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It'd been a long time since Husk had bothered to keep track of everyone who came through the casino's doors. Business was booming, and he had better shit to be doing than memorising nobodies. Still, he was always aware of anyone who actually mattered. Overlords, hotshot celebrities, up-and-coming sinners, cheaters looking to fleece him—you name it.
And then there was Alastor's guy.
Now, he didn't exactly fall under any of those categories, but Husk still found himself taking note every time he slouched through the casino doors, shoulders hunched and in the same shabby clothes he always wore. He'd say Alastor should be embarrassed to be associated with him, but it wasn't like he also hadn't been living in the same damn clothes for several decades. Vox wasn't bad news, exactly—but any trouble that found him was, by extension, trouble that found Alastor.
And Husk did not want a troubled Alastor darkening his doorstep again.
See, he was quite satisfied with the current relationship he had with the Radio Demon; not exactly friends but civil and only occasionally fraught with tension and teasing barbs. Most importantly, though, it was one that meant he was unlikely to end up as a tortured, eviscerated souls on Alastor's broadcast.
Tonight Vox was back for the first time in months, and yeah, the guy usually looked grumpy, sure—but this time he looked pissed. And if it was Alastor related, which Husk would bet good money it was, he did not want that shit exploding here.
Val was already on it, though, weaving through the crowds to acquire the seat beside Vox at the bar, having smoothly scared off the previous occupant with a single sweetly whispered word. Husk narrowed his eyes; Val had better stick to his fucking job, which in this specific case was distraction and damage control rather than getting caught up in whatever weird flirtatious fixation he'd developed on Vox over the years. Because therein lay another danger: Alastor was notoriously possessive, he did not share, and the last thing Husk needed was the wrath of the Radio Demon coming down on their heads just because Val couldn't keep his fucking hands to himself.
Even as he watched them, he still didn't get it. It had to be the allure of the forbidden, because Vox was not Val's type. He sat there nursing a whiskey, a grouchy, scruffy, washed-up loser. Val, though, looked fucking smitten, all up in Vox's personal space, one hand toying coyly with a ratty suspender.
It was like a bad fuckin' comedy sketch, those two.
Husk wasn't jealous. Sure, he and Val fucked around from time to time when the mood struck —sometimes with Angel, often without—but it'd never been an exclusive thing. No, this felt weird for a different reason, and it was bothering the shit out of him that he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Regardless, this was one line he couldn't allow Val to cross.
"You gonna go down there?" Husk glanced up as Velvette joined him at the balcony; at least she looked suitably unimpressed, expression scrunched in disdain as she stared down at the bar area. "That shit's just embarrassing, Husky. He's a right state!"
Husk grunted in agreement and lit up a cigar, taking a deep inhale before pushing off the railing. "Gotta say I'm less worried about his fashion crimes and more about the fact that he's Alastor's, but glad we're on the same page, Vel."
Rolling her eyes, she stepped closer to straighten his tie before waving him off. "'I only fuck tens' my arse!" Vel muttered, voice drenched with disgust. "Go tell him the dancers need him backstage and kick the loser out."
Husk shot her a tight smile. "Not gonna do that, Vel."
She threw up her hands in exasperation. "He's one soul, and an ugly, obsolete, useless fuck at that—why would Alastor even care?"
Velvette had a point; perhaps it was time to find out.