Work Text:
Husk is alone in the rebuilt hotel’s lobby, sorting through the new bottles Lucifer poofed into existence for the bar. It’s late enough that everybody else has wandered off for the night - except Angel Dust. He’s still at work. Husk tells himself he’s not waiting for Angel, he’s just working late, too, but he knows he could call it a night if he wanted. Sorting bottles is just an excuse to make sure Angel doesn’t come back in bad shape when nobody’s around to notice.
Most of the drinks are basically the same as what was there before. Husk’s spent the last half hour or so shoving those ones back into their usual spots.
But some are stranger and more expensive than his original stock - fancy shit the king of Hell presumably favors. A couple of bottles he recognizes as things he used to be able to afford as an Overlord. Those ones he puts aside until he can find a place for them. He’ll do it in the morning, when he’s actually up for more than just pretending to work.
Finally, the hotel doors creak open. They’ll open for anyone during the day, so new guests can come in if they want. Husk doesn’t know of any ever will. But the doors lock as a security measure when it gets late. Nobody wants a stranger slipping in at night when the whole hotel’s asleep. At night, the doors only open for an already established resident, which means Angel Dust’s back.
Usually, Angel stops by the bar after work. He’ll either bitch to Husk about his day, which means he’s okay, or he’ll collapse on the bar and demand a strong drink, which means Husk needs to worry. But tonight he does neither. He slinks past Husk without even looking at him.
Huh.
“Hey,” Husk calls out. “You, uh, you need a drink?”
“Not tonight,” snarls Angel Dust, turning, and Husk jerks back in surprise. All eight of Angel’s eyes are open and glowing. Angel’s angry - but not in general, or else he’d want alcohol and someone to vent at. He’s angry at Husk specifically. Husk, who he hasn’t seen since yesterday night. And they had a good time yesterday, chattering about all sorts of bullshit, so why the hell is Angel Dust angry now?
“The fuck are you pissed about?” Husk snaps, then kind of regrets being so harsh. But only kind of. Whatever Angel’s mad about, Husk’s done nothing to deserve it.
“You, asshole!” Angel says, waving all four arms wildly in accusation. “You and all the other goddamn Overlords who own this fucking city!”
Husk has no idea what’s happening. But the mention of his lost status is like an exorcist’s blade to the gut.
“I ain’t a fucking Overlord,” he growls. Actually growls, the sound of a deeply pissed off cat. His tail lashes like a whip. That bullshit’s all in the past. Angel Dust bringing it up hurts. Husk’s a different person now. Which is probably for the better, for everyone except Husk.
“You were before, asshole! You said it yourself!” Angel yells, and stomps over to the bar. “And I guess I never much thought about it, ‘cuz hey, redemption! Second chances! All Charlie’s bullshit! But —” he breaks off. He slumps down onto a barstool and curls both sets of arms around himself.
“But what?” asks Husk, who doesn’t wanna know.
“But I met someone today,” Angel Dust says, quiet and sad, all the anger suddenly drained away. His secondary eyes close, and his main ones can’t seem to look at Husk. They stare down at the surface of the bar instead. “A costume designer. Got the head of a mosquito - which, yikes, I thought being a spider was bad, but it coulda been way worse. And we got to talking while she fitted me for some shiny leather thing, and she was telling me how she ended up working for Val.”
“How’s that?” asks Husk warily. He’s got a bad feeling he knows where this is going. He reaches for a bottle of whiskey and a rag to clean it. He wants something he can fiddle with to distract himself.
“Well,” Angel Dust says, “She lost a bet to an Overlord. And he got her soul. And then that Overlord gambled it away to Val six months later.”
Yeah. That’s what Husk thought it might be.
Shit.
Angel continues.
“And she didn’t wanna fuck people, and she wasn’t any good with cameras, but she knew how to sew a bit. So she got way better at that real fast before Val could decide she was useless. And that’s how she got to be a costume designer.”
Angel slumps forward onto the bar, like he’s too tired to stay upright. Husk wipes the rag across the spotless bottle, again and again. It squeaks as he pulls it over the glass.
Husk doesn’t remember the mosquito sinner. Of course he doesn’t. There were far too many for him to keep track of, even if he’d cared enough to try.
He waits for Angel to keep talking.
“And after we talked Val tore her limb from limb ‘cuz he didn’t like the outfit she did for me,” Angel Dust finishes at last. He seems to be addressing these words to the floor, not to Husk.
Husk should say something. Angel’s expecting him to say something. But there’s an aching feeling in Husk’s throat that he doesn’t think he can push words through. He takes a swig from the bottle he’s been needlessly cleaning. Maybe the whiskey will clear out his throat, let him speak again.
Angel Dust finally looks at him.
“Well? You got anything to say, or you just gonna hide in a bottle?”
Husk sighs. He puts the whiskey down. He spends a second trying to think of what to say, what will fix this.
It’s not just Angel Dust talking about what Husk lost that hurts. Not just the reminder that Husk earned his fate. It’s also the worry that Angel Dust will stop talking to him. Stop half-instinctually flirting, stop bitching about work, stop joking with him about whatever the latest bullshit to come the hotel’s way is. That whatever friendship they’ve clawed their way towards will shrivel up and die.
“Look,” Husk says, words slow and heavy in his mouth, “I was a piece of shit. Still am, but — I’ve thought about it a lot. There were decades when all I did was think about it. And now — if I could go back, I wouldn’t do it again. I can’t save any of the people I fucked over. I can’t save myself, either. I…” he hesitates, then says, “I ain’t good like the princess. There’s a reason I was sent down here. But I wouldn’t do it again.”
His tail beats anxiously back and forth as he waits for Angel to respond.
“Nobody’s good like Charlie,” Angel says finally. “Nobody. She’s crazy.” But he says it with a soft, fond warmth like a hearth fire. “And I guess — I’m sorry for being mad. I’ve done bad shit, too, I can’t judge. It’s just —” he wraps all his arms around himself again, then says, quieter, “Her weird mosquito blood got all over me. All over the clothes she made me. And I wasn’t even gonna wear ‘em for longer than it took for a guy to tear ‘em off me.”
“You got a right to be pissed,” Husk says, ears pulled back in shame. “Don’t apologize, that’s bullshit. You never traded in souls, the shit I’ve done is worse than you. Just —” he breaks off and looks away.
“What?” asks Angel Dust.
“I like talking with you,” says Husk, glad for once to have fur so Angel can’t see him blushing. “I know that - if you wanna stop —”
“What? No!” Angel interrupts. “Fuck, no. You’re my friend!”
He pauses, looking unsure.
“I mean… we are friends, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Husk says.
They stare at each other for a bit, neither sure what to say. If Husk waits long enough, Angel Dust will definitely break the silence with a sex joke.
He doesn’t wait.
“I got a bunch of fancy new stock back here,” Husk says. “The king magicked up some top-grade stuff, it’s a nightmare to sort through. You wanna try some?”
Angel Dust grins.
“You know I do, baby.”
It ends up being a good night after all.