Chapter Text
This is one of the most depressing brainstorming sessions Husk has ever had to sit through. He’s sitting behind the bar unnecessarily taking inventory: Alastor made the bar just refill itself as necessary anyway. But the task keeps him looking too busy to go over and participate in the discussion so he continues counting how many bottles of coconut rum he has (a lot, since Angel drinks that shit like water).
“I mean, I hate to say it, but maybe-” Charlie’s voice squeaks more than usual. “Maybe we can come up with something for Vox to broadcast. Something that will – that will actually inspire everyone this time! Or at least keep more people safe! He has a huge following-”
“Not that huge, my dear,” Alastor drawls.
Angel Dust winces. “Not that I want to be in on this idea, but Charlie does have a point that a lot of people do watch. I should know.” He slings his legs over the arms of the couch, resting his head on Sir Pentious’ lap. “You could consider-”
“I’m not considering anything.” Alastor’s voice has gotten too hissy, too staticky. A clear signal of his annoyance, a familiar Danger! Signpost that he is Done with this subject.
Husk ignores the tell and ups his bet anyway. “It’s a foolish man who lets his ego get in the way of possible solutions,” he mumbles. “If you could take a break from your dick-measuring contest for five minutes, you could at least consider it.”
He was too quiet for most of the others to hear, but Alastor’s head whips around on his stiff shoulders, his eyes narrowing and his hand twitching around the handle of his microphone.
Phantom pressure tightens around his throat. Husk’s claws try to dig under the demonic chain but he only gets burned. The pressure eases slightly: still there but no longer choking. A reminder to watch his mouth. A warning.
Alastor turns back to the group with a shrug. “I would consider it, but Vox would never agree to it. If we have any other ideas?”
The unproductive discussion continues. Husk tunes it out until people start filtering back to other parts of the hotel to either mope or try to forget about their problem.
“Husker?” Alastor gives a small yank on the chain. “A word, please?”
“Fine,” Husk grumbles, starting to follow.
Angel catches his eye, giving a wince and a tilt of his head toward Alastor. Everything okay? He asks with his worried eyes.
Husk shrugs. Probably fine.
Alastor leads him down the hallway towards the radio tower. “Come along.” He climbs the ladder into the rickety broadcast structure. Husk has only been up here a handful of times. It’s a bare-bones room: other than the radio equipment and a chair, the room has no other decoration.
Once they’re both up, Alastor closes the trap door with an inky tendril. He taps his foot.
“What did you need?” Husk tries not to feel nervous. He fails. Alastor in his home turf feels more dangerous than back downstairs. The radio tower is soundproofed to remove any chance of erroneous background noise. It’s very far away from everyone else.
“What do I need, Husker?” The Radio Demon’s voice is a little too flat, a little too sharp. His talons flex around his microphone. He’s keeping his distance, his back too straight, instead of getting all up in Husk’s space to annoy him. “I don’t need anything. I just wanted to remind you not to tell me what to do.”
The extreme distortion is the only warning before Alastor abruptly tugs. Husk tries to catch himself but his arms tangle in the chains and he slams face-first into the cold metal floor. His nose takes the brunt of it, crunching wetly. Husk suppresses a cry of pain: Alastor loves it when he makes noise and he won’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
“Sorry-” Husk gasps at the sharp smack of Alastor’s microphone flatly across the back of his wings. They twitch and spasm as he panickily tries to roll over, tries to make himself as small as possible so Alastor will feel big enough, powerful enough, important enough.
A foot on his tail makes him squeal too loudly, echoing against the metal and glass.
Alastor laughs: not the wooden ha ha he sometimes “laughs” when he’s insulted, but a genuine chuckle. “Oh dear, I’m not Charlie – a meaningless little Sorry means absolutely nothing to me, but nice try!” He grinds his foot and elicits a whine. “Husker?”
“Yes, Sir?” Husk’s voice is too high. His wings ache and his nose is gushing blood and his tail feels crushed and he’s scared. Alastor rarely gives him more than a slap on the wrist. Actually injuring him is an unusual consequence. He forgot, for all the looseness of his leash, that when it’s pulled it’s torture.
“Run along now. Don’t you have work to do?” Alastor lifts his foot. The trapdoor flips open with a sharp crack that makes Husk flinch.
You don’t have to ask Husk twice. He trips over himself to scramble out of the room, tumbling down the ladder in his haste. He tries to extend his wings but bites down a yelp as they slap uselessly against the ladder, landing hard on his hip. He holds his sleeve to his nose. Charlie would worry at seeing blood on the carpet.
As he’s halfway back down to the bar, Angel pops his head out of his room. “Oh dear.”
“I’m fine.” Husk keeps his wings curled in. “Nothing a day’s rest won’t heal.”
Angel’s normal pout looks too pitying. “Let me help? Can’t have you bleeding everywhere, hun.”
“Fine.” Husk waits while Angel ducks back into his room.
He returns with a handful of cotton rounds used for removing makeup. Gently, Angel presses them to Husk’s nose, his bottom hands fluttering. “Husk-”
“This doesn’t happen often.” Husk doesn’t need his understanding or his pity right now. He keeps his eyes down. “Normally he just gives me a warning. Yells at me or threatens me.” He sighs and puts one hand over Angel’s hands. “Normally, actually, he just ignores me or laughs it off.”
“He really didn’t like Vox being brought up.”
“I should have known better to antagonize him about that,” Husk admits.
Angel sighs. Don’t blame yourself for his temper, is the message in his eyes. “I have heat packs,” he offers instead. “Come in.”
“Fine.” Husk finds Angel’s room to be comfortable and warm. He lazes the rest of the afternoon laying next to Angel on his bed but not touching, a heat pack between his shoulder blades and dozing off to Angel’s soft mumbling.
“Normally I’d put on some music,” Angel quietly admits after a few hours. “But…”
“Thanks.” Husk buries himself further into pillows.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”