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By the time the neon sign outside Husk’s bar had begun to hum, the night had already melted into its usual haze of amber glass and cigarette smoke. Lute moved through it like a fragment of light through a window, her white hair a blur every time she leaned past the counter to wipe a ring of spilled alcohol. The bar had been half-full for hours, laughter snagged against the low ceiling like cobwebs.
Husk watched her from his stool behind the register, wings tucked tight, eyes half-lidded. “Ya missed a spot.” he said, tapping his claw on the counter. He jokes, it doesn't land.
“I didn’t.” Lute replied flatly, but she wiped it again anyway.
“Perfectionist.” he muttered. The word was less an insult and more an observation made out of habit, the way one notes the weather.
The rhythm between them had settled into something quiet and workable. Husk poured, Lute fetched, they both pretended not to notice when she froze at sudden noises. A glass breaking, a voice too sharp— and he adjusted the jukebox volume a notch lower. He never mentioned it, and she never thanked him. That was their unsaid agreement.
Angel Dust arrived just after nine, glitter trailing behind him like a comet. “Evenin’, losers!” he sing-songed, sliding onto a barstool. “Husky, baby~, pour me somethin’ strong before I lose my buzz.”
“Lose it faster,” Husk said. He reached for a bottle anyway.
Angel propped his chin on his hand, eyes flicking toward Lute. “And what’s our favorite fallen bird-brain up to? Still servin’ drinks with all that... heavenly poise?”
Lute’s jaw tightened. “Still tolerating sinners with all my grace.” she answered, voice clipped but even.
“Ooh, feistyyyy!” Angel grinned, “She’s learnin’, Husk. Give her another week, and she’ll be tellin’ dirty jokes with the rest of us.”
“God forbid.” Husk muttered. He slid Angel’s drink across the counter, and Angel caught it with a wink.
For a few minutes, the bar felt almost light. Angel teased, Husk barely amused it, and even Lute allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch up once— a rare, startled thing that vanished as soon as she noticed it. When Angel finally sauntered out, promising to come back “with more charisma and fewer pants,” the silence left behind felt softer than usual.
Husk wiped a glass, eyes flicking to Lute. “He means well.” he said.
“I know.” She stacked empty bottles, careful and methodical. “It’s easier when I pretend he doesn’t.”
Husk’s mouth twitched. “’s fair.”
The door opened again around ten. Vaggie stepped in, coat still damp from the drizzle outside, silver hair catching the light. She hesitated at the threshold, and Lute stilled mid-movement. For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
“Charlie’s paperwork is done,” Vaggie said finally, voice careful. “She wanted to make sure you got dinner, if you haven’t already.”
“I’ll eat later.” Lute answered. Her tone tried for neutrality and missed by a fraction, Husk heard the crack beneath it. Vaggie surely did too. Lute hated the way she could be dissected upon being viewed.
Vaggie crossed to the counter anyway. “You shouldn’t skip meals.”
Husk set down the glass he was drying. “I’ve been tellin’ her the same thing,” he said, low but firm.
Lute shot him a glance, not angry, just wary, and then looked back at Vaggie. “You used to skip them too.” she murmured.
The words hung there. Vaggie’s expression softened, some old ache flickering behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she agreed, gentle, “And I shouldn’t have.”
They stood in silence for a moment. An entire history compressed into the space between their breaths. Then Vaggie reached out, fingers brushing Lute’s wrist, a gesture as brief as it was brave. “Take care of yourself.” she said quietly, amd then turned to leave.
“Goodnight.” Lute managed past her lips.
“Night.” And the door closed behind her, leaving the smell of rain and things unsaid.
Husk whistled under his breath. “You two got books of conversation in five words, Christ.”
“She was always better at talking than I am.” Lute said. She started wiping the same clean section of counter again.
“Yeah,” Husk said, “but you’re tryin’. That’s somethin’.”
The next hour slid by in usual rhythm. Lute worked silently, and Husk didn’t press. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, the kind that promised a heavy storm later. Inside, the dim light painted everything gold and tired. Then the door opened again.
The man who stepped in wasn’t a regular. Broad shoulders, deep voice, the kind of presence that filled a room without needing to try. “Whiskey.” he said, dropping a handful of coins on the counter. His gaze caught on Lute, lingering moments too long. “Didn’t think they let exorcists near liquor.”
Lute froze. Her hands twitched toward each other, her cleaning rag clutched like a vice. Husk’s eyes narrowed.
“She’s staff,” Husk said evenly. “Ya want a drink, ya keep it civil.”
The man snorted. “Wasn’t talkin’ to you.”
Lute’s throat worked, miraculously. “It’s fine,” she whispered, though it wasn’t. Every syllable from the man landed like static under her skin, electric and familiar in the worst way. “I can handle—”
“No,” Husk said, voice low. “Ya don’t have to.”
The man leaned forward, grin curling. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Forgot how to follow orders?”
Something in Lute cracked. The rag hit the counter. She moved before she thought, a flash of motion, hand gripping the edge of the counter as if she could steady the tremor in her chest by holding on. “You don’t speak to me,” she said, voice but sharp. “You don’t know me.”
Husk’s wings flared slightly, a warning shadow across the bar. “Ya heard her. On the house if ya leave, right now.”
The man looked from one to the other, scoffed, and muttered something under his breath before turning toward the door. When it slammed shut, the sound echoed like a gunshot. Lute’s breath hitched. She stayed standing for a moment, rigid, then slid down to sit on the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to her chest. Her hands shook.
Husk didn’t reach for her. He crouched beside her instead, close enough for her to know he was there. “He’s gone,” he said quietly. “You’re safe.”
She nodded without looking up. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate that I still—” Her voice broke. “—react like that.”
“Yeah,” Husk said after a pause. “That kinda thing sticks. Doesn’t mean you’re weak.”
Silence again. The hum of the neon sign outside. Lute’s breathing slowly steadied.
After a while, Husk stood and offered her a hand. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll close up. Place could use a reset.”
She hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm, grounding. She rose, wiped her face on her sleeve, and exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Ever.”
They cleaned in near silence after that, the only sound the soft clink of bottles and the storm finally breaking outside. When the last stool was turned upside down on the counter, Husk dropped onto the battered couch in the corner, wings stretching with a creak of tired joints. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.
Lute hovered nearby, uncertain. Then she noticed the bent feathers near the base of his wings, uneven and dull. “...You haven’t preened?” she said.
Husk blinked at her. “I haven’t— what?”
“Your wings,” she explained softly. “They’re neglected.”
He snorted. “Didn’t know they came with maintenance instructions.”
“They do,” she said, and before he could object, she sat behind him on the couch, careful and deliberate. Her fingers brushed through the feathers, smoothing, untangling. The motion was methodical. For a long time, neither spoke. The rain drummed against the windows as steady as a heartbeat.
Finally, Husk said, “Ya used to do this?”
“Yes,” Lute murmured, “With Vaggie. It was… different, then.”
He nodded slowly. “Bet it was.”
Her hands paused. “She was gentle,” she said, “I didn’t know how to be.”
“You’re learnin’.” Husk replied.
Lute smiled faintly. Small, tired, but real. “So are you.”
For a while, the only sounds were the rain and the soft rustle of feathers under Lute’s hands. Husk sat still, a little wary at first, then gradually letting his shoulders sink back into the couch. It had been a long time since he’d let anyone this close. The room smelled faintly of ozone and spilled whiskey, and through the rain-fogged window, the neon letters of the sign outside stuttered to life and death and back again.
Lute worked quietly, careful not to tug. She’d done this hundreds of times before in another life, under bright, sterile light, where tenderness had to hide itself inside duty. Her touch now was slower, almost human.
“Ya don’t have to do all that,” Husk said after a while, voice gravel low. “’m not exactly the molting type.”
She huffed a small breath that could have been a laugh. “They hurt when they’re neglected. You just ignore it.”
He tilted his head, eyes half-closing. “Ya got me there.”
The quiet stretched between them again, but it wasn’t the awkward kind, it was the kind that asked to be left alone. Lute felt the warmth from his back seeping through her palms, steady and alive, and for the first time that night her pulse wasn’t trying to climb out of her throat.
“I used to think,” she said finally, “that love was supposed to hurt. That if it didn’t, it wasn’t real.”
Husk’s tail flicked once. “Yeah,” he said. “Lotta people get taught that.”
“I keep forgetting it isn’t true,” she said. “Even now.”
He turned just enough to look at her over his shoulder. His expression was calm, a little sad around the edges. “Ya don’t gotta forget,” he said. “Ya just gotta learn somethin’ different.”
Lute let her hands fall to her lap. “That sounds harder.”
“It is,” Husk said. “But you’ve got time.”
She stared at the floor, at the thin film of dust that the mop had missed. “Sometimes I think I don’t deserve time.”
“Join the club.” He leaned back, wings settling against the couch again. “Ya still breathe. ’S the membership fee.”
That startled another quiet laugh out of her, “You really think so little of mortality.”
“I think,” he said, “that bein’ alive’s what you do between bad nights.”
Lute folded her arms on the back of the couch and rested her chin there. The neon outside cast them both in flickering rose and blue. For the first time in weeks, the hum in her chest didn’t feel like panic; it felt like noise she could live with.
“You should let me fix the rest tomorrow,” she said, nodding toward his wings. “They still look… unruly.”
He smirked, “Nicest insult I’ve heard all week.”
Her eyes softened. “You don’t make it easy to compliment you.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, “neither do you.”
That earned him the faintest smile. She stood, stretching the stiffness from her legs, and moved to gather the empty bottles they’d left on the counter. The storm had blown itself out, leaving only the dripping of the eaves and the hush of cooling air. Husk rose to help, though she waved him off.
“Ya handled tonight better than most would’ve,” he said.
Lute paused, bottle in hand. “Meaning?”
“After that guy,” Husk said. “Ya froze. Then ya came back. That’s what matters.”
“I hate that it happens at all.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But it ain't failure.”
She turned that over in her head while she worked. The word failure had always been the easiest hook to hang her thoughts on; he made it sound smaller, something she could step over.
When everything was finally put away, the bar looked almost clean. Lute leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You’ll be here again tomorrow?”
“Like a bad habit,” Husk said. He reached for his umbrella. “Ya should try to get some sleep before dawn. Hotel’s quieter then.”
She nodded. “Goodnight, Husk.”
He hesitated at the door, looked back once. “Night, Lute.”
After he left, she stood alone in the soft buzz of the empty bar. The neon sign outside sputtered again, painting the bottles on the shelf in thin stripes of color. She let herself imagine, just for a second, that the sound of the rain starting up again was applause. Small, distant, but real.
Then she turned out the lights.