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It was another one of those mornings for Angel Dust. Where the night past was too long, where he came home before the rest of the hotel woke up, sore, tired, all but bleeding. He felt like he’d gone 12 rounds in the ring with a brutal fucking to follow. Which, looking back on the shoots he just got back from, he supposes wasn't too far off.
“I need a drink.” Angel grumbled, half unconscious as he collapsed onto a barstool, just about laying on the bar top itself. Husk shot him an amused look, but couldn’t help that the expression was undercut with concern. Husk had gotten better at not voicing this concern, knowing now it’s not what Angel wanted, not in this state anyway, it just got the spider pissy.
Angel watched, head pillowed on his arms as Husk poured him a few fingers of whiskey in a stout glass. He set it in front of Angel, who currently felt closer to sleep than consciousness, but still hummed appreciatively and ran a finger over the condensation on the side of the glass. Husk then poured himself his own drink, and leaned his elbows on the bar, so close Angel could feel Husk’s breath ruffle his hair slightly. The porn star noted the closeness, then upon processing it, sat up rather abruptly, almost knocking the back of his head into his bartender's chin.
Angel blinked a few times, trying to dredge himself further back into awareness. The closeness had startled him. He knew what was happening between the two of them, of course he did, he wasn’t an idiot. Something had been building for them, since that night Husk pulled him kicking and screaming from the club, since the night Angel broke down in front of Husk, and Husk took his hand and built him right back up again. Of course something was building, Angel couldn’t deny it, didn’t want to deny it. He was right there with Husk on it.
But he didn’t want it culminating tonight. Not while he felt like shit, not while the idea of someone, anyone, touching him made his fur stand on end and his skin crawl. No, he couldn’t handle that tonight, and, well, it's not what Husk deserved either.
“Hey…” Husk started, reaching a hand out, trying to make a connection. Angel tucked his hands down to his lap, then winced when he accidentally brushed the bruises on his thighs, tucking his hands in his pockets instead. He couldn’t handle the look of genuine concern on Husk’s face, the way his eyebrows creased, the downturn of his lips, the slight tilt of his head. He looked away, down at the bartop, down at his untouched drink that now did nothing but turn his stomach. He can’t remember why he sat down at the bar in the first place anymore. Hell, why would he make Husk see him in such a sorry state, all he did was make the poor man worry. He should have dragged himself back to his own room, to lick his wounds in private–
His self flagellations are interrupted by the clearing of a nearby throat. Angel drags his eyes back up to the face of the bartender in front of him. He won’t, can’t, meet Husker’s eyes, and settles resolutely on his nose instead. Husk opens and closes his mouth a few times, before clenching his jaw and looking away, gathering his thoughts. Frustrated, Angel thinks Husk looks, and making that realization puts a stone in the spider’s stomach. He casts his gaze back down to Husk’s bowtie, which he can see out of the corner of his eye; the loss of pseudo eye contact makes the cat’s frown deepen.
“I…” Angel starts himself before being cut off.
“You know you worry people when you do that.” Husk huffs resolutely, making Angel's head shoot up, now looking Husk squarely in the eye. The bartender however was looking elsewhere, considering his own also untouched drink, before dumping it then setting it to the side to wash later. He pulls out a rag, and starts wiping down the counter. “The whole not talking routine, it scares people. Me. It scares me.” Husk then looks Angel in the eye. Angel doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing, but whatever it is makes Husk’s gaze soften, makes him look away, now abashed.
“It’s just…” Husk sighs softly, tiredly. He takes a minute to find his words. “You come in here, I dunno, after your nights. After whatever the hell work has you doing from dusk til you stumble back here looking ready to keel over at dawn…” Yes, it’s true Husk had gotten better about not voicing his concern when it came to Angel and his job, but it seemed he had his limits. “...And you don’t talk, you just sit there. And I–” He cuts himself off again, now just looking sad. “I’m goin about this all wrong, I just…” Husk picks up the glass from earlier, and rinses it, then starts to dry and polish it. “I thought we agreed to be in this hell together, you know?” He looks up ruefully, then quickly back down at the glass he's polishing.
Angel gapes. Well, not outwardly, decades of acting had trained him out of most sudden expressions, but it feels like ice water now courses through his veins. The stone in his stomach grows denser, and he’s almost choked with guilt. He knew, on some level, that there were people who cared about him. But knowing and understanding are two very different things. He doesn’t remember the last time someone expressed genuine concern for his well being. Not since he got to hell, at least, and never anyone outside this hotel. He’d forgotten what caring meant, forgotten that coming home (home, he thought novelly, the hotel was his home) dead on his feet looking like he’d just got his ass beat (he had) would cause people who cared about him to worry.
Valentino flicks into Angel's mind. Back when he was living at the studio, going back to Val’s penthouse after a long night of shooting, half walking, half stumbling through the door. He never got any sympathy there. No one cares when the slut’s tired. That had been his way of life for so long…
Looking back up as Husk now, guilty, tired, yet his heart swelling anyway. Cared for, cared for, Angel Dust, Pornstar, Crackwhore, Degenerate Angel Dust was cared for. Tears pricked his eyes, but he blinked them away. He felt selfish as is, and didn’t need to make things worse by crying like a bitch about it.
Angel clears his throat, what could he even say to that, to all this. “I…I–” but Husk cut him off again.
“Look, I know it ain’t gonna get better in a day. This kinda shit takes time. I don’t expect you to start spillin your guts about every little thing. I just wanna know if you’re ok.” Husker sighs, looks down at the bartop, drums his fingers on the wood. “I don’t want you thinking you don’t got a shoulder to lean on.” He spoke genuinely, but with the slightest hint of nerves laced in the slightest waver of his voice.
Angel sat there silently, rendered speechless for the first time in a long time. Husk shook his head. “I’m overstepping. I’ll leave you to your drink.” He puts away the glass he’d been polishing, then starts to round the bar. “Goodnight” He mutters.
The idea of being alone now grips Angel tightly. “Wait–” he reaches a hand out, then pulls it back like he's been burned before he makes contact with anything. Angel turns away, Husk out of his periphery, but he knows he's stopped. Angel swallows dryly, then considers his drink.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” is as good a place as any to start. It’s true, he has no desire to talk about his night, can’t think of anything he'd like to do less, actually.
“Will you stay?” Truly it’s a ridiculous ask. Husk is probably tired, likely doesn’t want to sit with Angel and talk about nothing, not even touching. Angel barely makes stimulating conversation while fully awake, he can’t imagine he’s a fun person to be around in a state like this.
Husk’s footsteps pick up again, and Angel’s heart sinks in his chest before he realizes the footsteps are coming closer, not going farther away. A stool next to him scuffs the ground. Angel risks a glance up at Husk. Husk now sits next to him, on a stool of his own, he looks tired, but he's smiling, softly, oh so softly, like Angel had offered him all he’d ever wanted.
Husk leans his chin on his hand, and with the gentlest voice Angel’s ever heard from the bartender, murmurs “Whatever you need.”