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The worst part of living with Val?
The boredom, at least this go around.
Sure, there's the abuse, the borderline torture, the yelling, the fighting, and the fucking – sometimes all of them at once – but mostly, it's just Val being Val.
Then again, maybe anyone can get accustomed to anything. Angel suffers, he cries, he screams and self-destructs, and it's all just another Tuesday. His hurt is practically a marketable skill, top of his resume. The pain is mostly dulled at this point, and all Angel feels is bored to tears.
He left Val the first time for Nugg's sake, so he left him at the hotel when he came back. Charlie is a softie; he's sure she won't let him come to harm. KeeKee loves the little guy, and God knows she can't resist a cute animal.
And he can't see Cherri for. Obvious reasons.
His whole world is just so small now. It's shrunk just to Val, pleasing Val, sex with Val, getting fucked on camera while Val watches, listening to Val vent about Vox for the millionth fucking time like he was the most affected by all of Vox's bullshit–
Anyways. All of his previous outs are no-go's. Who'd have thought that the eternal life of Hell's favorite pornstar could be so fucking boring?
Sure he's not really clean anymore – that ship has pretty much sailed, but even a high can get dull, especially without his girl-buddy by his side.
Mostly he takes some of his namesake, some coke when he has to be on camera, and smokes a joint or two to sleep and hurt less. Maintenance more than fun because he knows just how bad the path forward is if he doesn't. Between withdrawals and enduring Val's wrath for not being "on" enough or for puking his guts out or whatever the fuck, he's not eager to try going clean for a reprise of his botched redemption arc.
The one thing lessening the monotony is that Val's the new face of the Vees. He's struggling to rebrand and expand, and thus he's switching up Angel's job with every passing week. The core hasn't changed so much, but he's doing more and more random, one-off gigs. Half the time, Angel has no clue what the fuck he was promoting or doing somewhere, and he doesn’t really care to find out.
So when Val tells him he's booked a client for the night and to dress classy, he has to steel himself from shaking. Last time Val said that, well–
Some moments separate your life into a before and an after. Before he gave up his soul, and after. Before he found the hotel, and after. And in this case, before he walked into that motel room with Vox behind the door and after.
But he's paid to shut up and take it, so he does. His old schedule has been blown to bits anyways, so there's no point in guessing whether this is meant as a punishment or a reward or just a plain old money grab. With Val, could be anything.
"Amorcito...." Val croons from the doorway of Angel's dressing room.
Speak of the devil, and he will appear. Or some shit.
Whatever.
"Hey Val," he replies. He watches himself in the mirror as his abuserloverpinpboyfriendexrapist boss stands behind him. Valentino traces his cheeks with soft hands, smiles at him in the mirror.
Angel has learned to appreciate the sides of Val he gets, even when it makes him a bit nauseous to do so. Valentino is his whole world now, and thus his desires have shrunk to pleasing Val (or at least he tells himself he has, when he's alone in his room, flying high enough to open the box in his mind he never allows himself to touch without being three sheets to the wind, all he sees is golden eyes).
So the rule is Angel likes it when Val touches him, likes when he pays attention, likes Val being there. It doesn't matter what his mind yells at him, the way his skin crawls. He always likes it and thus he can't be hurt.
"You getting all dolled up?"
"Well the client is always right, right Val?"
Valentino, for his part, takes a long drag on his cigarette, and with his exhale, crimson smoke caresses Angel.
"It doesn't suit you," Val says absently. "This look, this–you belong to the streets, Angie."
"Thought I belonged to you Daddy," Angel replies, and accepts the yank, the bites, the tongue down his throat and the world going blurry at the edges. This is his life, no point in getting upset over it.
"Don't forget yourself, amorcito," Valentino says softly when he pulls away. "We don't need a repeat performance."
Val's been weird ever since all the shit went down. From what Angel's been able to piece together, Val didn't take kindly to how roughly Vox played with his toys.
One night, when he was too high to move and Val thought he was blacked out, he cried and rocked them both, saying he was sorry, that he wouldn't let Vox ever touch what's his again.
He doesn't try to keep up with what passes for logic to Val. He likes hurting Angel but doesn't like seeing him hurt. He can do anything he wants to Angel, but if anyone else does, hell hath no fury. Hits him upside the head at least once per day, would swear on his mother's grave he never laid a hand on Angel that wasn't deserved.
Some of it is probably just gaslighting, but Angel distantly recalls Val cradling his hand as Vox and Velvette dressed him to address the Pentagram. Held it almost like a certain winged kitty a day later, begging him to stay. What's real to Val, what he knows is manipulation, it's an exercise in futility to try to decipher. Val exists to hurt him and he exists to be hurt; the rest is all set dressing he's not paid enough or sober enough to understand.
"We're meant for each other, right baby?" says Val. He holds his chin firmly, making Angel look him in the eyes. He's more desperate these days, even though he won. Wants more reassurance, needs to crush Angel into submission like he cannot accept Angel's already kneeling at his feet. "You belong here. You are mine, you don't belong with anyone else. Right?"
"Yes, Val," Angel dutifully replies.
Val kisses him fiercely and Angel allows him. He'll be late, but Val doesn't take denial well even on a good day, and he seems especially volatile recently.
At this point, it's beyond Angel why he even pimps Angel out when he so clearly hates giving up control. All he can figure is that the whole Angelic weapon debacle cost a shit ton of money and Val is using his best moneymaker to make up the difference.
Val pulls him out of his chair, throws him to his knees, holds his head up and against the wall with his top set of hands, unzips his fly with his other. Angel opens his mouth and leaves his body.
In his head, he thinks of the lounge of the hotel. Nuggs was allowed a bed there; he imagines him still there. He used to be nervous allowing others around him but he's learned that his little hellhog is quite fierce when he wants to be. Even if the hotel is filled with strangers now that redemption is proven possible, he knows his baby can take care of himself.
He's draped across Cherri's lap, and they're making catty comments to one another as they catch sight of each other's text messages. Alastor lurks in the shadows while Nifty hunts bugs with her needle relentlessly. Across the room, Charlie is a loveable spaz and Vaggie (he wonders if she ever did pick that new name) watches her with the softest half smile, KeeKee curled up in her lap.
There's someone missing, but he doesn't allow himself to think of him. He's seen him bored, angry, annoyed, scared, manic, even happy a few times, but he's never seen him sad like he did when he left.
The guilt eats at him, thinking of Husk so curled up, ears pressed against his head, wings drooping. Watching the light vanish from his eye may be the worst thing he's ever seen and that's not an easy list to top.
So he doesn't allow himself for Husk to populate the fantasy. Maybe he's running errands or just at the bar or napping in his room but regardless, Angel can't picture him without feeling his eyes sting and throat begin to close.
He makes it comfortable but not emotional. Just one of those dozens of afternoons he spent lounging, taking it all for granted.
Distantly, he feels the pain in his throat, knows he's struggling for air, blood trickling gently from his mouth, but in his mind's eye the rhythmic thumps are simply the light thwacks of KeeKee's tail.
Afterwards, Angel reapplies his lipstick. His mascara and eyeliner are extra waterproof, the whore special, unless the client wants otherwise. Some like to watch his mascara run before they make him bleed, see him ruined at the altar of their fragile masculinity.
But tonight said classy and pretty, and he's nothing if not down to serve a fantasy.
He takes a cab over, checking his makeup in the car. When they arrive, he tips the caddy (Val never covers tips on his card) and shoves the compact back in his fluff.
The lobby of this place is nice, nicer than the likes of Angel, in life or in death, but Angel is adept at fitting things in that aren't meant to fit. And if that thing just so happens to be him, well, so be it.
He does appreciate the chance to look beautiful, even if it's just at the behest of a client. He loves looking slutty too, but he also appreciates the elegance of an evening gown. His gown of choice tonight is a dream in soft pink satin and pearls. Not too tight, not too poofy, just accentuating his natural silhouette rather than creating a new one from scratch. Draped sleeves falling off his shoulder and an elongated waist, he feels real for the first time in months.
He needs to check his phone to see which room the client booked for them, but he hates pulling out his phone these days. He still needs it, but it scares him, knowing how it was used against him and that he never even noticed. That it could be used against him again at any moment and he would never know. That Vox could be making him into his own personal puppet, and not only will he not notice, no one around him will notice either.
So he breathes through it. Tells himself Vox has very little power over him these days, that he's basically a fucking IPad at the moment, that it doesn't matter because he's meeting a john anyway and there's no reason Vox would interfere with their best whore's money-making.
He yanks it out, and anticlimactically, no new messages. He scrolls through, finds the room number (714) and takes the elevator up. It's blessedly empty and he takes the moment to psych himself up, to fully situate himself as Angel Dust.
Too soon, he stands outside the door and knocks firmly. With no response, he gently opens the door with a drawn out “evenin’ handsome.”
"Hey there Legs."
And his heart stops.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he knows it's Husk sitting on the bed but he can't bring himself to face him. He stares at the ground like it owes him money. His throat suddenly aches, choking on the words he cannot make himself spit out.
"Been a while, huh?"
"How long?" He grits out.
"Truth be told, been too fuckin' drunk to tell up from down most days. One day, I looked up, and the princess had put up a fuckin' Christmas tree. Dunno whether she's makin’ the hotel celebrate Christmas, Sinsmas or something else but I thought of you." Husk says. He's not looking at Angel either, reclining back and addressing a fixed point in the wallpaper.
"Figured you finally get a turn in?" Angel bites, but Husk doesn't rise to the bait.
"Just remembered you sayin' how you didn't get much time off, livin' with Val before. Doubt it's much different now."
"So?"
"So, if you want, I'll leave. Room's paid for, I paid upfront, night is yours Angel. It ain't much, it ain't your soul or your freedom or anything good like that, I can't give that to ya, can't give you what I don't have myself. But I can give you a night without hands crawling all over you, a night to yourself. All I feel good givin' you for the holidays if you're livin' at the tower."
Angel just sorta deflates at that. It's clear from Husk's tone he's loath to leave Angel but Angel trusts he will if needed. He knows Angel has a million nos left unheard and unsaid, and he won't be another name in that list miles and miles long. It's why he left him in the first place. A boundary is a boundary, even if it's one he clearly hates. If he tells Husk to beat it, he won't say no, won't try to change his mind. His face will fall and his ears will droop but he will leave.
Angel occasionally hates that about Husk, truth being told although he'd never say it aloud.
He's so rarely allowed autonomy day to day. Val makes his decisions, if he chooses the wrong thing, Val corrects him. When Angel screams at Val, he's choked out. Sometimes it's even soft, just “amorcito, you said this was okay, remember? It's not my fault you're just addict trash baby, just listen to Daddy, he'll remember what your empty little brain forgets.”
Sometimes he thinks he's been wholly hollowed out by the expectations and desires of his family, Val, clients, even the hotel and if he were to peel back the layers of masks, there would be nothing left. Angel Dust is a construction of all those with a claim to him and Angel has the flimsiest one of all. After all, he's the one with the penchant for self destruction, for pushing everyone away.
So when Husk takes a no without pushing, Angel used to think it meant he didn't care. Valentino loves him enough to decide for him, to tell him his no doesn't matter, to do what's best for him.
Husk loves quieter. He won't tell Angel what to do, take or leave a few passive-aggressive jabs. But sometimes, when Angel is fully off his rocker, he dreams of being owned by Husk. He doesn't know any other way to love, always returning with a scream that Husk never reciprocates.
Maybe if he was on Husk's chain, though, he'd have a chance. He'd trust Husk with his soul, more than he would himself. Even knowing Husk was just as much of a goddamn loser too to sell his soul in the first place, even knowing he was once an Overlord and no one climbs the hierarchy of Hell with kindness. Even knowing all of that, if he still had a soul to give, he'd let Husk cradle it between his two oversized paws.
For months, he has indulged in every vice, destroyed himself in every way known to man (and plenty not yet known to them for that matter). He has denied himself nothing, all seeking to fill this endless void within himself.
The right thing to do would be to walk away, keep Husk safe even as he broke his kitty's heart all over again. But mark Angel down as one selfish and stupid bastard because once he looks at that handsome face, he's believing the lie he always falls for, that there is something that could fill that yawning void inside him and he's looking at it.
He allows himself to sit on the bed, as far apart from Husk as possible.
“Nah, you can stay. It'll be my Christmas gift to ya. Been a good boy this year, Whiskers?”
“Dunno. Mostly failed the people I was ‘sposed to protect I think.”
Angel lies back, stares up at the ceiling.
“I know ‘bout that,” he replies.
“Two losers, huh?”
And Angel can't help but grin at that.
“You ain’t lookin’ so good these days, Legs.”
“Fuck off Husky,” He says, sitting up. “You know as well as I do I look fuckin’ flawless.”
“Makeup's cakeier, like when you're tryin’ to cover up a bruise. Lost weight, when ya ain't got anythin’ more than skin and bones to lose in the first place.” Husk draws in a long breath and releases it methodically, like he's smoking a cigar. “You don't smile anymore.”
“I smile really pretty when I need to.”
“You ain’t happy anymore.”
“It's Hell baby, no one's happy. Anyone who is is tweakin’ out, sellin’ something or fucking delusional.”
“Funny, a couple a years ago, I'd a’ said the same thing,” muses Husk.
“Something change?” He asks.
“Guess I found something to keep livin’ for.”
“What, cheap booze?” Angel snarks back but Husk doesn't match his energy. He sits, serene and sad and so far away even though Angel could reach over and touch him.
When it becomes clear he's not elaborating, Angel switches gears.
“I get that, kinda. Nuggs–” he chokes on the name but pushes past it. “I never would have left without him. Some days, I only got outta bed cause someone had to feed him.”
“He's one lucky pig to end up with you. Lucky to have someone like you to take care of him.”
Angel scoffs loudly, but Husk presses forward gently.
“Guess I just wonder, with someone so good takin’ care of him, who takes care of his mama?”
“I don't need anyone to take care a me, asshole,” Angel bites back.
“I don't doubt it,” Husk responds evenly. “But I'm here anyway. I'll go when you say, I'll wait as long as you need. But I'm here, an’ I'm not goin’ anywhere.”
And it's been months since Angel heard a kind word from anyone but Valentino, and his throat hurts, and he tastes blood, and he feels dozens of bruises and cuts erupting beneath his fur, and his high is wearing off and through it all he's just been so godammned fucking lonely he could scream, and he just breaks.
He cries like falling asleep, a drop, a trickle, then all at once, an overwhelming wave sweeping you under. Husk touches a tentative paw to his shoulder and taking that as permission, Angel buries himself in Husk’s chest. Husk holds him back just as tight.
The way Husk holds Angel is unlike the weight of his costars, the constraint of Val. Husk is plush and soft where they are muscled and firm. When he burrows into Husk's chest, the soft swell of his belly presses into him. Everywhere he nestles, the soft warmth of Husk yields to him. He could get lost in the feeling, enveloped by soft plush fur, cuddled into a soft plush belly, and surrounded by the scent of cheap booze and expensive cologne, cigarettes and coffee and underneath it all, something wholly Husk.
Slow and steady, Husk rocks Angel. His purr, that rumble he always tries so hard to mask, surrounds Angel, feeling it vibrate Husk's chest gently, warble through his throat and hold him just like Husk's arms are.
"Come home, baby."
"Don't wanna," comes his choked reply.
Tears sting his eyes, Husk gently thumbs them away.
"Why not?"
"Cause. Cause then I won't leave. Leavin' you once broke my heart. Seeing you hurt like that. Can't look at Nuggs an' tell him Mama is never comin' home again." He gasps for air, chokes on it. "I'll get used to the good. And it'll hurt so much worse when I gotta go back and–"
"And?" Husk gently prompts.
"And if I'm wrong. Then it was all for fuckin' nothing."
"What do ya mean?"
"I ain't seen Vox in months. Val's runnin' the show now. Don't know what they'd even have me rattin' on the hotel for now. An’ I just. I walked away. Trying to be better for my new family and–And if I coulda come home MONTHS ago–!" He cuts himself off with a pained whimper. So many, too many ways to finish that sentence.
Then it was all for nothing.
Then I went back for nothing.
I let Val hurt me and fuck me and r–
For nothing.
I could have always come back.
Then I broke your heart for nothing.
He looks up at Husk, gazing at Angel with a softness he could never deserve. Husk looks at him with such tenderness sometimes, like he's the one who doesn't deserve to be looking at Angel, touching Angel. Like a man freezing on the streets looks at a blazing fireplace, both desperately wanting and with such horrible resignation, knowing it will never be for him.
“Baby,” Husk says softly. “You can't do that to yourself. You tried somethin’ an’ maybe it didn't work. Hotel's still there. That pig of yours is still waitin’ for his mama to come home. Maybe it ain't today, but we'll still be there when you're ready.”
Angel can't bring himself to respond, words warring and tangling in his throat and on his tongue. Husk doesn't push him, just pulls him closer and hums a soft tune under his breath. They just sit there for a moment, holding one another, time passing slow and sweet as molasses.
Angel looks up at Husk and feels a smile tugging at his lips when Husk gives him his signature half-grin. He strokes Husk's cheek, prompting an involuntary mrrp out of him and Angel laughs for the first time in he can't remember how long.
“Take me home, kitty-cat,” he allows and Husk grins like he just won the bet of a lifetime.
The two of them leave hand in hand, Angel clinging on for dear life and Husk matching him beat for beat.
Mercifully, the hotel is empty when they arrive because as much as he's missed everyone, Angel can't barely handle his own barrage of emotions. Add anyone else’s on top of that shitstorm and he's just as likely to burst into tears as turn on his heel and never come back.
Husk guides them to his room, as if sensing Angel feels too fragile to confront everything he left behind. The room reeks of spilled alcohol and tobacco and weed but Angel welcomes it with open arms. He flops onto the (mostly clean) bed as Husk hurries to tidy.
At first, he thinks he's imagining a soft snuffling sound like he has for months now. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of emotion until he feels the slight dip of the bed and four tiny hooves scrambling up his torso, small oinks filling the room.
He sits up, letting Nuggs launch himself into his arms as he squeezes the hellpig, tears stinging his eyes.
“I'm so sorry baby, Mama is sorry. I'm never ever ever gonna leave you again I'm sorry I'm so sorry–” he mumbles into Nuggets’ short fur until he chokes on a sob he's been holding in his chest and can't say anything. He just cries, and Fat Nuggets burrows into him, like he needs proof Angel is really here, like he's seeking a new home between his ribs, nestled against his heart. The guilt he's kept at bay for months bubbles up in his chest, erupting with each nuzzle and snort. A tide of self-loathing threatens to pull him under, but then Husk settles behind them both and Angel crashes into him instead.
There will be fights to come, crashes and burnouts and spirals of self loathing, anger and bitterness and grief at all he's lost, what they've both lost. Angel isn't ready to face Charlie, or Cherri, or Val when he inevitably has to go back to work. Nothing is really fixed.
But as Nuggets settles in his lap and Husk's purr rumbles against his back, he knows he is home, and tomorrow, a new year dawns.