Chapter Text
Angel Dust slowly and unsteadily taps his fingers together, one by one. He moves long, white, lithe appendages that hardly feel as if they belong to him– like they’re being pulled from invisible strings by a sickeningly cruel puppeteer.
As clear as if he were truly there, Angel imagines him leering and snarling miles above him, just barely out of his line of sight. The sinister smirk is hidden beneath the surrounding darkness, but Angel could make out those heart shaped glasses anywhere.
He takes a breath. Pinky to thumb, then ring finger, middle, pointer, and finally back again. There’s a thick, staticky sludge where his nerves should be. He is here, but he isn’t at the same time. His eyes slink- looking glossy, he imagines, unable to focus on any one thing for too long- to the dress on the floor of a room he feels sick calling his own, despite his name in a gold star nailed to the door.
The once pretty little article of clothing is tattered now, ripped apart for easy access. Warmth, a hot wetness, wells up into his eyes despite himself. He’s shed enough tears over this afterlife he has found himself explicitly in, knowing it to be no one’s fault but his own. He could drown himself over and over again, perhaps a hundred times, maybe even more, from the tears he has cried.
At least Valentino was now long gone, having taken what it was he wanted and then promptly seeing himself out. A quick and angry transaction: one made through perceived necessity, a reflection (or reminder) of who Angel belongs to, and where.
“You always look so pretty for me when you’re all drugged up and fucked out of it, mi dulce puta. I like you a mess.”
Which Angel found hard to believe, as there have been many shoots where the shakes and quivers and nausea from his withdrawals made Valentino cut the cameras and send everyone on a break so Angel could ‘get himself the fuck together’. Perhaps Val’s true meaning was hidden in words unsaid; shown, instead, through bites along his neck and collarbone too forceful to be pleasant, or through hands gripped too tightly, like Angel might slip away beneath his grasp if it were to loosen up even a fraction of an inch.
I like you a mess, but only for me.
In Angel’s more naive years, when the red flags were still blurred but beginning to take on an ugly shade of pink, he used to believe that (while he perhaps enjoyed it a bit more rough than Angel) the overlord was a master of intermingling the pain and pleasure. Decades into their deal together, Angel was finding that other people’s pain was Val’s own pleasure. He was horrifyingly skilled at combining the two into a sick, writhing harmony. It was a song that Angel used to be able to at least hum the lyrics to, if even under his breath. Now, the words only catch in his throat.
When it was good, it was better than sin. When it was bad, it was a reminder of what got him into the situation in the first place.
There’s still a tingling numbness radiating at the tips of his fingers, spreading behind his eyes and trailing down his legs, swarming his knees and making his feet ache. Everything was thrumming with a dull but persistent pain, the worst of it still warming between his thighs. His eyes squint and his jaw clenches against the sensation.
He considers the phone sitting haphazardly on the edge of his nightstand. A hand reaches out meagerly and even in his hazy stupor he can’t ignore the tremble in his muscles.
Angel’s hand, one of many, stops and twitches just a few inches above his phone.
A war rages on inside his brain, pounding against his skull worse than any drug bender or booze fueled wakeup call could. It rattles his temples and tilts his room. His desire to ask for help, to send a text message of distress like a man stranded on the middle of an island with nothing to keep him company aside an abyss of dark blue and chilling secrets, is a knot in his throat that threatens to strangle him. With a strength he forgot he could still possess after nights like these, slim fingers grab and grope at his desk until he is finally able to force his fingers to work.
Immediately, his lock screen is too bright for his eyes. Angel glares into it blearily, though his hardened expression softens when the image fully processes through the fog in his brain.
It’s a photo taken of himself and Cherri Bomb; a selfie that was captured easily by an extra set of arms.
Long. Thin. Always moving, expressing, showing off practiced poses and experienced maneuvers like he had been doing them forever.
Maybe he had. Maybe he only had forever, now.
They were dressed up to go to some punk rock show that was home to ravers and edgelords alike. It was a scene that tended to be more of Cherri’s world than Angel’s, but he had enjoyed his stay nonetheless.
The music was loud, the lights neon and flashing, the patrons drunk and high and moving like hungry, wriggling maggots. Angel was flipping off the camera with a grin splitting his cheeks, tongue exposed in mischievous fun. Cherri was wearing an expression twisted in devious delight, face aglow.
Suddenly, Angel feels like crying all over again.
Not so distantly, he wonders exactly how many times he has texted Cherri a distress signal. How many times had she been enjoying her existence- the best that one could hope for when trapped in an eternity in Hell, only to be startled by her best friend begging to be held back from teetering over the edge once again? Her words, what should have been a lullaby against burning ears, now a warbled cry of cruelty, ring through his head like a song he’s heard one too many times. It was a beautiful melody at first, but now it felt tarnished with overuse. He can hear her as clearly as if she was sitting on the edge of his bed before him.
I’m always gonna be here for you, Angie. I’m just a text away. I’m never too busy for my favorite bitch.
In truth, he thought himself to be the cruel one. How many text messages of hers had he missed, simply because he was too high to remember how to read, or because he was so caught up in work that every minute of his time was being dedicated to someone else? How many times had she needed him, only to receive silence in the place where a friend should have been?
He knows that he worries her. Sometimes, perhaps simply to punish himself, he’ll picture Cherri bent over her phone, pacing tracks in the worn carpet of her cheap apartment, biting her nails, chipped with black polish, down into bloody stubs as she awaits a response from Angel that will never come.
He can’t do that to her again. Not when there’s still a few bottles of liquor left below his bed, or a baggie of white bliss somewhere in this room that had probably been toppled to the floor when the drawers of his nightstand were unceremoniously yanked out.
A true friend would let her enjoy her day, blissfully unaware of what had taken place in a studio miles from her home. He owed her that much. Hadn’t he taken enough from her without offering anything in return?
The phone drops from his hand and hardly makes a noise when it falls gracefully onto the mattress. There is an ache below his back that stabs all the way up to his chest with a constant reminder of what was. To Angel’s brief benefit, it can all be drowned out.
Limbs only mildly obeying his commands, he fumbles in search for one of his various bottles of vodka that lay haphazardly about the room. Angel thinks he might have also had some pills laying around somewhere, most of which still in their bottles. The others lay askew across his vanity, and he can't find it in himself to mind the mess or worry over what capsule is what.
It is undoubtably a vicious cycle he has fallen into. Like a helpless snake being forced to chew its own tail into eternity. He smokes and snorts and drinks to get away from Valentino’s incessant demands or to combat the newfound ways the overlord discovers to toy with him, and when he runs out, he comes crawling back to the main reason he used and abused so much in the first place.
Valentino had a way of keeping Angel obedient and docile; not unlike that of a beaten dog cautiously slinking back to its owner in a desperate hope for any shred of warmth.
The feel of the bottle kissing his fingertips is relief enough to nearly knock the wind out of him. When he lifts it to his mouth, half of his upper body bending off the side of his bed like a broken twig, cracked and awkward, he is surprised he’s able to keep the liquid from splashing over the edge.
He still doesn’t have it in himself to fully sit up yet, let alone stand, so he lets the liquid burn as it slides over his tongue in large gulps. At least until he can conjure the energy to grab something stronger. Once the alcohol loosens him up and bites back some of the shakes, he’ll be on the path of betterment. Of this, Angel is certain.
It isn’t without difficulty that Husk must swallow the urge to remind an already (one can assume) aware Angel Dust that the arachnid looks like complete shit.
It’s late when Angel comes back into the hotel, nursing a limp that Husk could either chalk up to his inebriation, or a difficult time at work.
The bartender doesn’t try to pretend like he knows anything about Angel’s job or what it could possibly entail, but he wasn’t stupid enough to think it was all glitz and glamor all the time.
Of what Husk could gather, the free drugs and alcohol were as ruthlessly addicting as they were fun. Even he could partially understand and appreciate that, to some degree. But, the two demons had been part of this hotel long enough for Husk to take notice of the long nights and the haunted, far away stares that left Angel’s face disturbingly hollow when he thought no one was looking.
Husk knows himself to be surprisingly perceptive, when his vision wasn’t blurred by copious amounts of booze.
Besides, was it not a bartender’s job to listen and observe as much as it was to pour and mix drinks?
Whether from old age or as a subconscious reaction towards danger, Husk found some small comfort in routine. He liked familiarity and as a gambler, he was damn good at noticing patterns and recognizing people’s tells. Everyone has them, and the people who try to pretend that they don’t tend to reveal the most.
Perhaps that was why, when Angel more or less stumbles instead of walks back into the hotel and his eyes don’t even slide in Husk’s general direction, without so much as a miniscule twitch of his shoulder to recognize the bar's presence, Husk immediately takes notice.
There’s a coiling in his stomach that he pretends is more anger over Angel’s situation than blatant horror. It wasn’t like Angel to have a hard day- or several- at work and not even flash Husk a toothy, lopsided grin or give a weak wave before jogging to his room as quickly as he can without seeming too desperate for the reprieve.
After their brief fight and subsequent rekindling, their friendship stronger than Husk thought feasibly possible, Angel always took the time to at least offer some form of acknowledgment Husk’s way. Adding to his list of worries was the text message that, while not opened, Husk was certain must have been seen.
It was only the one, though Husk’s claws itched throughout the night to send only about one hundred more.
How’s it going, Legs?
Short, succinct, and hopefully not too outwardly suspicious. Angel had warned the hotel of his slightly longer work excursion that was, he reminded the group while holding a single finger up to silence Charlie in specific, non-negotiable. Something about a shoot finishing up with an afterparty or two (or three or four) taking place later in the evening to celebrate. Angel was the star, and he needed to be there and look pretty and play the sexy arm candy that was smart enough to hold a conversation but too dumb to think much for himself.
That had been two days ago.
Even with Angel’s head turned away and lanky frame hardly past the entryway, the ugly, purple bruise blossoming across his cheek and creeping up towards his eye was as noticeable as it could have been had a splotchy neon sign appeared, glittering on his face in the dim light. The way his lips thin and shoulders weakly hunch up towards his chin tell Husk he’d rather have the lobby to himself so he could escape to his room without the threat of anyone worrying over him.
Husk did his best to act as nonchalant about Angel’s suffering as possible, if only because anything else clearly brought Angel a discomfort that he didn’t yet have the tools to navigate. He would add the appropriate, and cathartic, “fuck that asshole” when necessary, or a bump to the shoulder and a commiserating drink.
However, the more nights Angel shows up in these sorry states, the harder it becomes to not let the stress and concern wet his words and tighten his throat.
He fears Angel would simply see that as pity, or unwarranted sympathy. Sometimes Husk wanted to stand on his toes and shake Angel by the shoulders to remind him that people care because they give a shit about him, not because they feel sorry. Whenever he imagines the scenario, it never ends the way he hopes it might.
Angel hugs the hotel wall not unlike a baby trying to take its first wobbling steps. Despite Husk distinctly remembering a hefty duffel bag of clothes and ‘necessities’ being brought to the Vee Tower, he makes a small mental note that Angel has returned with not so much as even a purse. Hopefully, that wasn’t indicative of him having to return to that building's clutches anytime soon.
Husk says something before he can think better of it, because if he waits to consider his first words to Angel upon his return, he would end up not saying anything at all.
“Must’ve been some afterparty.” He isn’t sure if it comes across as derogatory or congenial. He might just have to settle on it seeming neutral at best.
Angel finally looks Husk’s way, and the clouds in his eyes are an ugly mixture of anger and hurt. Husk knows better than to believe those feelings are all reserved for him. One of Angel’s many talents, for better or worse, was the ability to deflect.
His hair, normally big and bouncy and smooth, show strands clinging to his forehead while others reach towards the ceiling. The fluffy fur at his chest is as disheveled as Husk has ever seen it, and there’s a rumpled, off-centered nature to his clothes, like they were thrown on without much care in the dark.
Husk resists the urge to shake his head at the thought. He knows better than to assume any of Angel’s actions; past, present, or future. It wasn’t good for either one of them.
“I can’t tell if you’re bein’ a dick right now,” Angel eventually replies, voice thick with either emotion or substances, or both. He leans so heavily against the wall that Husk can't help but wonder if it's the only thing keeping him upright.
Eyes meeting, Husk can see how blown out and unfocused Angel’s pupils are. His mismatched sclera are little more than two crescent moons sitting lazily in the corners of his eyes, magenta pupils filling the large, crowded space. He was higher than a fucking kite.
Husk feels an anger turn the blood in his veins hot and is only mildly ashamed of the frustration. He knows that so much of it probably wasn’t Angel’s fault; not entirely. He could only imagine the pressure and persuasion Valentino puts on him to partake in the drugs and atmospheric party culture.
From Husk’s understanding, Angel’s boss had a problem with being told ‘no’. That thought alone was enough to fizzle out any sparking anger towards the star into a more subdued flame. Not gone-- not entirely-- but only a dull shadow of what it once was.
He had felt aggravated at Angel’s choices, of course, but above all else he found that irritation to be towards the loss of progress in Angel’s healing. He still wasn’t convinced that sinners could be redeemed (an anxious churn hits Husk’s stomach at the thought of losing Angel to redemption, and the guilt is nearly enough to send bile across his tongue– but he shoves those feelings to a place only reachable through liquor), but he saw Angel’s efforts and rooted for him in his own way.
He was rooting for him every day; not that Angel would believe it if Husk told him.
Paws reach beneath his knees behind the bar for a glass that was already clean to be cleaned again– a futile attempt to seem partially distracted. He needed to get back into magic. His sleight of hand was losing its subtlety from lack of practice. It was that, or back to counting cards, and the last attempt of his had not ended in his favor.
The rag swirls down the bottom of a glass while Husk responds, a single shoulder sprouting upwards noncommittally, “I’m guessin’ you’ve seen your fair share of dicks this weekend. I’m not trying to be another. Just trying to make conversation.”
His weak attempt at a joke falls flat even to his own ears, and he tries to keep from deflating when Angel doesn’t humor him with a pity smile. A thought brushes between his ears like a whisper against the wind.
Something happened.
He wouldn’t pry, but he might press- just a little bit. He would respect Angel’s wishes and boundaries to stay quiet if that’s what he wanted, but Husk truly believed he might feel just a fraction better if he had a bartender to talk to. Husk might not have much self worth towards the hunched, ragged reflection in his mirror who was little more than a washed up, alcoholic ex-overlord, but he knew at the very least that he was a good listener.
Angel doesn't respond back. He simply looks through Husk, at something on the shelf- or perhaps at nothing at all. Husk can't even tell if Angel wants to say something, or if his tongue is just too thick in his mouth. Immovable. Useless. Uncertain, maybe.
He clears his throat into a fist at Angel’s uncharacteristic silence.
“I, uh, sent you a text," he says and silently curses the stammer. Ultimately, he continues. It wasn't as if Angel seemed to want to offer anything.
“Don’t know if you saw it. I haven’t heard from you in awhile and then you show up looking-” Angel’s eyebrow perks up into his hairline and Husk mentally redirects. “-like you’ve been better.”
That gets a laugh out of Angel, but it’s sharp enough to cut and dripping with bitterness. “Yeah, well,” he says and spreads all four arms wide, “I have been better. So, if you’ll excuse me, I miss my bed and my pig and I’m ready to see ‘em both.”
“You don’t want a drink?” Husk asks and immediately knows it's the wrong thing to say. Maybe he was trying to help. Maybe he just didn't want to see the other go just yet.
Angel levels him with a look he isn’t familiar with but never wants to see again. It’s pinched, eyes wide in something akin to surprise while his lips press so tightly Husk wonders if it hurts his front teeth.
“Look at me,” Angel says, too soft to be a command yet too haunting to only be a request. Husk looks back as if he had ever taken his eyes off of Angel to begin with.
“Do I look like I need a fuckin’ drink?” It’s obvious he’s doing what he can to keep his voice steady with building rage, even as the words tilt and wobble at the ends. His eyes are glassy and Husk can’t tell if it's from unshed tears threatening to spill over or from the drugs. Both, possibly.
“No,” Husk replies, and he means it. Angel looks like he needs a long, hot bath and some sleep. And a new job, but that was much less likely.
Impossible promises and useless ideas lay flat on Husk’s tongue without ever touching his lips. The nature of their relationship was one that shrouded him in sticky uncertainty. He felt their closeness ever since the night they fought those club assholes together and since then, they had battled angels, lost friends, and spoken more earnestly than Husk had initially believed Angel could be capable of.
But, what did that mean? They were friends, but how far did that extend? Just how many of Angel’s walls were still holding true even after Husk’s attempts to break them down in an environment that was safe?
He isn’t sure how to help Angel in this moment, if simply listening to the others' woes isn’t sufficient. Running him a warm bath might be too intimate; he didn’t want to give Angel any suspicion that Husk’s only desire for friendship was simply in the hopes of seeing him naked.
The last thing that Angel needed, in Husk’s humble opinion, was to be left alone. But as he soaked in Angel’s appearance like it would be the last time they’d ever see one another, the searing pain buried beneath red rimmed eyes and his stance, off balance and favored to one side, was telling enough that Angel had no intentions of entertaining company.
In all fairness, he’d most likely had his fair share of unwanted proximity with others. Husk couldn’t hold it against him for wanting some solace. He just wished and wished and wished, until it hummed in his chest so loudly he could hear the rush in his ears, that Angel would accept help every now and again.
Angel’s face flashes an emotion Husk can’t read before it’s gone again. He seems to mull over what to say next, jaw flexing like he’s trying the words out in his mouth before saying them. “What do you think I need, Husk?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He did, but Angel’s inquiry sounds strangely like a test of sorts. Husk was walking on hot coals and any wrong move would end up burning them both.
He doesn’t dare look away from Angel, even if his searching, pleading eyes and blotchy bruises were making Husk feel about two feet tall. “What if you don’t like my answer?”
“And what if I do?” Angel’s quick wit and relentless ability to talk, talk, talk himself both into and out of situations was a magic all on its own that Husk would never understand. He’d be annoyed if it wasn’t somehow charming.
“You want the truth?” Twice over cleaned shot glass long since forgotten, he tosses the rag with hardly a speck of dust in its fibers on the bar. He’s acutely aware that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Methodically, what has become an easy second nature at this point, Husk acquires a bottle of whiskey. It was one of the cheaper brands, but those sting just the way he likes.
After a hearty swig from the bottle's contents, Husk feels more inclined towards honesty. Angel’s expression is unreadable, though decidedly unpleasant. There was a yearning there that appeared unmistakably heavy.
It looked like Angel could crumble into a mess of tears and limbs and running mascara if he was so much as breathed on too heavily. That wasn't to say that he was fragile, necessarily. Just battered. Worn down to a dimmed version of the light Husk knew could be blinding if he let it.
His voice is looser from the alcohol, but the undercurrent of nerves still caress every word.
“You need to sit in a fucking tub and scrub off every scratch and all the sweat and each memory of whatever john you had to put up with. Drink some water, or some of that tea that-” The name doesn’t even have to be said aloud to burn his tongue, leaking acid across his fangs and making them go alight in his mouth like dozens of small nerves, and it isn’t lost on Angel, who somehow makes himself even smaller. Husk was supposed to be helping, and he had almost brought up Pentious’ special calming tea that he used to make for the residents on anxious nights.
No one in the hotel could seem to make it quite right, despite their efforts.
“Just,” Husk backpedals and hopes it moves him forward instead of off in a ditch somewhere, “play with your pig, sit in some hot water. Hydrate and do one of those face masks, since you have about a hundred of them. Listen to your favorite music and cry or scream or sing until your throat feels raw. Put some ointment on any wound you’ve got that’s still open.”
He takes another generous gulp of liquor. The back of his hand swipes across his lips, leaving a damp trail.
“Stay away from the shit that makes you feel like garbage in the first place, and just fucking relax. You deserve it.”
A cloud comes over Angel's face.
“I deserve it,” he repeats and sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself rather than agree. Husk nods briskly.
He isn’t sure if he’s said what Angel wanted to hear or not. He doesn’t look particularly pleased, but he also isn’t throwing things or stomping up to his room, trailing expletives behind him all the while.
Several beats pass between them, neither one of them moving or saying a thing. Unsurprisingly, it’s Angel who eventually breaks the silence. His smile trembles and doesn’t come anywhere close to reaching his eyes.
“Well, Whiskers… I wish it was that simple.”
He doesn’t let Husk offer any kind of rebuttal. With a speed that could have been laughable had it been any other situation, Angel turns away and begins making the arduous journey to his bedroom. The conversation is over before it has a chance to begin, and Husk can’t help but feel that he could have said something to keep Angel with him for longer.
The space he occupied, though only for a moment, runs cold in his absence.
With booze in one hand and his phone in the other, Husk dares a glance at his texts with Angel. Through the bleary fog the alcohol was putting across his senses, he could just barely make out that his message had been read hours ago.
The door closing behind Angel is the sweetest song he has heard all night, second only to Fat Nuggets snorting appreciatively when he finally sees him. Shockingly enough, it seems that he still has some tears left to shed.
They roll down his cheeks easily in a continuous stream, making muddy black streaks across his fur. His knees buckle beneath him as a reminder that he no longer has to hide behind a facade of perfection, though he doubts he would be able to do a particularly good job of it in his current condition.
The floor takes no time to rush up and meet him, and soon Angel is sitting with his back against the door and his pet pig trotting knowingly over. Nuggets moves a gentle snout against the back of Angel’s hands, now wrapping tiredly across legs that are drawn up to his chest.
His mind is a goddamn whirlwind of relentless images and sounds he would sooner forget but knows will stick to him like sweat after a hard fuck. They always do; he has no idea how people still find him so beautiful when he knows he’s little more than a walking mosaic of every bad choice he’s ever made.
He shouldn’t have any bite left in him, let alone enough agony to turn him inside out like this and leave his insides raw and exposed. Every time his autonomy was ripped away from him, every itch for another hit, every wave of nausea rolling through his stomach has all been his fault.
It was in his own handwriting that he had signed away his soul, it was his own nose that he’d let happily bleed if it meant one more line. Whatever was forced upon him now, be it men or long nights or drug induced ecstasy, he was guilty of inviting them in, first.
He was Angel Dust; he said yes once, and that meant yes for the rest of eternity. Which was, of course, perfectly fine with him. He liked everything.
Every kink, every drug, every bit of booze his lips could graze was his favorite. Whores were good for little else, and at the very least, Angel could confidently say he was the best whore that Hell had ever seen.
It only sickens him slightly that the words reminding him of this fact were not his own. Valentino’s praises tended to largely hurt less than his disappointment.
With a sigh as heavy as the weight squeezing his chest, Angel reaches an arm towards his pet pig in a quiet, sleepy greeting. Fat Nuggets, encouraged by the attention, gives another affectionate snort and does what he can to get as close to Angel’s hand as possible.
For the first time that night, a small, wobbly smile manages to crack the hard surface of Angel’s face. The walls still have a sway to them from the drugs continuing to pump themselves through his system and the edges of Fat Nuggets takes on an unnatural shimmer, but it simply feels good— or as close to good as anything that didn’t impair his senses could get— to be in his own room, with the one creature who wanted the best for him. Angel scratches under Nuggets’ neck languidly.
“Maybe Husk was right,” he says to his pig, voice barely above that of a whispering night breeze. “Maybe I should shower and just go the fuck to sleep. Huh? Whaddya think?”
A cool snout bumping his wrist and wide eyes is his only reply. His smile gains a bit of strength.
“I think so, too. Wanna keep Daddy company while I’m in the bath? Want me to sing to you?” On nights he doesn’t want to be completely alone but can’t stand the thought of another body pressing into him, Angel finds some solace in sitting in the bathtub, lights dim and bubbles up to his shoulders, while Fat Nuggets sits patiently against the tub’s edge and listens to whatever song Angel could sleepily hum or string together.
He can't be certain, but he likes to think that it's an enjoyable time for them both.
A memory, hot and miserable, suddenly crosses his mind that he is too exhausted to swat away.
He finds himself being plagued with his own foul memories as of late; a horrible slideshow of his innumerable mistakes and poor decisions. The only other talent he possesses that doesn’t involve flashing seductive smirks for cameras that never stop rolling or drowning his sorrows even after decades of pain has to be his ability to make new and worse decisions over and over and over again.
In his mind's eye, as clear as a bad movie he couldn’t turn away from, he sees himself in the bathtub. He was sinking lower and lower as the fog in his brain gets so dense he can hardly even recall where he was. Most likely the Vee Tower, he imagines. It feels so fitting that he would find himself in Hell as a demon that resembled that of a spider. Even outside of his family ties to the mafia and their sticky web of crime, he’d done nothing but weave a web of his own torment that only an idiot like him would get caught in.
He remembers trying to bark what was probably supposed to be a laugh, only to suck in gulps of water instead of air. Instead of panic, he had simply felt a deep sense of acceptance. It was calm, almost.
It matched the swimming behind his eyes and the waterlogged nothingness between his ears. It had been an especially difficult shoot with Valentino’s rageful possessiveness following not long after, and Angel was higher than he’d been in a long time. Every pill and line he took was chased by liquid that burned less the closer he got to the bottom of the bottle.
So, he let the water slip over his head and he closed his eyes so the ceiling would stop twisting with each rippling wave.
Angel couldn’t truly place if he’d actually lost consciousness or if his memory was just fuzzy with substance abuse and time, but one moment he’d been under the water, and the next he was on his side against the cold tile of the bathroom floor, choking and coughing until his nose and throat burned in protest.
Charlie sat above him, tears running in steady rivulets down her cheeks while she hurriedly cried instructions that sounded foreign and garbled to Angel’s dulled senses. Her presence told him that he was at the hotel instead of work, which was a distant, albeit warming, relief.
He didn’t have the wherewithal nor the shame to find it in himself to be embarrassed that she was seeing him naked. She had probably seen all of him that day that she could come to the studio in the hopes of getting him time away from work, and it wasn’t as if he wasn’t plastered all over Hell, anyway. There was no reason to suddenly start feeling shy.
As Charlie later explained it, when the high was only a thudding against his temples and a turning of his stomach, Fat Nuggets had heard (or perhaps even been splashed by) the water as Angel slipped under, and had run into the lobby, soaking wet and showing obvious distress. The Princess had pulled Angel from the tub and sat with him as he threw up, which he only vaguely remembered.
Afterwards, she had laid him in bed and gotten him a glass of water, which he did not remember at all.
The next day, Vaggie only caught his eye to shoot him a dangerous glare. He didn’t even try to look in Husk’s direction.
He shakes the memory from his head so violently that it makes his room tilt on its side for half of a second. Nuggets oinks in what Angel thinks is a way to pull him back to the present, and he pats the pig’s head in quiet appreciation.
“Right. Sorry, Baby. You’re right. I better get cleaned up and go to bed.”
And, he thinks with a grimace, I better make it quick.
Afterall, he still had to go to work the next day.
He steps into the bathroom, eyes down, avoiding the mirror. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. He already knows what he’ll see.