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“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”
Husk sets down the empty brandy glass he’s been cleaning to scrub a paw down his face in disbelief. Across from him is Alastor, sitting at the bar and nursing a sazerac, having just finished making a—a laughable request. The overlord tilts his head to one side curiously, one eyebrow arched as if to probe Husk to elaborate on his reaction. Like he can’t see the absurdity of what he’s proposing.
So he does. “I mean, seriously. You ain’t—are you—are you makin’ fun of me?”
He must be. He has to be.
But Alastor widens his eyes and presses a hand to his chest in pretend offense. His voice is mocking when he says, “Why ever would you insinuate such a thing, my dear fellow? Have I ever made fun of you?” Canned laughter echoes around the bar as Husk gives him a withering look. The overlord drops the play-acting and sighs theatrically, “No, Husker. I am serious as a heart attack.”
A doubtful frown. “Yeah, right.”
“Truly!”
Husk just scoffs and goes back to idly wiping down glassware, deliberately not giving him an answer just yet. Alastor is mercifully silent for once as Husk turns the demon’s request over in his head, evaluating it for some kind of hidden ulterior motive.
It’s not that Husk dislikes kids. Frankly, he thinks those who seriously hate children have some soul-searching to do. But it’s not like Husk goes around looking for excuses to be responsible for them even remotely, either. He’s a bartender, damn it, not a babysitter.
Not only that, but this isn’t just any kid, is it? This is the freshly five-year-old spawn of the Radio Demon and the King of fucking Hell. One of those men owns his soul, and the other? He’s pretty sure Lucifer could snap his fingers and wipe Husk from this plane of existence if he wanted to. Say Husk did agree to do this favor, just this once; if he fucked up at all, it would be his head. And every other part of him, too. Alastor loves to watch others suffer, and anyone would be hard pressed to call him particularly warm, but every sinner this side of the Pentagram knows he’s got a famously short fuse when it comes to other folks interacting with that boy of his. Husk isn’t sure if it’s out of a paternal instinct, or if he just enjoys making trouble, or what, but if little Clyde Morningstar comes to him with so much as a scratch, nobody’s safe. Littl’uns—they’re clumsy.
And Lucifer…well. He’s a nice guy. Honestly, Husk isn’t sure what he sees in Alastor, but he tries not to make a habit out of judging people, not when he can hardly call himself a good example. But he’d been there on that fateful Extermination Day, way back when Adam attacked with an army of exorcists, and has seen firsthand several times since just what the man’s capable of when someone or something he cares about is on the line.
He’s not eager to be on the receiving end of that ire, even if it’s entirely by accident.
“Look, boss,” Husk says finally, putting the now sparkling clean glasses back on their rack to look Alastor in the eye. “I think the kid’s great. But babysitting—that ain’t covered in our contract. You know it, I know it.”
“Why, of course I do, Husker!” Alastor exclaims, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m well aware of our agreement.”
Husk takes a deep breath. “Then you can’t make me do this.”
“Oh, please. Who’s making you do anything?” Alastor smiles into his glass. “I would hate to force you. Just a little favor between friends, nothing more. And it’s only for an evening, while his Majesty and I attend to necessary business.”
“We are not friends,” corrects Husk bitterly, and thinks about an unfathomably lucky royal flush and the strangled, sucking chest wound feeling of his soul being torn from him.
‘I would hate to force you’, his ass.
The demon just chortles. “Hmm, oh you, always so tetchy.” Then he grows suddenly quiet, drumming his claws on the bartop thoughtfully for a moment. Husk waits for him to float out whatever negotiation he’s surely thinking up— “If, perhaps, you feel it would be too much of a challenge for you, you’re more than welcome to ask Angel Dust for assistance?”
Husk blinks. While he couldn’t imagine an impossibly soft-spoken and polite boy like Clyde being too much of a handful, all things considered, having Angel to lean on would make it slightly less—
Wait, was he actually entertaining this? Ugh, fuck no.
“Besides that, if it makes you feel better, you were not my first choice,” Alastor remarks, interrupting his train of thought. The man swirls the liquid in his glass with one hand, examining the claws on the other. “That would be dear Rosie, of course. But unfortunately, ma bonne amie will be in attendance tomorrow evening, so she is out of the running. In my absence, Charlotte and her lady friend will be conducting my usual duties on top of their own. And Niffty—well, bless her twisted little heart, but her disqualification bears no explanation, I’m sure.”
God, he really is the last choice. Helplessly, Husk tries, “What about Mimzy?”
That gets him a flat look. “Husker,” says Alastor dryly, perhaps even a bit desperately, well ain’t that interesting, “I adore the woman, but do you honestly think I’m going to leave my child with Mimzy?”
Fair enough. “It was worth a shot,” answers Husk, sighing.
“So. You see my dilemma?” He sounds impatient. Alastor is looking and sounding dangerously close to being sick of negotiating. Husk knows as well as anyone that that’s a bad mood to put him in.
Despite this, Husk just offers a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgement. He likes to think he knows his boss pretty well; loathe as the Radio Demon would be to admit it, Husk would have the power to destroy him if there wasn’t a stupid fucking contract in his way, and he doesn’t mean physically. Were he still a gambling man, Husk would bet money that Alastor doesn’t actually give a shit about this stupid, fancy-pants party he’s headed to tomorrow. The king and his ‘most trusted advisor’ only ever attend to either play their part in Hell’s domestic politics, or for networking purposes, to talk up the hotel and form relationships with big names—the crowd Husk himself used to hang around, before life quite literally dealt him a shit hand. Or, rather, before life dealt Alastor a killer one.
Like it or not, though, Husk knows Alastor begrudgingly goes for Lucifer, who begrudgingly goes for Charlie. Husk likes Charlie. Doing something to make her night a little bit easier? He supposes he could get behind that.
‘He supposes’. He doesn’t know why he’s pretending like he has a choice. He doesn’t, no matter what Alastor says. Alastor may not harm him if he says no, but there’s no doubt in Husk’s mind that the demon will treat his refusal like a personal slight.
Although.
If he can do Alastor a favor, get just a little bit more on his good side…
Maybe one day, he could renegotiate the terms of their contract. Foregoing it entirely was likely a pipe dream, a lost cause, but Alastor does fucking hate being indebted to anyone, and there’s no way he could argue this was part of Husk’s job under their deal. He would have to concede that Husk really did do him a favor, technically out of his own volition.
This is Hell, land of dubious and often barely legitimate contracts. There’s always a loophole to exploit, one just has to find it.
“Fine,” agrees Husk, finally. “I’ll do it. With Angel’s help. Anything I should know?”
Pleased as punch, Alastor leans in to give him the lowdown.
And sweet Jesus, can this motherfucker run his mouth.
He talks for about half an hour and says maybe 10 things. Husk absorbs this information as well as he can when he’s being kept open this late, until finally, mercifully, Alastor stands to retire to bed.
“His Majesty will be quite pleased, I expect. I appreciate your cooperation, Husker.” The overlord stretches his long limbs—Husk tries not to wince at the grotesque snapping and creaking of bones—before a thought seems to occur to him. “Oh! I almost forgot. One last thing.”
“Oh yeah?” Husk tries to keep the exhausted sarcasm out of his voice, to debatable success. He slumps over his bar, raising an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
But then the shadows in the room are expanding, crawling across the walls where they shouldn’t be, and Alastor is boring down on him, antlers twisting into the air as the space pulses with a green glow. Husk shrinks in on himself instinctively, frozen in bone-deep terror.
“I know your vices. You will do your job as usual and serve the guests of this hotel,” Alastor says lowly, static fizzing under his words while he reaches for the chain currently materializing around the feline’s neck. “But if I hear that you or Angel Dust allowed yourselves to become excessively inebriated while in the presence of my son, I will rend your soul in twain and you will never again know what it’s like to be off the air. Do try to limit yourself. Are we clear?”
Rage bubbles under the surface of Husk’s skin before he stamps it out.
This isn’t about him.
He can’t say that, obviously, but he knows it’s not.
After all, he knows Alastor.
Husk swallows, mustering up all his courage to look into those vacant eyes, those menacing, ticking dials. “Crystal.”
The shadows and the toxic energy surrounding the Radio Demon immediately retreat. His eyes reassume their normal color and his antlers shrink back to two pointed forks. The man looks impossibly smug at his reaction. Husk resists the urge to both cower underneath the counter and lunge over it at him.
“Excellent,” drawls Alastor, and then he’s sinking into the ground, into his shadow. “Adieu, dear Husker.”
Husk waits until he’s gone to bury his face in his paws and exhales shakily.
One of these days, he really would like to catch a fucking break.
The following night, the Prince of Hell hop-skips down the hotel’s central staircase with his parents in tow. Both men are dressed to the nines for the banquet they’re attending. Lucifer wears a crisp white suit and hat ultimately not too dissimilar from his usual garb save for more saturated reds, an elaborate floral pattern on the lapels of his jacket, smoked-out eyeshadow, and a much larger crown tucked into the band of his hat. His shoes have such severe heels that Husk is impressed he’s even able to walk. Meanwhile, Alastor has exchanged his signature overcoat for a tuxedo of a rich burgundy layered over a plain black dress shirt. A simple crown of onyx sits in between his antlers to match a black monocle over his right eye, and his loose curls are pulled back into a low knot at the nape of his neck.
They clean up nicely, Husk has to admit. Evidently they want to impress. He has to wonder about the guest list.
Angel’s been hanging around the bar for the past hour while they waited for the three of them to come down. He’s out of uniform, dressed in more casual clothes that don’t at all suit his cam persona. Husk thinks he looks fantastic like this, but then, he always does.
The spider demon was surprisingly excited about the prospect of looking after the Morningstar boy when Husk told him. Though, Husk supposes it makes sense. Angel’s somehow become a favorite playmate of the little prince’s, second only to Charlie. When the boy was born, the presence of a tot had unlocked a side of Angel Husk had never seen before. Gentler. Softer. Boyish, almost. It makes Husk wonder about his—
He shakes his head as if to free himself from his reverie. Something to speculate about later.
As the three approach the bar, Angel issues a loud wolf-whistle, setting down his gin-and-tonic. “Well, would ya’ look at that! A pair’a studs, if ever there was one.”
This comment makes Alastor sneer, but Lucifer just tips his hat sarcastically as they meander over. “Thanks much. How’s it going?”
“Peachy. Lookin’ forward to hangin’ out with this lil’ guy,” Angel croons, bending down to the eyeline of the small boy currently hiding between his parents’ legs and winking. “Heya, Clyde.”
Clyde smiles shyly, peeking out from behind Alastor’s slender figure, the square red frames of his glasses slipping down his nose. He’s dressed in slacks, a white button-down that stands out against deep grey skin, and a sweater vest the color of his glasses. When he smiles, he flashes a mouthful of fangs; he comes by sharp teeth naturally, of course, but the sight of those daggers in the mouth of such a little boy is still a little unnerving. “Hi.”
Lucifer smiles and ruffles the boy’s head of loose black-and-blond curls. He nods at Husk, who has yet to speak. “How’s business?”
“Slow,” replies Husk, then shakes his head at the sympathetic look he receives. “Naw. S’good. Means no fights in my bar, for one.”
The king grins and shakes his head, no doubt recalling the time he’d had to put a stop to a fistfight between two sinners staying at the hotel. Those fuckers’d had some nerve, starting shit just a couple barstools from where the man usually sat. Husk didn’t really feel bad about the irreverence with which Lucifer had tossed the sinners out. His job is hard enough without grown-ass demons behaving like children in his bar, thanks.
As the two of them share the moment, Alastor leans down to lift the night’s charge onto the barstool next to Angel’s. At this distance, Husk can see the golden brooch in the shape of a snake on his lapel. A quick glance to the man’s right reveals a matching stag in the same place on Lucifer’s own jacket. He can’t help but smirk to himself. If only the rest of the ring knew what Husk does, that the Radio Demon coordinates jewelry with his beau and throws a tantrum if his boy trips on the corner of a wrinkly rug. The mental image of Alastor reacting to that juicy tidbit becoming public knowledge makes becoming broadcast fodder sound almost worth it.
Almost.
Only almost, because now Alastor is staring at him in such a way that Husk’s fur stands on end.
Shit.
Satisfied that he’s got Husk’s attention, the demon lets his eyes slide slowly over to Angel’s drink on the counter and then back. His jaw is set and one eyebrow is raised just slightly higher than the other.
And okay, you know what, fear be damned because that’s bullshit, it’s just one drink and Alastor himself is one of Husk’s most dependable regulars, and by God, neither Angel Dust nor Husk is responsible for the demon’s fucking untreated trauma, so the bartender just stares back evenly for a beat.
And then another beat. And another.
Until both Angel and Lucifer, and even Clyde have all noticed their standoff, their voices dying to watch the two of them in confused silence. Angel scrutinizes Husk’s expression, and out of the corner of his eye he sees realization dawning on the spider’s face; though, of course, he stays quiet.
Alastor holds Husk’s gaze for another long, uncomfortable moment before his posture relaxes and he turns to the others.
“We’ll be off now,” he says with an air of finality. Then he bends to look his son in the eye, looking stern as one can with a permanent smile plastered across their face. “I expect nothing but your best behavior tonight, do you understand me? You’re not to make trouble for any of the staff.”
Well, there’s a change of pace. Alastor, not celebrating troublemaking? Maybe Husk should take a look outside—Hell must’ve froze over when he wasn’t looking.
Regardless of the meaning behind the demon’s change of tune, little Clyde nods his head fervently and reaches up with small clawed hands decorated with glittering red scales. He clasps his father’s cheeks affectionately which, to Husk’s surprise, is allowed with only a minor grimace. “Yes, Papa.”
“Good boy,” says Alastor approvingly, and the prince’s hands fall away to let him rise back to his full height.
Beside them, Lucifer was enjoying the sight with a twinkle in his eye. As Alastor steps back, he turns to the two impromptu babysitters. “By the way, we seriously can’t thank you enough for this, we know it’s super last minute. I already talked to Charlie, she said to just give her a shout if you need anything. You’ve got my number too, I think, Ange—yeah, okay. Cool. Please don’t hesitate to call me if anything goes sideways, okay?”
Angel just scoffs good-naturedly, waving two of his many hands in a flippant gesture. “Oh hush, Luce. We’ll have fun, won’t we, little man?”
Clyde snickers at the playful pinch to his rosy cheek he gets from Angel and swats the spider demon away. “Duh.”
Husk doesn’t say anything, only giving the king a look that roughly translates to 'I’ll make sure nothing gets burned to the ground'. Lucifer gives him a knowing smirk. The former seraphim then leans in to plant a kiss on Clyde’s forehead. “You be good now, lil’ nuisance gator. See you when we get back. Don’t go bothering your sister.”
The aforementioned nuisance gator waves his claws in the air as Lucifer steps away to draw open a glittery red portal. “Okay, Daddy! Bonne chance, Papa.”
The King of Hell blows his son a kiss before stepping through the portal with Alastor. The swirling red oval then winks out of existence, the air pressure in the lobby abruptly changing with it.
The moment the two of them are gone, Angel turns to Clyde with a mischievous grin. “Awright, buddy, what’cha wanna do first?”
Husk isn’t so sure what he was worried about.
Well, that’s not true, he absolutely is, and in fact his brain is still feeding him lists of “what if”s and worst case scenarios. But.
Angel just has a particular way with kids, so expert that the bartender barely has to lift a finger outside of occasionally refilling their glasses (chocolate milk and soda water respectively, yes, water, thank you very much). Not only that, but Angel seems like he’s having fun, so Husk doesn’t feel too bad about letting him take the reins, leaving him to it while he tends to the in-and-out trickle of sinners looking for something to sip on. Alastor probably doesn’t care whether it’s Husk or Angel who does the heavy lifting, so long as Clyde is looked after.
Besides, other guests should know by now to give the prince a wide berth. No one wants their name given to the King and one of Hell’s most powerful overlords.
By dinnertime, the bar is thick with the scent of acetone. Angel and Clyde are perched on their stools facing one another while the former paints the boy’s claws. Lilac, to match the sheen of his eyelids, the ones he got from his daddy.
There’s an unopened box of pizza sitting on the bartop. Angel insisted he finish what he’s doing before they dig in. Husk hopes he wraps it up soon. Not that he has anything against cold pizza, he’s just hankering for a nice warm meal.
So in the meantime, the bartender just does what he does best: he watches. He observes. It’s barely six, and the itch to drink like he usually does around this time is already niggling at Husk like an irritated mosquito bite. Paying close attention to Angel Dust’s surprisingly gentle attentiveness is a decent enough distraction, and so he clings to it. The demon’s expression is that of a peaceful smile, even though his neck is bent at an awkward angle to make sure the purpley lacquer is applied cleanly and precisely.
“Don’t ever do a second coat ‘till the first one’s dry, kiddo,” he explains as he cradles the prince’s hand in his lap. “If ya do, it just gets all sticky n’ clumpy. You want thin layers with ten minutes in between ‘em, awright? Then another ten before the topcoat.”
Clyde nods sagely at the advice, offering, “Auntie Rosie says good nails speak louder than words.”
Angel cackles, nodding himself. “Well, she’s right! I give my best performances when I got me a fresh manipedi, that’s for damn sure. Without my nail tech, I’d be a dead—well, no, that don’t work, I guess. I’d be fucked, is what I’m sayin’.” He pauses for effect. “Don’t repeat that.”
Like every young person, the dirty language makes Clyde giggle uproariously, even as Angel scolds him for nearly messing up his intricate work. It takes a moment for him to recover—Husk can’t help but think his laughter sounds a lot like Alastor’s, a higher-pitched, up-and-down sort of laugh that makes him shiver despite himself—but then he grows thoughtful.
Angel is perceptive as ever, latching onto the shift. “What’s up, bub?”
“My papa says I’m not allowed to ask about your job,” the prince informs him matter-of-factly and without reluctance. “And Daddy says I’ll know when I’m bigger.”
Husk winces. When Angel looks over his shoulder at him with a panicked look, he quickly pretends to be doing something else—what that is exactly, he’s not sure, but he doesn’t want to be a part of this discussion for anything. Angel rubs the back of his neck with a free hand, stammering, “Oh! Um. Yeah, ya know what? That’s probably for the best. It’s a grown-up thing, ya know?”
Clyde frowns, clearly displeased at the idea that he is not ‘grown-up’ enough. “That’s not fair.”
“Listen, you know I’d tell ya if I thought it was okay,” says Angel earnestly. Firm, but not unkind, he goes on, “It ain’t nothin’ against you, buddy. Your daddies just want what’s best for ya and I’m gonna trust their judgment on this one. Okay?”
The prince goes quiet, appraising Angel carefully as if evaluating his reassurance for its honesty. Apparently it passes muster, because he relents with a solitary nod. “Okay.” He pauses as Angel smiles and pulls his hands away to let the nail polish air out. “Can I ask something else?”
Angel screws the cap back on the polish. “Ask me and we’ll see, kiddo.”
Husk watches the boy lean in, his hands clasping the edge of his stool between his legs. The atmosphere almost seems to shift around them. Those wide eyes bore into Angel as he asks in that soft, unassuming voice, “Do you like your job, Angie?”
Husk sees the way Angel stills until you couldn’t tell him apart from a statue. It confuses him. Sure, it’s kind of a sensitive question for the demon, but why—
“Why don’t we have some pizza?” is Angel’s abrupt suggestion. His voice is strange and shrill. He turns towards Husk to open the box, white with the words ‘THIS IS THE ANTI-CRUST’ printed on it in red lettering. “I heard your auntie cooks for ya when you visit, but I ain’t much of a chef.”
Husk meets Angel’s eyes curiously, and is shocked to see he looks almost—shaken. He goes to ask if he’s okay, but the man cuts him off with a shake of his head.
Husk just blinks, bewildered.
Small though he is, Prince Clyde appears to be able to identify a deflection when he hears one, and he allows the change in subject, hitching his stool closer to gaze hungrily at the thankfully still hot pizza. “That’s okay. Ma tata’s ladyfingers are the best, but I like pizza, too!”
Based on what he knows about the woman, Husk has a sneaking suspicion that Auntie Rosie’s ladyfingers are not made of what you might consider cake by any stretch of the imagination.
The three of them dole out their respective portions, meaning that the babysitters each take one or two slices for themselves before sliding the rest of the box to their charge. Clyde notoriously eats little more than a couple bites of anything, but when he does, he’s like a vacuum, consuming as many helpings of whatever dish is being served as he can without popping. This phenomenon, Husk knows, utterly mystified his two parents early on in his life, up until they realized the boy can, much like his daddy, shift into another form. That being an alligator. Which also explained his penchant for long naps and basking outside during Hell’s hottest days.
At least he minds his manners at the table, Husk thinks.
Charlie and Vaggie emerge from the staff room when Angel calls them to eat. Before too long, Vaggie and Husk sit alone at the bar, eating and watching Angel and Charlie run circles around the lobby with the giggling young prince. He’s surprisingly fast for what he is, but his foes are much taller and thus are evenly matched in subduing him. Husk takes a last bite of pizza crust just as Charlie tackles her squealing little half-brother to the ground to tickle him under the arms, and sighs, wiping his tremoring, sweaty paws on his pant legs.
Vaggie glances over at him. “What’s up?”
“Jonesin’ for a whiskey is what’s up,” replies Husk in a grumble. “But I promised you-know-who I wouldn’t tonight.”
It’s not true, technically. He promised to, as Alastor put it, limit himself. But after the way the man reacted to Angel having a single gin-and-tonic? He doesn’t trust the demon not to blow up on him.
Vaggie raises an eyebrow, bemused. “Alastor drinks all the time. I’ve seen him.”
“I know.” Husk looks sideways at her. How much can he tell her? He doesn’t fucking like Alastor, but he doesn’t want to go dishing out his personal shit either, regardless of what the fucker might do to his soul. Despite what he might fantasize about fleetingly, it just isn’t done, not in Husk’s code of ethics anyway, even if the Radio Demon might not afford him that same courtesy. “He don’t trust me around his boy, is all.”
The former exorcist rolls her one good eye. “Ese pendejo doesn’t trust anyone. He shouldn’t have left him with you if he doesn’t trust you.”
Husk hums an agreement. In his head he thinks about all the choices considered before Alastor asked Husk to babysit, how he’d asked Clyde not to make any trouble for the hotel staff on his way out, but he doesn’t bring any of it up. He’s not especially inclined to defend the guy right now, what with the migraine building in his skull and the weird crawling feeling he’s got under his fur. And if there’s one thing he appreciates about his friendship with Vaggie, it’s the space she provides to freely bitch about Alastor.
“I really ought to give sobriety a try,” he says anyway, though his mouth pulls itself to a frown at the mere thought of it. But it’s something he’s been thinking about off and on for a long, long time. “Dunno. Not sure I got the will for it.”
“I believe in you, Husk!” Charlie and the others are making their way over. Niffty at some point came in to join the fray and is now wrapped comfortably around Angel’s shoulders. Charlie lifts her brother onto his stool and sits down next to him, giving Husk a big, blinding smile. “If you wanna give sobriety a try, I’ll support you 100%!”
“What does that mean?” questions Clyde. “‘Sobriety’.”
Charlie and Angel do their best to explain it to him, and he nods in comprehension. “Oh. I'm not allowed to have that stuff. Papa and Daddy like fancy drinks, though.”
“You wouldn’t like it anyway, little Mr. Sweet Tooth,” reassures Charlie, and the boy shrieks with laughter as his hair is ruffled into an unruly mess of curls.
Husk deflects, says he’ll think about it like he usually does. Sobriety in Hell is a real beast, and he’s not in a place where he can make that kind of commitment right now. Charlie’s overwhelming support for his decisions no matter what does not waver in the slightest, and not for the first time, Husk considers how lucky he is—how lucky they all are—to have Charlie Morningstar at their backs.
Charlie and Vaggie head back into the staff room to wrap up their business, while Angel runs upstairs with Niff to help with a sizable mess left by one of the residents. Husk and Clyde are subsequently left on their lonesome in the bar, the former tidying up while the latter alternates between scribbling in a coloring book and watching the bartender intently. Unsettlingly, Husk can feel the boy’s eyes still on him when he turns his back, a peripheral but sharp heat on the back of his neck, like someone’s holding a match to it.
Husk likes Clyde. Whatever of Alastor’s he’s got in him, he seems to have enough goodness to balance it out—goodness of course being a subjective word, but personally, Husk thinks he’s got it. He hopes, anyway. He’s still young, and no doubt capable of future cruelty, as all young people are. But damn.
The kid’s a little creepy, he’s got to admit.
It’s late by the time Clyde opens his mouth to talk. Probably Husk should’ve sent him off to bed by now, but the thought never crossed his mind. So it’s a little past midnight when Clyde asks, “Mr. Husker?”
Husk looks over his shoulder from where he’s cleaning used shakers and jiggers with conjured-up soap and hot water. “You don’t have to call me ‘mister’, son. Just Husk is fine. What is it?”
There’s no immediate response. When Husk looks at him again, Clyde has that thoughtful, considering look back on his face.
The question that comes out of that boy’s mouth is the last thing he expects, but then, considering his blood relations, he really should expect the unexpected.
What he asks is, “Husk, are you and Papa friends?”
Huh.
Certainly Husk stares at him dumbly for a moment. He scrambles for a response and eventually settles on what he hopes is a cool, neutral “You’d have to ask him that.”
Clyde looks at his clawed hands, laid in his lap. “Oh.”
“Why do you ask?” The prince quails a little, and Husk turns to face him completely, drying his hands on a washcloth. “Clyde?”
As if weighing his options, Clyde bites his lip with his terribly sharp canines. Then he looks up, eyes almost melancholic behind his square-framed glasses, melancholic in a way no five-year-old boy’s eyes should be, but here they are. And when he looks up, Husk suddenly understands why Angel had frozen so suddenly earlier in the evening.
Clyde Morningstar looks into him.
“Because you have chains on your soul,” says the boy. “Chains that feel like my papa. And I was hoping that you were friends, because then you would be talking to me because you wanted to, and not because Papa forced you to.”
What.
Husk is speechless for a long, long moment. When he finally finds his words, all he can say is, “You—you can see them?”
Clyde nods, and just then, Husk feels something wrap around his soul. And it’s not like the feel of Alastor’s chains. It’s purple and blue-green, and it smells like a swamp in the summer, feels delicate like a firefly landing in your palm and powerful like the death roll or gruesome bite of a gator. Husk tries not to visibly startle and sees he fails in the way whatever the fuck that is retreats and Clyde looks down again, ashamed.
“Angie has chains too,” he mumbles. “From a bad, bad man.”
Naturally, Husk thinks about Clyde leaning in, asking ‘Do you like your job, Angie?’ with those wide, imploring eyes, and shivers. For some reason, this boy, perhaps as a result of being Prince of Hell or at the very least the spawn of two very powerful entities, can see the evidence of soul-binding contracts without their signatory manifesting them in the physical realm.
The weight of this hits him as he imagines the thousands, no, millions of contracts he knows exist not only in the Pride ring but in all of Hell.
“He didn’t force me to talk to you, kid,” Husk says abruptly, as the urge to reassure the little prince seizes him—how couldn’t he, when the boy looks so resigned. He snaps his fingers to get his attention, meets Clyde’s eyes as best he can. “Hey. Scout’s honor. You don’t gotta worry about that.”
He pauses. Oh, what the hell. Then, slowly, “We’re friends. You and me.”
And Husk watches as Clyde Morningstar’s scarlet eyes sparkle. “Really?”
“Sure,” agrees Husk, a smile creeping across his face at the boy’s genuine joy. It’s a small smile, but it’s real.
Clyde smiles back with that trademark Morningstar grin stretched across his face, just as the air pressure in the lobby dips and a portal opens to let Lucifer and Alastor step out of it. The two have scarcely put their feet—or rather, hooves—on the ground before their boy has bowled them both over. Lucifer gives a startled laugh and plants a kiss on the top of the boy’s head, going “I missed you too!” as Alastor scolds him in a flustered voice.
Before looking up over his son’s head. Spotting Husk at the bar. Right where he said he would be.
The bartender offers an ironic salute.
As Clyde stands up with his two parents, he notices Alastor’s staring. Husk watches the boy inch closer to his father and beckon him down to his level, where he then whispers something into one of the demon’s upright, fluffy ears while glancing over at Husk in what is quite frankly the least inconspicuous way possible.
He watches Alastor’s brow furrow before the demon straightens up to bid goodnight to the others as they come to look for the source of the commotion as if nothing happened.
When Alastor turns away, though, Clyde casts a mischievous look in Husk’s direction before following his parents upstairs.
The following day, Alastor finds him at the bar. His ears are flat against his head, and his smile is strained into something more like a grimace. Clearly, he’s not happy to be here. He sits down in his usual spot, and, with obvious trepidation, he makes a proposal.
“At the behest of my son, I would like to speak with you,” Alastor says carefully, like the words are thumbtacks in his mouth. “I’ve allowed myself to be persuaded into perhaps making some…adjustments. To our contract. So.”
He steeples his hands, all business and a vicious grin. “Shall we discuss the matter of your soul, Husker?”