The much-requested sequel to Old Fashioned! Will not make a lot of sense without reading the previous fic, but I think you can figure it out.

Warning: Referenced past child abuse

As a rule, Alastor did not regret. He didn't have the time to think of the might-have-beens and should-have-dones. What's past was past; if he couldn't change it, why should he let it bother him?

That wasn't to say he never entertained the thought of how things could have been different. He was only human, after all, or at least had been once. Even the Radio Demon was not always above occasional thoughts of nostalgia or other flights of fancy. Usually, these imaginings began at his death. The greatest serial killer Louisiana had ever seen, cut down in his prime by mere chance, a single stray bullet—what kind of story was that? An ironic one, perhaps, but not nearly dramatic enough for Alastor's taste.

No, Alastor preferred another story. Sometimes, a victim managed to escape and contact the authorities. Perhaps they injured him, leaving him prone when the officers arrived, or with just enough fight left in him to scare them into playing executioner. Perhaps they'd managed to slip away without his notice so he was still able to add a few to his list of victims before finally being caught. Other times, it was a victim's family member who connected the dots themselves and decided on a little vigilante justice.

But sometimes, he wasn't caught at all. Sometimes, he survived his thirties and went on to live a full life. Perhaps he'd move to a larger city to gain a wider following for his radio show, or perhaps he'd remain in his hometown and settle for a humbler lifestyle instead. Perhaps he'd be allowed to remain a bachelor his whole life, or perhaps he'd be forced to settle down with the first girl he could tolerate in order to keep up appearances. Perhaps there'd be…a child…but that was as far as he'd dare take that train of thought, feeling too nauseated to continue.

Recently, though, his imaginings took him somewhere else entirely. He followed them to New York, to the borough controlled by an Italian family known for intimidation and illicit substances and a trail of unexplained deaths befalling those who wronged them. There, he imagined, he'd surely stumble upon a beautiful young man with wit as sharp as his heels. Perhaps Alastor would plan that man's death, but perhaps he'd change his mind. Perhaps, when the head of the family discovered a certain hobby of his son's and reacted so abhorrently, Alastor would be able to convince the young man to turn his talents to the stage, rather than the streets. Or perhaps the man's other skills would interest him more, the ability to be underestimated and conceal a handgun. Perhaps the mafioso would befall his own mysterious end. Perhaps that beautiful man would take his place, and perhaps Alastor would be his right-hand man. Perhaps, in this world, neither of them would lose their gamble with fate quite so early.

Or perhaps that was asking for far too much of the cruel, unyielding universe.

Still, Alastor did not regret. How could he mourn for a life he never lived? He spent enough time mourning the one he had, once he first realized what he lost. But what he gained—how could he regret anything when it led him to this? His monopoly over the airwaves, his power, his respect and fear, his infinite supply of victims, and most of all, his fiancé.

…well. Once he got around to that proposal, of course.

It wasn't as though he was nervous. The very idea was preposterous. Him, the Radio Demon, nervous about proposing? Hah! No, he was simply…concerned about Angel's reaction. And following his visit with Angel's father, there was much more to be concerned about.

Alastor didn't regret meeting with Henroin. He didn't regret accepting the rings, or even giving his word to attempt to facilitate a reconciliation. That didn't mean explaining the night's events to Angel would be easy, however. So when he stepped through shadows back to the Hotel and the suite he shared with the only person he ever dared to think he might love, he begged the fates to let him emerge alone. To see Angel had gone to bed without him, or had gotten antsy enough to head out to the studio or the streets.

Of course, the universe remained cruel and unyielding. Alastor spotted his beau immediately upon entering the room, sprawled across the bed but clearly awake. The blue light from that tiny rectangular computer which still somehow shared its name with a normal telephone shone against Angel's bored pout in the dark. It hit his fur just right, reflecting out, spreading that light. It was as if he glowed from within. It was the little moments like these that had Alastor's breath catching in his throat with disbelief. How could he ever have anyone so perfect in his life?

Angel glanced up, lips curving up into a small smile. "Hey babe," he said, "you been out late. Hope you ain't trackin' blood, Niffty'll have a fit."

"No blood tonight, sha." He removed his jacket and joined Angel on the bed, kissing his temple before turning back around to remove his shoes. "I dealt with a different kind of business."

"Really? Business without blood? Charlie's redemption shit must be rubbin' off on ya."

Alastor chuckled, but didn't confirm nor deny the accusation. He still wouldn't believe in a sinner making their way to Heaven unless he saw it with his own eyes, but he had to admit there may be some merit to the concept. Even though the pearly gates were certainly out of their reach, he supposed it couldn't hurt for demons to be a bit less hostile to those they'd be sharing eternity with.

"So." Angel was sitting up now, legs crossed. His phone was nowhere to be seen. "What kinda business you been up to, then?"

That gave him a pause. He toed his shoes into their place before speaking. When a question he wasn't ready to answer would crop up at the beginning of their relationship, he'd stick his grin firmly into something plastic, perhaps bark out a nervous, dismissive laugh, and immediately change the subject. It was a reliable tactic that made it impossible for the well-mannered to press the topic further. Fortunately, Angel was rarely well-mannered. He never forced Alastor to answer, but he always forced an acknowledgement at minimum. More fortunately, Alastor despised the idea of merely meeting a minimum. "I heard your question," he assured, realizing how long his pause had been. "I am still considering how to answer. Do you mind if I come back to it?"

"Sure thing." Alastor knew that face well. The pout, the crooked brows, the side-eye stare; Angel was burning with curiosity. Still, he let it go. "You got any plans for you next broadcast?"

"Of course!" He brought his legs onto the bed properly and leaned against the headboard. "I always have the old standbys. The cooking segment, an interview with Charlie or a Hotel guest, and I can always allow call-in song requests and questions…but," he added, "there's always room for fresh ideas. Did you have something in mind?"

"Nah, not really. I mean, you probably wouldn't wanna do it, so."

Alastor stared him down. "Even if that's the case," he said, perhaps a bit more sternly than he meant, "there's certainly no harm in asking."

"Well, I mean. It's just." He sighed and flopped back onto the mattress. "I—can I lay on you?"

At Alastor's nod, he did so. They spent a few seconds adjusting their position, finally settling on one with Angel's cheek pressed against Alastor's chest and Alastor propped up, half reclining and half sitting, on far more pillows than should be allowed in any bed. The sheets laid on top of them both.

"So I just about got the studio up and runnin' again," Angel began finally.

"I did quite the number on that building, didn't I? I do apologize."

"Not your fault. Anyways, now it's mostly the staff issue. Soon as they believed I wasn't gonna do somethin' terrible to 'em like Val woulda if they felt like retirin', half the actors left. I ain't about to go recruiting vulnerable new sinners, so I been brainstormin' how to get fresh bodies in the beds."

"I see. And this storm brought you to my broadcast."

"You don't have to do it," Angel assured him quickly. "I know my shit doesn't really fit your image, and I'm pretty sure your 'no swearin' on the radio' thing extends to sex talk to, so I don't want you to think you gotta just 'cause I asked, 'cause—"

"Angel."

He stopped.

Alastor cupped his beau's face, bringing him up to meet his eyes. "What did I say to you when you asked how I felt about your work?"

"That you support me one hundred percent," he recited in a low half-whisper, "whatever I decide to do, as long as it's what I wanna do."

"Then what is it that you want to do on my broadcast?"

"Some kinda casting call. Ain't got the specifics yet. Didn't wanna waste too much time plannin' if it wasn't gonna happen."

His smile twitched at the corners. "Darling, are you asking for an advertisement slot?"

"You don't have to," Angel repeated. "I just thought it'd be the best way to get the word out, since I don't wanna deal with Vox any more than I gotta…" He stopped.

Alastor closed his eyes tight, trying to quiet the sudden spike of static and cursing the way drink brought his emotions bubbling so close to the surface. He gripped at the sheets, giving himself something to dig his claws into that wouldn't hurt his angel.

"Sorry."

"Not you," he said through his teeth. "Just the thought of you forced to interact with that scum—no matter." Confident his anger was sufficiently under control, he brought his hands back up to stroke up and down Angel's spine. "If all you need is exposure, I can certainly help with that."

A snort. "I been exposed plenty already."

A sigh. Angel's hair rustled with his breath. "There would be a few guidelines I'd prefer you follow, but I'd be happy to loan you my studio for a short time so that you can gain employ for yours."

"You sure? 'Cause just talkin' job requirements will get a little, uh, much, for your kinda show, y'know?"

"I'm well aware of what the job requirements entail, Angel. If you can avoid anything incredibly explicit, that would be lovely, but I'd allow you to broadcast nearly anything short of audio from one of your films if you think it will help."

Angel let out an incredulous little laugh, the same one he always did when he thought Alastor was treating him too well. It made his chest clench tightly with whatever came between sympathy and the desire to eviscerate every person who ever convinced him he deserved anything less than the world. "Hope you ain't doin' this just 'cause we're dating."

"Of course not," Alastor said. "I'm doing this because I care about you."

"'Cause we're dating."

"Angel, if you ended our relationship tomorrow, I would surely be terribly confused and upset, but I wouldn't stop caring about you." He let himself slide down the pillows, arms wrapped around Angel's waist to prevent jostling him too much, and rested his chin on his beau's head. "And I would still allow you to use my recording studio."

Alastor couldn't see Angel's face, but he felt his smile stretching across it. "Might have to test you on that."

"I do hope you won't. That would make my next question rather awkward."

Alastor felt that smile loosening, dropping. Angel's head lifted slowly, apprehension clear on his features. "Yeah?"

"Oh, extremely." He sat up straighter, despite having just gotten comfortable. Certain conversations simply weren't meant to be had in a reclining position. More traditionally, they should be standing, or at least sitting in proper chairs, but Alastor found himself caring a bit less about the particulars of the way things should be since he began associating with the man he hoped would be his husband. Said man also sat up straighter, supporting himself with his knees and lamentably pulling away from Alastor. Luckily for Alastor, and unfortunately for tradition, Angel remained straddling his lap. "I truly can't imagine a situation that would make it more of an embarrassment."

"You're stalling."

"You're quite right!"

The two looked at each other in the dark of the room, Angel slowly losing his mask of patience and Alastor's grinning mask slowly becoming more tacked-on. The silence deafened. Other Hotel guests had long since gone to sleep. Not even a hum of static broke the stillness.

"Angel," Alastor began finally, voice free of any radio effect, "you are the best thing that's happened to me since falling into Hell. In fact, you are the best thing that's happened to me my entire life and afterlife combined."

Angel, face going pink even through his fur, looked as though he might object. Alastor gently placed a clawed finger on his lips to stop it, then traced along his cheek, just under his extra eyes.

"We've talked about spending the rest of our afterlives together," he continued, "and I want that. I want, more than anything, to spend eternity with you. So I would like to make that official."

Breathing deeply through his nose and closing his eyes just for a moment, Alastor reached into his pocket. He wondered, briefly, if his beau would recognize the ring, then pulled it out before he could second-guess himself.

"Will you marry me, mon ange?"

Angel's eyes shone brightly even in the dim light, locked onto the ring. He covered his mouth with his hands. Alastor didn't fault him for staring—the ring was rather unique, depicting two golden hands gently wrapped around a heart-shaped diamond—but the lack of an immediate response did nothing to alleviate his concern. Neither did the choked sob that broke out a second later. He only let himself breathe again when a strangled "yes, of course I—yes!" joined it.

"I can't tell you how glad that makes me, sha."

His beau—no, his fiancé now—brought his secondary arms up to take a closer look at the ring, his primary set still over his mouth. Angel's hands shook so violently that Alastor kept his own cupped just below, ready to catch the ring in case it dropped. It wouldn't be near the awkwardness of a breakup the day following a proposal, but searching through the sheets to find a missing engagement band would certainly kill the mood.

"A fede," he nearly whispered. Hands still shaking, he pulled gently at the ring's shoulders, and suddenly one ring was three. Two bands held a hand each, while the third kept the diamond heart, and all three were inseparably intertwined. The shine in his eye grew, collected in the corners, and fell down his cheeks. "Shit, Al, how did you—it looks just like Ma's."

And Alastor, unable to lie to his angel, even for a moment, even by omission, replied, "it is your mother's."

Only then did Angel look up. His eyes were still bright, but no more tears fell. His hands stopped shaking. The primary pair fell from his face and tangled in the sheets, adding more holes to the ones Alastor made earlier. "How?"

"Your father."

His eyes flicked down to the ring, then back up to meet Alastor's. "You ready to come back to that question yet?"

"I suppose it's about time, yes."

"Right." With a grimace, Angel pushed himself up. He broke away from Alastor's gentle grip and walked on his knees to the edge of the bed. "Gimme a minute, then."

The ring was still held in his hand, rather than on his finger.

Heart sinking, Alastor followed. Quick struts on long legs sent Angel across the room in seconds. His destination was the mini bar, installed without Charlie's knowledge but rarely utilized in recent months. Out came three bottles and a shaker from the cabinet, along with a two glasses and lemon juice from the refrigerator. The cognac and triple sec suggested that he'd be treated to a sidecar tonight on top of his earlier two whiskeys, but Alastor couldn't account for the white rum.

Angel wasn't the best bartender, but at times like this, he also wasn't picky. He skipped the jigger and poured right from the bottle into the likely wanting-for-ice shaker, using far less cognac than Alastor preferred for a usual sidecar. Of course, he mentioned none of this. Instead, he sat on the sofa and waited.

Shaking the cocktails with one set of hands and carrying the glasses with another set—and wasn't it a shame he'd never been taught proper bartending?—Angel joined him on the couch. He filled Alastor's glass, then his own, which he promptly knocked back and refilled. "Okay, let's go. What'd you do to my dad?"

"I simply had a talk with him."

Angel raised an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look, darling. You know I wouldn't lie to you." He sampled his own drink; a bit sweet for his taste, but the rum complimented the usual flavors nicely. "I told you there wasn't any blood involved, and I barely threatened him."

"To get the ring?"

"To get his blessing."

"Oh." Angel looked at nothing for a moment. Then he tipped the rest of the shaker into his glass, preparing for the worst. "…and?"

"I didn't know about the rings."

"Then how did—?"

"He offered them. He asked me if I'd picked out a ring yet, and then he gave it to me."

He returned his drink to the coffee table, face pinched, and hunched over onto his knees. Even though his face was covered, Alastor knew tears were leaking out again. They always did eventually when family came up, and he'd already cried once that night. The tracks hadn't dried yet. "Shoulda gone to 'Niss."

"That's what he said, as well. But apparently your brother isn't inclined towards romance."

"Might change his mind still. You did."

"I'm sure he'll be able to procure a ring of his own, if that's the case." He paused. In the silence, Alastor played music, something slow and quiet from Angel's time he knew he liked. "If you think it's unfair, though, we can certainly give him the wedding bands. Molly could have one, as well."

"You got the bands, too?" Alastor nodded. "Lemme see?"

He complied, handing them to Angel, who lifted his head just enough to look at them. Perhaps it would be best to forgo the heirloom bands, Angel thought. The one that belonged to Angel's mother seemed as though it would fit one of them, but Henroin's ring was far too wide to fit even their thumbs. Angel's siblings were similarly thin, but one of them could always begin to court someone of a larger stature. Or at least with larger hands.

Angel looked at the rings for several long and silent moments, having some sort of internal battle. Alastor was glad to have already selected an appropriate backing track. "That ain't it," he said eventually. "Pops, he—" He choked. Swallowed. Restarted. "He ain't the type to do somethin' for nothin'. What did—what else?"

"He wanted me to ask you to speak with him."

His whole body cringed like he'd been electrocuted. "Fuck!"

"But," Alastor said, "he also asked that I give you the rings, even if I didn't tell you about the conversation. He said I could claim to have stolen them."

"He didn't mean that," he said, hissing. "He knew you weren't gonna lie to me, he just—fuck, what does he want from me?"

"He said he wanted to see you're safe."

"He doesn't fucking care! He never gave a shit about me!"

"He threatened me."

That stopped him. "…what?"

"He threatened me," Alastor repeated. "If I ever hurt you, he promises to make the rest of my existence a true Hell."

"Fuck," Angel said again, the word barely escaping his throat this time. "Goddammit, what—how can he fuckin' say that, when he—he's bluffing, he'd never—he doesn't…doesn't fuckin'…he…"

"He seemed sincere," he said gently, once his beau's words devolved into meaningless gasps.

That seemed to be the incorrect response. Angel whipped his head around, eyes red and raw, mouth contorted into a fang-toothed snarl to rival Alastor's own. "You believe him?" he snapped. "What, you think I should see him? You're seriously gonna fuckin' tell me I should forgive him after all the shit he put me through? Fuck off, Al, I—!"

"Never."

The word echoed ominously through the room, drenched in static. The music was drowned out by the screaming storm of radio waves. Angel shrunk into the cushions, face going wide-eyed and slack, lip trembling, eyes glistening. Immediately, Alastor wished he hadn't used that tone of voice. Not with his beau so delicate, breaking into sobs or screams at the slightest provocation.

He'd lied, before. He would always regret causing Angel any distress.

Willing the radio waves from a roar to a whisper, Alastor began again. "I would never ask you to do that, mon ange," he murmured. "The way he treated you was awful, and I know you haven't told me the worst of it. I stand by my word, Angel. I will help you do whatever it is you want to do. I'll happily kill him for you, or accompany you to a reunion as moral support, or throw the rings down a pit and forget this ever happened. Whatever it is you want."

"I think," Angel said, tears rolling down their tracks once more, "I wanna talk about this tomorrow."

"Of course, darling. Shall we finish our drinks and return to bed?"

He nodded mutely. He didn't reach for his glass.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," Alastor said, voice still low and careful. "I wanted you to understand, but that's not the way to do it."

A bitter laugh, and half a gasp. "Got through to me, didn't it?" he said wryly. "I shouldn't've yelled at you, either. Shit, I know you'd never make me talk to him, 'specially with your dad too, I don't know what I was thinkin'…"

"You were upset, sha. I understand."

"Fuck," he said again, partway between a hiss and a sigh, leaning into Alastor's side. Alastor hoped he'd have time to set up a delay and censor system before allowing Angel on the air. "'Course we couldn't have a normal proposal, some kinda bullshit's gotta get in the way. We ain't supposed to be dealin' with family drama, we should be thinkin' about the weddin' and—" He gasped, sitting up ramrod straight. "Fuck! The ring!"

"It's alright, darling." He wrapped his hands around his beau's, the one that was still clenched tightly. "You have it still."

"But you never put it on me."

You still want me to? Alastor certainly did not come close to asking. He felt his grin widen hopefully. Instead, he took the ring from Angel's hands and slid to the floor. "So I can do it properly this time," he said, kneeling on one knee. "Angel, my love, my darling, light of my afterlife, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?"

"Of course, you smiley bastard," he said fondly. "Said it even sappier this time, huh?"

"There's always room for more sap."

Alastor slipped the ring halfway onto Angel's left ring finger before Angel interrupted him. "Wait, wrong way."

He stopped. "Is it?" He'd arranged it so that Angel could see the heart right-side up when he looked at his hand, but perhaps it was meant to be shown to others.

"We ain't married yet," he said, as if that was all the explanation necessary. "The heart points out 'til then."

Deciding to leave any questions he had about the rings and any other traditions for later, Alastor simply nodded and flipped it so the heart faced the correct way. "Not quite yet," he said, placing a kiss on Angel's hand, "but soon, I hope."

"Weddin' plans can wait 'til tomorrow, too." He glanced at their barely-touched glasses. "And the drinks. 'S cuddle time now."

"Anything you want, sha."

Whatever came of their conversation tomorrow, laying between the sheets with his wonderful fiancé snuggled against his chest, Alastor knew tonight that no other life could compare to the one he had.

Thanks for reading!