor would have given a shit about you, maybe–" he gets cut off by a roaring voice.
"You useless fucking whore, who do you think you are?" His hands and voice are shaking; his screen wavers.
He is only fueled by anger, and the need to murder this stupid fucking excuse of a slut, "You think you're better than me? Valentino–"
“Valentino was no better than you,” and for the first time since entering this filthy pit, crumbs of emotion are scattered over Angel’s face. His voice betrays the numb facade he’s trying to convey.
“Don’t speak to me about Valentino. If you haven’t noticed, he’s dead. I killed him, and there’s no going back,” he’s not sure if it’s Vox he’s trying to convince, or himself.
He gets closer to the man sitting on the floor and crouches down.
“Which means,” he whispers, barely inches away from him, “I’m free.”
Vox seems to take his time to elaborate their exchange, but before he can quip back any sort of insult, he feels a sticky, silky thread wrap around his limbs.
He tries to pull away, but it's like it's glued to him. The more he struggles, the more he's trapped. He realises that the threads are coming from the Spider Demon in front of him. His wrists, his back, his nape are all supply for this substance.
Angel is close enough that Vox's screen illuminates his face properly.
All of his eyes are glowing bright red. The corner of his mouth presents a pair of fangs, and the air around them seems to get heavier by the second.
“What the hell is this? What are you…” he trails off.
His mind feels foggy, like a balloon is being inflated in there, and there’s no room for his thoughts.
“Now, I want you to listen carefully, Vox;” Angel’s voice is steady, dead calm, as he cocks the gun in the other’s face, “I am going to leave, and neither you, nor any of your little helpers, are going to follow me. You wouldn’t wanna butt heads with yet another overlord, would ya?”
It takes a moment before understanding dawns on Vox, the disbelief showing in his features. There is no way.
But there is, because Angel’s form is new, and the haze he feels can only come from him, the same way the web does.
“We will put all ‘f this behind us,” Angel says, “I won’t bother you, and you won’t bother me. Have I made myself clear?”
It’s not really a question, nor does it need an answer.
He watches Angel Dust walk away as he lies there, in disbelief.
When Angel breathes his first breath of freedom he’s hyperventilating. It is caused both by the anxiety racing through him and the fact that he’s running, again. His legs are going to hate him tomorrow.
If I have a tomorrow.
He puts even more pressure on the wound on his stomach, once more thanking whatever deity ensured that Vox didn’t see it.
Angel has never been hurt by an angelic weapon before, but he expected more, to be honest. The pain is anticlimactic; which, sure, he isn’t complaining about, but he thought it would hurt more. The time Val had him try out knife-play hurt more than this.
That said, it might just be the adrenaline rushing through his veins talking. He’s sure that the second he stops moving he’s not going to be able to start again. Hence why he endures the tiredness and keeps going.
He can’t believe he’s made it this far. He thought for sure he was going to die. But, alas, he managed. And apparently he’s an overlord now. That’s a development he hadn’t planned for. He’s gonna have to look deeper into it, if he’s alive by morning.
If he can make it to the Hotel’s area he can hope someone will find him. Someone decent. Who will wait for him to wake up and help him get where he needs to be, without asking for compensation.
Yeah, right.
He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t faint on the way, let alone the rest.
He runs (jogs, is more like it) until he physically can’t take it anymore.
He collapses in an alley, behind a bar that he distantly recognises.
He’s glad he was smart about this. He planned the whole thing, up until now; that’s why he doesn’t have his phone: he wasn’t sure if he was going to get to the Hotel, and he didn’t want to risk being tracked by Vox while he was unconscious. But, it also means he can’t call anyone.
The pounding in his head has worsened by the time he lies down next to a dumpster.
They will find me. They will find me. They will find me.
Like a mantra, he tries to convince himself. He closes his eyes, and lets out a long sigh.
They will find him.
Husk lets himself be pulled by Nugs while they walk down the street. It’s their third full circle, or square, around the block, and Fat Nuggets is still restlessly skipping. Not that Husk can blame him.
They’ve all been a little on edge since Angel left and Husk’s thoughts keep tracing back to him. Especially whenever he’s alone, or when he doesn’t have a bottle of whiskey in his hand, though it has been a rare sight these past few months.
The only times he sobers up a little are right before his weekly strolls with the pig (the rest he leaves for the girls at the Hotel to do), and even then he feels hungover as shit.
He knows it’s the easy way out, but what else can he do? If Angel were here he’d be so disappointed in him.
…
Maybe not. Angel has always been nothing if not understanding with him. He’d probably say something about them having much too similar ways of coping with stuff, and offer some other way to “take his mind off of things”; not in a fake, overly flirty way, but in a friendly, joking way. Husk would reject him with a quip and a smirk, and they’d keep bickering like an old married couple.
Yeah, his mind wanders there, too.
To the second-too-long glances, the smiles, the deep understanding between them. Not that he can do anything about it.
Not that I would if I could, he reminds himself.
He passes by a familiar place. The bar where they’d finally talked. Where Husk finally met Angel, instead of Angel Dust.
Now would be a great time for a drink, actually.
He keeps walking, hoping to distract himself, and failing miserably.
It’s not that he doesn’t understand why Angel left; it’s not even that Husk blames him, really. But he thought that… maybe Angel had changed enough to understand his own worth, and to finally turn away from Valentino.
Evidently he was wrong.
The leash he’s holding is tugged into an alley. It’s dark and disgustingly dirty, but Nuggets, spoiled rotten, classy, only-drinks-bottled-water Nuggets, sniffs around, and travels deeper.
The only upside of being a cat demon is being able to see in the dark. Awfully useful in times like these. Dark times indeed. (Angel would have snorted and made fun of his dad jokes.)
“Where are you taking me, bacon?” He asks.
Finally the pig slows down, seemingly getting closer to what he’s looking for.
And that’s when Husk sees him, too.
Without thinking he runs closer to the sleeping body, kneeling into a puddle of something disgusting he can’t bring himself to care about, and blood. Angel’s blood.
“Angel?” He calls for the spider, but the other doesn't move a muscle.
“Angel, wake up!” He puts two fingers to his wrist and is relieved when he finds a very weak pulse. He tries shaking his awake, but to no avail.
He looks at the pig, and Nugs stares back.
“You’re gonna have to follow me without a leash. Can you do that, bacon?”
The blank stare he receives is confirmation enough.
He hoists Angel’s limp body in his arms– Christ, he’s skin and bones. He needs to hurry; Satan knows how long the kid’s been here. And he’s lost so much blood already.
How’d he get here? When did he leave? Why? Did Valentino do this to him?
Was he trying to get back to them?
He starts walking to the Hotel as fast as he can without dropping the body in his arms, and without losing the pig.
“You followin’?” He asks the pig. A snort. Well, then.
The last thing Angel needs is waking up and being told his pet is lost. He’d murder every last person at the Hotel.
Angel. He’s back.
When he wakes up Husk is going to yell at him.