Chapter Text
Husk's sure the smack of the door when it closes rattles out some plaster off the roof.
“Fuck! Fucking–” Angel yanks at his hair as he stomps in, and inhales, before letting all the air go out in a groan that sends Kee Kee hiding behind the sofa.
“Angel! Are you okay?” Charlie is there first, as always.
And hey, Husk would be too, if he had nothing to lose slitting his own underbelly for Angel to examine it. But since he started orbiting the chaotic line of his closeness, Husk's felt more like he did on the days when there were more than lint bunnies lining his pockets. When he sunk hands into treasures daily, with bliss and satisfaction grazing his wings.
It feels almost the same when Angel’s mouth softens, curves up just for him on nights where the quiet cushions their flaws. Ramps up that static pressure that runs along Husk's spine when Angel folds arms over the bartop. Drowns all the things Husk doesn't dare say.
It feels almost the same, yeah, but fundamentally different too. This time, the gain in Husk's paws is worthy, earned at the end of pain. Each flicker of pink eyes and glint of fangs. Each word and joke and hours robbed from aching. The friendship that pads up Husk's rotten days, and that he's hard pressed to endanger.
Breaking up the poker face ain't an option ‘cause hope is an off limits gamble. Even if it burns at the back of his throat on the daily.
Like low shelf whisky .
“Yeah, yeah, don't worry your pretty little head, Princess. Just need a drink.”
Charlie has seen too many of Angel's outbursts to keep pressing, especially now that the worry of Valentino has faded.
As every night, Angel ambles towards the bar. Husk knows better than to think it means whatever he needs it to mean. Not with Angel finally living outside of Valentino’s hold, negotiating his body and his mind into the ample space that freedom can grant you.
No more fractured gazes, or splotches of purple just under the edges of his clothes. The teasing of a pain that had skewered Husk through. No, Angel's clean and eating better. Plumped about the body in a way Husk's really trying not to notice.
But his face.
Husk's caught on his face, just like always.
“Rough night?” The bartop doesn't need any more polishing, but Husk focuses on the scuffs. Little curved gouges on the lacquer that usually keep him fixed to not drown into the fucking tempting tenderness of that mouth that has lost a bit of its violence.
Angel puffs out a breath, small face collapsing on a wince. “You’d think that with Val outta the fucking picture, nights would be damn easier to handle.”
His heart rate ticks up at Angel's grumble.
Some things haven't changed. Husk's already pouring Angel a martini. Dry. With three olives. The devotion will always be in the details.
“Your new boss giving you trouble?”
“Nah.” Angel lips his drink, sips it, and Husk robs for himself the image of that throat rolling as he swallows. Feels the tips of his fingers itching to follow up the movement. “This modelling gig is like the easiest thing ever. Could do it with my eyes closed. All eight of ‘em.”
The acknowledgement gives Husk peace. Angel's eyes blaze. Alive. Pink heat, red fire. There’s no haze there, those eyes don't lie. It's just annoyance and nothing heavier.
Husk breathes a little easier. “So? What's the problem?”
Ever since Angel’s chain vanished, he's less guarded about the things he says. As if the words sting less, weigh less. As if they hurt less when hooking them out.
Angel’s sigh flows out a little longer than normal. “Fucking problem is that I can't even walk home in peace without a damn weirdo jumpin’ outta nowhere to proposition me. God, seems like nobody’s fucking aware Angel Dust ain't a public figure anymore.”
That old blackened fury is back. The punch that used to flare alive daily within Husk and he's started to forget since Valentino is out of the picture. It tastes a little of jealousy, not that Husk wants to admit it. It tastes entirely of protectiveness. And it simmers like the afterimage of something headier, ‘cause at least none of those fuckers would be able to set a hand on Angel without risking losing their entire arms.
Husk wishes the carnage on them.
Angel huffs, and Husk has the immediate need to trace the scrunch of his cheeks with a thumb. It's the yearning of proximity, he knows. That deep hunger for the warmth he can't have, the body he can't touch, the mouth he can't kiss.
Husk grasps the rag tighter to buff out the inner edge of the bartop and hums, low. A silent nudge for Angel to follow.
Proficient in Husk's noises, Angel says, “And yeah, the attention’s nice but it’d be swell if I could reduce the percentage of creeps even a little without actually shooting their shitty faces off and ruining my brand.”
“Sounds fucking annoying,” Husk grunts.
It sounds infuriating. The reminder Angel keeps carrying that his body isn't really his, same as his wishes and his yeses and his nos. That for all his newfound freedom, the stain of Valentino's presence remains.
Angel's eyes crease at the corners, tired. The noise that escapes him is less explosive than before, hushed and small. Fragile. Like something meant to be cupped between two hands.
Husk wishes he could brush away the sudden downwards curve of his lips.
Angel tilts on his stool and tips standing. In the last months, the long line of him has lost the more visceral sexual intensity that seemed to permeate every word. At least with Husk. “It's a pain in the fucking ass and not the fun kind.” He scoffs, a little wet and raspy and when he leans in it's almost secretive, for the two of them. “I'm tired, Husky. See ya tomorrow for breakfast?”
Husk's heart kicks up its pace with the quashed want of pulling closer, of not letting Angel go until he's tasted the dampness of his breaths.
Like every night, he buries it all in the grooves of the lacquered bar.
“Sure,” he says, and allows himself, “sleep well, baby.”
There's a staleness in Husk's room that he can't dislodge. It's a bad tenant, living alongside the chaos of his wardrobe and the mess of his addiction looking back up at him from the floor. Cans and bottles littering a corner. Across the windowsill.
He slinks towards the bed, collapsing atop the mussed linens. His hat flies off to the right.
Sleep doesn't come easily these days, not when there's a spin cycle of regrets bouncing in his skull. Not when each hazed blink is full of pink and white, of glittering gold.
Angel is always a mainstay in his mind.
He still remembers the evening when Angel arrived soaked in blood, laughing a laugh that was entirely unhinged. He was finally free from Valentino, he’d said, even though Charlie’d had to play several cunning games to free Angel from the rest of the Vees’ fury.
And Husk had grinned. Had felt tight in the chest and the throat, had entertained the idea of being honest, of tugging out in the open the bundle of misshapen yearning and brunt affection, pour it all over Angel's lap. Test his own luck in the hope that Angel could ludicrously feel the same.
But the world had shifted for Angel in hours, and Husk had sat through the night watching the lights shed through the windows, flicking and changing across the bottles. Gold and red and redder. Realizing how fucked up it was wanting to chain Angel again under the guise of love, of offering the battered landscape of his own heart when finally, there could be new skylines to sink into. When Angel could have the chance to find someone less sharpened, with less edges. Someone who wasn't balancing daily on the limit of reason.
Someone not made from scraps.
Yeah, Husk's a greedy bastard, but Angel deserves choices. Angel deserves more than to keep being crushed on bare minimums.
And Husk can give him that at least.
His lip is tucked between his fangs while his tail restlessly slashes against air. Husk keeps itching for all the things he's harboring inside. Keeping his distance doesn't mean he ain't rolling around the idea of solving Angel's problems.
Fuck, if he could punch away every single sinner, give Angel the reprieve of–
Husk bolts up sitting.
With a clumsy paw, he reaches for the drawer of his nightstand and sinks into the wreck of its contents. His claws tick-tack on the weathered wood while he palms for the square shape that rattles against the sides each time he pulls the drawer open.
He knows it's there, gouging a hole in his mind whenever he's in his room.
Husk fishes out the tiny box he hasn't looked at since last December. The velvet glides soft on his fur. Deep blue, like elusive nights– the kind they don't get to see anymore.
Husk flicks the lid open and feels the air squeezed out of his lungs in a breath.
The pink diamond glows in the dim, like a beacon. Just as stunning as the first day Husk saw it nestled in a band of white gold, fit in an exhibition case in that upscale store he couldn't have afforded to buy from. A diamond as pink as the eyes that kept pinning Husk into sobriety just to remember their exact glow and sweep, eyes that didn't let go.
It'd seemed logical– it’d felt like a need to rustle out the last dregs of his overlord days and sell out the black and red pair of onyx cufflinks just to get the money. And once in his pocket, he hadn't thought about what it really meant to renounce everything not for an offering or a promise. But for a hope.
Husk touches the shock cold of it. He hadn't been able to find the courage to offer it. Hell, until then, he and Angel had been just friends living in extremis, and the idea of risking it all with his greed had made Husk's belly knot.
That was the problem of relationships forged in pain. Because Husk had been too grateful for the gorgeous lean of Angel into his space, for the unbending constancy of his smile to ask for more, nudged by the worst of greed.
And now.
Now Angel's whole afterlife awaits him. And the shackle of a ring on a finger, of a question answered, seems like the wrong step to take more than ever. Angel belongs to himself most of all and Husk won't ever let anyone hem him in, especially not himself.
But maybe a good thing could come out of it regardless. A way to give back Angel a bit of peace, despite Husk's own heart.
Husk reaches for the ever present bottle on his nightstand to wash out the rock in his throat.
The next morning, Husk schlepps into the kitchen jittery in all his soft places.
“Hey.” The box weighs like a millstone in his slacks. His eyes slant over the gorgeous slope of Angel's shoulders where his soft tee has left them bare, and Husk sidesteps the clutching heat in his belly.
“Hey, sugar.” Angel smiles where he's sitting in front of his breakfast. Scrambled eggs and pancakes, a large cup of coffee. The curve of his mouth is arresting in its tilt. “Want some pancakes? I think Vaggie left some there I could–”
“I've been thinking about what you told me,” Husk cuts him off.
It's a blundered sentence, rougher than intended.
A single, delicate brow rises on Angel's face. “I tell you a lot of shit.”
If he stops to think, the courage he's scraped from his insides will whittle down to nothing. Husk edges closer to the table, putting effort in keeping his own face crunched in steel-like aloofness. “What you told me last night. About the creeps.”
Angel gives him a look charged with confusion. “Uh, sure. What about it?”
“Can I talk to ya for a sec?” Husk's heart threatens to snap his ribs open. His hands fist and release, like a way to tame the electric buzz of anticipation.
“We're talking right now, Whiskers.” Angel snorts and mouths at his coffee. “What's gotten into ya?”
“In private, maybe?” Fuck, his cheeks must be crimson through the fur.
Angel blinks but nods. Then he follows Husk around to the supply closet Niffty won't be using until later. He tucks them both in, and regrets the closeness.
Because looking up at him–
Angel's always been gorgeous, with the kind of beauty bad men covet. Huge eyes. Soft cheeks. Fey-like. And not for the first time, Husk thinks how much of a bad man he must be to be drawn to Angel so badly. In that knee-weakening, heart-sore way.
Angel gazes at him incongruously lost. “The fuck’s with the secrecy?”
Husk’s heart is beating so brutally, he thinks he can taste the excess of blood in his body. His breath is a wavering rush when he retrieves the box, thrusts it out on an open palm.
“Here.”
Open palm, open heart. The hugeness of the feelings he keeps contained press down like a bonesaw to his larynx. He grunts, instead, coaxing Angel to pick it up.
Eyes all glimmer, Angel’s face twists into wild disbelief. “Is this–”
He reaches for it, but it's tentative. As if not entirely sure the little box would remain solid. He grasps it, then flicks the lid open and makes a noise, broken and dry, grated at the back of the throat.
Husk can't really read it. He says, “Yeah, an engagement ring.”
He can see the tension gathered across the pink plumpness of Angel's mouth, all the tightness in his spine when he runs a finger across the band and lingers on the diamond. “Husk, I–”
“I think it might be your style, so you can actually wear it,” Husk grunts out. “Let me just–”
He carefully pulls the ring out of the box and holds Angel's right upper arm. It's easy to slip it on the right finger and pretend he's not falling into pieces at Angel's feet. This is the first time they've touched with intention at the other side of Angel's freedom, and Husk feels the craving into life of a bruised want that gnaws at his heart. Their fingers brush in warmth. And it's fitting.
Husk's life has hinged on Angel’s moving hands, in the tactile wonder of them.
A wild array of emotions swirl over Angel's face. Husk can't recognize many of them, but he sees when fear taints his eyes. It's easy to pin that one, familiar as it's been since he met Angel.
Husk knows in an instant asking him for marriage for real would've gone terribly fucking wrong. In a breath his face goes hot, dissimilar to the rest of his body that feels wrapped in ice.
The tiny wick of hope kept under layers of denial snuffs out when he realizes this is a dream living on a one way street.
Angel blinks with all eight of his eyes. His fingers tremble where they're still extended when Husk lets go, closing and relaxing as if getting used to the feel of the ring. “It is. My style, I mean. Holy shit, are you–”
“I ain't asking you to marry me, you idiot,” Husk snaps finally. He swallows down the hurt and the selfish hopes, because he’d cut an arm off himself before stirring any sort of fear in Angel. “Quit that face.”
He can't keep looking at the baffled shock in Angel's eyes. The kind that telegraphs very fucking clearly, he hadn't thought about it. Marriage. With Husk. All the above combined. That the idea of it was fantastical, unwieldy enough to be allowed to breathe air.
Husk had never been boyfriend or husband material. Not alive. And things weren't gonna change six feet under.
Angel's brows scrunch at the middle. “What?”
“I just thought– Y'know.” Husk rolls his shoulders in a shrug. He goes back to the poker tables, and lies through the storm in his chest, through the gore in his mouth. “Maybe not all the pervs but some will be deterred if they think you're married. Or about to be.”
He bites at his tongue to not keep rambling like a lunatic.
The shock in Angel's eyes recedes back to a coldness Husk doesn't get. There's a sort of banked fury in the closed hinge of his jaw. “Wow, yeah. You sure put effort in the thought, didn't ya?”
He mashes out the words making them sound like a complaint. But they're breathless too, stilted.
“Shut up.” Husk knows he should wrap it up instead of giving Angel time to think about things like where the ring came from, and how he could afford it. “I just thought this way ya could avoid explaining yourself or shooting up people. Just raise a hand and–”
“Yeah, I see it,” Angel says, voice hoarse and gritty. His mouth is a tight set line. “Real smart, man. Gotta go, see ya around.”
Angel storms out of the supply closet without even a thanks.
When Husk leaves a second later, he sees a cluster of wet dots on the hardwood just outside the door. Probably Niffty and her eternally soaked mops.
Good thing she didn't catch them.