"Fuckin' thing… C'mon, just let it happen," Angel joked, sticking out his tongue. "Heh heh…" He knelt with difficulty before a padlocked door on the top floor, persuading it open with a metal hook, one of several. Leslie held the lock steady and tried to feel useful.

"How long you been doing this?"

"Oh, years an' years. Prob'ly since '43." They heard a satisfying click. "Aha!"

Leslie shouldered the door open, and the two climbed a short flight of stairs, onto the roof of the hotel: practically the only place Alastor wasn't effecting decorative havoc. She gazed at his past handiwork, the words 'Hazbin Hotel' in giant letters, replacing the hotel's proper name of Happy.

"Impressive, huh?"

"Holy shit," she said, skipping close to the edge of the building. "You can see for miles! What is that? That looks like jungle."

"Yeah, kinda dangerous. Not worth hackin' vines for, I'll tell ya that much."

Leslie perched on a concrete block, marveling at the absolute scope of this hellscape as Angel joined her. Remembering their food, she reached into her pocket and passed him a spinach puff.

"Angel, can I ask you a slightly personal question?"

He pretended to be put out by her impropriety, placing his pastry down on his knees with decorum. "I dunno," he said, "personal? I ain't comfortable with that," but he couldn't stop himself from grinning, flashing his golden fang. "Nah, go ahead, shoot."

"You're pretty tall," she said, "so… when you're with a client who's a lot shorter than you, how does that work?"

"Any partic'lar reason you wanna know, Thumbelina?"

No, no reason at all. Of course not. "I'm just thinking, the height difference must get in the way sometimes. You don't want to crush the smaller one, do you?"

He picked up his food again. "Usually I'm the one gettin' 'crushed'," Angel said, "but there's ways around everythin'. You can have Shorty kind of sit in your lap, or fuck 'em sidesaddle-"

"Sidesaddle?"

"Stand on a staircase or somethin', stick 'em on a kitchen counter… There's ways around everythin', and honestly, if the mood's right," he winked, "ya don't even think about it. OK, my turn to ask you a personal question."

"Sure?"

"Well, more a personal statement," he said, taking a bite of pastry and speaking with his mouth full. "You and Al. Somethin's going on."

"What?" she said, feeling the flame alight, deep in her belly. He swallowed and started to repeat himself, thinking the problem was clarity of speech, but she shushed him. "I heard you, but… Christ, what gave you that idea?"

"Look, I see things," Angel said, "I see the way you guys look at each other. That's my language. Like after the game of Sardines, few weeks ago? That little bit of sizzle?"

Her stomach rapidly came to a boil, as it always did when someone was onto her. "I dunno what you're talking about. He doesn't like that stuff, you said so yourself."

"Well, yeah, but that don't stop him gettin' up in other people's business. I figured he might do some things, even just sarcastically. Maybe he's still tryna lead ya on, y'know?"

"Look, we're… friends...ish? He helped me with a dance once, but he was a dick about it. I'm done pining; it's out of my system."

"You're totally done? That's just unconvincin'."

"You're projecting, Angel. You're the one that wants to fuck him."

"Well, true… I wouldn't kick him outta bed," he admitted. "So what's really going on, Les? What's the secret with the pair of ya's?" That smirk reminded her of their first drink at the bar, when he'd made extensive fun of her.

"Something tells me your own imagination trumps whatever story I could make up," Leslie said. She was speaking within the bounds of that non-disclosure clause. No truths, nothing suspicious.

"Why don't you just tell me? Get that secret off ya chest."

"Nothing to tell!" she insisted. They heard a shout from behind them: a female voice calling up the stairwell, and Leslie was relieved. "That's Ginerva. I think you two will get along."

"Why?"

"Er… you might. Or you might not. I don't fucking know."

Angel Dust laughed, letting her off the hook for now, as she trotted back the way they came to fetch her friend.

o - o - o - o - o

"So, Angel thinks we're up to something," Leslie said, entering Alastor's office.

Alastor was finishing a cup of coffee. He took it black, like her, but without the sweetener. "Did you dissuade him?"

"Tried to, but I don't think that's the end of it."

"Hm. We shall be more careful for now… although, his suspicion could be amusing for a spell, as long as there's no proof! You'd never tell him, of course," he added, eyes narrowed as he set down the empty mug.

"No, I wouldn't," Leslie said. "I can't, can I?"

"Good."

She stared at his hands. The leather gloves were a necessity, she'd learned, as Alastor couldn't otherwise grip things or make a fist without injuring his palm. She knew first-hand how sharp those talons were. It seemed to Leslie that the pinky finger of his right hand was the deadliest one; really, that nail was slightly warped, so the very tip turned out. The extra-sharpness was an illusion.

The nights she came to see him were a mixed blessing. He became different when they were alone, smokier, darker. Leslie most enjoyed the days he tried to make her flustered, which he was rather good at. However, he still seized every opportunity to test her other limits. She took painkillers before their meetings now, though she doubted their efficacy.

"Can you imagine how much Angel would hate our contract?" she said. "He'd get so frustrated at being edged by you for months on end."

Alastor may not have known what edging was, but he seemed to guess. "Do I detect a hint of... frustration?"

"Maybe."

"Hm. Well, I have another game for us today. Come sit on the carpet here. Legs out straight, and you can lean back for now."

Leslie did as he commanded, relaxing onto her elbows as he knelt before her, holding her legs down flat. This position was doing it for her, she couldn't lie. "What's this about?"

"How is your abdominal strength?" Alastor asked.

"Uh…" she said, trying to remember her last sit-up. "Pretty good."

"If I asked you to lean at a 45 degree angle, unsupported, how long could you hold that position?"

"Maybe a minute or two."

"Let's call it two. When you're done, I'll entertain your wishes some more. Deal?"

A green light danced around his outstretched palm. She stared at him, unimpressed. These challenges weren't a part of their agreement. They weren't forbidden, either, but it was starting to piss her off, since they always required extra effort from her, and rarely from him.

"'Entertain'," she said aloud. "What does that mean, Al? I want to know if this is worth my while."

"How about we undress each other a little?"

God, she hated him… but it sounded pretty good to her. Leslie shook his hand, and the challenge was sealed: she assumed the position. From nowhere, Alastor produced a stopwatch, holding it aloft for her to see.

"Ready when you are," she said.

"Two minutes. Go."

With her back straight, Leslie lifted her elbows and crossed her arms. Already there was a little pinch of discomfort. It was bearable. So far. She attuned her ears to the grandfather clock which stood beside the door. Its heavy tick-tocking told her exactly how many seconds had passed. She counted ten. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty five. Forty.

"Don't give up now."

41, 42, 43… Now the burning in her belly was impossible to ignore. Leslie noticed that she was shaking, but she wouldn't fail. She could not fail.

49, 50, 51…

She focused her attention on Alastor's bow-tie, mostly brown with a blot of red in the center. How did one remove a bow-tie, anyway? This could be important to know in a minute.

"Halfway there." He smirked again, expecting her to fail. But she wouldn't. Leslie was about to beat her personal record, and maybe see his collarbones in the process.

She counted down from 60 this time. 58, 57, 56… Jesus Christ on a bicycle. It hurt so much. Her hands became fists, clinging onto her sleeves, though it offered no support at all.

45 seconds. She was almost done.

Alastor shook his head, as though he disapproved of her gritted teeth, or whatever struggle her face betrayed. She let the annoyance flow through her, giving her new strength. 37, 36, 35. Fuck you Alastor, in half a minute you will be obliged to make out with me, no matter how ugly I look right now.

29, 28, 27.

The cramping was intense. Her whole body shook. A bead of sweat ran down the side of her face.

21, 20, 19.

Leslie let out an exasperated cry.

"Forty seconds."

Her eyes widened. "Bullshhhhhit! I've been counting!"

"I think you can do it."

"Fuck... you!"

He laughed.

34, 33, 32...

She wasn't going to make it. The strength was leaving her, and every muscle in her body screamed at her to STOP RIGHT NOW

"Alright, alright. As you were. Ten seconds. You can do it."

Sweet mercy. Leslie forgot to be mad at him. Her vision was spotty, but she counted with him. 9, 8, 7, 6… His hand rested on her belly. 5, 4, 3… She'd made it.

2.

1.

Leslie collapsed so hard that her head clunked on the carpet. She didn't care. The pain radiating in her middle was dampened by relief. She'd actually done it.

Alastor's audience cheered. A little sarcastic, she felt, but she'd take it.

"How do you feel? Accomplished?"

She nodded, lifting a weary hand to wipe away the sweat on her forehead. His hand drifted to her stomach again, circling his index finger in a way that was ticklish. Her tired muscles contracted.

"Ow. Don't…"

Now that the primary ache was fading, she noticed other things: the strain in her neck, for example, and the prick-marks on her arms, where she'd dug her nails in. Alastor knelt over her.

"Do you need a moment?"

Leslie's mind returned to the reason for her two-minute trial. No way was she finished. Slowly, she dragged herself up to sitting, legs crossed, and pulled on Alastor's lapels to bring him in for a kiss. To his credit, he was particularly ardent tonight, opening his mouth to hers. She tasted coffee. Because of his teeth, she was forced to tread carefully (the bleeding lip incident was still fresh in her mind) but the softer touch of his tongue was enough to make her want more… much more.

She took each of his hands, slipping off the gloves, and they came to rest on her waist as they kissed. No rush. No rush at all. She unfastened the buttons on his coat; meanwhile he was preoccupied, as he so often was, with the insistent thrum of her heart, listening to it, feeling it. He started nipping at her neck. Ow. No. Bad pain. So she pointedly brought his mouth back to hers, and her tongue drifted forward, outlining the sharp edges of his fangs. Carefully, carefully… She was rewarded with a gentle bite of her tongue, enough to be exciting. This was a good pain.

His bow-tie was indeed a struggle, but he helped by loosening his collar. Three open shirt buttons was sufficient for her right hand to smooth over his skin. She couldn't wait. She forgot herself; her mind became a wisp of smoke dancing through the hellfire. He was so warm, with a little hair, not much; his chest was cleaner than Karl's by a long way, and why was she thinking of Karl right now? This was not the time. His left hand gathered her ears and tugged, making her gasp. He laughed in that soft, charming way.

"Too easy," he murmured.

"Alastor."

She leaned into him, hoping that he would topple onto his back and open up his torso for her to play with. They were already on the floor; it would be an effortless transition. Instead, he knelt firm, squeezing her just as tightly. The urgency of his hold ignited something in Leslie, a twinge of longing so great that it almost hurt. She freed up her left hand for herself, practically sitting on it, only trying to stop that rabbit's-nose-twitching between her legs...

Alastor noticed, and let her go.

"Wait," she said. "Can't we… Don't you want to?"

"Not today, my dear."

She took hold of his lapels again. "I'll do whatever you want."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Would you even… wait?"

He removed his coat, folding it and throwing it upon the desk in one fluid motion. Without the shoulder pads, he cut a leaner figure than she, and the rest of Hell, was used to. It was startling. Anyone else might have seemed vulnerable as they became physically smaller, but Alastor retained his power by withholding what Leslie wanted, and stood up before she could touch him.

"You are the worst," she said.

"I try."