A/N: Hey! I'm used to posting to AO3, but I wanted to reach a wider audience, so I'm reuploading some stuff here. If I break any unspoken rules or do anything "wrong" I hope you'll let me know!

Just a few warnings: Some implied/referenced past homophobia sprinkled throughout this and following chapters. Implied/referenced drug use and sexual content, because Angel Dust. Other warnings will be included at the beginnings of individual chapters.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: Choosing Your Project

Back on earth, Angel Dust didn't always have the best thing going on. Being a mafia prince sure had its perks—mainly the easy access to living bloodbags to bust at will and all the drugs he could take as long as he met the sale quota—but the expectations were one hell of a drag.

Heh, drag. Like what his dad nearly killed him for doing.

Cause that, of all things, was crossing the line. He could shoot a man point blank in the face as he begged for his life. He could aim a tommy vaguely towards a target and let it rip, no mind to the extra casualties, they'd send the family a bouquet and some cash to make up for it. He could smoke and snort and shoot up till he was blue in the face, sometimes literally, and as long as he wasn't too fucked up to do a job when he needed to nobody gave a shit. But throwing on a skirt, a wig, some eyeshadow, and a classy pair of stilettos to hang around a bar and maybe go home with a cute guy? That was disgracing the family name. That was the sin. That was unforgivable.

That didn't stop him, though. He just got sneakier. Made some rules for himself. Went to bars farther out of town, tried not to go to the same one twice in a row, never made a schedule out of it, made sure to make a few dames a bit uncomfortable when his dad was around, never dared have an actual date or even see the same beau twice—that rule was the worst, especially when a couple guys were a real good fuck. But he managed. He kept his two worlds separate. Pops thought he scared him straight, his "dates" never suspected he was anything but a harmless twink in drag. Pops didn't need to know about the lacy panties he wore under his suits. His dates didn't need to know how he kept their wandering hands from brushing against the handgun in the holster at his thigh—unless those hands started wandering without his permission.

Course, it all came crashing down eventually. Double lives always did. Just the way of things, he guessed. But one syringe just a little too full—or maybe a couple of them, that night was still fuzzy—and he was flat on his face in the middle of Pentagram City with a brand-new bitching spider bod. God, he was pink. It had always been his favorite color, ever since he was just a little brat, but a couple years before he died Pops started saying it made him look like a fairy.

In Hell, he could do what he wanted. Everyone down below was a fucking deviant in their own right. Sure, he got pummeled every once in a while, but the beatings got fewer and farther between as Pentagram City caught up to politics up top. Joining Val's studio definitely helped, too.

So you could say he had a pretty sweet gig. All the sex, drugs, and murder he could stomach. Sometimes more. Imagine his surprise, then, when he found himself going clean in some rehab hotel, happy as a clam.

Still, it got a little dull sometimes. Only so much to do that actually distracted from the cravings.

"Angel, my dear fellow!" Alastor announced his presence at the bar with his tinny radio voice, interrupting Angel's thoughts. "Good to see you, very good indeed! And how have you been?"

Angel swiveled around on the barstool. The Radio Demon? He was always entertaining. "Al! I was just about to go lookin' for ya."

He tilted his head just a bit, ear giving the tiniest twitch. "Oh? Whatever for?"

"I'm bored!" He slumped backwards onto the bar, narrowly avoiding his cocktail. He was allowed up to three drinks a day to ration as he pleased, and he had actually been coming up under some days, so no one was allowed to judge him for taking his first before noon.

"And you come to me for entertainment, of course," he said. "Did you have something in mind?"

"No. Too bored to think."

He hummed, the vibration carrying through the air. "Can you sew?"

Angel lifted his head. "Uh, a little? Not great. Why?"

"My mother taught me when I was young. It kept me occupied. I thought it may do the same for you."

"You sew?"

"Yes. I had planned to teach you, but if you already know—"

"Teach me," Angel interrupted, sitting up straight. "I mean, I already know the basics, but that's just pokin' a needle through some clothes, right? You probably know all kinds of, of, of what…stitches? Cuts?" He leaned forward, upper arms resting against his knees, giving the deer demon a once-over. "You make your clothes?"

"Sometimes!" Alastor said, chipper as always. "It's always better to do the work yourself than pay someone else, you know. You only charge yourself time after all, and here that's certainly in supply!"

He was already turning on his heel and strutting off to the stairs, swinging that stupid pimp cane microphone as he went. Angel drained his glass, blew a kiss towards his favorite grumbling bartender, and followed after him.

"So why sewing?" he asked as he caught up.

Alastor raised an eyebrow.

"I mean," he continued before he could respond, "like, why'd you think of sewing first when I said I was bored? You got a project in mind or somethin'?"

"I suppose, yes. There are a few repairs I planned on doing later tonight, but if it's to keep you entertained and out of trouble, I have no problem with rearranging my schedule. Anything for the good of the hotel!"

"Gee, you sure know how to make a guy feel special," he said sarcastically. "What repairs you talkin' about?"

"Patience, my good fellow." He stuck his hand out to grab a doorknob—when did they get to Alastor's room?—and swung the door open, gesturing grandly for Angel to go ahead of him. He obliged, and Alastor followed, door latching with a click behind him. "Make yourself comfortable while I gather the supplies."

He considered laying himself out all nice and pretty on Alastor's bed, but decided against it for the moment. He already rejected one offer, no need to antagonize him right away, especially the first time he was allowed in his room. Besides, if he played his cards right, he'd have other chances. "Sure thing," he said, flopping on the couch facing the fireplace. Fancy. Benefactors got the best rooms, then.

Alastor was back within moments, carrying a bunch of folded cloth with a cookie tin on top. He joined Angel on the sofa, setting the pile between them.

He went for the tin immediately. "Cool, snacks." But the tin was only filled with spools of thread and lies.

"I wouldn't recommend eating needles, but I won't stop you."

"Oh, you're judging my diet? That's rich."

Wordlessly, smilingly, Alastor snapped his fingers. A coffee table popped into existence in front of them, an open and non-lying cookie tin sitting in the middle. Angel snatched one immediately, shoving it into his mouth, and grabbed one with each of his other three hands for good measure.

"I thought you might prefer those."

He swallowed. "Nah, still gonna eat some pins and shit. This is just an appetizer."

"Oh, of course. Might I recommend a nice Sauvignon to pair with that?" The bottle appeared in his hand, two empty glasses on the table.

Angel leered at him. "This a test? I only get three drinks ya know, I don't feel like wasting 'em day drinking."

"That limit is from the bar, and while you may not be allowed to buy alcohol yourself, there is absolutely no restriction on accepting it from someone else. And a good 'sip and stitch' is traditional." He reached for the glass in front of Angel. "Of course, if you'd rather not partake—"

He grabbed Alastor's wrist, keeping the glass right where it was. "Pour the wine, Alastor."

He seemed ready to fling the glass at the wall instead, face frozen briefly in fitting deer-in-headlights fashion. He wasn't great at reading his expressions yet, with the perma-grin and all, but he could tell it was definitely nothing positive. Angel realized his hand was still on his arm and removed it before the Radio Demon decided to do the honors himself. Half a second later, Al returned to normal, like nothing had ever happened. "Of course!" He filled Angel glass, then his own, then took a deep drink and topped himself back up. "And now our lesson can begin."

"Ooh, teach me, daddy," he said on reflex, and immediately regretted it.

The deer-in-headlights look returned, combined now with ear-searing microphone feedback, his neck twisting sharply to stare in (probably) horror. "Ha!" he said a beat too late. "Let's not do that."

"Sure thing d—" He searched for a way to save that sentence, and also his skin from being flayed. "—eer."

He had a very different sort of face this time, but still surprised, Angel thought. This one was impossible to read, though. He didn't think he'd ever seen it before.

"So!" Angel said loudly. "Sewing! How—how do I do that?"

"Yes, sewing!" He clapped his hands together. "The first step, of course, is threading the needle. Do you know how to do that?"

"Can I th—of course I can!" He snatched a needle and spool of thread from the tin at random and kept digging around. "'Can you thread a…' I said I knew the basics, I think the first fuckin' step is pretty goddamn basic." He stopped grumbling and poked around the threads a few more times. "Where's your threader thing?"

"My what?"

"The threader? The thing you thread the needle with? 's got a little wire and there's a lady's face on it?"

"You don't need a threader. Let me show you a trick." He held his hands out for the needle and thread and Angel obliged. "See, you can try to aim the thread through the eye all you like, or use your threader tool, or you simply put the thread on your palm like so—" He draped the thread randomly in his hand. "—take your needle like so—" He rolled the head of the needle back and forth across the thread, and amazingly, the thread began to poke through the eye. "—and you have your needle threaded."

"Holy shit," said Angel.

Alastor chuckled. "Here, you try."

He whipped his gloves off and rolled the needle and thread around, and sure enough, it worked. "Holy shit!"

"I'm glad you're impressed. Shall we move on to stitching? What do you know already?"

"I don't know shit, apparently! Come on, let's start from the top!"

Alastor spent nearly an hour going over basic stitches and the proper way to cut fabric, Angel practicing on scraps, before assigning his first real project.

"A pincushion," Angel said flatly.

"Yes. It isn't the easiest project, but it is certainly the most useful if you're planning to continue sewing. It was my first project." He paused. "Well, after repairs and patches. But I'm afraid I don't trust your skill quite enough to ask you to repair my clothes and we don't have anything of yours that needs fixing."

"Eh, if I get a tear bigger than like an inch, I just trash my shit anyway."

He looked terribly affronted. "You don't even save it for scraps?"

"Hey, what was I gonna do with scraps? You saw what I called 'sewing'."

"So uneven, not even a proper stitch…" he muttered to himself. "No matter. You'll be making a pincushion and you'll be saving your ruined clothes from now on. Rips can be repaired and even stains can be cut out or dyed over."

"Yeah, yeah." He stretched all four of his arms high above his head, puffing out his chest to show off the fluff. "So where's the pattern?"

"It is simply a circle with a running stitch about the edge. Cinch it, stuff it, sew on felt to cover the hole."

"Oh, is that all."

Alastor dropped a pile of fabric on his lap. "Well, pick your textile and hop to it!"

He did. He chose a nice pink and grey striped fabric, one that was a bit stretchy, and got to work. At first, he was totally absorbed in perfectly tracing the border with his stitches, but soon it wasn't as much of a challenge and his mind began to wander. So did his eyes, which kept coming back to Alastor, smiling peacefully at a button as he reattached it. He never would have taken the Radio Demon for a seamstress. Seamstress? No, he'd be a tailor, right? No, tailors just did suit fittings and shit, he was definitely a seamstress…seamster? That was definitely wrong.

"Shit!" Angel cursed suddenly; he managed to stab his finger. Good thing he did, though. He'd have gone over his first stitches again if he hadn't caught himself right then.

Alastor glanced at him. "Alright there, Angel?" He kept sewing away at whatever seam he was working on then, not bothering to look.

"Just bleedin' to death, no worries."

"If you get blood on the fabric you have to start over."

He hadn't, thankfully, but scoffed anyway. "What if I want blood on my pincushion? Makes it look badass. Maybe I killed a man with these needles, you don't know."

Alastor ignored the comment. "Looks like you're done your running stitches. Now if you pull the thread, it will come together and form a pocket."

The circle pulled together like a drawstring pouch. "Hell yeah!"

"Marvelous!" He rose to his feet. "I'll get the stuffing." He stalked off and returned with a pillowcase-sized bag full of cotton.

"What do you use all this shit for?"

"Pincushions."

"You make that many fuckin'—"

He dropped the bag in Angel's lap. "Less talking, more stuffing!"

Angel grinned. "You can stuff me anyti—"

"The pincushion!"

Stuffing was just as mindless as the sewing ended up being, but at least that was quick. Sewing the felt bottom on, his mind wandered back to Alastor the seamstress. That's the word that seemed to fit the image: the calm focus on each and every stitch, the practiced way the needle slid through fabric, the red hair slightly hanging in his face—the long hair, Angel found himself noticing. How had he not realized how long Alastor's hair really was, and that odd bob it was cut in? Plus, the cut of his coat, the thin waist, the way the tail flared and hung around his legs…Angel grinned to himself. And he'd called him feminine.

"Angel! Congratulations, you've finished your first sewing project!"

He blinked, looking down at his hands. So he had.

"Well, how does it feel?" Alastor asked. "To be holding something you've made with your own four hands?"

He tossed the pincushion from hand to hand, leaning into the plush couch. "Pretty bitchin'."

"I only really had the pincushion planned for you. I'm sure I could think of something, but is there any project that you wanted to try?"

Humming, he considered his options. "Somethin' I'll use, definitely," he said after a moment. "Don't wanna make a fuckin'…handkerchief or some shit." He pursed his lips, then grinned. "How 'bout a skirt? That can't be too hard, right?"

"That," Alastor said, "depends entirely on what style of skirt you intend to make. Your…" He eyed Angel's legs with palpable distaste. "…usual style," he settled on, "the mini skirt, that will be difficult. There is very little room for error when something is skin tight. But a circle skirt is a relatively simple project."

"Hey, a circle skirt works for me, man," he said, ignoring the disgust. He was used to it. "I don't always stick to the same silhouette, y'know."

"Marvelous!" Alastor said again, rising once more. "Firstly, you must decide whether you would prefer to work with elastic or zippers. I, personally, recommend the elastic. Sewing a zipper properly is more difficult than enforcing prohibition…"

Angel watched the so-called Radio Demon piddle about his room, rifling through cabinets and picking out supplies here and there, and grinned. He doubted he'd be getting bored anytime soon.

Thanks for reading! All comments, critiques, and predictions appreciated.