A little heavier on the implied/referenced homophobia and abuse and such this chapter.

Chapter 11: Starting Your Next Project

"Oh, Al, you look jest like yer mama."

The voice was rich, smooth, and honey-sweet with a heavy accent. It was definitely southern, but being a New Yorker, Angel wasn't familiar enough with the region to pinpoint a state.

Alastor slapped a hand over his mouth as if he had spoken instead of his radio aura, static cutting off sharply as he backed away from the mirror with eyes blown wide. His hoof got caught on the carpet sent him to the floor, crumpling against the dresser like a fawn just learning to stand. He made no attempt to catch himself. He wouldn't release the grip over his mouth or on his microphone. He just stared at the mirror.

Okay, Angel could make some assumptions out of that. Maybe he wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, but he could manage to put two and two together, and even if he wound up with five it was still pretty damn close. He heard this story before, even though it came after his time. Serial killer stories from up top spread fast in hell, since everyone liked to keep an eye out for celebrity sinners, and folks especially liked to bring this kind up to him considering his fashion choices. He'd heard about mothers who had sons they tried to make into daughters and wound up their boy's first victim right before he ran across the country cutting out people's eyeballs and shit. It fit, the sewing and cooking and the way he let Angel dress him up without fighting despite how much he hated it, even if he seemed to like it before…and of course, all those killers usually had a whole laundry list of shitty things in their life, but that fit, too, because of course Al wouldn't be like Valentino if he'd had a Val of his own, whether he was a pimp or an ex or the dad he never bothered to mention…

"Al," Angel said again, then cursed himself and started over without using the nickname from his audible flashback. "Alastor," he said, and yeah, that got his attention. Red eyes finally broke from the mirror and snapped onto his face. "Yeah, hi. You good?" Angel didn't bother waiting for a response, since he figured whatever answer he got would be a lie anyway. "You don't need to—I didn't mean—you can take the dress off if you want," he settled on.

When Alastor took his hand off his mouth to pull himself to sitting up rather than leaning against a dresser, his smile was perfectly in place. "Once again," he said delicately, radio buzz very faint, "it's not the dress that I'm against."

"Is it me?"

"Not at all."

Angel held out a hand to help Alastor up all the way, which Al ignored, as expected. "I didn't mean to…force you into this."

"You never forced me."

"Well, no, but I kinda pushed and—"

"I didn't feel forced."

His tone left no room for argument. With a smile that could have been meant as reassuring but was mostly more worrying, Alastor snapped the room back to its pre-catwalk condition and headed towards the sewing cabinets.

"Well, that certainly was fun. Is there a new big project you'd like to start? Or would you like to stick to—"

"Al," Angel interrupted. He couldn't pretend nothing happened when he'd just seen the goddamn Radio Demon cower from his own reflection on the floor. Not when he was still wearing the dress even after it had obviously brought back some kind of nasty memory. He wasn't about to let this go. "I never wanted to make you do somethin' you didn't want to." He swallowed. "Not…not like your mom made you—"

That hit something. Alastor whipped around, bristling—as in, his hair and ears literally seemed to puff out a bit. "My mother never made me do anything but brush my teeth and bathe," he snapped. "Why is it that no one—!" He cut himself off, breathed shakily through his nose, and began again with more restraint. There was a growl in his voice. "Nothing about what I became is her fault."

So maybe five wasn't close enough. Maybe Al's mom wasn't the root of the problem. He missed the mark already, so he should really leave it at that before he came up with three next and got himself kicked out. But if he stopped now… "Nothing?" Angel prompted, "nothing at all?"

"Nothing that you're implying. The only thing that's her fault is how I became a radio host with her encouragement. I blame my mother for nothing but my success."

"Right," Angel said, "because that totally explains why you fell on your ass when you heard her voice. Makes sense."

Angel never got a good look at Alastor's face when he took down the blimp, but he figured this was close. He looked murderous. His hair puffed more and his ears were pinned back against his head, making his antlers look bigger. A lot bigger. Didn't they only have two points each before? They couldn't grow that fast, could they? Angel nearly reconsidered his lack of fear, but all at once, Alastor deflated. His hair fell flat and his ears popped back up, smile loosening. He sat down on the couch with his legs crossed daintily at the ankle and tapped the cushion with his microphone. "Sit."

"…sure," Angel said after a too-long pause. He sat at the very edge. "So, what…why did…are you—"

"Hush."

"—yeah, okay."

He shut his stupid fucking mouth and just listened. The static was back, very quiet, interspersed with words and music. Alastor was channel surfing, best Angel could guess, but maybe he should stop guessing. The static clicked, settled, and spit out a full sentence.

"Oh, Al, you look jest like yer mama."

Angel whipped around to look at Alastor, expecting to find him frozen again, but his eyes were closed as he sunk into the cushions. Relaxed. Angel relaxed, too. Without the heavy static, it was easy to hear the love and care in the tone.

"F'true! Where'd you find it? I been havin' dat dress but I ain't seen it around since—"

The woman's voice cut out with a hitch, as if something were stuck in her throat.

"Yeah. Since yer father." She was quiet for just a second. "You look a lot like him, too." Then she continued again, just as cheerful as she started. "C'mon now, sha, betcha we can find somethin' that fits a little better in th' locker. Don't want you trippin' yerself."

With a sound like a tape ejecting, the memory ended. Alastor opened his eyes. "Does that explain?"

"Not really," Angel said, because he completely lacked the ability to quit while he was ahead or process anything he'd just heard, "I mean, you say she's great, and she sounds pretty great, so why'd you…" He pointed his thumb at the mirror and dresser. "Y'know?"

He dug his claws into his bare arms. "That was the first time I heard her voice in almost one hundred years."

"Oh," he said, feeling dumb. "…she made it to Heaven, then?"

"Considering I haven't yet found her here, I choose to believe so. I vastly prefer that concept to the alternative."

"Oh. Shit."

Not bothering to comment, Alastor leaned his elbows onto his knees. He stared ahead, eyes locked somewhere around the seam where the wall met the floor but obviously not really seeing it. His claws sunk deeper into his skin.

"Tell me about her?" Angel asked quietly.

It seemed for a moment that he'd refuse, but he saw Angel's request for the offer it was. "She was a good woman," he said. "She always did her best for me, all on her own. If anyone deserves Heaven, it's her." His eyes fell shut. "And she was patient, endlessly so. I was…a bit of a wild child, but rather than scold me for ruining my clothes and tracking in mud, she just patched me up and taught me how to fix my own clothes, and then we'd cook together. It was good for me, I think, a way to channel all that energy I had into something productive…" He chuckled. "She had a sewing club of her own, a few ladies from town who joined her once in a while to work on little projects, or perhaps they were other seamstresses and she had a sort of guild, I never asked. But they thought it very novel to see a young man doing women's work, so I sewed with them and listened in on all their gossip…until I was made to start school, that is."

Now that was a story Angel knew he was familiar with. "Didn't get along well with the other kids?"

"No, not at all. I was never a very social child, not with other children, but I tried at my mother's request. No one particularly cared for my company. I didn't mind, but the teacher was very concerned, mostly because I had attempted to play with the girls as well as the boys." His smile turned sardonic. "And the teacher talked, and the sewing club talked, and the whole town talked until they decided there had to be a man in the house or I'd certainly turn out poorly."

"And in came stepdaddy," Angel predicted, "and you weren't allowed to play dress up anymore."

"Or sew," he added, "or cook, or ask questions, or do much of anything but my chores and hunting. He had to make a man out of me."

Though Alastor spoke casually, Angel could hear the bitterness in his tone, see the dark blood beading under his nails. He was entitled to so much more than just bitter. He'd been robbed. "I'm sorry," Angel said.

"Oh, don't be." The bitterness was gone and he was that peppy radio announcer all over again. "Just a few years of that and I was old enough to be the man of the house myself. All that practice with a rifle certainly came in handy then! And I went right back to sewing and cooking as often as I pleased. Why, the first thing I did was make boudin. Usually you'd use pork, but it tasted nearly the same, and my mother and I thoroughly enjoyed—"

"But no more dress up?"

Alastor carefully extracted his claws from his skin and lifted his staff, examining the microphone. He was even more careful not to look in Angel's direction. "No, no more dress up," he said. "I was the man of the house then, Angel. I had no time for such childish nonsense."

But you wish you had, Angel wanted to say, but didn't. Al liked to fill silences when you let him, so he let the quiet hang on the off chance that his rambling would stay on-topic for once.

"Because that's what it was," Alastor continued after a moment. He stood and walked around the room, twirling his staff as he went. His skirt swung with every step. "Childish. I was a child playing at being grown up. I couldn't help that the only adults I cared to emulate happened to wear dresses. And why was it so shameful for a boy to aspire to be like his mother? A little girl puts on her father's boots and it's adorable, but—"

"But a boy tries his mama's heels and he's a goddamn queer," Angel finished. "I know, Al. It sucks. I'm sorry."

He stopped pacing behind the couch. Angel leaned back to get a look at his face. His smile was soft. "My mother never let me wear her heels. She said I'd twist my ankle."

"…would you want to try some?"

"Somehow I don't think that would work."

Hooves, right. But that wasn't a problem. "They'd just have to be boots, like mine. I got these made special. Wouldn't have to be this tall though," he added quickly, "you could just get a little pair of ankle booties, or something mid-calf."

"I would match your height then, wouldn't I?"

"Nah. I'd just get higher heels."

"Of course you would."

He seemed to consider the idea, but Angel didn't have the patience to let him think, not with his own mind racing. He turned himself around to sit on his knees, facing Alastor. "What does it feel like, for you?"

"Pardon?"

"Wearing the dress," he said. "Like, for me, it's just…I'm comfortable. I like the attention and shit, but mostly it just feels good. It feels like I'm bein' me."

"I feel childish," Alastor said after a moment, "but not in a negative way. Nostalgic, I think. Have you done any acting other than with Valentino? It's like playing a character, but one that feels close."

"God, you'd be good at drag."

"Ha! No."

"You could if you wanted to, you know," Angel offered. He propped his elbows onto the back of the couch and leaned his chin on his arms. "It wouldn't have to be, like, a big thing. You make your persona and head out to a club, drink, maybe perform or maybe just watch somebody else. Nobody'd ever know it was you. I'd make sure of it."

He shook his head. "No, my flashy friend, I couldn't stand one of your clubs."

"Wouldn't have to be one of my clubs. You got a place you go? Somewhere old fashioned that plays jazz and shit?"

"Forget it, my dear." Alastor stepped out from behind the couch. He passed the mirror, eyes lingering for a moment, then snapped himself back into his usual attire. The dress sat folded on the table. "This was rather entertaining, I must admit, but it's time to move on." He opened the nearest cabinet. "Now, how would you feel about a blazer for your next project? It's rather finicky with the darts and the lapels, but…"

Angel let him chatter. He'd pushed too much too quickly. Fine. Al could deflect for now, but he couldn't ignore it forever.

Angel wouldn't forget.

And that's it! That's the end! Thank you all so much for reading. I never expected I'd get this kind of response for my silly little sewing story. I'm so glad you all liked it!

But that was a bit of a cliffhanger, wasn't it? It sure would be a shame to end like that...if there wasn't a sequel in the works! I'm working on some other stuff too at the moment (just a few oneshots as a break from serial writing), so it might be a little while. But keep an eye out for it, and in the meantime, here's a sneak peek!

"Hey Smiles!"

Alastor turned around on the barstool. He squinted for a moment, brow wrinkled and head tilting in confusion, but quickly recovered. "Angel! Good to see you, my dear fellow. I barely recognized you! A bit dressed up to work on a blazer, aren't we?" Behind him, Husk retreated to the other end of the bar before Al could remember he was there.

Angel fluffed his wig and strutted over. "'Cause I ain't Angel tonight," he said, kicking out a stool to sit on, "and I ain't sewin', either."

"Oh." Alastor's disappointment, subtle as it was, was nearly enough to make Angel call the whole thing off. "I see. Then who are you tonight, my dear, and what kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?"

"Angela. And the kind you don't want to hear anything about."

"I don't know why I expected anything different."

"But seriously," Angel said, "sorry for the short notice."

"Oh, don't apologize, my flaky fille!" His smile was just wide enough to be fake. "Well, don't let me keep you. Have fun doing whatever it is you do."

Flaky. Ouch. But he ignored the jab and powered through. "Actually, I had a question for you, Smiles. You remember that friend of yours?"

"Friend?" he asked.

"Y'know, the flapper chick. She came to sew with us the other day, looked hot as hell in that dress?"

Recognition passed over his face, and so did thinly-veiled annoyance. "I believe I know who you're referring to, yes," he said grudgingly.

"I was hopin' you could get me her number, she seems real fun to party with."

"I believe she already made it clear she had no interest in your sort of partying."

Angel laughed into the back of his hand. "I ain't stupid! I know she's a classy lady. I found a nice speakeasy 'round the border of lust and envy. Some big-name jazz folks are playin' in about a week, seemed like somethin' she'd be into."

"I see," he said again. He reached around blind to grab his glass and took a drink. "I will…talk to her."

"Great!" He bounced up and started for the door. "And see if she can make sewing club tomorrow, yeah? She was a real gas!"

As Angel strutted off, Husk apparently gave up on wanting to be ignored. He filled up Al's glass without being asked. "Mimzy sews?"

"No," Alastor said, standing. He ignored his new drink. "No, she doesn't."

And, as always, thank you so much for reading! All comments, critiques, predictions, and exclamations of "I called it!" appreciated.