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“The fuck is this?”
Angel smiles behind his drink, like Husk couldn’t see that grin from miles away.
The bottle in his hands is weighty, and he has to read the label twice to be sure he’s holding what he thinks he is; he hasn’t seen this liquor in decades.
It’s one from Beelzebub’s personal stock; private, small-batch whiskey. Honey-flavored and decadent, the envy of any Sinner forbidden from getting their hands on it.
Husk hasn’t talked to Bee in years; hard to get ahold of the Sins, when they’re under the impression you’ve been torn apart. And most of them won’t come up to Pride, not since his high-roller games had been cut short by him losing everything.
Angel tips his head at him, looking smug. “Ran into a showbiz friend of mine out ‘n about,” he says, sipping his drink. “Retired from the biz recently, but he’s got…connections with the Sins. I asked nicely. Queen Bee sends her regards.”
So she does. The scribbled sharpie on the bottle says Husk, you BITCH in Bee’s familiar scrawl. With a heart.
Well. The Sins will know where to find him now. He’s unsure how to feel about that.
He side-eyes Angel. “Your friend wouldn’t happen to have connections with Asmodeus, would he?”
Angel puts a hand to his forehead, acting like he’s about to swoon. “Ya mean the King ‘a Lust himself?” he says. “He might, that lucky little imp.”
“Hmm,” Husk hums, still turning the bottle in his hands. “Ozzie hasn’t been upstairs in awhile. Wonder if he knows about that Love Potion bullshit of Velvette’s. Could ask that friend of yours.”
“Maybe. I can’t believe you’re on first-name basis with the Sins,” Angel says, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass absently.
Husk twists the bottle open. No day but today, after all. “You ate breakfast with the King of Hell this morning,” he points out, fishing for a pair of lowballs under the bartop. “Ya told the Princess of Hell that she needs to replace her mascara because it’s gone clumpy. How’s me knowin’ the Sins years ago impressive?”
He gives them both a healthy pour, and slides Angel a lowball. Angel tosses back the remainder of his first drink, looking thrilled. “I got that for you,” Angel says. “Ya don’t gotta share.”
Husk just nudges the glass towards him. “The fuck ya smuggling me booze for, anyway?”
“Felt like it,” Angel says. “I don’t pay rent here, and since I been usin’ less, I’m spendin’ less. Had some extra cash.”
Husk levels him with a look over his own glass. He could go after that like a dog with a bone; Angel might be high-dollar in profit, but everyone in the Hotel knows he almost never sees a dime of it. Whatever he does to supplement his income, they look the other way so long as he doesn’t come home bloody.
Him having extra cash doesn’t happen.
And he shouldn’t be spending what he’s got on Husk’s worthless ass.
But what’s done is done, and with that first sip, Husk can practically hear the slots running back at Magic Kat; Bee had always brought him a bottle as a gift. The Sin of Gluttony wasn’t above a little bit of high-class bribery, after all.
She’d always bemoaned his Sinner form not being closer to one of her Hellhounds.
“Mam thinks you’re one of his,” she’d say, jutting her thumb back at Greed. “But you and I know you’re one of mine, pussycat.”
Husk had liked her better than he’d liked Mammon, so he’d never bothered to argue.
“Shit,” Angel murmurs, staring down into his glass. “No wonder this was such a pain in the ass to get.”
Husk hums in agreement. “Thanks,” he says, and he hopes that he’s put as much gratitude into it as it deserves. Angel didn’t have to do this for him. “Tastes like better times.”
It’s quiet in the lobby between them; things left unsaid sit on the polished bartop, ignored and growing cold. Husk isn’t sure if this booze is supposed to be some sort of fucked up apology on Angel’s part; he’s right when he says he doesn’t need Husk to save him.
He’d come back to the Hotel on his own, just like Cherri said he would.
Doesn’t stop Husk from feeling goddamned useless about it.
He’s not worth saving.
But Angel is.
He knows some of the secrets that lurk in those mismatched eyes, the things that haunt Angel six drinks deep and hours after a shoot. Not all of them; Angel’s got more to him than just about anybody suspects, and Husk’s made a study of collecting what he can, when Angel’s willing to share.
His sister’s not down here, and Angel wouldn’t wish on pain of death that she was. But Husk knows how desperately he wants to broach the subject with Cherri, to ask Pentious to try finding her upstairs.
“Twins,” Angel had told him once, grin hazy in the late night. “An’ Molls got the looks and the brains. What was left for me, I ask ya.”
Husk would argue that it’d clearly been split down the middle, but he knows when Angel won’t hear a word that even sounds sort of like a compliment. Not even from Husk. And he’d been too miserable that night to even sugar his smile, swaying on the barstool as he fiddled with his empty glass.
Husk can’t fathom how someone so desperate to share his love with anyone who would look twice ended up down here; Angel’s jaded, and guarded, and so full of love he can’t cram down with four hands that he’ll dump it on anyone who so much as asks about his day.
He’d know; Husk is the one who asks about his day.
And now here he is, proud owner of liquor he doesn’t deserve to taste let alone have his name scribbled across the bottle, splitting it with the man who risked punishment to get it to him.
Husk doesn’t know what to do with that.
He doesn’t know what to do with Angel.
He’s no fool, no matter what his floor manager used to tell the girls back at the casino; Husk knows when he’s gone and fucked up all over again, and what he’s done here is fucked up near as bad as that last time he shook hands with Alastor.
Falling for Angel isn’t a fool’s mistake.
Any somebitch with eyes down here can see he’s worth falling for; how he can’t resist a bad joke, the way he cheats at cards, the number of times Husk’s caught him humming lullabies to his pig-
Nah. Angel’s too much not to love. Husk’s no fool for that.
The part he’d fucked up was letting Angel walk away.
And he knows there’d been nothing he could’ve done or said to stop him.
That big ol’ heart on Angel’s chest isn’t just for show; it’s a target. A mark that tells everyone who can see him that his biggest weakness is how fucking much he cares.
Husk can relate.
And Angel had cared too fucking much to put them all in danger like that twice.
The thought sours on his tongue, but Husk understands why he’d done it. Doesn’t like it any better for understanding it; he’d held Fat Nuggets to his chest too many lonely nights at an empty bar for him to like it.
It’s too bad Angel can’t see the heart on the back of his head. Husk thinks that might be his punishment; he’ll never be able to see all the love people have for him in return.
The love Husk has for him in return.
It doesn’t matter. He’ll carry it anyway.
The dregs at the bottom of his glass stare back at him, honey-yellow in the marquee lighting up above his bar. The lounge isn’t exactly private, but it’s cozier than the lobby, and the flickering flames of the fireplace across the room have Angel backlit like a fiery halo, glowing over his bare shoulders in the shirt he’d stolen from Cherri.
He’s beautiful.
And he’s looking right at Husk.
“I missed ya, Whiskers,” he murmurs. Husk’s dry-rotted heart gives a startled thud in his chest, echoing in his ears as Angel gives him an embarrassed, lopsided smile. “You wanna know somethin’?” he asks.
Husk wants to know everything, but he’ll start with whatever’s got that pretty pink blush blooming across Angel’s nose. He gestures to show he means to go on, without opening his mouth to interrupt; he’s worried his heart’ll come splatting out from between his teeth if he does.
“When I-” Angel pauses, and wets his lip, gathering himself. “When I went back, and things were bad. When things were worse,” Husk flicks an ear, and Angel’s smile wavers. “I usedta hear you. In my head. Tellin’ me it’d be alright.”
And Husk is used to offering Angel his hand; he never wants to be the one to drag Angel anywhere. Not after the night he’d shoved him out of that bar. He’d promised to himself that’d be the last forceful hand he ever laid on Angel.
A promise he’d had to break to save Cherri, and one that haunts him in the still of the night.
It’d been why he hadn’t gripped for his fingers when Angel had tugged his hand out of Husk’s palms that night in the rubble; he had no right to force Angel anywhere, no matter how badly he’d wanted him to stay.
He’s used to offering Angel his hand; he’s less used to Angel offering him his.
But that’s exactly what he does.
Ungloved, the bands and striping on his fingers on full display to him, palm up and open and asking to be held as Angel quietly sets it on the bartop in front of him, a silent question for Husk to accept or reject as he sees fit.
Like he’d ever deny Angel anything like this.
He sets his fingers over Angel’s palm and lets Angel curl his claws over his knuckles, brushing his thumb against him absently.
“Imagined ya all the time,” Angel murmurs. “Wishin’ you were there to make things better. You always make things better, Husky,” he pauses, looking like he’s contemplating, and Husk can’t imagine what sort of thought could elicit that sort of hesitation until Angel admits, “Got left on the floor a lot with the shakes. Pretended you’d be holding me through it,” his 24k grin is failing him, and Husk’s fingers tighten around his. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”
Husk’s fractured heart shatters under the weight of itself.
“No.”
Angel startles, blinking at him. There’s forbidden liquor still sitting between them, and Angel’s holding his hand, confession resting in the cavity of Husk’s chest, and he still looks like he can’t believe what Husk’s just said.
“What?”
“You ain’t pathetic,” Husk insists. He slides the bottle to the side, and rests his elbows on the bar so he can hold Angel’s hand with both of his. He flips the way they’re folded, resting Angel’s fingers over his claws so he can examine them, well-manicured and delicate and fully capable of shredding Sinners for touching him. “You wanna know what I was doin’ while ya were gone?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Wishing your ass was back on that fucking barstool where ya belong. I’d have full-on conversations with ya when you weren’t here. Fat Nuggets doesn’t get your accent right, but he tries.”
Angel cackles, the laugh tearing from his chest as Husk grins at him. “So if you’re pathetic,” he says, Angel’s eyes gleaming as he looks at him gratefully. “Then so am I. I told ya before, we’re a matching pair of losers. Dunno why ya think otherwise.”
“Now see,” Angel shakes his head fondly at him. “The you in my head wasn’t ever that sweet to me. Pale imitation, ‘n all.”
“Yeah, well,” Husk brushes a kiss across Angel’s knuckles, before he loses his nerve, and hears Angel’s sharp intake of breath about it. “Imaginary you wasn’t smart enough to keep me entertained. Didn’t know a damn thing about fish.”
His heart stops as Angel tugs his hand from Husk’s hold, and for a moment, he’s right back in the dust and the rubble of the destroyed Pentagram, watching Angel walk away from him again.
But it beats again as Angel slips two hands under his jaw, tilting him into looking at him directly.
“Would real you let me kiss him?” he asks, and Husk huffs a laugh through his nose.
“Was imaginary me holdin’ out on ya?”
Angel wrinkles his nose when he laughs, and the corners of his eyes crinkle the way he doesn’t let happen on camera. “He was shy.”
“I’m not,” Husk murmurs, and beats Angel to the punch, pressing in over the bartop between them as Angel makes a contented noise against his mouth.
He tastes like honeyed whiskey, warm and forbidden and familiar. Husk could drown in it.
Love in a bottle, indeed.