Google Docs Copy Note:
Hey all! It’s Razz. Posting this to Reddit for those of you who want access to this fic! So sad about AO3 but happy to be able to share it another way. You can contact me via Razzapplemagicc@gmail.com if you wanna chat or leave a “comment.” Thank you so much for all of your support over all of these years. Enjoy!
Tags: Huskerdust, Overlord AU, Overlord Husk, Slow burn, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Falling in Love, Drug Use, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Valentino, No Beta We Die Like Adam, Eventual Smut
Relationships: Husk/Angel Dust
Fandom: Hazbin Hotel, Helluva Boss
Summary:
Val may be a fucking monster, but he’s a monster that Angel knows. He’s a monster that Angel understands. Angel isn’t stupid; he made the choice to sign with Valentino because he was the only overlord that made sense for Angel’s lifestyle — for what Angel wanted out of Hell.
But now you’re tellin’ him that his soul is owed to some random fucking jackass who swindled Val in a game of cards? How can that be fair? How can that be something that’s just allowed to happen?
Chapter 1
All of the pizza in Hell tastes like shit.
You’d think after several centuries that surely, someone would die who knows how to make a good, classic, New York pie, but no. Apparently even that is too much to ask for in a place like this. It’s part of the deal, Angel supposes; fire and brimstone, dick-faced overlords with too much money and power, and not a single good pizza joint in the entire Pride ring.
Eternal damnation fucking blows.
Angel laments this, turning over in his bed to scroll through Sinstagram while he chews on a piece of glorified cardboard that calls itself “the best pizza in Hell”. He’s wearing his favorite hot-pink feathered robe, enjoying the rare opportunity he has to be comfortably alone while Val is out for the night. The pizza may be stale and the inner parts of his thighs may still sting from today’s earlier shoot, but Val isn’t here to make everything worse, which Angel takes as a win.
As far as demon deals go, Angel considers himself lucky. Sure, Val has a temper. And sure, Angel’s pretty positive that the guy’s hell born since there’s no way a human soul would think of some of the fucked up shit that he’s had Angel do on camera. But really — it could be worse. He could be on Vox’s leash.
If he has to spend eternity in Hell, Angel would much rather spend it with his soul tethered to someone who buys him pizza and lets him live like a spoiled princess during his off hours over living out on the street trying to fend for himself. He tried that shit during his first couple of years here and it was not it. The way Angel sees it, if assholes are going to be tripping over themselves to try and fuck him, he should at least be getting something good out of it, ya know?
Not that Val counts as good, per se, but. It’s Hell. Angel takes what he can get. The sex is alright most of the time, and when it isn’t, Angel’s worked hard on perfecting the right coping mechanisms to let his brain go elsewhere while his body stays put to do its job. It could be worse, and it’s that sentiment that keeps him from complaining.
Besides, Val fucking hates it when Angel complains.
Angel’s room is in the penthouse of V Tower and the panoramic windows give him a full view of Pentagram City. Angel leans backwards where he’s halfway hanging off of his bed to get an upside down view of the acid rain as it starts to fall like toxic tears from the blood-red sky above. This high up, it almost feels like V Tower is looking down on the rest of the ring with an air of superiority that makes Angel’s stomach twist in satisfaction.
He may not be able to climb Hell’s hierarchical ladder himself, but he can easily allow himself to be the eye-candy on the arm of someone who can. This view may not be his, but he gets to cash in on the rewards that come along with the hard work of the V’s without any real consequences (at least not ones he can’t handle) so it still feels like the city belongs to him. During his 80 years in The Pit, Angel Dust has learned a thing or two about the sinners who live here.
Namely, he’s learned that regardless of status or stature, everyone — everyone, is on someone’s leash. Literally. Metaphorically. Magical soul-binding contractually. It’s all just a matter of how you use the links on the chain around your neck to keep yourself breathing that determines whether you end up caught in an acid rain storm or watching those who are from the comfort of a bright neon tower built with the blood sweat and tears of countless sinners.
Angel Dust prefers the latter.
So when he hears Val’s rage like an alarm bell screeching in warning as he stomps down the hall towards Angel’s room, Angel prepares himself. Val’s been out all night doing who knows what, but now he’s home and from the sound of it, he’s pissed. He’s probably drunk and looking for somewhere to put all of his anger and Angel doesn’t need to be a genius to guess exactly who Valentino is planning to take his anger out on.
He sits up and throws his pizza crust into the half-empty box before shoving the box under his bed. He has music playing softly from the little heart-shaped speaker he keeps by his bed which he quickly silences before snatching the box of breath mints from his vanity and shoving three into his mouth.
“Shit,” Angel says around a mouthful of mints. His bed isn’t made and he won’t have time to do it, so he just picks up one of his throw blankets and drapes it over the place where he had been lounging only moments ago. He debates whether or not he has time to do a bump of his cocaine before Val gets here but decides against it. If his drugs are visible when Valentino enters Angel’s room, he’ll take them for himself. And drugs are fucking expensive, so Angel is not risking that happening to him again.
Angel doesn’t even flinch when his bedroom door slams open. It rattles the mirror on his vanity and sends a few of his perfume bottles to the floor, but otherwise there is very little damage done to Angel’s things. Little victories.
Right away, Angel can tell that Val is drunk.
Angel can smell the liquor on him from where he’s standing. He looms in Angel’s doorway and sways, squinting at Angel like he’s seeing him for the first time. Red venom drips from the corners of his mouth and he glares, fist clenched at his side, like he’s trying to figure out if he wants to fight Angel or fuck him.
Angel doesn’t know which of those options he’d prefer.
“H-hey, Val,” Angel says, and he curses internally at the shake in his voice. Valentino can smell fear, and if he knows that Angel is dreading whatever is about to happen, he’ll make sure it’s ten times worse than it should be. “Crazy night?”
Valentino says nothing. He barely moves at all. His beady eyes scan the expanse of Angel’s room with mild interest but he makes no indication that he even heard Angel speak. Rage rolls off of his body like heatwaves and his breathing is coming in hot, heavy heaves that make Angel wonder if he took the stairs rather than the elevator to get here. It’s this detail, the heavy breathing, that makes Angel realize that maybe he gravely misread Valentino’s mood. He’s seen Val get angry plenty of times. He’s felt the concrete blow of Valentino’s pissed-off fist against his body on more instances than he can count. He can tell when Valentino is in a mood because someone pissed him off.
But this?
This isn’t anger.
It’s panic.
Something — someone, has managed to shake Valentino from his usual asshole guise, making him look weak and pathetic. It’s the first time that Angel’s ever seen an overlord look so defeated, and it stuns him into silence.
He doesn’t know what to say in a situation like this. He knows what to expect from Val when he’s angry. He has no idea what to expect from Val when he’s — whatever the fuck is happening right now.
“Pack your shit,” Val says suddenly, like he just remembered how to speak.
Angel stares at him.
“What?”
Val grits his teeth. “You fucking heard me. Pack your shit. You’re moving out.”
Now it’s Angel’s turn to panic.
“Move out?” Angel asks, laughing a little bit because this has to be a joke, right? “And go where, exactly? It’s part of our deal that as long as I’m doin’ what I gotta do, you let me stay here if I got nowhere else to go.”
Which, he doesn’t. Val knows that. So why the fuck he’s suddenly decided that Angel doesn’t get to be his prisoner anymore is beyond him.
Chances are, this is just some fucked up mind game. Val is probably doing this because he gets off on watching Angel beg and struggle. Luckily, Angel is a fantastic actor.
If it’s a show that Val wants, Angel can gladly provide one.
“Come on boss, don’t kick me out onto the streets,” Angel says, batting his eyelashes. He crosses the room carefully, swinging his hips and brushing a hand through his hair as he goes. “Isn’t there some way I could pay you rent?”
He’s using his bad-actor voice, but that usually does the trick for Val. He loves it when Angel degrades himself like this; when he lowers himself beyond his capabilities. Val’s a very theatrical guy and sometimes he needs a little role play to get himself going.
“I don’t have any money,” Angel teases, coming closer. He presses into Valentino’s space and tries not to breathe in the disgusting smell of shame and alcohol that’s cascading off of his boss in billowing clouds of red smoke. “But I can pay you with my body.”
He reaches out a hand to caress Val’s jawline the way his master likes, but Val’s hand stops him by grabbing his wrist. He squeezes so tightly that Angel winces and goes to pull away on instinct which just makes Val wrench him closer with more force.
“Cut the shit, Angel Dust,” Val spits, glaring daggers into Angel’s face. “I’m not in the mood. Just pack quickly so we can get this over with.”
Angel’s heart sinks. Fuck. He’s serious.
“W-what are you talkin’ about, Val?” Angel asks, eyes going wide as he struggles to break free of Val’s grasp. “Get what over with? What’s goin ’on?”
Val lets go of Angel by flinging him forward with all of his strength, sending Angel to his knees by his bed. He makes a furious noise and Angel turns to see him bury his face in his hands before he turns and punches a hole in the wall with a shout.
“I bet your fucking contract in a game of poker,” Val explains. He doesn’t look at Angel.
“You what?” Angel asks, feeling paralyzed.
Can… Can overlords fucking do that? Is Angel’s soul really so expendable that it can be tossed onto a table with a pile of poker chips and gambled away like it’s nothing?
“I – fuck!” Valentino’s voice warbles and distorts as his body struggles to maintain his demon form. His eyes flash red and he punches the same hole again and again, yelling with rage. “That fucker hustled me! I wouldn’t have bet my star fucking actor if I knew—”
“Val,” Angel interrupts, getting to his feet. His knees screech in painful protest but he ignores them. “Val, what’re you sayin? You bet my soul? To — to fuckin’ who?”
“To that fucking pendejo, Husker,” Val growls, glaring at the hole that is now emitting red smoke.
Angel gapes at him.
“Husker,” Angel repeats, because there’s no way he heard that right. “The Gambling Demon? The overlord who owns the most famous fucking casino in Hell? That Husker? You bet my soul to The Gambling Demon and thought you could win?”
Val grits his teeth and turns his attention towards Angel again. Angel swallows and starts to back away on instinct, but then he remembers their current circumstances and stands his ground.
“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to like that?” Val hisses, eyes flashing again.
“Well I thought I was talkin’ to my master, but apparently I belong to The Gambling Demon now,” Angel spits right back.
He can feel himself starting to lose it. He didn’t know that this was an option. He didn’t fucking know that his contract could be transferred to another demon. He knew what he was getting into when he signed with Val. He knew what the terms of their contract were and what he was agreeing to.
Val may be a fucking monster, but he’s a monster that Angel knows. He’s a monster that Angel understands. Angel isn’t stupid; he made the choice to sign with Valentino because he was the only overlord that made sense for Angel’s lifestyle — for what Angel wanted out of Hell.
But now you’re tellin’ him that his soul is owed to some random fucking jackass who swindled Val in a game of cards? How can that be fair? How can that be something that’s just allowed to happen?
“No,” Angel says, feeling dizzy. “No, no, Val — that can’t — there’s gotta be some way—”
Val holds Angel’s eyes for a moment and Angel’s chest feels tight because there’s something there that he hasn’t ever seen before. Empathy? Does Val feel fucking guilty about doing this? Since when does a power-hungry overlord regret anything?
Unless it isn’t empathy.
Angel glares at him. Val doesn’t feel guilty. The only regret he has is that he won’t get to play with his favorite toy any more.
“My contract is to you,” Angel says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t make no agreement with The Gambling Demon. You can’t just fucking bet my contract, that’s not how this works.”
Val laughs, a sharp, awful sound. “You’ve been here how long and you still don’t understand shit about how Hell ‘works’, do you Angie?”
Angel opens his mouth to argue, but then Val is there, holding Angel’s cheeks between tight fingers. He reeks of booze and vomit. Angel does not resist the urge to pull away; he thrashes hard in Val’s grasp and reaches out to pull Val’s hand off of him but another comes up and grabs Angel by the throat.
“You’re right that normally contracts are ever-binding. When you signed your name and gave yourself over to me, you were supposed to be mine forever,” Val explains, talking low and close. “Those contracts are non-transferable. Unless you’re doing business with The Gambling Demon. That’s how he operates. He deals in souls.”
Angel had heard that, somewhere, at some point in time. He knew that The Gambling Demon was known for the collection of sinners he had gathered to staff his hotel. Angel knew that for many new souls, a simple night of fun at the casino could easily end with a contract to an overlord. New, stupid souls were The Gambling Demon’s bread and butter.
Angel didn’t know that he could collect old souls too by gambling with other overlords. Now that it’s happened to him though, it seems so obvious. Angel feels so stupid.
“Let go of me,” Angel chokes out, clawing at Val’s arm. “I’m not yours anymore. You don’t get to hurt me.”
Val growls and bares his teeth, but drops Angel because he knows that Angel’s right. He doesn’t think that The Gambling Demon would respond very well to his new toy being damaged upon arrival.
Not that Angel (or anyone for that matter) can do shit about the ways Angel is broken on the inside.
Angel is miserable as he packs his things. V Tower was its own type of Hell more often than not, but it was home. It was the first real home that Angel had since he arrived in Hell, and saying goodbye is making him weirdly sentimental. Some guy he dated twenty years ago told him about some psychological phenomenon that some Swedish asshole coined about prisoners falling for their captors in the 70’s. Angel can’t remember the name of it (and doesn’t fucking care) but he thinks that maybe there was some truth to theory in practice.
He doesn’t love Val.
Every extermination, while Angel hid in V Tower’s safe room with the rest of the V’s and their favorite souls, Angel would silently wish that the exorcists would find them. He would picture it — Val begging for his life as the unforgiving swish of the exorcist’s blade severed his awful head from his body.
He doesn’t love Val, but he does love what his contract with Val allowed him to have. He loves the fame and fortune. He loves the lights and the cameras and all of the delicious action. He loves the drugs and the sex — not the sex with Val, but the sex that comes with having your face on every billboard in Hell.
He loves the power that Val’s contract gave him.
And now that’s all going to change and Angel hates everything about it.
The car ride to the casino is awkward and uncomfortable. Angel sits in the limousine beside Valentino and feels nothing, which in and of itself is a strange sensation. The magic of his contract always compelled him towards wanting to be nearby Valentino, but now that their connection has been severed, Angel wants nothing to do with him. That strange pull in his chest like an invisible tether is not gone but redirected. He feels himself being pulled towards the casino like a fish on a hook, doomed to his fate of coming face-to-face with the one who caught him.
When they pull up to the front, Angel scrambles to get out of the car. Angel’s been here before, but now that this will be his home, he’s seeing the whole place in a new light. Everything from the golden railings on the marble steps to the unmistakable touches of French architecture on the massive building feels like ten types of Too Much. There are people bustling from the open doors in cocktail dresses and finely-tailored suits, but they pay him no mind as they go about their evening of gluttonous spending and gambling.
“Hello Mr. Angel Dust,” someone, an imp, says to Angel once he’s fully stepped out. “Master Husker has been waiting for you. We’ll take your things to your room for you.”
Angel sighs. He knows that he fucked up when he was alive. He knows that he did things and — and fucking said things that he can’t ever take back. He’s been being punished for it for 80 years and he’s never once complained because he knows deep down that he deserves it.
But this? Being gambled away to some fucking freak like he’s some kind of cheap whore? This is a new level of torture.
“Okay,” Angel says, defeated. “Let’s get this over with.”
Angel takes a step towards the door but he’s stopped before he can move an inch by the familiar curl of a vicious hand around his arm. It sends a chill up his spine and stops him in his tracks and he turns, eyes wild with all of the fury he’s been stockpiling for years, to glare at the face of the demon he used to belong to.
“What do you want?” Angel snaps. He pulls his arm but Valentino tightens his grip.
“You’re not even going to say goodbye?” Val asks, and if Angel didn’t know any better he would think that it’s real sadness lacing Val’s vowels rather than the venom disguising itself as such.
Angel doesn’t need time to even consider Val’s sentiment. He wrenches his arm free and stands up straight. There are so many things Angel wants to say, but none of them feel like they’re enough to fully express the hatred that resides deep in his belly when he looks at Valentino. He could punch him. He could shout at him. He could finally fight back.
But he knows it wouldn’t be enough.
So instead, Angel scoffs. He runs a hand through the hair on the top of his head and rolls his eyes and then he spits at Valentino’s shoes.
“Fuck you, Val,” Angel says, before he turns and marches into the casino.
He doesn’t look back.
Chapter 2
His new master’s office is only accessible through a specific elevator that Angel needs to be escorted to. He lets himself be led through the crowded casino by a pair of imps wearing gaudy golden tailcoats. The place smells like money and cigarettes and once he’s fully inside, people start to notice his presence.
He stares straight ahead as he walks through the loud showfloor of slots and petty card games, but he can’t fully ignore the heads that turn as he passes by even if he tries. It’s part of the price of being famous — people in Hell know who he is. It’s only a matter of time before word gets out that he is no longer Val’s pet.
Katie Killjoy is going to have a fucking field day with this. Angel Dust — the most famous porn star in Hell — now belongs to The Gambling Demon against his will. He can already see the social media posts saying that he deserves it.
The whispers in the casino buzz together and sound like static.
“Is that Angel Dust?”
“What’s he doing here? I didn’t know that this was his kind of scene.”
“Angel Dust? That’s him right?”
Angel doesn’t look at any of them. He lets himself be led through the crowd of people with a smug look on his face. It’s true that this isn’t his type of scene. He’s been here before but only as a “good luck charm” to the guy he was dating at the time. His only job was to sit there and look pretty while his “boyfriend” spent all of his money.
He imagines that this time will be a little bit different. If Husker let Val bet his contract, he must have had a motive. Maybe he’s some freaky kinkster who wants a new toy to play with when he isn’t busy taking care of the casino.
Angel is going from the devil he knows to the devil he doesn’t. Literally. He would say that he hopes this guy isn’t a bottom because then they’re going to have issues, but he’s an overlord and every overlord that Angel’s ever had the displeasure of meeting has been a toxic fucking top.
He’s positive that this asshole won’t be any different.
The elevator that takes him to his new fate is gold, like everything else in this casino. The doors are reflective, and Angel wills himself to look away so that he doesn’t have to see the look of fear and anxiety on his face. But then, when the doors open, Angel is faced with a whole new nightmare.
The entire elevator is covered in mirrors; from the ceiling to the floor with a golden banister running through the middle. It’s breathtaking in the way that makes him feel woozy, and terrifying in the way that it forces him to look at himself at all angles, from all sides, and see himself in ways he spends genuine effort actively trying to avoid at all costs most of the time. It’s a scare tactic, Angel realizes, and if he weren’t feeling so off-kilter he’d probably be impressed.
If this is the only way up to the overlord’s office, that means that every sorry soul that’s ever lost a bet to him has had to look at their own reflection and face their shitty choices on the way to seal the deal. Angel is faced with that very dilemma now as he meets his own eyes.
He heard once that before you die, you see your life flash before your eyes. That didn’t happen for him. One minute he was high, feeling like he was floating and everything was warm. The next, he was opening his eyes to a blood-red sky and the screams of a million sinners welcoming him to depths of Hell. It happened just like that: in an instant. No dramatic replay of his mistakes, of the choices that led him here, only darkness and then — this.
Now though, Angel does get flashes of the choices he made that brought him to this place. With nowhere to escape, Angel is forced to look himself in the eyes and think about every stupid fucking decision that led him down this path, that led him to hell, that led him to Val, that led him to this elevator.
He thinks about his addiction and how even death wasn’t strong enough to shake it from his bones. The hunger that claws at him from his insides has never been satisfied, and nothing — not drugs, not sex, not fucking pain — has been enough to quell the ache of his wanting. He’s a glutton and a coward, and maybe that’s why deep down inside he feels like he deserves this.
He deserves to be here, descending into the bowels of this immaculate casino because the pimp he sold his soul to bet him in a game of cards and lost. He deserves whatever fucked up shit his new boss wants to do to him, because at the the end of the day, it was his shitty choices that brought him here. If he didn’t want to risk something like this happening, he shouldn’t have signed the deal with Valentino in the first place.
This is what he gets for trusting a demon.
When the doors finally open, Angel stumbles out of the elevator as quickly as possible. He takes a second to catch his breath, steadying himself against a wall. The imp who had been escorting him doesn’t follow him out and disappears behind the gold doors as they close behind him. Angel finds himself alone in a long corridor.
The place is giving dungeon vibes, and Angel shivers against the chill in the air as he makes his way through the dark hallway. It makes sense for the overlord’s office to be subterranean, considering the dangers that come along with the yearly extermination. The Vees had a safe room in their tower, but Angel was always left to fend for himself when the exorcists descended on the Pride Ring. Nothing made him feel more unsafe than hiding in his bedroom in Valentino’s penthouse, so close to where those winged freaks could reach him, so he often made plans to hide out somewhere with Cherri until it was all over.
He’d managed to survive up until this point, so that has to count for something. He wonders if The Gambling Demon takes any liberties for protecting the souls under his belt, or if he leaves them to fend for themselves when Heaven makes their yearly visit. He supposes he’ll find out shortly.
The overlord’s office is at the end of the hallway. A thick, wooden door with a nameplate that says “Husker” on it is the only sign that Angel has that he’s in the right place. He exhales slowly and smooths the hair on the top of his head.
You can do this, he tells himself.
He lifts a fist and knocks. A gruff voice answers, telling him to come in.
Angel has only ever seen The Gambling Demon on television. The guy is pretty private and doesn’t tend to venture outside of the comfort of his casino very often, and from what Angel’s gathered about him, it doesn’t seem likely based on their personalities that they would frequent the same clubs. So Angel takes a minute to take in the look of his new master when he pushes open the door.
Husker is shorter in person. He’s sat behind a large mahogany desk, with a computer monitor and a stack of papers littering the space in front of him. He’s smoking a cigar that smells like cinnamon and leather and when he glances up to meet Angel’s eyes, his expression is unreadable.
“Ah, it’s you,” Husker says. His voice is dark and sultry; so different from the shrill cadence of Valentino’s. “Close the door behind you and have a seat.”
Angel does as he’s told. He shuts the door and sits down in one of the two chairs facing Husker’s desk, crossing his legs and leaning back so that his new master can get a good look at what he’s working with.
To Angel’s dismay, Husker pays him no attention. He finishes up with whatever he was doing on his computer before Angel came in and then takes a pull from his cigar before he snuffs it out in the glass ashtray at his side. He lets the smoke out slowly and then sighs, reaching out a clawed finger to turn off the screen and direct his bored gaze towards where Angel is sitting.
“We’re here to renegotiate the terms of your contract,” Husker says, matter-of-fact. “You don’t belong to Valentino anymore, you belong to me.”
“So I’ve been told,” Angel replies, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. If Husker notices it, he doesn’t react.
“I don’t have the time or energy to read over whatever bullshit the two of you had worked out before this, so we’re just going to start from scratch. That work for you?”
Angel stares at him.
He was high when signed his contract with Valentino, and he’s regretted it ever since. If Husker isn’t going to change Angel’s contract to fit his own needs but is instead willing to conjure one up from nothing while Angel is still sober, Angel doesn’t think he’s in any position to argue with that.
“Sounds good to me, baby,” Angel agrees, plastering on his signature smile. Cameras or not, Angel is a performer. If he’s going to get through this with any of his dignity in tact, he needs to convince his audience that he’s likable.
Husker nods with a grunt and then pulls out a yellow legal pad and a ballpoint pen.“So what are you good at?” Husker asks, leveling Angel with a hard expression.
“Lots of things,” Angel says, breezily. He smirks and then leans in, propping his lower elbows on the ledge of Husker’s desk and brushing his hair back with his upper hands. He knows that leaning forward from this angle makes his chest look good, so he does, lifting his brows and lowering his voice to a soft purr. “I’m good at doin’ what I’m told, if you catch my drift.” He winks. “I can be whatever you need me to be, baby.”
Husker is unphased. He doesn’t seem to be affected by Angel’s charm in the slightest; he looks almost bored by Angel’s display. Angel doesn’t know what to do with that.
This usually works for him.
“That’s not what I asked,” Husker says, bluntly. “Val floated you as a bet because he said you were the best soul on his chain. That true?”
Angel recovers quickly. He might need to step up his game.
“Depends who you ask,” Angel drawls. He’s feeling uneasy about how indifferent Husker seems to be about his attempts at flirting. Wasn’t the whole point of this exchange to figure out what kinks Angel can satisfy now that he’s going to be Husker’s new toy?
“I’m asking you,” Husker tells him.
“Then yes,” Angel says. “I was the most valuable soul on Val’s chain. My talents made him millions. But he never really appreciated how hard I worked at making sure he was… satisfied,” Angel punctuates the last word with a growl, biting on his lower lip and leaving in fully. “Now I can be the most valuable soul on yours.”
“I doubt that,” Husker replies, looking just as bored as before. “You any good at people?”
Okay. What the actual fuck?
Angel knows he’s being sexy. He’s pulling out all of the stops to make it clear to this idiot that he’s willing and able to do whatever the fuck it is that he wants in exchange for protection and a place to sleep at night. But this guy doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of that. Instead he’s asking Angel about his skills with—
“People?”
“Sinners. Talking. Schmoozing. Charming people,” Husker says with a nod.
Ah. Okay. So that’s what this is.
Husker doesn’t want Angel for himself. He wants Angel to keep his clients satisfied on his behalf, using his talents. Of course. Angel should have seen this coming — all overlords are the same.
“Oh, I’m good at people,” Angel says, casually. “I’m great at people.”
“Great,” Husker grunts, clicking his pen and scribbling something onto the legal pad. “That’s what you’ll be doing then. I need my casino to make money. In order to make money, I need to keep my customers happy. In order to keep my customers happy…”
“You need someone who specializes in hospitality,” Angel finishes for him. “I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down. Though, you should know that the kind of ‘hospitality’ I specialize in might not be what you’re lookin’ for. All that time with Valentino’s chain around my neck made me pretty kinky, and I don’t really do vanilla anymore. And I’m gay, so I want it in my contract that I charge extra for women.”
Husker stops writing. His brows knit together and he looks up at Angel with confusion on his face. “What does that mean?”
“Well I know you’ve seen my movies,” Angel tells him, waving absently. “That’s more my specialty. You got a favorite?”
“There are no movies in Hell,” Husker says, but he’s starting to turn red.
Angel sees the opening and takes it.
“Sure there are,” Angel says, grinning.
“You’re talking about porn,” Husker replies, after a minute.
Angel shrugs. “Well, I sure as shit ain’t talkin’ about Disney movies.”
Husker is quiet, and Angel realizes that he may have misread things.
“I don’t watch porn,” Husker says, looking away. “Not when the scripts are all being written by that illiterate asshole you call a boss.”
“Called,” Angel corrects him. “Past tense. You’re my new master now, Daddy.”
That gets him a reaction. Husker practically jumps at the nickname and turns as red as the feathers on his wings. He physically pushes himself away from the desk, putting space between him and Angel.
“Don’t — don’t fucking call me that.” Husker’s voice cracks, but he clears his throat and tries again with a more stern attempt. “I’m not your daddy. I’m your boss, and you need to respect me.”
“Oh I can be respectful,” Angel teases, going in for the kill. “I can be respectful any way you want me. Laying down. Standing up. Bent over your desk.”
He leans in closer again, all the way over the desk. He stands from his chair and reaches out with his long limbs to stroke at the soft fur at the base of Husker’s chin.
Husker catches Angel’s wrist in his hand before he can make contact, though.
“Fucking Christ,” Husker says, sounding exhausted. He physically pushes Angel’s hand back towards his body before releasing it. “Look. You seem like a nice kid. I’m sure whatever sob story got you a one way ticket into The Pit is a tear-jerker and that you sold your soul into porn as a way to cope, but I’m not interested in hearing about it. And I’m not interested in you fucking my customers unless you want to. What I need is for you to do is look pretty, act dumb, and squeeze every last penny out of the sewer rats that come to my casino. Think you can do that?”
Angel takes a second to process what he’s being told.
So he isn’t being contracted for sex? Does this dumbass have any idea who he’s talking to?
Angel sits back down, and turns off the sexy act. “So what, am I like a cocktail waitress? You want me to hang off the arms of mafia bosses and blow on their dice?”
“Something like that,” Husker tells him, looking relieved that Angel has decided to stop tormenting his desk. “I might not have seen any of your movies, but I know that you’re popular. People will pay a lot for a chance to buy you a drink or have you pretend to care about them for the night.”
“You want me to look pretty and pretend to care about idiots so that they’ll spend more money at the casino?” Angel can’t believe this.
That’s… that’s it?
“Yup,” Husker says. He doesn’t elaborate any further.
“So I don’t gotta suck anyone’s dick?” Angel asks, because he needs to be sure.
“Not unless you want to.”
“Huh.” Angel stares at him. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious,” Husker says, sounding bored again. He scribbles something down on the legal pag and then rips the page off. In his palm, the page turns golden and familiar: a contract. “Now if you’re done asking the same question in seven different ways, can we finish this so I can get on with the shit I’ve gotta do?”
“Uh, yeah.” Angel swallows and then nods. “Yeah, okay.”
“So it’s a deal, then.” The contract flashes and then glows as words appear on it in bronze ink. At the bottom of the page is Angel’s name in his own hand. The signature is both familiar to him and foreign. Familiar because he wrote that, years ago, when he first signed with Val. It’s the same signature, just copied and pasted onto a new contract. Foreign because it is not a name he recognizes, not anymore.
Anthony died eighty years ago in his shitty New York City apartment. Angel doesn’t even remember what he looked like.
“I don’t gotta sign?” Angel asks, but he already knows the answer.
“It’s not a new contract,” Husker explains. He opens one of his desk drawers and pulls out a sleek, wooden cigar case. He selects one and holds it under his nose, savoring the smell. “We’re just revising the conditions of your old one.”
“Right,” Angel says, as if that makes this any easier.
“In exchange for your soul, you’ll receive room and board at my casino. You want cash, dope, a boat, anything with a tag, I’ll give it to you. Do whatever you want, but put that famous face of yours to work and bring guests in.”
Husker puts the cigar in his mouth and lights it.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Husker says, pinching the cigar between his thumb and index finger and letting the smoke billow from his mouth like fog after a storm. “If you’re hungry, I’ll get you something for that. Same goes if you’re tired or want some privacy — I don’t want you getting burnt out on the job. You’re of no use to me if you can’t make people happy, so you gotta make sure you’re doin’ your part to maintain your own health. I’m not your babysitter so I won’t be on your ass about this shit, but take care of yourself so I don’t end up having to clean up messes I didn’t make.”
Angel doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s waiting for the catch. He’s waiting for the part where Husker tells him the ways he’ll be tortured while working here.
Husker drinks in another pull from his cigar. “And if someone here is treating you like ass, I’ll have them dealt with.”
There’s no way that this is really happening. There has to be something else. There has to be something more. The guy has to be bluffing.
He’s a swindler after all, a con man with a reputation. Angel knows better than to trust him at his word.
“Oh I see,” Angel says, putting his mask back on because two can play at this game. “You’re goin for the ‘good guy’ overlord shtick, eh? You may own my soul, but you’re nice so that makes it okay.”
Husker’s expression doesn’t shift. He still looks bored — annoyed, even, that Angel is still wasting his time by sitting in front of him. It’s impressive, Angel has to admit. Though, he supposes that you don’t become The Gambling Demon without mastering a formidable poker face.
Husker sighs and blows another cloud of smoke into the room. “Don’t start that shit with me, kid. This is Hell. We all do what we need to do to survive. This is how you maintain power in The Pit, it’s nothing personal. Just business.”
Angel can’t argue with that. He doesn’t trust the guy as far as he can throw him, but he also knows that this could have gone worse. If all Husker is asking for him to do right now is play nice and look pretty while he waits for the other shoe to drop, he can do that easily.
“Nothin’ personal,” Angel repeats as a mumble under his breath. Then, a little louder, “Got it. We done here?”
Husker nods and the contract disappears, but not before Angel sees the flash of a new golden chain trailing from his throat. The chain feels heavy and suffocating, but then just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.
The only reminder that Angel has that his soul belongs to someone else is the ring that materializes on his finger. It glows for a moment and then fades to a normal metallic sheen. Angel lifts his hand and admires it.
If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was a wedding ring. Especially when he notices that Hsuker is wearing an identical one.
“When you go to the elevator, the imps will show you to your room. Your first shift at the casino will be tomorrow night.”
It is not a request.
“Sounds good to me, baby,” Angel says with a wink.
When he leaves the room and enters the elevator at the end of the hall, the spicy, burning smell of cigar smoke follows him up.
Chapter 3
Angel’s room is on the top floor of the casino in a shared hallway with several of the casino’s other staff. Most of them are souls, like Angel, who are bound in one way or another to the casino’s overlord.
It makes sense that an overlord like Husker would need people to staff his casino and that he doesn’t technically have to pay souls that he owns so it probably saves him a ton of revenue. Valentino keeps most of the souls on his chain around for the same reason; he doesn’t have to pay souls to do porn if they already belong to him.
The confines of Angel’s original deal had seemed like a good arrangement at the time that he made it. He was low — lower than low. He had been in the heavy throes of withdrawal and had spent every last dime he had on blow but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the itch of his addiction. He was a dancer at a nightclub at the time in order to try and scrape together enough money to afford the shitty one-bedroom apartment he shared with Cherri, but they were three weeks behind on rent and had both been too busy going on benders to even think about trying to save money from their jobs for something as trivial as living arrangements when there were drugs to buy.
When Angel was alive, he imagined that Hell would be more dramatic. He pictured flames and screaming and torture but not — not fucking landlords and drug withdrawal. Torture he could handle. Break his bones and feed the dust to the creatures that lurk below them in the Envy Ring, but do not tell him that he has to get a goddamn job and work like he did when he was alive and trying to survive in New York.
If Angel had known that this — that more of the same awful bullshit that made the living world a shit show would be waiting for him when he died and went to Hell, he might have tried harder to be a better person. How was he supposed to know that eternal damnation was nothing like they painted it to be in those stupid Sunday school classes his Ma made him take when he was a kid?
Pentagram City is just New York but fucking worse, somehow. It has the same shitty strip clubs with the same asshole management that underpays the dancers. It has the same shitty drugs that plague Angel’s body like a disease and devour him from the inside out.
He met Valentino at that club. He will never forget the way it felt to lock eyes with him for the first time and feel—
Wanted.
Fuck, it was so good to be wanted. It was so good to be beautiful and desirable and sexy, instead of pathetic and starving. Valentino brought a lot of things with him into Angel’s life. He brought stability, in his own sick and twisted way. He brought structure. But most of all, when Valentino unexpectedly crash-landed into Angel Dust’s life, he brought with him the irresistible allure of his very own specially-curated drug. Val’s smoke was capable of a lot more than just setting the mood and relaxing his whores. With enough of it, breathed directly from the overlord’s mouth into his victim’s, it was the sickest high Angel had ever felt.
Before he knew it, Angel was addicted to Valentino in a much more real way than he had anticipated. He craved Val’s vapor the way he craved cocaine; the way he needed heroin when he was alive. Val made Angel feel special, too, which only helped to sweeten the pot. Those first few weeks with Valentino were all drugs and sex and praise and Angel — being the addict that he was, the addict that he still fucking is — fell right into the trap that Val had set for him.
Signing the contract was the easiest decision Angel ever made, and his biggest regret.
Man, he really is pathetic, isn’t he?
So really, he can’t complain about where his choices landed him. He doesn’t have the right to be angry that Hell has proven itself to be hellish, or that the evil overlord pimp he’s been sucking off and fucking for the better part of a decade still has a hold on him physically even though their deal is done.
Because, yes, Angel’s body still aches for the high of Valentino’s vapor. He can buy something similar to it — the love potion that Velvette sells at the stores for way more money than its worth is just a diluted version of the pure shit — but Angel doesn’t know if he wants to do that. In a fucked up way, being owned by a new overlord gives Angel a real shot at actually scrubbing Valentino from his system once and for all.
He just doesn’t know if he has the strength to follow through.
Fat Nuggets gets dropped off in his carrier later that night and Angel lets him curl up on his lap while he sets up his things on his vanity. The room that Husker gave him is nice. It’s spacious with his own private bathroom and a kitchenette. It reminds him a little bit of his old studio apartment from when he was alive.
Angel can’t stand bare walls so he makes quick work out of hanging the neon string lights he has around the perimeter of the room and then plasters the space above his bed with the small handful of photos he has from his time in Hell. They’re mostly pictures of him and Cherri playing around with the polaroid camera she snagged from one of her burglary jobs, but there are a couple cute pictures of Fat Nuggets tossed in there, as well as—
Angel stares at the photo in his hands.
He took it a few years ago, back when things were still “good” between them. It’s him and Val, snuggled up on the couch with Angel’s head resting on Valentino’s shoulder. He’s high in this picture, high out of his mind off of Val’s vapor, but he looks calm and at peace. A lot has changed since then, and this photo only serves as a painful reminder to Angel just how stupid he was for ever thinking that he could trust Valentino at all.
He crunches the photo in his hand and balls it up before tossing it into the wire trash can in the corner of his room. It’s over between them. Val bet Angel’s soul like it was nothing. He chose to cut Angel off, and Angel is going to make him fucking regret it.
Husker said that Val bet Angel because he believed that Angel was the best soul on his chain. It’s true of course, but Angel never thought that Val would actually admit to it. He feels a sick satisfaction about the sentimentality of it all. Val finally admitted to just how much he needs Angel, but only once it was too late.
Angel scoffs as he turns out the lights, casting his new home in shades of pink and purple. This situation may not be ideal, but it’s the hand Angel was dealt. If he plays his cards right, he could make this work out well for him. Husker told him that he wants Angel to be a pretty face that brings in customers. He wants someone to make the big spenders feel like they’re royalty, someone to hang off of the elbows of sharks as they swim through the waters of the casino in search of blood. He wants Angel to lead them to the bucket of chum that he put out so that he can strike them when they’re weak.
Angel can do that.
He can be what Husker needs him to be, just like he did for Valentino.
Chapter 4
His first few days on the job go better than he could have imagined. Husker was right that Angel would be an easy person to bring in customers, because once word gets out that Angel Dust is the new sweetheart of the Jackpot Casino, the press and fans practically storm the doors hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
The energy is electric, and Angel puts on a show to match. He schmoozes and smiles and accepts drinks from every guy and gal that offers him one. He ends up drunk a few hours in and blissfully aware that he no longer holds an obligation to fuck anyone unless he wants to.
It’s a strange feeling; accepting his new truth. He’s been a prostitute for the majority of his stay in Hell and in a lot of ways, it’s all he knows how to do. Angel learned a long time ago that if he wants to get anywhere in this fucking pit, he needs to be willing to drop to his knees at a moment’s notice for the people in power. He needs to be willing to let them grab him by the throat and have their way with him, and he needs to thank them afterwards. Sex feels good so Angel knows that it could be much worse for him. At least he picked a job that had some gratification.
Now, though, he feels a little lost. Husker seems like a decent enough guy (for an overlord of Hell) but Angel is waiting for the other shoe to drop. Every overlord has two faces; this much he knows for a fact. When he first met Val, Angel was tricked by the nice face he put on. He was fooled into submission by the smiles and the compliments and the “wow, you’re so good at this” that was whispered between frantic fucks. He was lulled into complacency by the promise of drugs and a warm place to sleep at night. He is being careful not to let the same thing happen with Husker.
Fascinatingly, Husker seems completely uninterested in fucking Angel. Which…Angel doesn’t know how to feel about. Sex has been how he’s measured his worth for the last several decades so to have that taken from him has made him feel a bit off-kilter. The fact that he’s currently wandering through The Jackpot Casino wearing a skimpy outfit and carrying two drinks (one for him and one from the guy he’s convinced to blow hundreds of dollars at the slot machine tonight) with no obligation to suck anyone’s dick is absolutely insane to him.
Is he any good at this? Is he doing this right? How will he know that he’s done what he’s supposed to if there isn’t a physical representation of his prowess splattered on his chin?
He shudders at himself for that thought, because, woof. Maybe this is something he should unpack in therapy.
(Is there even therapy in hell? Angel doesn’t think he knows the answer to that. Most of the people here are content to endure their well-deserved eternal damnation and therapy sort of goes against that whole concept so… he doubts it.)
The guy he’s been attempting to captivate with his riveting performance tonight is some piece of shit loan shark who has been bragging about the pile of cash he’s recently come into. He’s burnt through about half of it on the same shitty slot machine, and Angel has been strategically pumping alcohol into his system with the help of one of the bartenders.
He manages to get a few thousand out of the guy and by the end of the night, the sorry sap is too drunk to realize that he didn’t manage to score. Angel doesn’t fuck him, and he gets to go back to his room and relax to the sound of lofi from his little heart-shaped speaker while Fat Nuggets curls up at his side.
It feels too good to be true.
It comes naturally to Angel, and he realizes that it isn’t that different from doing porn. Not really. He’s still taking on the role of a character and acting his ass off, but this time, he doesn’t need to fuck anyone to feel like he’s done his job right. There’s a certain excitement that comes with every shift as Angel puts on his best outfit and steps onto the casino’s showroom floor. He feels like a seductress; like one of the Lust Ring’s succubuses on the prowl searching for a new victim.
Because of the time spent with Valentino and his expensive as fuck taste, Angel is also pretty good at scouting which clients have the most money to spend. During his first few nights, Angel manages to bring in an astronomical amount of cash flow for The Jackpot Casino. He even manages to get an approving nod from Husker on one of the rare occasions that he sees him, which is almost enough to motivate him to step up his game and really show how talented he is.
Husker is an odd overlord. Normally, overlords like the spotlight. At least, that’s been Angel’s experience with them. They’re overlords because they’re powerful, because they know how to make an entrance and have their presence known. Angel’s never seen the guy himself, but he’s heard rumors that Zestiel is an overlord powerful enough to make people willingly light themselves on fire just from the sight of him.
Overlords are supposed to strike fear in the souls of sinners, but Husker isn’t like that.
Angel barely sees the guy. Occasionally, he catches him lurking in the shadows, watching over things to make sure that everything is going according to his plans, but he rarely sees him participate. Though, Angel knows that the only reason he hasn’t seen The Gambling Demon in action is because the games he plays are never in the eyes of the public.
No — Husker’s skills are reserved for the big clients. The ones that arrive in limos and get escorted to the same mirrored elevator that took Angel to his fate on his first night here. They disappear into the depths of The Jackpot Casino and stay well past the time it closes. Angel’s seen a few of these clients arrive, but he’s never seen any of them leave.
Angel’s job is to maintain the cash flow of the casino’s day-to-day while Husker pulls the strings behind the curtain of the casino’s deepest secrets. While the Vees were loud and flashy, Husker is quiet and calculated.
It takes Angel a little bit of time to get used to it.
Angel doesn’t run into any problems until about two weeks into the job, when some douchebag he’s been flirting with decides to drug his drink.
Angel’s been around long enough to know the moment he sees a drink whether or not it’s been drugged, so when “Chazwick Thurman” the guy with the self-proclaimed “biggest cock in Hell” hands Angel his martini, Angel notices the thin and nearly-invisible layer of sheen sitting at the top of the drink immediately. He’s also been around long enough to know that when someone’s drugged your drink and you know that they’ve done it, the key is not to let them know. That’s how shit gets dangerous.
That’s how you end up with a back eye.
So Angel takes the drink graciously and pretends to take a sip off of the top. The guy’s been talking out of his ass all night about all of the money he has, but Angel has yet to see him spend anything more than a few twenties on the games he’s been playing. Whatever drug this idiot was able to afford probably won’t have an effect on Angel anyway, since his tolerance is so high, but he doesn’t want to risk it.
Angel is pretty sure that Chazwick is a joke. He’s flying by the seat of his pants and pretending to be hot shit when in reality, Angel can tell from just one look that the guy is probably terrible in bed.
Thank god he isn’t going to have to fuck this prick. He doesn’t know if he could stomach it.
“Thanks, baby,” Angel says, batting his eyelashes. He should probably find a way to shake this guy off of him and move onto someone new. It’s not like the casino is earning any kind of profit from a shithead like this.
“Anything for you, beautiful,” Chazwick says, smiling with all of his teeth. Angel resists the urge to shudder at the hungry look in the bastard’s eyes. “Drink up, and then maybe you and me can get outta here.”
Angel fakes a laugh, throwing his head back in a way that he knows makes him look pretty. “Oh stop it, ya big lug,” Angel says, really playing it up. “You’re gonna make me blush.”
Of course he wants Angel to drink his martini. He probably already picked out which dumpster he wants to fuck him behind.
Angel lifts the glass to his lips to take another phantom sip, but before he can get it all the way to his mouth, it’s sent flying out of his hands by someone else. Everything after that happens so fast that Angel barely processes it.
His glass shatters on the maroon carpet. Chazwick jumps off of his stool and is backed against the table with both of his hands in the air as Husker holds a cocked gun between his eyes. Husker is shorter than Chazwick by several feet, but his demeanor is menacing and terrifying enough that it does not matter who the bigger person is in this fight.
His yellow eyes burn like flames in wake of the overlord’s fury. The hair on his shoulders and face is sticking up at wild angles, and his fangs have grown sharp and dangerous. His demonic form pulls as the edges of his corporeal one, and Angel can see the power radiating off of him in waves of red and orange.
It’s the first time that Angel has ever seen Husk come anywhere close to losing his cool and it’s…
Beautiful.
That’s the only word that comes to mind as Angel takes in the person in front of him. When Val’s temper got out of control, the demon within him would snarl its ugly head in Angel’s direction from time to time. When Val got like that, Angel would recoil in disgust at how hideous Valentino really was — how childish, how violent. Val’s eyes would bulge out of his head and his teeth would turn yellow and his long, boney hands would stretch to crude and ugly claws.
Hell wore Valentino’s fury like a cheap, rubber halloween mask. It consumed him and stripped every ounce of humanity from his body in a way that made him repulsive.
For Husker, though, it’s different.
Husker wears Hell like a suit of armor. It compliments him and makes him seem infinitely more powerful; it protects him and makes him feel untouchable.
Angel can only stare at him in awe as Husker growls at Chazwick and presses the gun hard against his skull.
“What makes you think you can come into my casino and drug one of my employees?” Husker demands, his voice distorted by his own demonic energy. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Chazwick goes ghostly pale. Angel sees his adam’s apple bob as he swallows and then watches as the douchebag stutters through his attempt to explain himself.
“I-I-I don’t know w-what you’re talkin’ about man!” Chazwick says, but everything about the way his voice shakes gives him away. “I d-didn’t—”
“And now you’re gonna lie to me?” Husker says with something that sounds like it might be a laugh punctuating his question. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you, kid?”
“No!” Chazwick says, and he’s starting to sound hysterical.
“That’s ‘no sir’, to you, fuckface,” Husker growls.
“N-no, s-sir,” Chazwick sputters.
Angel is not ashamed to admit how hot he finds this. Who knew the little kitty had claws?
Who knew the little kitty liked being called ‘sir’?
The way that Husker commands respect is deliciously alluring. Angel’s chest feels tight as he watches Chazwick’s knees start to shake in fear while Husker’s demeanor remains strong and intimidating. He keeps the gun pointed at Chazwick’s face with one hand, and with the other he yanks the side of Chazwick’s coat off of his shoulder, reaches into his pocket, and reveals a small pink vile of Velvette’s “Love Potion”.
He holds it up and Chazwick starts to cry. Angel watches, stunned, and Husker shoves the bottle into his hands for him to take.
“I’m gonna give you ten seconds to get the fuck out of my casino before I put a bullet in that ugly skull,” Husker snarls.
“Y-yes, sir,” Chazwick sobs. “S-sorry—”
“Ten.”
Chazwick’s eyes widen.
“Nine.”
And then, just like that, the fucker is gone. He runs from the place where he and Angel had been sitting so fast that Angel isn’t even sure which direction he goes, just that he does. He runs away with his fin between his legs and doesn’t look back, leaving Angel and Husker alone together with Husker’s gun still raised and pointed at the place where Chazwick had been standing only moments ago.
Husker calms down. He exhales loudly and the ominous crimson aura that had been surrounding him fades away as he lowers his gun, uncocking it and letting it hang loosely at his side. He turns his attention towards Angel.
“You okay, kid?” he asks, and Angel’s gut response is to laugh.
What the fuck just happened? Did Husker just fucking save him, like he was some weak little damsel in distress? God, maybe he really isn’t cut out of this job. Maybe he isn’t good for anything other than rough sex work and cheap porn. He holds the small, glass bottle tightly in his hands.
How could he have been so stupid? Of course Husker was watching him. He probably saw Angel waste his whole night on some loser who clearly didn’t have a penny to his name only to end up having his drink spiked when his back was turned. Angel must look so pathetic.
Angel’s inadequacy and embarrassment takes over, laced with shame that makes him respond with anger instead of gratitude.
“I’m fine,” Angel snaps. He watches confusion blink for a moment across Husker’s face before he schools his expression back to it’s usual calm and collected state. “I had it handled.”
Husker looks like he very much doubts that.
“That fucker put something in your drink—”
“You think I can’t tell when someone puts something in my drink?” Angel says, every syllable dripping with hysteria. “I deal with this shit all the time. I knew what I was doing.”
Husker rolls his eyes. “You knew that he spiked your drink and you were still going to drink it?”
Angel glares at him. “No,” he says, dragging out the vowel. “I was going to pretend to drink it until I could shake him offa me. I’ve dealt with pretentious pieces of shit like him more times than I can count, he didn’t have a chance.”
Husker’s expression flickers again with something that might almost be anger.
“He sought you out,” Husker tells him. “From the moment he got here, he was looking for you. He wasn’t gonna let you out of his sight.”
“So?” Angel crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “Maybe I wanted him to fuck me.”
This time, Husker’s face does shift. His nostrils flare and his eyes glow and he looks furious at Angel’s implication. Angel immediately regrets saying what he did.
“You wanted him to drug you? What kind of fucked up shit are you spitting?” Husker’s voice is barely above a shout. It’s only now that Angel realizes that they’re still in the middle of the casino, having this conversation in front of hundreds of prying eyes. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Angel feels suddenly like he’s standing under a spotlight. He starts to sweat. “Just drop it,” Angel mumbles, looking away.
Husk scoffs. “Funny way of sayin’ ‘thank you’,” he says.
Angel hates this. He hates the fact that he knows people are watching him. He hates the fact that Husker thinks he’s weak, and that he fucked up doing such an easy job. He feels humiliated. He feels like such a fucking fuck up.
“Thank you,” Angel says through gritted teeth. “Sir.”
He adds that last bit as a challenge; as a little bit of his rebellion slipping through the cracks. It pays off right away because a soft, pink blush appears on the overlord’s face before he looks away, flustered.
“Whatever,” Husker grumbles. He looks back at Angel for a moment, like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
He just walks away, leaving Angel feeling like all of the air has been sucked out of the room.
Chapter 5
“Hey,” Husker’s voice is soft when he finds Angel at the bar later that night. “This seat taken?”
Angel looks up from his martini, unable to keep the surprise from his face. Despite the fact that Angel’s soul is tied to the guy, he didn’t think that they’d be interacting this much. It’s been over a week since Angel started working here and he’s only seen Husker in passing. They’ve barely said two words to each other.
From what Angel’s gathered from the other staff, that’s the norm for The Jackpot. Husker is a good boss that trusts his employees to get their jobs done right and as long as things go the way they’re supposed to, he stays out of their hair.
Angel was happy to keep it that way. And maybe things would have stayed that way if Angel hadn’t given into his destructive behaviors and let an asshole like Chazwick Thurman humiliate him in front of his boss.
Angel shouldn’t have snapped at Husker. He knows that. He’s felt like shit about it all night, and no amount of alcohol has been enough to soften the blow of their earlier interaction.
If Angel had fucked up this badly with Val, it would have ended with him unconscious on the linoleum floor of V tower with a throbbing headache and a pair of black eyes that would be a bitch to try and cover up for the next day’s shoot. Val didn’t allow mistakes.
Husker doesn’t seem like he’s interested in punishing Angel. Everything about his stance says that he’s approaching with a white flag in hand, wanting to make amends. Angel really hopes that Husker is the “stern talking to” type of reprimander, rather than the “fist to the face” type.
“No,” Angel tells him, gesturing at the empty stool. He keeps his voice cool. Calm. “Go right ahead.”
Husker takes a seat and the bartender places a crystal decanter filled with an amber liquid in front of him along with a matching glass. Husker doesn’t even acknowledge the bartender with so much as a glance, he just grabs the decanter and fills his glass a little more than halfway, downs it, and fills it again.
“Look,” Husker says. He doesn’t look at Angel, choosing instead to focus on the glass in his hands. “You’re right that I should have trusted you to have the situation under control. I know you’re not some weakling, and I’m — if I made you feel like I thought you were some princess that needs savin’, I want you to know that I don’t feel that way. I know you can handle yourself. I know what kind of overlord that bitch Valentino is. I’m sure you’ve seen worse than anything that slippery scumbag from tonight could dish out.”
Angel stares at him.
Is…is this an apology?
“I just saw that asshole put that shit in your drink and I—” Husker’s grip on his glass tightens. He closes his eyes, like this is hard for him to say, like he isn’t used to talking like this.
Angel wonders why he’s making the effort.
“It doesn’t matter. Point is, you’ve been doin’ good, kid,” Husker says with a sigh. He still doesn’t look at Angel. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you to make sure you weren’t gonna pull some shit and try to wiggle out of our arrangement, but you surprised me.”
“What can I say? I’m a natural performer, and you asked me to perform.” Angel tells him. He shrugs and waves his martini. “Just doin’ what I’m good at.”
“You are good,” Husker says, finally turning to look at him. His expression is its usual unreadable self, but there’s a flush in his cheeks from the liquor. “Maybe the best I’ve seen. The way you manipulate the sorry fuckers who think you’re interested in them is — well, it’s impressive is what it is. You could probably be an overlord if—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Angel knows the implications.
If you weren’t already on someone’s chain.
“Anyway,” Husker says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to ask you if you’d consider a promotion.”
His expression is still schooled, but Angel can tell from the way his gaze does not waver from Angel’s face that he’s serious.
“Promotion?” Angel asks, treading carefully. He keeps his tone light and friendly, but inside of his head he’s all too aware that he’s having this conversation with one of Hell’s most powerful overlords. “Didn’t know The Jackpot had that sort of thing.”
Husker shrugs. “We don’t. Not normally. But you’re not exactly a normal soul, are you?”
Angel doesn’t know if Husker means that as a compliment or not, but it feels like one. No — it feels better than a compliment. It feels like real, genuine praise. It makes something warm blossom in Angel’s belly and his chest feels tight.
“Aw, you’re too sweet,” Angel says, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m just a cute face, that’s all. It’s easy to get shit from losers who want to bang you when you look like me.”
Husker hums to acknowledge Angel’s statement, but doesn’t show any indication that he agrees with him.
“Call it whatever you want, but you’ve got talent. People like you, and when you’re around the wayward piece of shit souls that come here to gamble away their problems are smiling when they do it.” Husker huffs a laugh. “And who’d have fuckin’ guessed that when people feel good enough to smile, they spend more money. Profits are up this week higher than they’ve ever been, and I’m startin’ to think it’s because the idiot Valentino bet his good luck charm and lost.”
Husker laughs again, but this time the sound is darker. “His loss is The Jackpot’s gain though.”
Angel feels like he’s in a scene in a movie. But not one of Val’s shitty pornos; a real movie. One with moments like this where the femme fatale is propositioned by the mysterious male lead and lets herself be swept off her feet and into the clutches of the film’s tragic plot that ends with her dead.
“So when you say promotion, what did you have in mind?” Angel asks. He feels strangely breathless, in a way that feels important.
Husker finishes his drink and refills his glass. “I want you with me,” Husker tells him, taking another sip. “As my right hand. I want you at my side, helping me pull the strings behind the scenes. When I challenge a big-spender to a game, I want you to help make things work out in my favor.”
Angel stares at him. “You want me to help you cheat.”
Husk shakes his head. “No, there’s no thrill in cheating,” Husker explains. “I didn’t become The Gambling Overlord by cheating. I became one by being able to read people, to call them on their bluffs and knowing when to fold. I read people while being unreadable myself, and I win games by doing it.” He meets Angel’s eyes again, and there’s a spark in them. “You do the same thing, you just call it something else.”
Angel had never thought about it that way, but Husker is right. Most of what he does — most of what he’s always done — is rooted in being able to know people without them knowing him. Even now, even here, Angel is doing what he can to ensure that he has the upper hand in this exchange. It’s not often that someone is able to figure him out like this and it makes him feel uneasy to have been exposed so quickly.
It makes him question his own talents and abilities. How has this motherfucker managed to figure him out so well? One week away from Val and already Angel’s greatest facade has been shattered to bits. Can everyone see through him, or just Husker?
“I can tell by your face that you’re wondering how I managed to figure you out so fast,” Husker says with another low grumble of a laugh. How is he doing that? How is he reading Angel so well? “Don’t worry kid, you’re not losin’ your edge. You’re a damn rubrix cube of complexity, I’m just a professional when it comes to puzzles.”
That makes Angel feel a little bit better. Husker does seem like someone who knows people more than they want to be known, and he reminds himself once again to be careful with how he acts around the guy.
“What would I be doin’ as your right hand?” Angel purs, leaning closer with his elbow on the bar. He resists the urge to ask if he’d be awarded all of the same privileges as the overlord’s real right hand. Husker hasn’t been receptive to any of Angel’s attempts to flirt with him, so Angel knows not to try that tactic.
“The same thing you’re doing now, but on a larger scale,” Husker explains. “I host private games. Big games. With big clients. I need someone with me that I can trust to play the social aspect of the game, which I’m shit at.”
Now it’s Angel’s turn to laugh. “The grumpy austere thing works for you, but it’s not very approachable.”
Husker nods and finishes another glass of what Angel now knows to be whiskey. He can smell it on the overlord’s breath; spicy and familiar.
“That’s what I mean,” Husker agrees. “I’ve worked hard on making myself powerful. Making myself someone that people take seriously, which, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a fucking cat. It’s not exactly easy to make people fear you when Hell cursed you with the body of the internet’s favorite snuggly creature.”
Angel snorts and goes to take a sip from his martini when he realizes that it’s empty. Before he can order another, Husker raises a hand to the bartender and points to Angel, resulting in a new one being placed in front of him in a matter of seconds.
Angel has to admit that there is something really sexy about a guy with this much power who uses it so casually. It’s the opposite of Valentino, who spent so much time doing himself up and making himself seem like the most powerful person in the room. It’s why Val hit him so often, and why he insisted on abusing Angel in front of others. It was the only way he could assert his dominance in a way that made him feel seen.
Husker, on the other hand, doesn’t need the bells and whistles to command respect. It’s apparent from the way that this casino operates that he knows what he’s doing. He’s powerful in a strong and silent way, which Angel admires.
“Thanks,” Angel says, lifting the drink and taking a sip. It’s sweet and strong; just how he likes it. “And yeah, you do got kind of an ‘adorable but deadly’ thing goin’ for you. I see why you need my help schmoozin’ over the big-spenders.”
Husker stares at him for a minute, like he’s trying to read him, and then he says, “So can I take that as confirmation that you’ll do it?”
Angel smirks. “Depends,” Angel says. “On what’s in it for me.”
Husker returns the smirk, like he was expecting this response. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, followed by a sleek, gold credit card. He places it in front of Angel.
“This would be yours,” Husker tells him, and Angel’s fingers twitch at his sides. “No spending limit. You can have whatever you want, whenever you want it. My only request is that you use it to buy yourself something nice to wear. If you’re going to be my partner, I need you to look good.”
Angel hasn’t been anyone’s partner in a long, long time. But he doesn’t say that.
Instead, Angel reaches out and takes the card in his hand. He turns it over, expecting it to vanish into thin air, but it doesn’t. With something like this, Angel could really have fun. He could live the life he thought he was living at V Tower, but on his own terms.
“I always look good,” Angel tries to tease back, but his voice betrays him in the way it shakes. He’s never had something like this before, and it’s making him feel a little dizzy to hold it so close.
“True,” Husker says, and Angel feels himself blush. That was definitely a compliment. “But imagine how much better you could look with the money to buy what you wanted. Those high-heeled boots can’t be cheap.”
He’s right. They’re not.
“Feels like it’d be pretty stupid to refuse an offer like this,” Angel says. He’s flirting, he realizes, but not on purpose. He can’t remember the last time he flirted with someone because he wanted to, not because he felt like he had to. There’s something about Husker that makes Angel feel breathless and a little out of his mind. He’s not harsh or cruel like most of the guys Angel’s met in Hell. He’s… different.
Husker chuckles and finishes the last of his drink. Angel realizes that over the course of their conversation, Husker finished nearly the entire decanter of liquor. He would be impressed if it weren’t such a heavy reminder of his own addictions; he supposes everyone in Hell has their vices.
At least Husker isn’t a mean drunk.
They part for the evening with a promise of meeting again two nights from now, when Husker has a private game with a handful of big clients. Angel feels weightless when he walks back to his room and it could be the three martinis making him feel this way but, he thinks that maybe things won’t be so bad around here after all.
Maybe, for once, things will be okay for him.
*
*
*
(In the back of his mind, Valentino’s voice is ever-present. It coils around his safe and secure thoughts like a boa-constrictor and reminds him that addicts can never change. There are no happy endings for people like him.)
Chapter 6
Angel decides to bring Cherri along on his first shopping spree with his fancy new credit card. It’s been a while since they’ve hung out in a way that’s genuinely fun and not because one of them is in crisis mode, so it feels like something long overdue.
She meets him at the mall (because of course Hell has malls, have you ever been to a mall?) and they share fancy lattes while they catch up on each others’ lives. He told her about the contract fiasco over text, but they haven’t really talked about it yet.
“So you don’t have to have sex with anyone?” Cherri asks, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Like, not even a little bit?”
“Not unless I want to,” Angel tells her. His drink is sugary and delicious and worth every penny of Husker’s hard-earned money. “And he wants me to be his assistant, so alls I gotta do is look cute and flirt with clients while he beats their asses in poker.”
“Wow, Angie, movin’ up in the world.” Cherri whistles, impressed. “No more getting random guys’ jizz in your hair for some shitty porno. Looks like we’re both out here livin’ our best lives. I got this on my last burglary job. Isn’t it fancy as shit?”
She motions for Angel to look at her neck, where a string of brilliant pearls is glittering.
“Holy shit,” Angel gasps. He reaches out to touch them and she doesn’t swat his hand away. “Are those real?”
Cherri nods. “They’re Envian pearls,” she tells him. “From the Envy ring. Some sorry bloke was stupid enough to leave them in their jewelry box, and now they’re mine.”
It’s Angel’s turn to be impressed. “That’s one hell of a haul.”
“You’re tellin’ me,” she agrees. “Nearly lost an arm getting away from that gig, but it was worth it. We pawned everything else we got for a few grand.” She laughs. “Stealin’ from rich people is the fuckin’ best.”
“I’ll drink to that, sister,” Angel says, holding up his paid-for coffee to toast against hers.
A silence settles between them for a moment, and it’s comfortable. Angel always feels safe with Cherri, and the silence that would usually make him feel uneasy with anyone else feels good with her. They’ve been through literal Hell together, and Angel wouldn’t trade his friendship with her for anything.
After a minute, Cherri takes a sip of her coffee and laughs softly. “I bet Val is having a fuckin’ conniption over losing you.”
Angel’s stomach twists at the mention of Val’s name. She’s right, of course. Val is having a fit about losing Angel, and Angel knows this because the fucker has been blowing up his phone on a daily basis. He mostly just sends Angel nonsensical rage, but sometimes there are threats thrown in there too alongside shameless begging for him to come back.
As if Angel has a fucking choice in that.
“Oh,” Angel says. “He’s pissed.”
Cherry shakes the ice in her coffee cup around and then chews on the straw. “I still can’t believe that he’s allowed to bet your soul like that,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve never even heard of something like this. I thought that soul-binding contracts were all about consent. You didn’t consent to being traded like a fuckin’ goat.”
Angel snorts. “It’s Hell, baby. You really that surprised?”
She sighs. “Yeah, I know it’s Hell, but there are rules and shit, right? Your soul can’t just — he can’t just— ”
Angel reaches out and touches her hand. “Hey,” he says, softly. “Don’t get yourself worked up over me. I’m fine. This could actually be good for me.”
She looks at him like she seriously doubts that.
“How is having your soul used as a bet in a game of poker good for you?”
Angel shrugs. “Bein’ away from Val gives me a real shot at gettin’ clean. For good this time.” He can’t meet her eye when he says it. He doesn’t want to see the look of pity there. He doesn’t need to hear the unsaid doubts he knows are sitting at the edge he her tongue. How many times have they told each other that this time, they really meant it? This time they were really going to stay clean? The sentiment is meaningless between them now, and he knows that. But he says it anyway, because he wants it to be true.
He wants this time to be the time that sticks. He wants this time to be when he finally beats his addiction for good.
“Plus, the Gambling Demon ain’t actually so bad,” he tells her. “He actually kind of seems to care about the souls on his chain. He’s different.”
Cherri stares at him, lifting her brow skeptically. “Different,” she repeats, deadpan.
“Yes?” Angel offers. He sticks a finger into the whipped cream on the top of his overly sweet drink and licks it off. “He’s nice. Well, for an overlord.”
“Angie…” Cherri bites her lower lip, like she’s trying not to say what she really wants to.
But she doesn’t need to say it, because he knows what she’s thinking.
“I know,” he says. “I know, okay? ‘Overlords are overlords’, and all that. Trust me, I’m not sayin’ I wanna suck the guy’s dick or anything, just that… I dunno, he sees my potential. He gave me this fancy credit card so I could go out and spoil myself. So that I could spoil us.”
He lifts his brows playfully and pulls the card out to set it on the table. He’s trying to tease her past the clear reservations she’s having about the whole situation, but she isn’t having it.
“You said Val saw your potential too,” she says, softly. Her voice is just above a whisper, like she isn’t sure if it’s something that she really wants Angel to hear her say. “I just don’t want—”
“Val was different,” Angel says darkly. He feels like there’s a weight in the pit of his stomach, and his mouth suddenly tastes sour. “Val and me — he was — this isn’t—”
Angel stops himself. His tongue is tripping on the feeling of the words in his mouth as they struggle to make sense.
“Look, I know you’re worried, but I have this under control.” He fails to keep the frustration from his voice. “It’s not like I asked Val to bet my contract. He just does shit like that without — this wasn’t my choice. I also didn’t know that this was an option that was on the table, so I’m just trying to make the best out of a shit situation.”
She gives him one last, hard look, and then she says, “Okay.” Like it’s that easy. Like she can let it go. “Okay, Angie. I trust you. But… you know you can reach out if you need me, yeah?”
Angel feels the tension leave his shoulders. “Yeah,” he says. He takes her hand fully in his and squeezes. “I know. Thanks, Cherri.”
She smiles at him, and then leans back in her chair. “Ugh, blech,” she says, “That’s enough sentimentality from me today. You wanna go use your new sugar daddy’s credit card to buy cute shit?”
Angel returns her smile with one of his own. “I thought you’d never ask.”
They don’t go too crazy, but Angel absolutely enjoys his use of Husk’s unlimited credit card. He buys a few new pairs of heels for both him and Cherri, splurges on a new eyeshadow palette, and treats them both to lunch at their favorite sandwich place. It almost feels surreal, how not awful shit is for him today.
He had become accustomed to the torture of being with Valentino and all that came with it. For years he had accepted that Valentino was his real punishment in Hell. Val was what he deserved for all of the fucked up shit he had done while he was alive. He has a lot of regrets about how he handled things when his heart was still beating, and for so long he believed that Val’s entrance into his story was serendipitous in a fucked up sort of way. It was meant to happen.
He was meant to suffer.
But it’s been almost eighty fucking years at this point, and maybe, just fucking maybe, he’s allowed to feel happy. Maybe, just fucking maybe, he’s allowed to want to get clean.
Which is why when Cherri suggests that they use Husker’s credit card to buy drugs, he hesitates. It’s not like Husker put limitations on what he can and cannot buy. In fact, he made it clear that he was fine with Angel doing drugs if that’s what he wanted to do, so long as the drugs don’t interfere with his work. Angel has a decent stash of coke back in his room for emergencies, but that’s just coke. At this point, doing a bump of cocaine is the same as taking a shot of espresso in the morning to get himself going. He doesn’t even get high on the shit anymore.
What Cherri talking about buying is a little different.
She presses her face to the glass display window of the hard drugstore in the mall and slaps Angel’s arm furiously.
“Dude, with that card we could get the good shit,” she says, looking at him with a big puppydog eye. “We could get molly — pure MDMA, not that cut shit. We could get DMT or 2CB or — oh my god, Angel, this place sells peyote!”
As much as Cherri Bomb is Angel’s best friend, she is also his worst enemy. She brings out the worst parts of him. She tempts him like a serpent, but instead of the apple of knowledge being the tasty treat at the end of the line, it’s a needle filled with heroin. Their lives in Hell have been awful and drugs have been the only thing that either of them could rely on to escape it all. Drugs let Angel disappear into the soft, warm places that still exist in his mind. Drugs let him forget about all of the shit — about Val and the ache between his thighs after one of their rougher sessions, about the fucked up shit he’s had to do on camera, about the sister he let down when he overdosed.
Drugs have been the only good thing in this fucking endless pit of bad.
But drugs are also exactly how he ended up here to begin with. They’re a poison that he can’t escape; something he needs as badly as he needs air in his lungs. He can’t resist them. He’s never been able to resist them, living or dead.
“I don’t know,” Angel says, eyeing the vial of 2CB as it literally glitters in the light of the display case. God, it would feel so good to be high right now, wouldn’t it? To hold that bitter, battery-acid-tasting liquid under his tongue and let himself disappear into the thoes of ecstacy with his best friend at his side.
“Aw, come on,” Cherri says, nudging him. “We won’t get any of the hard shit. No heroin or meth, just some fun little research chemicals. Harmless shit like that. It’s not like they can kill us, we’re already dead.”
And she’s right, of course. The drugs can’t kill them.
That’s the big difference between drugs in the living world and drugs in The Pit. In the living world, too much hands you to a one-way ticket to Lucifer’s endless rager of fire and suffering. In the living world, you have to be careful with how much you take because if you aren’t, you end up like Angel — six feet under the ground and no idea how to process the fact that your life is over, just like that. He closed his eyes in New York City and woke up to a blood-red sky, and he spent every moment of his death wishing he could go back and make things right.
In Hell, drugs are somehow even more dangerous. In Hell, the only risk in doing too much is the way that your tolerance starts to build and build until nothing is enough to satisfy the ache in your bones. In Hell, drug addiction becomes a cinder block tied to your ankle that you drag behind you with every step you take. Drug addiction burns a hole in your wallet and makes you desperate, just like it does up above except this time, when you can’t pay up what you owe you end up selling your soul to an overlord.
Angel’s seen it happen to countless souls. It’s what happened to him, after all. He was stupid and naive. He got to Hell and went on an all-out bender. He drank himself stupid and woke up in the gutter every morning with a hangover that he treated with more drugs and booze. He fucked strangers and let them do awful shit to him in order to earn enough cash to get his next fix. Turning tricks wasn’t new territory, but the dangers that came along with the eternity of it were. In life, he was living to die. In death, he was killing himself a little bit each day just for the chance to feel alive again.
That’s how he ended up in Val’s clutches.
When the drugs stopped being enough, when the sex stopped being enough, Angel needed something more. Valentino offered that to him on a crimson platter. Valentino had a drug like no other. Hell had blessed him with a toxin that hit harder than anything Angel had ever experienced; that flowed through his bloodstream and made him feel like it could make his heart start beating again if he took enough of it. And the thing was — Val offered him enough of it.
All Angel had to do was sell his soul.
It had seemed like a decent deal at the time. All of the drugs he could want, Val’s toxin pumped directly into his bloodstream through the touch of their kiss, through the thrill of their fuck, in exchange for Angel’s autonomy.
The drugs can’t kill him, but in a way what they can do to him is worse. Drugs are what got him into this mess. They destroyed his life and his death, and the dependance is still a heavy weight that he carries with him. He’d give anything to go back and stop himself from taking that first bump of cocaine.
Anything.
“Come on Angie!” Cherry shakes him. “What’s the point in having a sugar daddy with a magic credit card if you aren’t going to use it to have some fun?”
“He’s not my sugar daddy,” Angel argues, rolling his eyes. “He’s my boss.”
“Riiight,” Cherri says. “Well whatever he is, he would want you to have fun. And he would want you to have fun with me, your best friend. And your best friend wants you to buy her a pink DMT vape.”
Angel looks at her for a minute. She’s smiling, pointed teeth sharp and giddy with the anticipation of the “yes” she knows is sitting at the tip of Angel’s tongue. He doesn’t think that there’s any real use in arguing with her about this and really, he doesn’t have a reason to say no. Husker didn’t tell him he wasn’t allowed to buy drugs with his money, it just feels… weird to do something like this.
(The feeling in and of itself is even weirder. Since when does Angel feel fucking guilty about spending some sucker’s money? What’s happening to him?)
So Angel relents. He smirks at her and puts an arm around her shoulder and he leads them both into the store.
“Ya know what? You’re right. Fuck it,” he says. “Let’s go fucking crazy.”
Going fucking crazy means that Angel buys Cherry the (very expensive) DMT vape she wants, along with an ungodly number of LSD strips, some pure MDMA and empty pill capsules, and three pounds of cocaine. As they’re checking out at the counter, Angel reluctantly adds a small vial of Love Potion By Velvette to the purchase. If Cherri notices, she doesn’t say anything, which Angel is thankful for.
Velvette’s concoction is made with Val’s toxin, so it’s the only way Angel can get a hit of it without going directly to Val himself. He’s trying hard to break his dependance, but he’s not there yet. He’s been putting a teaspoon of the stuff in his coffee every morning and taking another teaspoon every night before bed. It’s not nearly as much of a high as the pure shit, but it gets him through his day without going into withdrawal.
Because really — that’s the part he’s dreading the most. Angel’s been through withdrawal before, and it’s worse than dying. Not that he knows what dying feels like since he was blissed out when it happened to him, but it’s what he imagines dying would feel like if he had suffered. He isn’t in a position where he can just stop what he’s doing and let his body detox, so he has to keep himself buzzed while he figures out a game plan. Demon deals don’t exactly come with vacation days, so Angel needs to come up with a way to convince Husker to let him take time to go lock himself away somewhere for a bit while he goes through the process of getting clean.
Clean from the drugs. Clean from the poison. Clean from Valentino.
He slips the vial into his pocket (he tries not to think about how compact it is, how easy to conceal. He knows exactly what this shit is meant to be used for and if he thinks too hard about it, he’s going to make himself sick), and he hands the bag with the rest of the drugs to Cherri. She takes the bag and then looks at him, confused.
“Wait, you’re giving me all of this?” She narrows her eyes, suspicious. “I thought we were splitting it.”
Angel shrugs. “Limitless credit card, baby. I can get my own stuff when I need it.”
He’s lying. She can tell that he’s lying, but she doesn’t argue with him over it.
“Fuckin’ sweet,” she says, clutching the bag closer. “You sure you don’t wanna do some of this cocaine before we go? The guy at the store said it’s good shit and—”
Whatever she says, Angel doesn’t hear it. He stops walking as they pass by a store window, captivated by what he sees on the other side of the glass.
It’s a department store; one of the big, fancy ones that sells designer brands and the mannequin in the window is wearing the most breathtaking dress that Angel has ever seen. It’s skin-tight and stunning; gold and glittery. The dress is strapless and the back dips down low with a concealed zipper. The mannequin is wearing a fur shawl as well, white and fluffy and draped like a cape around her plastic neck.
Angel stares at it.
He’s never wanted something so badly before. It would look great on him. It’s the exact silhouette that he usually goes for, one that would hug his curves and extend the length of his body beautifully. Part of him wishes that it were pink instead of gold, but then he remembers that Husker’s suit is accented in the exact same shade.
Husker had told him to buy something to wear, hadn’t he?
“Oh, Angie,” Cherri says softly. She sounds as breathless as Angel feels. “That’s beautiful.”
Angel’s legs carry him into the store before his brain can even process what’s happening. He finds the dress right away, grabs one in his size, and beelines towards the dressing room. Cherri follows him, always loyal, always at his side, and she helps him pull the zipper up once he has it on.
She takes a step back and Angel steps in front of the full length mirror.
For a moment, neither of them says a word. He stares at his reflection and does not recognize the person he sees staring back at him. Angel Dust knows that when he’s got his mask on, he gives off an air of confidence that isn’t always real. He puts on a face that lets people see the version of them that he wants them to see, rather than the person he truly is on the inside. He’s an actor, after all, and putting on a show is what he was born for.
In this dress, the version of himself that he sees in the mirror is the person he wants to be, more than anything. He sees a confident, gorgeous soul who knows their worth. Angel Dust is a super model who holds the world in his hand and makes men bow at his feet. The person in the dress is clean and happy because he doesn't need drugs to feel like he matters.
The person Angel sees in the mirror knows that he fucking matters.
Suddenly, the dress feels too tight. It feels like it belongs to someone else. He wants to rip it off and throw it into a heap on the floor and run out of the mall in nothing but his underwear. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to look like he has any business feeling like he’s anything more than the worthless piece of shit he’s always been.
But then, as if she can read his mind and hear the ugly thoughts bouncing around in his head, Cherri is beside him. She looks at the version of Angel in the mirror with awe and reverence and she gasps a little bit, putting her hand up over her mouth.
“Wow,” she says, like that could possibly be enough. “Just… wow.”
Angel can’t breathe.
She turns towards him and grabs his shoulders, forcing him to look at her instead of in the mirror. Her expression is hard and serious, and he tries to swallow but it won’t go down. Slowly, without saying a word, Cherri reaches up to the pearls around her neck and removes them. When her hand starts towards Angel, he grabs her wrist, shaking his head.
“No,” he whispers, because he can’t speak any louder than that.
She just holds his gaze and nods.
Yes, she doesn’t say. She shakes her wrist free of his grasp and fastens the string of pearls around Angel’s neck.
She grabs his shoulders and forces him to look at himself again and—
It’s too much. The pearls complete the look. They make him look regal and expensive. They make him look powerful.
“Now everyone will know that you’re the one they should be envious of,” Cherri says, softly. “My Angie is a force to be reckoned with.”
He doesn’t know how to thank her. He tries to tell her that he can’t accept the necklace, but she refuses to hear him. She takes the dress from his hands once he peels it from his body and marches directly to the cash wrap where she buys it for him with her own money.
He tries to argue with her, and she laughs at him.
“It’s a thank you gift,” Cherri says. “So we can call it even for the drugs. Just do me a favor and wear this in front of your new overlord daddy when the time is right, to show him who’s really in charge. Got it?”
He wants to tell her that this is too much. He wants to tell her that he doesn’t deserve this, that he doesn’t deserve her, that he can’t imagine a scenario where he would ever feel confident enough to be the person she thinks he is. He wants to tell her that her best friend is a fucking phony — a liar, a loser, but he can’t find the words.
He knows that all of those things are true, but he also knows that Cherri thinks the world of him. He knows that when she looks at him, the person he sees is the person he wishes he was.
So he just takes the bag from her when she hands it to him and offers her a tight-lipped smile.
“Got it,” he says.
Chapter 7
Angel assumes his role as Husker’s right hand on a warm, humid night. The weather in Hell is unpredictable and the seasons are all out of whack, but nights like these remind Angel heavily of his life in New York City. He was born there and never left, and while most of the souls he’s met in Hell have likened Pentagram City to Los Angeles rather than New York, there are definitely parts of it that remind him of home. Namely, nights like these, when the air is wet and heavy in a way that causes beads of sweat to gather at the base of your spine and trickle down your thighs. When the heat feels like it’s in your lungs and trying to choke you; when your hair refuses to cooperate against the moisture in the atmosphere.
Nights like these make Angel think about his studio apartment on Spring Street and the sounds of the city playing like lullabies through his open window. The longer he’s been in Hell, the harder it’s been to remember anything about the life he had when he was alive. He’s been dead longer than he was alive, and at this point he’s more demon than he is human. It all feels like a distant memory now, like some other person’s story from a time long ago. If it weren’t for the fact that Angel still holds onto something — to a piece of his past procured through illegal means of accessing the living world and years of saving up to afford it — Angel wouldn’t even remember his old name.
Four decades or so ago, Angel used all of the money he made from doing porn to pay a shady imp to go into the human world and snatch up the only thing he left behind that mattered: a small, golden locket with his name engraved. It was a gift from his mother; a woman whose face he can’t recall, who named him after his great grandfather, Antonio.
Anthony is a strong Italian name. It means “priceless”, and when Angel thinks about that he laughs. If only his mother had known what a worthless piece of shit he’d turn out to be, then maybe she’d have chosen a different name for him.
Not that it matters now. Anthony is dead. Angel is all that remains of the skinny little blonde boy who couldn’t handle the weight of the world and chose to escape rather than face it head-on. Angel is a fragmented, broken version of the man he used to be, doomed to suffer for his mistakes for all eternity.
The locket is in a box that Angel keeps with his very few precious items. It lived with him in V Tower and it lives with him now, tucked away under his mattress where no one can see it. Safe and sound.
Tonight’s game is with a group of powerful demons from below the Pride ring. Each one is a leader within their own right, donning the label of a “deadly sin” while maintaining balance within Hell’s rings. Angel has only ever met one of them in passing — the demon of lust, Asmodeus. He’s attended the Sex-x-xi Awards a few times, but he was always accompanied by bodyguards and kept away from the sinners. Angel’s never been big on politics so he doesn’t care about any of that shit, but he’s aware enough to know that Husker managing to get these demons to play a game of poker with him every few months is a big deal.
The Deadly Sins don’t come up to the Pride ring for anything unless it’s worth their time. The fact that Husker has their respect is impressive. It’s another reminder that the overlord has many layers hidden below his own surface that Angel still isn’t aware of.
Just how powerful is this guy?
Angel’s nerves are on edge as he finishes getting ready for this evening’s activities. He decides against the dress that Cherri bought him for tonight, opting instead for a small black cocktail dress with sequins along the hem that hugs his body in all the right ways. It’s not that he doesn’t like the gold dress that Cherri got for him — quite the opposite, actually, he loves it, but it still doesn’t quite feel right when he wears it.
He doesn’t feel like the person he looks like when he puts it on, and tonight is too important to risk pretending. So he doesn’t wear it. He just stares at it where it hangs in his closet and he tries to picture what it might be like if he were to allow himself to be that powerful.
Angel has always been a submissive. Anthony was a submissive when he was alive, and it’s a habit Angel hasn’t been able to break in death. He’s loud and he’s confident and he talks a big game about how hot he thinks he is, but it’s all an act. In reality, Angel feels trapped within the cage of his own skeleton, like his soul is a prisoner beneath his skin. He feels like a jester who always aims to please, who puts on a show with bells and whistles to distract everyone from the hatred he feels inside.
That dress is too much.
It’s a declaration to everyone who sees it that Angel is powerful, that he knows how to use what he has to get what he wants. Maybe he would feel like it fits him better if he weren’t still hooked on Val’s toxin. Maybe he would feel like less of an undeserving waste of space if Valentino weren’t still wrapped around his throat. As it stands now, Angel doesn’t feel like the kind of person who deserves to wear something so beautiful.
So he does his make-up to match the black dress. He puts on winged eyeliner and powders his face and then he pulls down the neckline so that he can spray glitter onto his tits. He goes for what he knows — he goes for sexy, he goes for desirable, rather than beautiful and untouchable.
It’s better this way.
It’s easier this way.
Angel’s instructions are to take the elevator down to the floor where Husker’s office is. He arrives early and watches his reflection in the mirrors as he descends. He looks like Angel Dust: the professional, famous porn star of Hell. He exudes confidence and mystery, both tools that will help him with his task tonight.
He meets Husker in his office. He knocks his knuckles against the frosted-glass window of the open door to get Husker’s attention, and when he turns he looks Angel up and down. He’s holding a crystal glass filled with brown liquid but he doesn’t seem drunk, just relaxed.
“You look good, kid,” Husker tells him. He crosses the room towards where another crystal decanter sits alongside an empty glass. “Whiskey?”
Angel nods. “Yeah, thanks,” he says and he watches Husker pour him a perfectly measured serving. When Husker hands Angel the glass, their fingers brush.
It’s the first physical contact that Angel’s made with the guy, and it sends a shiver down his spine. Husker’s fingers are somehow rough and soft at the same time; a casualty of Husker’s demon body. Angel doesn’t make a big deal about it, choosing instead to focus on putting on his act.
“Thanks, Daddy,” Angel says with a wink. He relishes at the annoyed sound his boss makes as he takes a sip. The liquor is bitter on his tongue but smooth; spicy with notes of sweetness.
Most of the liquor in Hell is shit. It’s cheap and tastes cheap, and the majority of it is made in some sinner’s basement and redistributed around the Pride Ring. The good shit is hard to find and expensive, so it’s been a while since Angel’s felt the pleasant slide of liquid heat down his throat in a way that doesn’t immediately make him want to vomit.
“Shit,” Angel says, letting his eyes flutter closed as he savors the taste. “That’s good.”
Husker lets his low rumble of a laugh shake through his body and he refills his own glass. He doesn’t take a sip right away, choosing instead to hold the crystal glass beneath his nose and breathe in the smell.
“Single barrel whiskey from the Wrath Ring,” Husker tells him. “Can’t find anything smoother in the seven rings. Shit’s better than a $400 bottle of Macallan.”
Angel doesn’t tell him that he never had the money to afford such luxuries when he was alive. He just nods, like he’s in on the joke, like he knows and he agrees.
“Where did you get a bottle of Wrathian whiskey?” Angel asks, because he’s never even heard of the stuff. It’s rare for sinners to get their hands on imports from the other rings. Part of their punishment is their imprisonment on the surface level ring. They aren’t able to traverse the realm freely like the hellborn creatures are.
Imports like this are hard to come by and expensive as shit when you can get your hands on them. Angel knows that the guy has money, but everything has limitations, right?
Husker grins, and something about the way his lips curl over his pointed teeth makes him look sinister. It sends a shiver down Angel’s spine.
“I’m startin’ you off easy tonight,” Husker explains, in lieu of answering Angel’s question outright. “The kings and queens of the seven rings don’t gamble in souls. They don’t need to. Sinners aren’t of any value to them.”
Angel doesn’t know what to make of that.
“I thought souls were the highest currency,” Angel inquires, taking another sip of whiskey. He crosses the room and sits down on Husker’s leather couch, making himself comfortable by kicking his feet up. “Isn’t that how you got me?”
“Souls are the highest currency for sinners, yeah,” Husker says. “If you want power in Hell, up here in this shithole of a city, you need to get your hands bloody. Overlords were human once, which is the worst kind of demon. Humanity makes the purest souls into monsters. The only way we can get a leg up is to step on each other and rip ourselves apart.” Husker pauses to finish his drink. He leans back against his desk. “Down there,” he points downwards, “they don’t give a fuck about any of that power bullshit. They’re gods, and gods don’t busy themselves with the troubles of mortal souls.”
Angel considers this.
It makes sense. The “sins” are older than anything Angel can even imagine. Their existence is something that has always sort of been here, a part of the realm like a structural foundation that holds it all up. The politics of it all aren’t something Angel really thinks about, since Husker is right, this doesn’t concern them. Hell is bigger than them, more important than them. Sinners are just a small part of a much bigger, moving universe.
Angel is reminded once again of just how fucking similar things in Hell are to things on Earth. He was small and insignificant there, and he’s small and insignificant here. It’s that feeling of meaninglessness that’s always driven him to indulge in his vices. Why should he fucking care about being healthy or refraining from drugs when his existence is so pointless?
The weight of the world is too much. It’s too heavy. Angel can’t deal with it so he chooses not to. Drugs help him escape from it all.
“If they ain’t here to get souls, what are they here for?” Angel asks. He doesn’t care, but it’s important information for tonight’s event. What do beings with infinite power and wealth have to gamble?
“Secrets,” Husker answers, easily. “Information. There’s a lot of political drama going on beneath us that we have no part in, and more often than not, The Sins aren’t on speaking terms with each other. My games give them an opportunity to show off to one another, to brag and boast about the successes of each of their respective rings.”
“But why come here?” Angel presses. “Why not just get together on their own?”
Husker shrugs. “I think they like having a neutral party,” he says. “And they think I’m funny.”
Angel can’t help the laugh that bursts from him at that. “You?” Angel snorts. “Funny?”
Husker rolls his eyes and then glares at Angel. “Hey,” he grumbles. “Fuck you. I’m plenty funny.”
Angel can’t picture Husker being funny even if he tries. The guy is just so serious all the time, all glares and scoffs and eye rolls. He can’t even play along when Angel calls him “Daddy” and he acts like he’s so much better and smarter than everyone. In that way, he’s your typical overlord.
Everything is calculated. It’s business.
Business guys aren’t funny.
“Yeah,” Angel says, nodding. “And I’m terrible at sex.”
Husker’s eyes go wide and then that little blush returns to his cheeks, the one that Angel’s seen a couple of times now. It always makes Angel’s stomach flip over when it happens, like he’s seeing through the cracks to the man beneath the demon. Sex talk makes Husker blush, and Angel thinks that’s funny.
Husker turns away; turns so that his back is facing Angel, so that the pink in his face is hidden away where no one else can see it. Angel smirks and finishes his drink, setting the empty glass onto one of Husker’s dark, wooden tables.
He likes this — this back and forth between them. They get along easily and Husker lets Angel poke fun at him without punishing him for speaking out of turn. He may have been Val’s favorite toy, but that wasn’t always a good position to be in. Being Val’s favorite meant getting the worst of it when Vox and Val would get into a stupid fight over nothing and Val needed someone to take his frustrations out on. Being Val’s favorite meant that Angel was always the guinea pig when Val wanted to try out a new kink for film.
Being Husker’s favorite (is that what he is? Is it too soon for that?) is a lot more relaxed.
“They’ll be here in half an hour,” Husker says, gruffly. He doesn’t turn back to face Angel, which makes Angel think that he’s probably still a little red in the face. “Are you clear on what your job is?”
Angel nods, but then realizes that Husker can’t see him so he says, “Think so, yeah. You just want me to be my lovable self and make everyone feel welcome.” He punctuates his sentence by pushing out his chest and batting his eyebrows.
Husker turns around, slowly, but doesn’t quite meet Angel’s eyes. “I want you to put them in a good mood and keep their drinks full,” Husker explains. “Once the game starts, you won’t have to do much. These guys — they’re low maintenance. They’re not like the overlords or those stuck up owl fuckers. All you need to do is keep up appearances so that they keep coming back and I keep winning valuable shit from them.”
Ah. So that’s where Husker got the whiskey.
Angel thinks he’s starting to see the appeal of Husker’s gambling ring. He’s never been big on gambling himself — in order to win shit in a high-stakes game, you’ve gotta have something to lose and god knows Angel has very little to lose. Tricking people into betting their riches in a game of strategy and luck in order to get ahead has never been appealing to Angel.
Sex was always much easier for him.
“I can do that,” Angel agrees. He glances towards his empty glass and nudges it a little with his finger, a sign that Husker immediately picks up on as him asking for a refill.
Seemingly happy for something to do other than avoid looking at Angel’s face, Husker obliges. He picks the decanter up and fills Angel’s glass; fuller this time. Angel takes it and lifts it to his lips, really savoring the taste.
In another life, Angel would probably have fallen in love with Husker. If their circumstances were different, if Husker didn’t literally own Angel’s soul and have him bound by chains to do his bidding, maybe they could have had something between them. Husker isn’t exactly Angel’s type, but the more that Angel gets to know him, the more he’s starting to feel himself growing attracted to him.
He can’t help it. This is what he always does. He meets some guy who is more interested in taking advantage of him than actually caring about Angel’s talents or agency as a person and he fucking finds the good in him and clings to it like a life preserver. Husker is an overlord. He has — fuck, who even knows how many souls on his chain, it’s not like he’s a good person. But when he does this, when he talks about Angel like he genuinely believes in his ability to help his business succeed, when he fills Angel’s glass a little bit more with whiskey, when he blushes like the thought of Angel coming on to him is too much, it just does something to Angel that he can’t describe.
He’s fallen in love with too many Wrong Guys before, and he can’t let it happen to him again. No matter how nice this sexy, sultry overlord may be to him.
“I gotta be honest, I’m lookin’ forward to actually gettin’ to meet the famous Asmodeus,” Angel says, shaking himself from his own thoughts by casually putting on his usual act. “The Lust Demon? Come on, that’s like, my whole schtick. You think he’d fuck me if I ask him nicely?”
Husker snorts, putting the decanter back down. “Tough chance,” Husker says. “Surprised you of all people haven’t heard the rumors.”
“Rumors?”
“About him and—” Husker stops himself, that blush creeping back onto his face again. He clears his throat. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. But he might bring a guest with him tonight, so if he does, just make sure to keep him happy too, got it?”
“Yeah,” Angel says, waving his hand dismissively. “Trust me, I got this under control.”
“I know you do,” Husker says, and the assurance in his voice stops Angel in his tracks. He trusts Angel, and that thought makes Angel feel a little uneasy. He isn’t used to this, especially not from someone that he doesn’t trust himself yet. “Just making sure we’re on the same page.”
“Same page,” Angel verifies. He downs the rest of the whiskey and does not wince at the pleasant burn as it slides down his throat. He’s starting to feel a little drunk, which is nice. He’s always more confident when he’s drunk. “Actually, hold on. Before we do this, I gotta ask you something.”
Husker goes visibly stiff. He finally meets Angel’s eyes after avoiding them for the majority of their conversation. “What?”
Angel rolls his eyes at how blunt Husker is. He scoots over on the couch and pats the leather next to him. “Sit.”
Telling an overlord what to do? Who does Angel think he is? Fuck, this Wrathian whiskey is stronger than he thought.
To Angel’s surprise, Husker does as he’s told. A little awkwardly, Husker joins him on the couch.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” He’s being so earnest it’s almost a little bit cute.
This isn't right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. The overlord who owns his soul isn’t supposed to check in with him and make sure he’s okay. The overlord who won him in a game of cards the same way he won that bottle of strong as fuck whiskey isn’t supposed to save him when he notices someone spiking his drink.
He’s supposed to command and Angel is supposed to follow. He’s supposed to punish and Angel is supposed to apologize.
This? Sharing his liquor and giving him a credit card? Asking if he’s okay, making sure he’s comfortable? It’s all wrong.
Angel isn’t used to being so out of his element, and he’s tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You have Hell’s most famous porn star at your disposal,” Angel begins. “I know you said you don’t watch porn because Val’s writing is shit — and that’s fair, I respect that, his scripts are garbage, but I know you know what I can do. I’m a sex worker, boss, not a fucking circus clown. I know you said you trust me to be good at this, but eventually you’re gonna realize the cash cow you’re missin’ out on by not letting people in the casino rent me by the hour.”
Husker goes to speak but Angel puts up a hand to stop him,
“This is fun and all, and I’m havin’ a great time ridin’ this train as long as you’ll let me, but I gotta level with you,” Angel holds Husker’s gaze. “All of this is starting to seem too good to be true.”
Husker is quiet for a moment as he takes it in. He’s pensive; thoughtful as he considers his next move. Always the poker player, always the strategist.
It makes Angel want to wring his fucking neck in frustration.
Finally, he says, “So what are you asking me?”
“What’s the catch?” Angel says, as bluntly as he can. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be the rodent in this game of cat and fucking mouse. (Pun not intended.) “When does the part come where I gotta start payin’ you back for all of this ‘kindness’,” Angel says that word with vitriol, like it’s sour in his mouth, “with my body?”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Husker says, running a hand over his face. “Is that what you think of me?”
Angel blinks at him. “Excuse me?”
“You think I’m just like those dickheads who trapped you into signing a contract?” Husker asks, sounding agitated. “I’m not — Fuck, kid, I’m not gonna just treat you like some whore—”
“Why not?” Angel stands up, anger bubbling in his gut. “That’s what I am. I thought you knew that when you took my contract. If this is some kind of fuckin’ game to you, to get me comfortable and then turn on me—”
“I’m not gonna fuckin’ turn on you!” Husker stands too. Angel towers over him in stature, but they’re pretty equally matched in terms of strength. “You have to stop comparing me — comparing all overlords to those fucking Vees. They’re an embarrassment to all of Hell. Before they got in the game, there was order. There was balance. They treat the whole thing like it’s some social game, but it’s peoples’ lives they’re fucking with.”
Angel rolls his eyes. “Right, because overlords hate fucking with peoples’ lives,” he says, sarcastic. “That’s not what they do at all.”
“Overlords are the backbone of this pit, kid,” Husker says, narrowing his eyes. “We keep it from collapsing. We keep it from being all out war all the time, we give it structure. Hell needs overlords. Sinners need overlords.”
Angel can’t believe what he’s hearing. Does this guy hear himself? Yeah, sure, Val was an evil piece of shit but at least he knew he was an evil piece of shit. Husker is talking a big game like he knows better, like there’s more to the eternal suffering of the wretched.
Angel laughs. It’s a hollow, bitter sound and it echoes in the empty expanse of Husker’s office.
“That’s rich,” he says. “You tellin’ me I need Val? That I need you?”
“Well why did you sign with that piece of shit in the first place?” Husker asks.
“I thought you weren’t interested in hearing my sob story,” Angel scoffs. Husker recoils a bit at Angel throwing his previous words in his face.
“Humor me,” Husker grits out between his teeth.
“I signed with Val because I was tired of wakin’ up in the gutter, not knowin’ when or where I was gonna get my next fix,” Angel tells him. He doesn’t know why he does. This guy doesn’t deserve to know him.
“Because you needed structure,” Husker insists. “You needed a rhyme and reason to make sense of all of the fucking madness—”
“No, I needed drugs!” Angel shouts. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes but he refuses to let them fall. “I didn’t care about the madness, I was addicted to it! Val fed into that, he preyed on me like I was a wounded animal and sunk his teeth in and tore until my fuckin’ limbs came off!”
Angel stands there, breathing heavily. Husker stares back at him and his face is stunned; his walls are finally down, revealing a scared, lonely man who fucked up and said the wrong thing underneath the facade.
It’s striking, and Angel finds himself stunned to absolute silence at the expression he sees looking back at him. In all of his time in Hell, Angel has rarely felt like anyone he knows (aside from Cherri) had any humanity left inside of them. The person Angel sees in the dark of Husker’s eyes is undeniably, irrefutably human.
Angel knows where Husker is coming from with his argument, but Husker doesn’t know Angel like he seems to think he does. He sees, just like Angel does with Husker himself, the person Angel pretends to be when the stage lights are on and shining in his face. He sees the coked up whore who was down on his luck and got swept up into the chaos of Hell, but what he doesn’t realize is that Angel isn’t that person at all. Angel knew what he was doing when he took that contract.
Every single awful thing that Valentino ever did to him was because of a choice Angel made because he wanted to. And that’s a fact that he has to live with for the rest of eternity.
He doesn’t need some drunk old man to feel sorry for him. He doesn’t need to be fucking saved.
“I never asked for any of this,” Angel says, once the silence becomes too suffocating. “I never asked for you to be a hero for me, to go easy on me. I don’t get why you won’t just — just fucking use me like everyone else.”
Husker stares at him, point-blank. “Because, kid,” he says. “I’m not that kind of sinner. And neither are you. I’m not gonna break you into pieces for my own enjoyment, and I’m not gonna sit here and let you do it to yourself.”
And that?
That?
What the fuck is Angel supposed to do with that?
He feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. The emotion in the room is a nearly tangible thing; it’s thick and heavy and it fills all of the space around them. He looks at Husker, and Husker is looking right back at him and everything suddenly feels like it’s on fire. There’s a dark, gorgeous hunger in Husker’s dark eyes that Angel never noticed before. There’s a pull in Angel’s chest, willing him to move forward and close those precious inchest between them. He feels like he’s in one of those cheesy romance novels he used to read, like this is the moment where everything shifts and one of them moves and then suddenly its tongue and teeth and cocks and—
But that’s not what happens, because before either of them can make a move that might alter the course of their evening, a buzzer sounds and shakes them out of it. Angel jolts and turns towards the phone that’s sitting on Husker’s desk, where a red light is flashing.
Husker goes over to it, runs a hand through his hair before he exhales a shaky breath that tells Angel that he was feeling it too. He was caught in the same emotional twister that Angel had felt himself being swept up into only seconds ago. Husker presses the button.
“Your guests are arriving, sir,” a voice says. Husker makes a frustrated noise.
“Okay,” Husker says. “Send ‘em down.”
After a few moments that feel like forever, Husker looks back at Angel. He doesn’t try to apologize or to find that moment again; it is lost. Instead, he gives Angel a half-smirk and gestures towards the door.
“You still wanna do this, kid?” He asks it like he already knows the answer.
Angel, who feels suddenly lighter after saying all of that, smiles.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You know what they say: the show must go on.”
Chapter 8
The Sins aren’t what Angel expected.
They’re a lot more… human than he thought they’d be. Not in their appearances, obviously, but in their behaviors and mannerisms. They joke and laugh like normal people, and the very clear emotions that they experience feel so real and genuine that Angel wonders if their souls were human once, before they became immortal beings. He finds it easier to be around them than he ever did around certain sinners, but he doesn’t have the time to unpack what that means.
Being in Hell has made Angel question a lot about what it means to be human. He’s seen sinners transform before his very eyes from people to monsters, and he’s spent the last two decades doing everything he can to make sure that it doesn’t happen to him. Holding onto humanity is hard to do when the world around you is burning with misery and torture, but Angel’s managed to keep his humanity in tact.
Well. Most of it.
Angel meets everyone in one of the other rooms located in the casino’s subterranean level; a big room with a table and a private bar. The lighting is dim and casts the room in a golden glow that reflects off of the smooth wooden fixtures, making the room feel warmer than it actually is. Before the game starts, Husker instructs the imp bartender to make drinks which Angel assists in handing out.
The sins who join them for tonight’s festivities are from the rings of Lust, Gluttony, Wrath, Envy and Greed respectfully. Belphegor from Sloth couldn’t make it (something about being too busy to play silly games) and the leader of the Pride ring is Lucifer who hasn’t been seen in person in years, so… He couldn’t make it either. Not that Angel’s surprised. It’s Lucifer, after all.
Angel has seen photos of them all, but seeing them in person is a whole different experience. They’re bigger than he thought they’d be, towering over Husker and himself by several feet. The princess of the Gluttony ring, Beelzabub, is ethereal in her beauty in a way that makes Angel feel like he should look away. Her honey-yellow fur is smooth and sleek, and her eyes glow in the darkness of the game room when she narrows them after Angel offers her a drink.
“You look super familiar,” she says, taking a drink from his tray. “Why do I know you?”
Angel smirks and uses one of his free hands to smooth his hair down. “You’ve probably seen some of my movies,” he tells her. “I am one of Hell’s biggest stars, after all.”
Recognition crosses over her face, and she says, “Oh! Angel Dust, the porn star, right? Damn, bitch, what are you doing in a place like this? You lose a bet or somethin’?”
Angel laughs. “Not me,” he says. He decides that honesty is probably the best course of action with these guys. He knows that he’s a pretty fantastic liar, but he’s not about to try his luck against ancient beings like this without any practice. “The overlord I worked for bet my soul in a game of cards, so now I’m here. I can’t complain though, because I wouldn’t get to meet you lovely — uh,” he hesitates around the word ‘people’, “souls, if this hadn’t happened. And ain’t death all about experiences?”
Beelzabub laughs at that; really laughs, throwing her head back and howling at the ceiling. Angel feels pride well up inside of him at his ability to shmooze and impress someone like her, but he tries not to let it show on his face.
“True that, bitch,” she says, nodding. “Ozzie, baby, you hear this shit? This kid used to do porn, does that mean he worked for that scumbag overlord you hate?”
Asmodeus, the king of the Lust Ring, looks over at them. He had been sitting on one of the couches in the corner of the room talking to the guest he brought along. Hukser had warned Angel that there was a possibility Asmodeus might not be traveling alone, but Angel was surprised when the demon’s guest was none other than Hell’s most lovable jester: Fizzarolli. Another being that Angel never thought he’d see in person, but this one he’s a huge fan of. Everyone who’s anyone in Hell knows who Fizzarolli is, especially if you’re in the business of entertaining, which Angel obviously is. Fizzarolli is popular and well-loved. Val had several of the guy’s robo counterparts to assist with tasks in V Tower, but seeing him in real life is… different.
Fizzarolli is quieter than Angel thought he’d be. He arrived alongside Asmodeus, but has kept to himself for most of the evening so far. Even now when Asmodeus’ attention is pulled away from him, Fizzarolli just pulls out his phone and shuts everyone else out.
“Angel Dust,” Asmodeus says, vanishing from his seated position in a snap of blue smoke and reappearing at Beelzabub’s side. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
He puts out a gloved hand which Angel takes. He’s feeling a bit star struck. This is the god of lust, after all, which has sort of been Angel’s entire schtick since arriving in Hell.
“Pleasure’s all mine, baby,” Angel says, winking at him. Years of working under Valentino has taught Angel a thing or two about hiding his fear and anxiety. Inside, Angel is vibrating out of his skin with nervousness. He’s touching the hand of one of the Seven Deadly Fucking Sins, how could he not be freaking out? But on the outside, he knows that he’s maintaining his usual charismatic charm, a perfect picture of calm, collected, and flirtatious.
From the corner, Fizzarolli leans closer to listen in. Angel can’t tell for sure, but something like anger seems to line the features of his face, but he can’t imagine why.
“I’m glad to hear that you’re done working under that piece of shit overlord you used to call a boss,” Asmodeus tells him, glaring at no one in particular. “You’re talented, and I hate to see natural talent like yours wasted on hellscum like that.”
Angel’s chest feels tight. He doesn’t really know the proper way to respond to this, and he’s feeling… a lot, in regards to the implications of Asmodeus’ statements. He hadn’t realized that other beings, other powerful beings, had such strong opinions on Val. Though, he supposes it would make sense for the leader of the Lust Ring to feel some type of way regarding the overlord who controls all of the Pride Ring’s pornography.
He just sort of figured that Asmodeus would like Val. Say what you will about the fucker, but Valentino gets shit done when it comes to business. He works hard on trying to cater to every kink, and capitalizes on the depravity of the horny souls that consume his content. Isn’t that what lust is all about?
But Angel can’t say any of that. Not here. Not now. Not during his first conversation with an ancient being that could crush Angel’s soul between his thighs if he wanted to.
So Angel says, “Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.” He smiles and winks. “It’s nice to have a little change of scenery.”
A change in scenery. A change in career. A change in everything.
Asmodeus takes one of the remaining drinks from Angel’s tray, and then another hand — a smaller, gloved hand attached to a robotic arm, appears to snatch the final drink. Without Angel even realizing that he’d moved, Fizzarolli is standing amongst them, holding his own in the small group of gods and sinners.
“Don’t mind me,” Fizzarolli says, taking a sizable sip from his glass. “I was getting thirsty over there by myself.”
He wiggles his brows around the word thirsty, and Angel snorts at the innuendo.
“I’ve been gone for ten seconds,” Asmodeus says, and there’s a sweetness to his tone that makes Angel feel like he’s intruding on an intimate moment.
Then, he remembers Husker’s comment from earlier, and things start to make a little more sense. Is Fizzarolli sleeping with Hell’s embodiment of lust? Damn, that’s impressive as fuck.
“Fizzarolli,” Angel says, before his mind can wander into the realm of imagining what sex must be like between them. “I’m a huge fan. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
A harmless statement that still packs a punch. Angel is offering a hand for Fizzarolli to take if he wants to, but also leaves a place for himself to back out if his curiosity offends him.
“Fizzarolli is my business partner,” Asmodeus explains, easily. Beside him, Beelzebub rolls her eyes, and Angel resists the urge to snort again. “He travels with me for business affairs.”
“Right, because poker is business,” says another voice from the bar. All four heads turn to see Satan sitting there, drinking from a glass of amber-colored liquid.
Satan is the king of the Wrath Ring, and he reminds Angel of the guys in the old Western movies his dad used to watch when he was a kid. He’s smaller than the other gods but no less intimidating in his presence.
“If it involves money, it’s business,” Asmodeus says with a wink.
“I’ll drink to that,” Mammon, the leader of the Greed ring, chimes in. Mammon is already seated at the large table in the center of the room where Husker’s imp employees are busy setting up for the game.
Mammon is the most terrifying of the Sins in Angel’s opinion, but that might just be because he’s a little bit freaked out by clowns. Mammon towers over everyone else and takes up two chairs at the table. Every time he moves, the bells on his outfit jingle, making it impossible to ignore him. He’s drinking straight from a bottle of red wine that’s stained his green tongue an awful shade of blackish-brown.
Asmodeus’ face darkens at Mammon’s comment, and Fizzarolli visibly tenses.
Beezlebub laughs again, and says, “Damn, Mam, you greedy bitch. Of course that’s the comment that’ll make you join in on the fun.”
Mammon sneers. “Hello,” he says, shaking his half-empty wine bottle. “King of Greed. Money is kind of my whole fuckin’ life.”
Beezlebub and Satan laugh, but Asmodeus and Fizzarolli —
Well. They go back to their couch in the corner of the room while the others continue their conversation.
Angel has a feeling that there must be some kind of tension between the Sins, but he doesn’t know enough about them to put together any theories. He’s watched Mammon’s Clown Pageant for the last ten years since it was one of VoxTech’s biggest events of the season, so he knows that Mammon and Fizzarolli have to have some sort of relationship. If Angel were to guess that any of the Sins have a “business” relationship with Fizzarolli, he’d have guessed Mammon before Asmodeus. But who is he to assume shit about a world he has to part in?
Angel doesn’t know shit about the politics in the rings below Pride. Fuck, he barely knows shit about the politics that go on in the Pride Ring outside of the overlords he has personal ties to. But tension between business partners when there’s feelings involved is something Angel has experience with.
Vox always hated Angel. He hated the space that Angel took up in Val’s mind and in his heart. He hated the fact that Angel was so clearly Val’s favorite, and that Val chose to keep him like a pet in V Tower where they all lived together. But most of all, Vox hated the fact that he needed Angel, because without Val’s films and Angel’s performance, Vox couldn’t sell nearly as much porn as he did. Angel wishes he could say that he doesn’t really know what kind of relationship Vox and Val have, but several decades working beneath the two of them meant that there were very few things that were able to remain a secret.
Angel knows that Vox is in love with Valentino in his own sick and twisted way just as much as he knows that Val’s feelings are the same, if not more intense. He knows that more often than not, he was used as a weapon between them. Whenever Vox would cheat or fuck up somehow, Val would come into Angel’s room crying and then fuck him to make himself feel better. Following that would be weeks, or sometimes months, of love-bombing and kindness from Val. He’d shower Angel in gifts and compliments and “love”, but every single time without fail, it would all come crashing down when Val inevitably forgave Vox and abuse became the norm.
The abuse from Val, Angel could handle. But the abuse from Vox?
Man, fuck that guy.
Vox’s jealousy was loud and ugly and he took it out on Angel by ordering the most heinous and vile films from Val’s studio. He would flirt with Val in front of Angel and then sabotage footage so that Angel would have to reshoot the awful shit Vox had him do for the camera. Being in the middle of a love triangle between two powerful demon overlords was Angel’s own personal Hell, so the fact that Fizzarolli seems to be stuck in the middle of something similar makes sympathy bloom in the depths of Angel’s gut for the guy.
How fucking miserable must it be to be sleeping with an all-powerful ancient being and working as a cash cow with Hell’s most marketable face for another? Sheesh, and Angel thought he had it bad.
The game starts, and Angel realizes that he doesn’t know shit about poker. He doesn’t know how it’s played or how the fuck you win the game. He knows that it has something to do with betting and bluffing, but he has no idea where the strategy lies within the game itself. He’s never been big on gambling, but he always sort of thought that he’d be good at poker due to the nature of the game. He’s good at fooling people; he’s good at putting on a mask and convincing people that it’s his real face.
From what he gathers watching the group of them play the game, that’s pretty much the point of poker. Everyone sits around a table with cards in their hands, smoking cigars and drinking and chatting, all the while actively working on pretending not to be playing the game at all. It’s fascinating to be an outsider looking in, because each sin has a different approach to their attempts at appearing disinterested.
The stakes are relatively low. The things that are being placed up as bets are comparatively of little value — a glass bottle of concentrated Beezlejuice from Gluttony, a sleek, obsidian revolver from the Greed ring, some kind of special lube from Lust, aged whiskey from Wrath, and a pair of delicate Envian pearl earrings placed on the table my Leviathan. These things are priceless to Pride ring sinners like Husk and Angel who can’t travel between rings to obtain them, but to the hellborn royalty that sit around the circumference of the dark, wooden table, these things are merely expensive luxuries that are easily obtainable. Angel quickly realizes what Husker was talking about when he said that for these guys, the game is about clout more than it is about the prizes in the pot.
This is about the glory of winning, not the trophy.
Which must be why Husker enjoys running these games. All he needs to do is win a few hands and he’s able to stock up on valuables from the rings below with very little effort. A bottle of Wrathian whiskey sells for upwards of a few grand up here in Pride, and that revolver placed up by Mammon would likely sell for double that. Though, for Angel, the thing that catches his eye is the glittering set of earrings. They match the string of pearls that Cherri gifted him.
But Angel isn’t the one playing the game. That’s all Husker.
Angel has to admit he’s impressed by what he sees. Husker in the poker field is a whole different person. He laughs at the jokes that the others make, and he joins in on the small talk as if he’s one of them. The mask he wears is one of confidence and charisma, so very different from the quiet, closed-off person Angel usually sees. Angel would almost buy it, if he didn’t already know better. He would almost believe that the assertive, smiling man sitting beside him is the real deal if he didn’t already have his own experiences with putting on an act.
Husker was right when he told Angel that they have a lot more in common than Angel thought. Gambling the way that Husker does, where the task at hand requires the person in control to be convincing and likable, really isn’t all that different from what Angel has spend the last several decades perfecting for himself. The world’s a stage, is it not? And people like Husk and Angel — they’re merely jesters performing for the eyes of the gods.
That thought makes Angel glance up towards where Fizzarolli is sitting in the corner. He wonders what life must be like for the creatures that were born here, the ones that have only ever known this as their home. Fizzarolli is an imp, which means he must come from the Wrath ring in some capacity, right? Angel wonders how hard it must have been for him to climb his way up to the top. He wonders if maybe Husk isn’t the only person in this room that he shares similarities with; he wonders if Fizzarolli is being forced to perform for his life as well.
Fizzarolli doesn’t notice Angel looking at him, because he’s too busy staring at Asmodeus. The look on his face makes Angel feel like he’s interrupting something, like he’s stumbled into a situation he shouldn’t be in. The look on Fizzarolli’s face as he watches Asmodeus pick a card from the stack in the center of the table — the way his eyes trail after his every movement with a hunger that makes Angel shiver, is almost enough to make Angel blush. It hits him then, exactly why Fizzarolli is here.
“Business partner” is a funny way of labeling a relationship where one of them looks at the other like that, but who is Angel to judge? That’s what his relationship with Val was, once upon a time. A business arrangement. Mutually assured success. Angel had been a fucking idiot for hoping that it could ever be anything more than that.
For Fizzarolli’s sake, he hopes that things are different for the two of them.
That’s when Angel notices it. Asmodeus’ tell.
The god is big and intimidating, and everything about his appearance is inhuman in a way that makes it hard to read him. The flames that cloak his face in a mane of azure fire are decorated with two smaller faces that glow and change with Asmodeus’ actions. One of them in particular has been watching Fizzarolli all night, but Angel has only just now noticed it. Red eyes glow and narrow with affection for the clown that sits only a few feet away, and when Asmodeus reaches down to shift a stack of his chips towards the center of the table to raise the bet, one of the eyes winks at Fizzarolli.
Angel watches as Fizzarolli’s expression shifts. No one has noticed Angel watching them, and no one has noticed the secret conversation going on between the god and his partner.
“He’s bluffing,” Angel says to Husker, under his breath. The gods are all still talking, discussing the events of one of Beelzabub’s parties wherein an imp managed to out-drink her in a drinking game.
“Yer tellin’ me one of mine outdrank you?” Satan asks, with a low chuckle.
“I mean, he was clearly going through some shit,” Beelzebub answers. “But yes.”
Husker glances at Angel. “You sure?” he asks, lifting a brow. “How do you know?”
“Just trust me,” Angel tells him, but he isn’t sure if that’s going to be enough. Husker has no reason to trust Angel. He has no reason to think that Angel wouldn’t be fucking with his chances. He has no reason to believe that Angel is smart enough to have figured something like this out after just a few games of observing.
But Husker is always one for surprising Angel when he least expects it, because he grumbles a low laugh and snuffs out his cigar before shoving the remainder of his own chips into the center of the table.
“I’m all in,” Husker says.
The others look at him. Beelzebub lets out a howl of a laugh and drops her cards.
“I’m out,” she says, shaking her head. “You guys are crazy.”
“Me too,” Leviathan hums, scooting his chair back a bit.
Mammon, who Angel has suspected for the majority of the night has no idea how to actually play this game and is just here for the entertainment of it all, stays in the game. His laugh is maniacal when he shoves his chips forward, and he grins with all of his yellow teeth.
“All in, mate,” Mammon says, directing his declaration toward Asmodeus.
The tension in the room suddenly becomes a nearly tangible thing. Asmodeus’ happy-go-lucky demeanor shifts, and he glares at the Greed demon with all three of his faces. He hadn’t seemed competitive for most of the night, but something about Mammon’s choice to sweeten the pot in spite of his obvious incompetence clearly frustrates him.
Satan seems to sense this shift and shakes his head. With a roll of his eyes, Satan makes the choice to fold as well, leaving the game between Asmodeus, Mammon, and Husker.
Angel’s throat is tight, and he finds it hard to breathe as the game reaches its climax. If he’s right, if Asmodeus really is bluffing, then there’s a good chance that Husker could win this game. Angel doesn’t know what a good hand looks like, but Husker wouldn’t have done something so irrational if he wasn’t confident with his play, would he?
Beside him, Husker’s excitement is obvious. Those demonic features that Angel had seen when he scared Chaz away are back, detailing his face with a fiery glow that makes him look threatening. Husker is smiling — fully smiling, with his sharp fangs on display for the table to see. For most of the night, Husker was just sort of there. He was a nearly invisible presence, dead-set on pleasing everyone around him and blending into the background. Now, though, now that the game has finally gotten interesting and the prospect of victory is on the horizon, Husker is a force to be reckoned with.
The Gambling Demon looks between the embodiments of Greed and Lust with a hunger in his eyes that Angel immediately recognizes as the throes of addiction, just of a different brand. Husker is more like Angel than either of them had ever realized, right down to the sicknesses that plague both of their minds and make them feel alive while they’re dying inside.
Asmodeus has no choice but to match the opposing bets. He all but shoves his chips into the center, and the rest of the game is simply confetti.
Angel was right. He was bluffing. Asmodeus’ hand is a losing one, and when he reveals it to the table, Mammon doubles over and falls out of his chair with how hard he’s laughing. Angel doesn’t need to see Mammon’s hand to know that it’s shit because the way that Asmodeus’ flames erupt in fury tells him all that he needs to know about how things have played out tonight.
Mammon stayed in the game to embarrass Asmodeus, nothing more, nothing less. This was personal, and based on everyone else’s faces, they all know it.
“You fucking asshole,” Asmodeus roars, standing from his seat. “What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
Mammon sniggers and shakes his head from side to side, making the bells on his headpiece jingle with every movement. It adds to the mockery and only serves to further infuriate Asmodeus, who has now almost doubled in size.
“It’s just a game, Ozzie,” Mammon says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t get your panties in a knot. Wouldn’t want to do something you regret, would we?”
Angel wishes he had popcorn, because wow, this drama is wild. They fight like siblings who hate each other, siblings with nothing better to do than pretend to be superior to one another.
“Ozzie, chill out,” Beelzabub tries, but Asmodeus doesn’t seem to hear her. “It’s just Mammon, he’s always like this.”
“You think I’d regret knocking that shit-eating grin off of your ugly face?” Asmodeus asks, incredulously.
“Here we go again,” Leviathan says, with a sigh.
“I think you’d regret it if your little secret got out,” Mammon says, his eyes darting very obviously in Fizzarolli’s direction. “Wouldn’t want the head honcho Lucy finding out about your extracurriculars. That would end quite badly for you, my friend.”
That seems to piss Asmodeus off even more.
“You little fucking—”
Before he can finish what he’s saying, a long robotic arm stretches across the room and steadies itself on his shoulder. Fizzarolli moves like he’s made of taffy and lands in front of Asmodeus, between him and Mammon.
“Whoa,” Fizzarolli says, in a voice that Angel has never heard him use before. It’s different from the one he uses in performances, softer and more gentle. “Relax, Ozzie. It’s just a joke. He’s just joking, r-right Mammon?”
Fizzarolli turns to look at Mammon with a desperate look on his face, and all it does it makes Mammon’s sneer deepen. In a flash of green smoke, Mammon returns to an upright standing position. He dramatically dusts himself off.
“Obviously,” Mammon says, rolling his eyes. “I’m a fuckin’ clown, that’s what I do.”
It’s obvious to everyone in the room that Mammon was not joking in the slightest, but now that Fizzarolli has entered the conversation, Asmodeus seems less interested in getting physically violent.
“V-very funny sir,” Fizzarolli says, forcing one of his signature laughs. Watching this happen makes Angel feel embarrassed, because it reminds him so heavily of himself.
How many times had he diffused situations when Val was in the wrong, simply to appease him? How much abuse had he allowed to go on between Val and his other clients, his other indentured souls, just so that he could stay within his favor?
Fizzarolli seems to be backed into a similar corner. Angel wonders if there’s anything he can do to get himself out of it.
“Yeah,” Asmodeus says, simmering back down to his usual stature. “Hilarious.”
Everything about the Lust Demon’s tone implies that he thinks the opposite, but no one says anything.
“Well, that’s enough fun for me tonight,” Beelzabub says, stretching both sets of her long arms up over her head. “These vibes are sour as fuck, and they’re going to give me a stomach ache if I stay here any longer.”
“Well at least we’re never bored,” Leviathan says, standing from his chair.
“Just when it was gettin’ good, too,” Satan agrees.
In all of the commotion following the end of the game, Angel hadn’t realized that Husker won. While the others make quick work of leaving (without saying goodbye to Angel, because why would they bother?), Angel watches Husk clean up the remnants of the game while also collecting his winnings. He’s still smiling, the demonic power radiating off of him like steam as he stacks the chips up high.
Angel got to see Husk doing what he does best, and the experience did not disappoint. Angel chances a glance down at the cards that Husker put down for his win and is surprised to see that the hand appears to be relatively weak. Again, he doesn’t know much about cards, but he’s pretty sure that this hand wouldn’t have won him the game if the other two players hadn’t been too preoccupied with their own personal drama to actually put effort in. He won fair and square, but as Husker picks up the other players’ cards, Angel realizes that both Leviathan and Satan had better hands and could have won if they hadn’t been scared off from participating.
Fascinating.
Once everyone is gone, Angel helps Husker and the imps in the clean-up process. He hadn’t realized just how fucking much the others had managed to drink until he helps load the empty glasses into a plastic bin for washing and the stack of glass nearly overflows. He offers to help carry the bin, but the waiter brushes him off.
He’s about to call it a night for himself when a hand appears on his shoulder. He turns in Husker’s direction to find the overlord standing there with two crystal glasses (ones that Angel is quickly becoming intimately familiar with) filled with that same Wrathian whiskey in his hands. He holds one out for Angel to take, which he does gracefully.
“I owe you, kid,” Husker tells him lifting his glass in cheers. “I wouldn’t have been able to make that play if you hadn’t suggested that Lust was bluffing.”
“Aw, you’re too nice Husky,” Angel says, waving his hand dismissively before taking a sip from his glass. The smokey, spicy sting of liquor feels good after the anxiety from tonight. Hell’s greatest medicine. “I didn’t do much. I just recognized a weak spot and went for it.”
Because really, that’s all he did. Fizzarolli unexpectedly had a lot in common with Angel and their similarities allowed for Angel to recognize a weakness. They may claim to be “business partners” but there’s something bigger going on there, and based on Mammon’s comments, the others know about it.
Angel recognized the look in Fizzarolli’s eyes because it’s the same look he once had when he looked at Valentino. Back in the beginning, back when things were good, Angel had felt like maybe he could fall in love in Hell after all. It’s only now that he realizes how fucking stupid that sentiment really was.
The only real difference between Angel’s situation and Fizzarolli’s is that in spite of the power difference, Asmodeus’ feelings seem just as genuine. Angel doesn’t know for sure, but he does know that there’s no way Valentino would ever defend him the way that Asmodeus defended his relationship with Fizzarolli tonight.
“Some folks think that poker is all about luck, but real players know that it’s a mind game,” Husker explains, cutting through Angel’s thoughts with the velvety smooth sound of his voice. “It’s psychological warfare, and knowin’ your opponents' weaknesses is how you come out on top. You pointin’ out that the rooster was bluffing gave me an opportunity to take advantage of his feud with the clown. I knew that if I pitted them against each other, the pot was mine.”
That piques Angel’s interest. “You knew they’d fight?”
“Dick measuring is a universal experience,” Husker says, gravely. He takes a heavy sip from his glass. “I knew that Mammon wouldn’t be paying attention to the cards in his hand, and that he’d take any opportunity he could to dangle the jester in front of Asmodeus’ face. And I knew that the others are fuckin’ tired of it.”
Again, Angel can’t help but notice the similarities in Fizzarolli’s situation to the one he was in with Vox and Val. How many times had either of them used Angel like a worm on a hook to lure the other one in? How many times had he been yanked around like a doll, forced to participate in their stupid game?
“Kinda feel bad for the kid,” Angel says, softly. He’s only a few sips in and already the whiskey is making his head spin. “He didn’t ask to be used as a weapon in their stupid dick fight.”
“Eh,” Husker says with a shrug. He smiles, a rare occurrence that makes Angel’s stomach do a somersault. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. Havin’ a god in your corner’s gotta be nice.”
And maybe there’s some truth to that. Maybe Angel is jumping to conclusions, assuming shit about people he knows nothing about. Not every relationship that looks similar to the ones he’s been in have to have the same ending. Asmodeus seemed just as smitten with Fizzarolli as Fizzarolli was with him.
Who knows? Maybe things will work out for them. Maybe they’ll be the couple who prove Angel wrong — who prove the world wrong when it comes to this kind of thing.
Maybe love can exist in this miserable pit after all.
Angel just shrugs and says, “Maybe.”
“But that’s enough about them,” Husker says, finishing his drink off and setting the glass down to refill it. “We fuckin’ won, kid! The pot’s ours, and that show at the end should be enough drama to keep them comin’ back for more.”
Husker lets out a victorious whoop and downs his second drink like a shot before refilling it again. Angel lifts his brows, impressed at how well Husker manages to hold his liquor. Angel redirects his attention to the table where the stack of imported goods are still sitting like gifts beneath a Christmas tree, and his eyes catch once again on the small velvet box containing the Envian pearl earrings.
Angel crosses the room and leans on the table, gesturing towards the pile with one of his free hands.
“Iffin you’re lookin’ to thank me for my services,” Angel teases, putting on his theatrically flirtatious voice. “I wouldn’t say no to takin’ those earrings off your hands.”
He’s joking, of course, because he knows that he hasn’t done nearly enough to warrant a gift like that. But to his surprise, Husker comes over to the table with his newly refilled drink and says,
“Take ‘em. They’re yours.”
Angel blinks at him. “O-oh, no, I was just—”
“Take ‘em, kid,” Husker insists. He reaches out and grabs the box, snapping it shut before he shoves it into Angel’s open hand. “You earned it.”
Angel shouldn’t take them. All he did was point out the possibility of a tell, and he was lucky that he was right. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this.
But the look in Husker’s eyes is so sincere, so genuine, that Angel can’t bring himself to decline the gift.
“Thanks,” Angel says, even though his mouth feels dry.
“I should be the one thanking you.” Husker sips his drink, slowly this time. “You did good. I’m glad I have you in my corner.”
Valentino used to compliment him a lot for his work. He used to shower Angel in praise, drown him in sweetness until it felt like his teeth would rot right out of his skull.
“You’re so good, Amorcito.”
“You’re so beautiful, my Angel, my baby, my precious little money-maker.”
“Good boy. You know you’re my favorite, right my love? Do you know how lucky you are?”
But the way Husker says it, the way he phrases it as if he’s the lucky one, feels so different than every kind thing Valentino ever said to him. It’s those words, it’s the genuine praise that does it. It’s the true, authentic gratitude and appreciation for Angel’s services that makes Angel’s body move before he can even think about it.
He surges forward, hands outstretched to pull Husker in, and he kisses him.
Chapter 9
Kissing Husk is different from what Angel is used to. Kissing Husk is tender and sweet; all tongue and teeth and desperate little breaths as they press their bodies closer, closer, closer. Husk responds to Angel’s movements like their minds are in sync, wrapping a strong arm around Angel’s waist and holding him still so that he can get a better angle.
He kisses Angel back fiercely, growling into his mouth with a hungry sense of urgency. It lights Angel on fire and makes him feel wanted; the way he used to feel in the studio when the cameras were rolling. Husk tastes like whiskey and cigars, and Angel loses himself in the spicy sting on his tongue. There’s nothing graceful about their movements, nothing coordinated or thoughtful — they’re frantic and delirious, hands moving to touch each other anywhere they can.
Husker pushes Angel backwards, against the table where Angel goes willingly. Angel moves to sit down, lowering himself so that he and Husker are the same height, and he wraps his legs around Husker’s waist so that the overlord can feel just how much Angel wants him.
Angel is hard, but turning him on isn’t exactly difficult. What really excites him is that he can feel that Husker is hard, too. Angel moans against Husker’s mouth at the brush of their cocks through their clothes, but it comes out more as a muffled whine. It’s only now that Angel realizes how much all of this time without sex has impacted him, how cooped up he feels, how ready to burst he is at the smallest of touches.
He tries to think — how long has it been since he’s had sex? How long has he been working here? This has got to be his longest dry spell since arriving in Hell and oh god, he doesn’t think he can do this ever again. He needs sex the way he needs water, the way his lungs need air. His body aches for it. He wraps his upper set of arms around Husker’s neck, and with the lower set he makes quick work of fussing with Husker’s belt. He manages to slip the leather through the metal buckle before Husker starts to pull away.
Husker’s hands come up to cover Angel’s. They’re soft when they curl over his knuckles and stop him.
“Whoa,” Husker says, breaking their kiss. “H-hang on, kid. Let’s slow down.”
“‘Slow’ ain’t in my vocabulary,” Angel tells him. He dips down to nip at Husker’s neck, pressing his hips forward as he does so that Husker can feel how eager he is to continue. “We got time for ‘slow’ after you fuck me, baby.”
Husker sucks in a breath and there’s a low groan in his throat that makes Angel practically purr with satisfaction. Where’s the award-winning poker face now, Mister Overlord?
Husker’s hands tighten over Angel’s, preventing him from making any more progress on removing his pants. Angel makes a frustrated noise and tries to force his hands forward, but Husker’s grip is strong.
“Hey, I’m serious,” Husker says, but Angel doesn’t want to hear it. Playing hard to get, hm? Angel can work with that.
Angel goes back in to lick the base of Husker’s jaw, right at that sensitive spot that makes all the men he’s been with swoon. It doesn’t disappoint, because Husker’s body responds the way Angel hoped it would — it goes loose and pliant; makes him choke on his own saliva. Angel is a professional. He knows how to turn someone on.
“Kid—”
Angel can hardly see straight. The haze from the whiskey is pleasant, but mixed with the intoxicating feeling of ecstasy, it’s almost enough to feel like he’s high on something. Angel just needs a little bit more. Just a little bit more.
“I can be so good for you, baby,” Angel whines, caressing Husker’s ear with one of his free hands. “Just tell me how you want me, and I can do it. Anything for you.”
“I don’t—”
“You want me bent over the table? On my knees?” Oh fuck, Angel is so fucking horny. He needs this. “Whatever you want, baby, I’m yours.”
“Angel!”
That snaps Angel out of it; pulls him back to reality. The sound of his name from Husk’s mouth, said with such authority and frustration, stops Angel in his tracks. He realizes that he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Husk say his name before now, and he hates the fact that the first time he hears it, Husk is clearly upset.
It’s only now that the moment has been interrupted that Angel realizes what he’s done. Husker has been trying to ask him to slow down, to stop, basically this entire time and he—
Oh. Oh no.
Oh no, no, no — Fuck!
Angel immediately pulls back. He lifts his hands in surrender and tries his best to cut all contact he has with Husker’s body, physically scooting back to put some space between them. He fucked up. He misread things, somehow, and now he crossed a line and went too far and and and—
“Hey, hey,” Husker says, his voice soft and soothing. “Relax, kid, I’m not mad.”
Angel realizes that he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. The fear and guilt must be apparent on his face because Husker is trying to comfort him, which, no. He shouldn’t be getting comforted for pushing himself onto someone, he should be apologizing. Husker should fucking hit him for this.
“I’m sorry,” Angel says, and his voice cracks around the word. “I-I-I didn’t mean to—”
“I said relax,” Husker says, a little more aggressively. He takes a step back, putting even more distance between them and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m not — I just need a minute. This is a lot. I haven’t — it’s been — look, kid, I know that the whole porn star thing worked for you in the past but you don’t need to do that with me. I don’t need you to throw yourself at me like that.”
Angel is coming down from the adrenaline rush. His pulse is a drumbeat in his ears and he can’t think straight. What is Husk saying? Angel didn’t throw himself at anything.
“What’re ya talkin’ about?” Angel asks, feeling the guilt and shame very quickly begin to morph into something ugly. “What porn star thing?”
Husker stares at him. “That act you put on,” Husker explains. “The whole…” He gestures at Angel’s everything.
Wait. What?
“Act?” Angel asks, taken aback. “I ain’t putin’ on no fuckin’ act—”
Husker scoffs, cutting him off. “Of course you are,” he says.
Angel’s emotions are a revolver in his head, firing off shot after shot of frustration, anger, shame, guilt and hurt. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, acting like he knows anything about Angel? Where does he get off implying that Angel kissing him was part of some act, like he didn’t make the decision on his own?
“Right, because you know me so well,” Angel says, rolling his eyes. “Mister professional poker player can read everyone’s poker face, he’s got everyone all figured out.”
If Husker picks up on Angel’s sarcasm, he doesn’t show it. He just runs a hand through his hair and levels Angel with a steadying look.
“I do know you,” Husk says. “And I know that this act you put on is—”
“It's not an act!” Angel is shouting now, frustration boiling over into fury. “And no — you don’t know me! You don’t know shit about me or the shit I’ve been through or — or anything!”
Angel feels sick. He pushes himself off of the table and smooths out his rumpled dress, determined to look dignified as he storms out. He doesn’t look at Husk as he turns to leave, and he doesn’t look at Husk when a clawed hand wraps itself around his wrist.
“Wait,” Husker says. His voice is strained and Angel can’t — no, won’t turn to see the look on his face. He knows he’s not strong enough to walk away otherwise. “Kid—”
Angel yanks his hand free. “Stop calling me that!” The sting of rejection burns all over his body. “I ain’t a kid! I’ve been dead longer than you. I’ve been in Hell longer than you!” Fuck it, Angel turns, tears clouding his vision, and looks at Husk.
He’s surprised to see that the mask has completely fallen off. It’s shattered on the floor in a hundred tiny porcelain pieces, revealing the man underneath. The way Husker is looking at him is raw and emotional; hurt and confusion detail the lines of his face, the downward turn of his mouth, the flush in his cheeks.
Angel can’t handle it. He can’t handle someone looking at him like that, not here, not in Hell, not when he’s so —
Shit. Not when he’s so fucked up.
So Angel does what he knows best: he self-destructs. Everything inside of him tells him that he should apologize, that he should calm down and that they should talk about this because yeah, maybe they are moving too fast. Maybe there is some truth to the way Angel was responding to being turned on that he isn’t ready to unpack yet. Maybe Angel does put on a show without even realizing it because it’s what he thinks people who want to sleep with him expect from him. He knows that the right thing to do would be to stop and breathe and talk about this, but he can’t.
He can’t do that because he can’t put that shit on someone else. All of that — all of the garbage inside of him, that’s his problem, not Husker’s. No one else should have to put up with Angel’s broken body, his broken brain — his broken fucking self-image.
Maybe Husker is right. Maybe he does put on an act. Maybe that’s all he knows how to do after decades of being what everyone else wants him to be instead of who he really is.
With a darkness blooming inside of him, Angel glares at Husker.
“Do you have any idea who you just turned down?” Angel needs to end this. He shouldn’t have kissed him. He shouldn’t have let it get this out of hand. “Do you know what I’m worth? Do you know how many people would kill to have Angel Dust come onto them?”
Husker stares at him. Angel laughs.
“I don’t need this,” Angel spits, turning away again. “I don’t need you, or this stupid place. I’m outta here.”
Angel leaves. He half-expects Husker to chase after him, to tell him that he’s still under contract and that he can’t just fucking leave, but he doesn’t. Angel walks out of the room alone and Husker does not follow.
Angel stares at his reflection in the mirrored elevator as it takes him up to the floor where his room is. Everything is gold and bright and in his black dress and runny mascara, Angel looks out of place. He looks like a whore that somehow stumbled into some big grand palace, like an imposter trying and failing to fit in. He doesn’t belong here.
He doesn’t deserve this — any of this. He doesn’t deserve the kind overlord or the look of pity on his face. He doesn’t deserve the credit card with no limit, or the gold banisters or the fucking praise. He looks at his reflection and he sees exactly who he expected staring back at him: a pathetic, washed up addict who can’t even keep the promises he makes to himself.
Getting clean? What a fucking joke.
Angel can’t be clean. Angel doesn’t deserve to be clean. This is Hell, ain’t it? He’s here because he’s supposed to suffer. Who was he kidding, thinking he could play princess in this makeshift castle of a casino? He pushed himself onto a person who doesn’t even want him, who thinks he’s a mess. He kissed his boss — made the fucking mistake again of letting himself think that there was a chance that anyone would see him as anything more than a means of making money.
God, he’s so fucking stupid.
When he gets to his room, Angel makes quick work of packing his shit. He corals Fat Nuggets into his carrier and zips his suitcase shut and he lets the tears fall because there’s no one around to see them. His body shakes with the sobs he’s too prideful to let out, and his mouth tastes like mud, but he pushes through. This isn’t anything new. He should be fucking used to this by now.
He’s overstayed his welcome. He knows where he belongs, and it isn’t here. Where he belongs isn’t a soft bed and days off and “only if you want to”s. Angel belongs in Hell, not — not whatever this was trying to be.
So Angel takes all he can carry in one bag and leaves everything else behind. He takes Fat Nuggets and he takes the drugs he had hidden under his mattress but he leaves the dress that Cherri got him along with the string of Envian pearls that never should have been his to begin with.
The dress didn’t quite fit right, anyway.
He hails a taxi once he’s out on the street and all but throws his bag into the back seat before closing himself in. In his hand, he holds the small glass vial of Love Potion by Velvette that he’s been using to wean himself off of Val’s toxin. He removes the cap, tosses it out the cab’s open window, and downs it.
Sobriety’s for suckers.
“Where to?” the cab driver asks.
Angel feels the effects of the potion almost instantly. Warmth blooms in his chest and spreads to his limbs, making him feel weightless.
“V Tower,” Angel tells the driver. “Step on it.”
He doesn’t look back.
END AN:
I’m so sorry, please don’t come for me in the comments. I promise — I PROMISE they will have a happy ending and that this is going to be very short-lived angst. I really, really needed Angel to leave Val on his own. I know that the concept of this AU sets it up so that Angel just loses Val by convenience, but that’s not good enough for me. I really want HuskerDust to feel healthy and it cannot feel healthy until Angel starts making choices for himself. Please bear with me and have faith that I will deliver! Also DON’T WORRY I won’t include any sexual details about Angel/Val this is NOT an Angel/Val fic (blegh ew no, not this fic) but their relationship is part of Angel’s life and I need to do it justice before Angel and Husk can be happy. I hope you understand!
For those of you (like me) who eat angst for breakfast: come get y’all juice.
Chapter 10
AN: I’m so so so thankful for each and every one of you. I’m so glad that you are all supportive in my decision to have Angel go back to Val before he and Husk can be truly happy. I promise this will be short-lived, and I did my best to condense a lot of it into one chapter so that it doesn’t drag out for too long.
That being said: TW for realistic portrayals of drug abuse and Val abuse. I don’t usually encourage anyone to skip my chapters because I put a lot of plot and character development into the actions that are happening, but obviously proceed with caution for this one! I relate to Angel on so many personal levels, and his experiences in this one are very heavily influenced by my own. <3
OH! I was also surprised by how many of you haven’t seen Helluva Boss?? I hope those of you who gave it a try enjoyed what you watched. There is a spoiler for Helluva Boss S2E7 in this chapter. It’s an important part of Angel’s growth, so I can’t really tell you to skip it. I’ll probably expand on it and mention it more later so I’m sorry if you don’t want spoilers!
The thing about relapsing is that at first, it feels good. It feels like the right choice, like being clean was a mistake and that being high is the correct way to be. The effects of the drugs are more potent, and it’s easy to lose yourself in the feeling of euphoria as it works its way through your body like a rot that eats you from the inside out.
Angel has been through this several times before, but every time he forgets about the parts that come after. He forgets about the way he’s going to hate himself once the fun wears off. He forgets about the way his body will turn on him in retribution for his carelessness. He forgets about the guilt and the shame and the fucking anger he’s going to feel when he finds himself once again suffocating in the clutches of dependency.
He forgets about all of that because when he’s high, he can’t imagine anything else. When he’s blissed out on Val’s bed watching the neon lights in Val’s room dance along to the sound of the music he’s playing from his tiny speaker, nothing else matters. The rest of the world dissolves into colors, and he doesn’t have to think about his responsibilities or his eternal soul or the fucking asshole overlord that doesn’t want him. He gets to disappear for a little bit and let his body do the talking for his brain.
He doesn’t know how many days he’s been here — three, maybe? He’s barely left Val’s bed, piled high with pillows and soft blankets that smell like Val’s sweet, sweet poison. Val had taken him back almost immediately. He took one look at the state Angel was in and opened his arms so that he could breathe into Angel’s open and begging mouth with his toxin. He had smiled, pointed teeth dripping with venom, and said, “I knew you’d be back, baby.”
And that had hurt. Because how couldn’t it? Angel had broken his promise to himself and in the process had accidentally proven Valentino right. Angel is an addict, and addicts never change. Addicts keep coming back; they keep making the same mistakes again and again.
Angel is addicted to Val’s toxin, yes, but it’s so much more than that. Angel is an addict in every sense of the word, and Val is the embodiment of the sweetest black tar heroin on the market. Angel is addicted to more than just the drugs Valentino provides for him; he’s addicted to the attention Val gives him, to the lifestyle he leads, to the adrenaline rush that comes with their fights and makeups — the sex, the pain, the pleasure.
Angel had been kidding himself when he said that he was going to get clean. He had been kidding himself when he allowed Husker to make him feel like he was capable of anything more than a good lay. He had been kidding himself when he tried to convince himself that he deserved a better life.
This is what Angel deserves. This is what Angel knows; what he craves. Being higher than a kite with an ache between his legs from where he had been fucked out his mind last night and the freedom to not have to think about how much he hates—
Everything.
Angel rolls over onto his stomach but the room is still spinning. His body is laying still but everything is moving all around him. Even when he closes his eyes, he can see colors swirling in circles and it feels like he’s afloat on a raft in the middle of the ocean. He should probably eat something.
When was the last time he ate? He can’t remember.
Angel lets out a breath and opens his eyes to the crooked room. The walls are melting. Great. He tries not to look at them as he pulls himself up and forces himself onto wobbly legs and moves in the general direction of the door. Trying to do any task when you’re this fucked up is basically impossible, but Angel should eat something and probably pee so he makes himself go through the steps of getting out of bed and into the rest of Val’s penthouse.
He’s cold, he realizes. Gooseflesh prickles at his arms and neck and he wraps his arms around himself to soothe the shivers that very quickly take over his entire body.
Cold.
Robe?
Yeah. Robe would be good. Angel finds it draped over a chair by the door. Pink and soft, it feels like a cotton candy cloud in his hands. One shaking arm at a time, he slips it on. It provides instantaneous warmth and comfort and Angel almost wants to just fall back into Val’s bed with the fabric wrapped around him like a hug, but his stomach growls before he can give in to the temptation.
Hungry.
There’s food in Val’s kitchen. Angel grabs the doorknob, turns it, and pushes the door open. The silence of Val’s penthouse is ominous in the way it seems to stretch out into the darkest corners of the open floor plan, and Angel feels another shiver that has nothing to do with the cold run down his spine. The risky part of doing drugs like this when you’re alone is that it’s very easy to let paranoia take over the place in your brain where rational thought should be.
What the fuck is Angel even afraid of, demons? Val has demons on payroll who clean his toilets. Angel shouldn’t be afraid of monsters when he already is a monster himself.
And yet, the unlit corners of Val’s apartment still set him on edge. It’s as if Angel is fearful of the parts of himself that he keeps in those dark corners, the thoughts in his head he’s too afraid to give attention to. When he’s high, when there are chemicals in his brain that make him see things that aren’t really there, those dark thoughts find ways of manifesting themselves. They lurk in the corners of Angel’s vision, like spiders in an invisible web waiting for their prey to get trapped.
Angel steadies himself against the wall and reaches blindly for the light switches. He finds them and clicks them all on — every single one of them, bathing the dark room in warm, safe, yellow light. Angel breathes a sigh of relief when the shadows disappear but he still stumbles around the living room and carefully turns on every single one of Val’s lamps, just to be extra safe.
Now that the scary shit is no longer a problem, Angel tasks himself with finding something to eat. Val’s kitchen is immaculate; clean and organized, with silver pots and pans that shine too bright in the light of the room and a vase filled with roses in the middle of the granite kitchen island. As Angel gets closer, he realizes that they’re real roses. Val, or whatever admirer gifted them to him, must have paid top dollar to get an import like this from the living world.
What a fuckin’ waste, Angel thinks to himself. There are hellborn creatures in the Pride Ring who will go to the living world to steal items for sinners, but they charge a lot of money. Who would waste money on something as pointless as flowers? It’s such a shameless display of wealth that Angel almost wants to grab the bouquet by the stems, thorns and all, and throw it into the trash.
The answer to Angel’s question rests in the small card tucked into the petals.
To Val,
I’m sorry. Eres el amor de mi vida.
-Vox
Angel scoffs and rolls his eyes. Of course. These are obviously apology flowers, and given the lavishness of the gift and the brevity of the message and the fucking Spanish, Vox must have really fucked up. That’s probably why Val took Angel back without any fuss. He always loved playing with Angel when he and Vox were on the outs.
“Lucky me,” Angel mumbles aloud to the silence of the apartment. He decides on cereal to eat because it’s easy. He pulls down a box of sugary marshmallowy goodness from on top of the fridge and sets it on the counter.
Bowl.
Right. He needs a bowl so that he can eat this. The cabinets start to wiggle when he opens them but he manages to get a bowl out without breaking anything. Tiny victories. Cereal. Bowl. Milk — in the fridge, open it, take it out, pour it in, put it back. Spoon. Angel is killing it with the simple tasks. He’s three bites into his well-deserved accomplishment cereal when the lock on the front door to Val’s apartment clicks.
If he were sober, Angel would probably feel nervous at the sound, but right now this cereal is the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted and he’s too high to focus on anything else. Angel sits down on one of the kitchen island stools and watches the door, expecting Val to come in.
Except it isn’t Val.
It’s Vox.
He opens the door and immediately locks eyes with Angel and from the look on his face, he was not expecting to see Angel there. Surprise paints Vox’s features for a moment before his emotions visibly shift into something darker. Angel and Vox have never had a very good relationship, but right now he looks particularly unhappy to see Angel sitting in Val’s kitchen.
“Oh,” Vox says, schooling his tone to sound bored. He lets the door fall shut behind him. “It’s you.”
Angel swallows the bite of cereal he’s been chewing. “In the flesh, baby,” he says, waving his spoon in greeting. He grins. “Miss me?”
Vox scowls. “I thought Val lost your contract to the Gambling Demon.”
Angel ignores the way his stomach twists at the mention of Husker. He doesn’t want to think about him right now. He wants to think about how this is the best fucking bowl of cereal he’s ever had in his life, oh my god.
“He did,” Angel says, taking another bite. Through his full mouth, he says, “I’m here for pleasure, not business. Val and I are doin’ some catching up, if you catch my drift.”
He knows that saying that will piss Vox off, which is exactly why he does it. Vox’s face glitches and Angel smirks in satisfaction.
“He’s sleeping with you?” Vox asks, point-blank. Angel figures that after decades of this stupid fucking game, Vox is done beating around the bush. “For free?”
Angel snorts a laugh. He’s still so fucking high and this is honestly hilarious. He feels like he’s in a sitcom and there’s a live studio audience watching them, waiting for the punchline.
“Yup,” Angel says. He picks up the box of cereal and pretends to read the back of the box. “And sharin’ his drugs, too.”
Vox’s hands ball up into fists and Angel has to physically resist the urge to burst out laughing. Wow, he really got fucking lucky, didn’t he? Whatever fucking shit is going down between Vox and Val this time must be really bad if Val is using Angel so blatantly to make Vox jealous. Angel wonders how long he’ll be able to ride this out.
As if on queue, the lock clicks again as Val arrives home for the evening. He comes into the apartment and takes a second to process the scene in front of him and then, to Val’s credit, continues entering like there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on. As if Vox and Angel sitting in his kitchen with every single light in the apartment on is a totally normal occurrence.
Val has a leather bag slung over his shoulder which he sets down on the couch before he makes his way into the kitchen, towards where Angel is sitting.
“Hey,” Vox says, when Val walks past him. All of his macho-man toughness is gone the moment Vox sees Val, and his posture slinks down in shame.
“Oh, hello,” Val says, breezily. “Cheater.”
Oh, this is too good. Angel could watch this all day. It’s better than television. So Vox cheated again, huh? Man, some people never fucking learn. The last time Vox cheated, Val gifted Angel Fat Nuggets. He wonders what he can get out of him this time.
“Hey Val,” Angel says, drawing out the sound of his name. He sets the cereal down and leans backwards in Val’s direction, seeking affection.
“Hello, Amorcito,” Val gushes, closing the space between them to wrap his arms around Angel from behind. He presses a kiss to Angel’s temple and smooths out his hair. “How was your day? Did you rest? Are you high? Can Daddy get you anything?”
Angel leans into Val’s touch. He’s high, so the uneasy churn in his stomach that he usually gets when Val touches him isn’t there. It feels good to have someone touch him, it feels hot.
“You got any more of them party drugs?” Angel asks, batting his eyes. The high is starting to fade a little bit and he wants to keep the feeling going. He doesn’t want to be in this apartment if he’s sober. “I think I’m comin’ down.”
“Of course, my love,” Val tells him. He kisses Angel tenderly, slipping his tongue into Angel’s mouth to pass him some of that delicious poison. Angel clings to him and deepens the kiss, desperate for more, but Val pulls back with a chuckle and a smirk. He goes back over to where he dropped his bag and takes out a ziplock of pills, vials, and syringes. He sets it down on the counter next to Angel’s nearly empty bowl of cereal. “Take whatever you want, baby. They’re all yours. Just try not to puke on my rug, okay?”
“Thanks daddy,” Angel purrs, leaning up to meet Val’s kiss again. Angel’s eyes are open when their lips meet and he sees Vox watching them, and it makes something sinister uncoil in his belly.
For the fun of it, Angel makes a show out of kissing Val. He turns his entire body on the stool and wraps his legs around Val’s slender waist and then leans back against the counter with Val on top of him. He kisses Val all messy and obnoxious, moaning with every taste of him that passes over his tongue.
He’s not even turned on, he just thinks it’s funny to watch Vox short circuit in rage.
“Val, what the fuck is this?” Vox shouts, staring between the two of them. “Why is he here?”
“Angel baby, did you hear something?” Val asks, breaking apart from him. He glares in Vox’s direction. “I couldn’t tell if someone else was talking over the sound of complete and utter fucking betrayal.”
Vox makes a frustrated noise and marches over to the kitchen island where he slams his hands down in anger. “Holy fucking shit, I said I was sorry! What more do you want from me?”
Val untangles himself from Angel’s grip, and Angel lets him go. Angel turns back around and pulls the ziplock into his lap so that he can figure out the next drug he wants to pump into his system. He’s having way too much fun to let his high wear off.
“Hmmm,” Val hums, turning his back to Vox. He opens a cabinet and takes out a glass, and then he pours himself a few fingers of his favorite tequila from the mini bar in the kitchen. He sips from his glass and then turns dramatically to face Vox, eyes narrowed in judgment. “Maybe if you take that pathetic excuse of an apology and shove it all the way up your ass, I’ll consider forgiving you.”
Vox stares at him. “That doesn't even make sense.”
Val clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Right, and fucking your secretary does?”
Oh shit. Angel actually giggles at that, because wow. His secretary? That beady-eyed little shit of a soul who follows Vox around like a lost puppy? That’s who Vox cheated with? No wonder Val is pissed.
Val doesn’t notice that Angel laughs, but Vox does. He glares at Angel with intent to kill and Angel just winks at him.
“I said I was sorry!” Vox shouts, tearing his attention away from Angel and back onto Val. “It was a mistake, Val, come on. Don’t do this. Don’t let this whore back into your life over something stupid like this.”
“Stupid?” Val shouts back, affronted. “Is that what you think? Cheating on me again after I’ve given everything to you is stupid?”
“Oh my god,” Vox groans, putting a hand over his face.
Angel pulls a small baggie of pure powdered MDMA from Val’s stash and opens it. He pours a sizable amount of it onto the counter and lines it up to snort. Val watches him and fishes a slightly crumpled $100 bill from his pocket for Angel to use as a vessel.
“Thanks, baby. Also, I ain’t a whore no more Voxxy,” Angel says, rolling the bill up. He positions himself and then snorts, letting his eyes roll back as the drugs hit him full force. “Fuck, that’s good,” he moans. “New contract. I’ve changed professions.”
“A whore in fancy clothes is still a whore,” Vox spits, looking at Angel like he’s a cockroach.
“And a cheater with all of the money and apology flowers in the world is still a fucking cheater,” Val cuts in before Angel even has a chance to defend himself.
“Ooooh, burn,” Angel quips, laughing. The drugs are making everything fuzzy again, which makes all of this so much funnier.
Vox absolutely loses it. He pushes away from the island and stomps over towards where Angel is sitting, his finger raised in accusation. “You little fucking—”
“Angel, baby,” Val coos, stepping in between them. “Why don’t you go take a shower? It’s been a few days, and you’re starting to smell like sex. I’ll see to it that our guest is gone when you get out.”
Angel purrs. The molly is making him feel warm and pliant and horny, so he leans up and caresses Val’s face. “I thought you liked it when I smell like sex,”
“I do,” Val tells him, and then his expression darkens. “But you also still smell like that tacky casino, which I hate.”
And just like that, the spell is broken. Val doesn’t say it, he doesn’t even show it, but Angel can tell that he’s still angry and bitter about Angel working for The Jackpot. Not that it’s Angel’s fucking fault or anything, but that never matters to Val. He sees Angel’s allegiance to Husker (regardless of if that allegiance is by choice or not) as a betrayal. Angel is just really, really fucking lucky that Vox’s betrayal is bigger this time around.
“S-sorry Val. I’ll shower,” Angel says, and he hears the way his own voice betrays him. He hears his own submission, his own eagerness to please come out in the cadence of his vowels.
How many times in the last several decades had Angel been forced to his knees by the look on Val’s face, or the inflection in his voice? How many times had Angel closed his eyes and uttered “Yes, Valentino,” as if it would make the punishment any less brutal?
Val’s lips curl over his pointed teeth. “Thanks, baby.”
Angel slides off of the stool and stumbles towards the bathroom, leaving Vox and Val to their own devices.
“Ha ha, Val, very funny. You took Angel back. I get it. You won. Now will you please—”
Angel closes the door to the bathroom a little harder than he means to. As much as he loves seeing Vox grovel at Val’s feet, he’s feeling a bit like he might vomit from all of the drugs in his system and he doesn’t want to do that in front of anyone. The room is spinning again, but this time, it feels like it might never stop. His entire body from his head to his toes is buzzing with the come up from the molly making its way through his bloodstream but instead of feeling good like it’s supposed to, it feels like too much.
Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t have taken such a high dose when he still had the 2CB in his system from earlier. Maybe he shouldn’t have licked so much of Val’s poison from his mouth when he was already so fucking high that he could barely sit up straight. Angel steadies himself on the bathroom sink and makes the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror.
Rule number fucking one when you’re using psychedelics is to never, ever look at your own reflection. Angel knows this. He knows this rule especially well because he’s made the mistake a few times before and every single time the result is the same.
No one with self-image issues as lavish and plentiful as Angel’s could handle what they see staring back at them. Angel realizes that Val is right — he hasn’t showered since fleeing the casino. The makeup on his face is the same makeup he put on that night, but it’s caked on and smeared in a way that makes him look like he’s losing his mind. His eyeliner and mascara must have started to run during one of his crying sessions, and now it stains the places under his eyes with charcoal streaks. There’s glitter in his hair and three-day-old lipstick stains around his mouth and when Angel realizes just how much of a fucking mess he is.
Everything about his reflection is wrong. His eyes, his hair, his fucking mouth — the glint of his gold tooth, the one that matches Valentino’s, the one that even once his contract was null and void still sits in his mouth as a reminder of the deal he made that he wishes he could take back.
I don’t belong here.
Angel squeezes his eyes shut and tries to steady his breathing. Everything is spinning again but this time it’s too fast. He feels like he’s on a theme park ride and it’s malfunctioning and he’s screaming and begging for it to slow down but it won’t. Fuck, he’s gonna puke.
Angel collapses onto his knees and retches into the toilet, but barely anything comes up. He feels like if he could just bring himself to vomit, maybe he’d feel better. Maybe if he could do fucking anything right for once, he wouldn’t be such a god damn mess.
I don’t belong anywhere.
Tears sting his eyes and he gags again, but it brings him no relief. His mouth tastes like bile and he rests his head against the porcelain toilet seat and listens to the sound of the shower running alongside the muffled bickering of Vox and Val’s domestic drifting through the thick wooden door.
Why did he come back here? What was he thinking? He feels like he’s dying even though he knows that he can’t. It’s its own form of torture — craving death but being unable to have it, because he’s already dead. When he was alive and he had felt the grief and agony that comes along with relapsing, he would close his eyes and try to picture what it would be like if he could just… stop fucking existing. If he overdosed, if he fell asleep and choked on his own vomit, the pain would finally stop. Or so he fucking thought.
He hadn’t realized that Hell was real. He hadn’t realized that dying meant waking up in a dimension where the sweet release of death was no longer a possibility, or that his punishment for being such a pathetic piece of shit would be to be stuck that way for the rest of forever.
Angel groans. He starts to come up again, but it only makes the nausea worse. He’s high and euphoric but he’s also sick and fucking miserable. He’s caught in a purgatory of his own design, suffering in the bliss of ecstacy.
Angel’s eyes catch on a glint of metal on his hand where it rests on the toilet seat beside his head. He hadn’t realized that he’s been wearing the ring that Husker gave him this entire time. Seeing it now makes him want to vomit again, but it also grounds him. In his fucked up state, Angel remembers how it felt that first night. He remembers Husker’s grumpy attitude and the way his lips quirked up in a silent smile when Angel told him that he could handle whatever the casino could dish out. He remembers how good it had felt to be good at something other than sex for once, and how much he genuinely liked working under the Gambling Demon.
Angel reaches for the ring and tries to tug it off, but it won’t budge. It’s a symbol of his contract; a piece of tangible proof that his soul is not his own. He spins it, watching the shine on the gold as it reflects the bathroom light. He hopes that Val doesn’t notice it, but part of him wonders if Val would even care. He’s using Angel just as much as Angel is using him. Without the leverage of a contact between them, the truth of what they are to one another is finally clear.
Val loves Angel because of Angel’s usefulness to him. He loves that Angel is down to fuck anyone and anything in exchange for drugs without complaining about it. He loves that Angel obeys, that Angel submits, that he takes it and takes it and takes it and that when he finally breaks, he does it out of Valentino’s sight. But most of all, Valentino loves the fact that Angel plays along with his fucked up game of cat and mouse that he has going with Vox.
And Angel?
Well, he loves Val too, in his own fucked up way. He loves that Val provides for him. He loves that Val takes him for what he is and never expects him to change. He loves that Val feeds his addictions, that he gives Angel drugs and sex and attention. Every single bad part of Angel is amplified tenfold by Valentino. They are fire and gas — all they do is fuel one another’s destructive tendencies. When they’re together they burn hot and fast and they ravage, ruin, and wreck everything in their path. Then, once it’s all over, once the fuel has burned out, there’s nothing left of either of them.
This is how it’s always been, and how it always will be.
Angel, feeling a sense of clarity that can only come after drug-fueled introspection, sits up. He takes off his boots one shoe at a time and doesn’t look at his awful fucking feet as he all but crawls into the shower. The relief he feels at the hot spray of water on his face is instantaneous and he audibly groans.
Angel takes his shower sitting down. The drugs in his system are too intense and the sensation of showering is overwhelming, so he takes his time to really get himself clean. He scrubs every inch of his body, lathers shampoo and conditioner through his hair, and digs his nails into the places that Husker’s hands touched — desperate to get every trace of the overlord’s scent off of his body. He watches the suds as they get sucked down the drain; rainbow bubbles that shine like sunshine pop and gurgle as they vanish before his eyes.
He sits there until the heat becomes too much. He sits there until he feels dizzy again, until his skin is raw and red. When he finally turns the water off, dries himself and slips his robe back on, the drugs have past their peak. He’s still high, but the worst (best) of it is over. Angel does not look in the mirror again before he pushes the bathroom door open and steps back out into the apartment.
Vox is gone. Val is sitting in the living room alone, scrolling through his phone. When Angel enters the space, he looks up and smiles.
“Hey babydoll,” Val says. The blue light from his phone reflects in his glasses, making his eyes look like they’re glowing. It’s sinister and off-putting and it makes Angel’s stomach churn. “Feel better?”
The bad trip in the bathroom ripped the rose-colored goggles from Angel’s face and forced him to see things for how they really are. He sees all of Val’s ugliness, all of his cruelty, like scars on his crooked face.
“Yeah,” Angel says anyway, because it’s not like Val knows that Angel had a bad trip. It’s not like he could hear Angel’s sobs over the sound of the shower. It’s not like he knows how much Angel hates himself with every step he takes in Val’s direction.
(He might, actually – know, that is. He might very well know exactly how miserable Angel is, how much he fucking hates himself. He might know and he might get off on it, in his sick and twisted way. He’s a poison afterall, and poison has one job: to ruin and relish in the destruction it causes.)
“Come here, Amorcito,” Val coos, setting his phone down and patting his lap. “Daddy had a long day, and that shitstain of a television demon put me in a sour mood. Can you help me feel better?”
Angel crosses the room wordlessly and takes his position on Valentino’s lap without any protest. Arms wrap around him and pull him close before sharp teeth sink themselves into the sensitive and raw skin on his throat. Angel lets his mind drift as Val’s hands do the same, desperate to think about anything other than the fact that somehow, he has ended up here again.
Somehow he has ended up high and miserable in Valentino’s lap, with the overlord doing what he pleases to Angel’s body. Somehow he has ended up wishing he were anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else.
Except, maybe that’s not quite so true anymore.
He wouldn’t prefer anyone else — there’s someone now who occupies his fantasies when he lets himself drift away. On nights like this, when Val is being greedy with his touches and Angel has to be good to avoid being punished for protesting, Angel goes somewhere safe and warm in the deepest recesses of his own mind.
That place is bright and gold, soft and secure. Sometimes Angel pictures himself back in New York City, in Washington Square Park, sitting around the fountain while someone plays music on a saxophone nearby. It’s bright and it’s perfect; the weather is not too hot and not too cold, the perfect spring day. His birthday, maybe, in April. He leans back on his two hands and he basks in the shine of the sun on his face, and if he tries hard enough, if he lets himself imagine it with all of his heart, he can almost feel it. And maybe this time, he’s not alone. There’s someone beside him with a strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, humming along to the sound of the music.
He’s handsome and he’s wise and he’s cooler than he has any business being.
“Beautiful day, ain’t it kid?” Fantasy Husker asks, smiling with his perfect teeth. In the sun, Angel notices the coffee stains turning the delicate bone a soft shade of brown, but it doesn’t make his smile any less perfect. It shows that he’s human, that he’s lived his life, and that makes Angel want to kiss him.
In his fantasy, Angel is not afraid of what loving someone else means. In his fantasy, Angel is clean and Husker is too and they live in a small studio apartment in Greenwich Village with a neighbor who plays the piano too loud, and chipped paint on the windowsill that leads out to their fire escape, and they dance in vanilla glow from the city lights that shine through their open windows at night.
Angel escapes to this place on nights like tonight, because reality is too much. The drugs help him get there but they never let him stay.
The night, when Val has his way with Angel’s body, he whispers things into Angel’s ear.
“Good boy,” he says, pushing back Angel’s hair so that he can get a look at Angel’s face.
*
Angel and Husk walk through Little Italy, hand in hand, and even though it’s 1940 no one gives a shit that they’re queer. Husk points at a little coffee shop and Angel pulls him inside and they order espressos in tiny cups and they laugh about the size before toasting to one another. He feels breathless and buzzed and happy.
*
“You’re so gorgeous, mi corazón.”
*
Angel eats good pizza for the first time in forever. The crust is thin and the cheese is soft and the marinara is acidic in a way that feels like magic on his tongue. He gets grease on his fingers when he folds his slice in half but it doesn’t bother him because the mess is worth it.
*
“Angel, mi vida, my sweet, sweet love.”
*
Rain falls onto passersby as they shuffle to and fro with their jackets pulled up over their heads. Angel sits on his windowsill with a cat in his lap while Husker reads a book across from him. There is not enough room for the both of them on the ledge but they make it work, somehow, legs tangled up in one another, halfway leaning off, as the sound of New York’s spring sings a symphony that feels like a love song.
*
“Yes, just like that. Just like that — Anthony.”
Angel’s body has a physical reaction to the name. His vision blanks and he pushes Valentino off of him with a noise that doesn’t sound human. The name wrenches Angel from his fantasy like he’s being violently awoken from a dream and suddenly, he’s crying.
“Don’t call me that,” Angel says, hysterical, when Val clicks his tongue in annoyance for interrupting him.
Anthony is gone. Anthony exists only in Angel’s deepest fantasies. Anthony gets to have the New York City apartment and the pizza and the music and and and
And Husker.
Not Angel.
Angel doesn’t get to have that. Angel doesn’t deserve that.
Val looks at him with a dark expression, like he wants to argue, like he thinks it’s his right to call Angel whatever the fuck he wants, but then he sees something in Angel’s face that makes him relax. Angel doesn’t know if its compassion or pity or even just a fucking reluctance to deal with the aftermath of what lashing out to Angel in this moment would mean, but he’s grateful for the shift either way.
“Fine,” Val says, and even though he doesn’t look angry anymore there’s a frustrated annoyance to his voice. “I won’t do it again. Now can I fucking finish?”
*
*
*
Two weeks later, while Angel is high and sick from the drugs in his system, laying in Valentino’s bed, he watches Fizzarolli tell the god of greed to go fuck himself on live television.
It feels surreal that not too long ago, Angel had been in the same room as Fizzarolli and had felt like they were similar. He felt that there were things that they had in common that went beyond their shared background in entertainment. From just their one night together, Angel had felt like Fizzarolli knew what it felt like to be trapped; that he knew what it felt like to hold himself back from love for the sake of his own safety.
The foundation on which Fizzarolli stood had seemed fragile. Angel had felt a quiet connection towards him, because he too walked a fraying tightrope between intimacy and performance. He knows what it feels like to be afraid of what comes next after you stand up to the people keeping you in pain. He knows what it feels like to be terrified of letting people in. He knows what it feels like to be fake, to please, to be complicit.
He knows how to close his eyes and tell Valentino “yes” to avoid the consequences of saying “no”.
The only difference is that now, Fizzarolli has managed to do what Angel never could. He’s managed to say “no.”
And he did it in front of all of Hell. He did it with a camera pointed at him and a smile on his face. He did it with neon lights and a catchy song and a performance that puts Angel’s best drag numbers to shame. He said “no” with confidence, with conviction, with certainty that it was what he wanted.
Angel watches it all happen with tears in his eyes and an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the drugs poisoning his already dead body.
Why can’t he have that same strength? Why is it so hard for him to say “no?” Why can’t he flip Valentino off and pack his bags and fucking go for good? Angel feels so weak. He feels like a pathetic mess of a person and he hates himself for it. He hates himself because if Fizzarolli can do it, why can’t he?
If an imp with robotic limbs and tens of thousands of years of oppression working against him can stand up to the people keeping him in lower stature, why can’t Angel do the same?
Angel closes his eyes and buries himself beneath the sea of blankets and pillows surrounding him. He knows that damned souls don’t get the chance to have their prayers heard by a God who already passed judgment on them, but just this once, Angel tries anyway.
He prays for the strength to get himself out of this mess he’s created. He knows that he fucked up durring his life and that he’s somehow managed to fuck up even more in his death but he’s not sure how much more torture he can handle before there’s nothing left of him. He prays for the power to be clean. He prays for the ability to allow himself to be loved. He prays for his legs to be strong enough to carry him far, far away from this place.
He prays and he prays and he prays for just an ounce of the courage Fizzarolli showed during Mammon’s Clown Pageant. He prays for an end to this misery and for the first time since arriving in Hell, Angel lets himself admit exactly how much he wants to be better.
Three days later, during Extermination Day, Angel’s prayers are answered in the most unexpected of ways.
Everything is different after that.
Chapter 11
“Fuck,” Angel says outloud. He’s been tearing Val’s room apart for the better part of an hour, and he still can’t find it. “Where the fuck is it?”
He checked his suitcase, he checked Fat Nuggets’ carrier, he even checked all of Val’s dresser drawers and there’s still no sign of the locket his mother gave him. He’s not a very sentimental person, but this locket is special. It’s the only piece of property Angel has that ties him to the man he used to be; to the part of him that was human, once. Aside from Fat Nuggets, it’s the only thing that he cares about that belongs to him and he can’t fucking find it.
He makes a frustrated noise and then lifts the mattress to check beneath it. He doesn’t find it there, but he does find one of his stashes of coke. Which is when he realizes that he knows exactly where his fucking necklace is.
It’s at the Jackpot Casino under his mattress in the room he used to live in. On his way out, he had been so out of it and emotional that he hadn’t even realized he’d left it behind. He feels so fucking stupid. He managed to grab his drug stash, but not the only item in his possession that means anything to him? Classic fucking junkie.
Dread washes over him as he realizes what he’s going to have to do. He can’t just leave it there. He can’t just let it fall into the hands of whatever sorry soul takes the room from him now that he’s gone, and he can’t let some other junkie looking for cash pawn it. He has to go back for it, and he has to go now.
Sure, he could probably wait, but he doesn’t want to. When Angel gets a thought in his head of something that he wants to do, he can’t get it out of his brain until he does it. It’s a compulsion and he knows that it’s not healthy and he should probably find a way to not fucking act on every impulse he has, but he’s got enough other shit going on right now thank you very much. There ain’t anything healthy about any of what Angel’s been doing lately, which is exactly the fucking point. He’s been on a downward spiral of self-sabotage so that he can forget about that stupid casino and that stupid overlord and his stupid fucking contract.
But Hell is forever, and forever is a long fucking time. It’s enough time for Angel to feel regret about letting something so priceless slip through his fingers because he was too high to care. He has to go back for it. He doesn’t know why, but it feels important to him that he does. It feels like he’s being kind to himself, in his own fucked up way, by refusing to let go of that one little piece of himself that’s still human.
So Angel leaves V Tower for the first time in nearly a month and heads back to The Jackpot Casino. He feels like shit and he looks like shit, but he does it, and that has to count for something. He’s spent the last few weeks rotting into Val’s couch, high as a fucking kite, but he still managed to use his legs to carry him outside and he feels proud of that feat. He doesn’t bother with using Val’s limousine service because he doesn’t need Val knowing that he’s going back to The Jackpot. Vox has every inch of Val’s spaces covered in surveillance cameras like a freak, and Angel knows that he would immediately cash in on any opportunity to rat Angel out and get back into Val’s good graces.
This fight between them is lasting longer than the others, which is to Angel’s advantage and Vox’s deep, deep dismay. The sex with Val has been good lately, but Angel is guardedly waiting for something to go wrong. Right now, shit with Val is exactly what Angel wanted it to be. It’s sex and drugs and a warm place to crash while he pumps poison into his veins in an attempt to cleanse his mind of all of the nasty, awful thoughts that try to break through the walls he’s built. Even now, he’s high as he hails a taxi and he tucks away a small baggie of coke into his purse just in case this whole ordeal takes longer than expected.
There’s no fucking way he’s going to be able to do this sober. He’s really hoping that he can get in there, get his necklace, and get the fuck out before Husk sees him, but he also knows that the chances of that happening are slim to none. Husker has made no attempt to reach out to Angel or to figure out where he’s been, but Angel is sure that waltzing back into the casino like nothing has happened would be enough to get the overlord’s attention. To top it all off, Angel realizes that his phone is on 10% battery which means that he can’t even doom scroll through Sinstagram to take his mind off of his anxiety.
Fuck this.
The cab pulls up to the casino and Angel throws a wad of cash at the driver before quickly scrambling out. He’s feeling fidgety and twitchy, a side effect of the cocaine and nervousness, and his lower set of hands keep anxiously rubbing themselves together in an attempt to self-soothe. He lets out a slow breath and then reaches into his bag to pull out a pair of sunglasses that he slips on to neutralize his facial expression. His eyes have always been his tell, and he’s not about to let Hell’s greatest poker player call his bluff.
Angel walks through the golden doors of the casino and stops. The whole place is empty. There are imps scurrying around with planks of wood and tools, but the customers that are usually packed into the space like sardines are nowhere to be seen. The slot machines and digital games are all still turned on and blinking in bright, flashing lights, but there are no sinners crowded around them with crossed fingers waiting to win big.
It’s a fucking ghost town.
Angel stops one of the imps. “Hey,” he says, “The fuck is goin’ on here? Where is everybody?”
The imp looks at him like he’s crazy.
“Uh, it’s extermination day?” The imp gestures towards the casino’s large glass window. Through it, the Angelic clock tower that counts down the days until their doom is visible, and the number reads 0. “The fuck are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the safe room with the others?”
Man, Angel really has been out of it, hasn’t he? How had he managed to forget what day it was?
Shit. He checks his phone, and he still has two hours before the extermination begins. The red percentage in the corner of the screen is a bold reminder of how fucked he’d be if he got caught out in the madness. He needs to get this done fast if he wants to make it back to V tower in time.
“I just gotta get somethin’ from my room,” Angel tells the imp, who has very obviously stopped listening to him. Angel watches the imp go over to assist another in boarding up the windows and then heads to the elevator.
This is sort of perfect, in a way. He was so worried about having to maneuver his way through a crowded casino without running into one of his fans or Husker, but now he doesn’t have to worry about any of that. He can get in, grab his necklace, and get the fuck out before anyone even notices that he’s here.
It’s a little bit weird being back. He feels guilt and embarrassment pulling at his gut as he walks through the staff’s living quarters, but he’s still high enough that it doesn’t make him feel like total shit. Technically, Husker has a right to keep Angel here if he wants to. He could force Angel to stay and work there against his will, but Angel doesn’t think he would do something like that. Val would — shit, Val has forced Angel to do shit by dangling the chain leash in front of his face and reminding him that he has no autonomy, but Husker…
Husker isn’t like that. Angel’s sure of it.
He unlocks his bedroom and tries not to let it break his heart when he finds his room exactly as he left it. His bed is still unmade and messy and there are still clothes littering the floor from when he made his hasty escape. He spots the gold dress that Cherri bought him hanging in the closet, but he forces himself not to look directly at it.
It feels almost like it’s taunting him, like it’s reminding him of what he could have been if he had just stayed, if he had allowed himself to be half of the person Husker expected him to be. He half-expected Husker to clean his room back once Angel had been gone for over a week, but it looks like no one has been in here since he left.
Well. Almost no one.
There is one very stark difference in the room, and when Angel notices it, he feels like someone punched him hard in the gut. Sitting on his dresser is the set of Envian pearl earrings that Husker had won in that poker game all of those nights ago. The box they’re in is made of blue velvet, and it’s open so that Angel can see the jewelry on display. Beside it, there is a hand-written note. Angel picks it up with shaking fingers.
“Sorry.”
That’s all it says. One single word. An apology. A peace offering. An acknowledgement of Husker’s wrongfulness in their argument. A word that Angel has never heard fall from Val’s poison-coated lips.
It’s just one word. It shouldn’t — fuck it shouldn’t make Angel feel like he’s going to cry, but it does. It tears his walls down like a wrecking ball and leaves him feeling cracked open and exposed.
Sorry. Husker’s sorry.
Angel sits down on his bed and lets himself break down. He’s cried at Val’s place a few times, but usually only under the protection of the shower or one of Val’s blankets. He knows that Vox watches him, and he doesn’t want to give that asshole the satisfaction of seeing how broken he is. He doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing just how little Angel has it together, how close he is to falling apart.
Here, in the safety and serenity of his room at The Jackpot, Angel can finally let it out. He pulls the sunglasses from his face and throws them onto the bed and he lets the sobs shake through his body.
God, how the fuck did he end up like this? How did he manage to fuck up the one good thing he had going for him so quickly? He can’t keep going like this. He can’t keep killing himself over and over again just to fucking feel something. He can’t keep getting high and disappearing into his head because eventually, that won’t be a safe place to hide either. He has exhausted every vice; he has squeezed every last ounce of serotonin from the drugs and the sex that have carried him through these last few decades and he doesn’t know how much more he’s going to manage to get from the shriveled up pulp that remains.
Something has to give. He can’t keep fucking up like this.
How the fuck is he supposed to be better? How is he supposed to change everything about himself, when this is all he’s ever known? Being at the Jackpot scares him because it reveals to him the potential of all he could be if he just had the courage to try.
The gold dress. The earrings. The apology.
Each of them is an ingredient with which he has no idea how to work, but fuck if they don’t sound appealing. He just wishes that he felt like he deserves any of this.
He wipes his face on the back of his hand and takes a steadying breath. He can’t sit here and feel sorry for himself all day. It’s extermination day, after all, and he has a very limited window of time before the Vees lock themselves in their safe room and disappear for 24 hours. He can cry more about this in the shower later, but right now he has to get what he came for and go.
He lifts the mattress and finds his locket exactly where he left it. He picks it up carefully and places it into his purse. Then, he takes one last look at his room — at the messy bed, and the lonely pair of earrings and the fucking note, and he leaves. There’s no point in getting sentimental now, not when he’s going straight back to the Hell of his own design. Not when he’s still so fucking high that he can barely stand up straight.
“Kid?”
Angel’s back is turned to the hallway while he locks the door behind him (old habit) but he doesn’t need to turn around to know that it’s Husker standing there. He recognizes the low, sultry sound of his voice easily, and he hates the fact that his stomach twists when he hears it.
Fuck.
Of course this couldn’t be that easy.
Angel knows that it’s obvious that he’s been crying, so before he lets Husker get a look at his face, he slips his sunglasses back on. He knew that there was a chance of this confrontation happening, he just thought he’d have the luxury of a public setting. As it is now, the only people in the hallway are the two of them. They’re alone together.
“Oh, hey,” Angel says, feigning casualty. He turns and Husker is standing there, looking at Angel with that same broken expression he had on that night when everything fell apart. His poker face is nowhere to be seen, replaced with one of raw emotion that stuns Angel to silence. Thank god for the sunglasses; Angel doesn’t know what he’d do if Husker could see the expression on his face as well.
They stand there for a minute, just staring at one another. Time seems to slow, and all of the things Angel wishes he had said that night sit heavy in the air between them. How the fuck does this guy have such a hold on Angel’s heart? They barely know each other. He shouldn’t — this shouldn’t — they shouldn’t —
Fuck. He has to get out of here. Now.
“I was just making my rounds,” Husker says, recovering quickly. He looks away. “Making sure no one gets left behind before the extermination. I like to take care of my own.”
He does, doesn’t he? During his time here, Angel never felt like he was in danger. It was the complete opposite of his time at V Tower, a place where he never felt safe, even when he and Val were at their best.
“I uh,” Husker says, and then he stops. He coughs, clearing his throat. “I didn’t think you’d be back.”
And something about that hurts Angel in a way he can’t explain. Husker doesn’t see Angel as a prisoner, but as a business partner. He has Angel under contract, but he still treats him like he has the ability to come and go as he pleases. He’s acting like Angel quit, like Angel could quit, if he wanted to.
Angel grits his teeth.
“Can’t exactly leave for good when my soul isn’t mine,” Angel jabs, because he has to. Because he can’t let Husker be this nice guy. Because he can’t give into the temptation that is begging him to collapse into the overlord’s arms and beg for forgiveness.
Husker rolls his eyes, which only makes Angel like him more. He doesn’t get angry or violent when Angel talks back, he gets annoyed. Like they’re fucking friends joking about the weather and not souls tethered to one another by an unbreakable bond.
“Here we go again,” Husker says, clicking his tongue. “I already told you, I ain’t that kind of overlord. I may own your soul, but I’m ain’t interested in controlling where you go or who you talk to. I need your soul for power, kid, nothing more. Working for me is just an option if you’re craving structure in this fucked up shithole we’re livin’ in. You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I ain’t your fucking keeper.”
Angel doesn’t know what to do with that.
If that’s true — if Husker really only sees Angel’s soul as part of a whole collective, and sees him as an individual separate from that, then maybe Angel really was wrong about him. On some level, he gets it. The only way to get to the top when you’re living in Hell is to collect the souls of the damned. You have to mold the broken pieces of others into a ladder if you want to climb anywhere at all, so Angel gets why Husk needs him for the numbers aspect.
That explains why he didn’t chase after him. It explains why he hasn’t once tried to use the contract as leverage over him, the way Val always used to. Husker isn’t afraid of Angel leaving him because he doesn’t need souls working for him. He has plenty of others who are willing to do it. Angel means nothing.
Which means that by that same logic, Angel kissing him that night had probably meant everything.
Husker hadn’t kissed Angel back because he was trying to solidify him as an ally in his thirst for power, he had kissed him back because he wanted to. That realization is almost enough to make Angel want to do it again.
But then he remembers why he’s here. He remembers the place where he woke up this morning and the burning sensation between his thighs from sex that was way too rough for his liking, and he remembers all of the reasons why he does not deserve the life Husker has offered him.
He’s a junkie, an addict, and fucking crack-whore with no direction in his life. He’s uneducated and stupid and Husker deserves someone better than he could ever be.
“I don’t need you to be my keeper,” Angel snaps. His insecurity is taking control again, puppeting his words and actions.
“I know you don’t,” Husker says, easily, like he has no idea how much he’s still managing to disarm Angel with every word. “That’s why I didn’t come after you.” Husker shrugs. “Glad you decided to come back here for Extermination Day though, shows you’re still thinking rationally. The Jackpot’s got the best safe room in Hell—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Angel says. “I’m not stayin’ here for Extermination Day.”
Husker stares at him. “The fuck are you talking about? Why the hell else would you be here?”
Angel makes a frustrated noise and gestures towards his door. “I forgot something. I was coming back here to get it.”
“On Extermination Day?” Husker asks. He’s looking at Angel like he’s crazy. “You got a death wish or somethin’? The angels will be here in an hour!”
Fuck, seriously? Angel digs his phone out of his purse. He’s right, there’s only an hour left until shit hits the fan. His phone is on 5%, and Angel realizes that he has to go. Now.
“Shit,” Angel says, under his breath. Then, he turns his attention back to Husker. “I gotta go. It was great catchin’ up and all, but—”
“You can’t go out there!” Husker interrupts. “Kid — Angel, you’re gonna get yourself killed!”
Angel’s instincts tell him to push back with more attitude, but he realizes that there’s real, genuine concern in Husker’s voice. Husker is worried about him. Angel can’t remember the last time someone other than Cherri cared enough about him to feel that way.
So instead of snapping, instead of turning away like he wants to, Angel sighs.
“The Vees got a safe room,” he says, softly. “Val’s waitin’ for me to come back.” Not a total lie. Val probably is wondering where Angel’s been. “I’ll be okay.”
Husker looks like he doesn’t believe that, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Angel with that same open and raw expression on his face and then he looks away.
Angel feels like he’s suffocating. He needs to go. He needs to go now. He turns to leave, but once he’s taken a few steps away, a hand wraps around his wrist and holds him there.
Angel doesn’t want to turn around, but he has to. This conversation is already running on the fumes of their borrowed time, and he can’t waste another second of it. So he turns, and he sees Husker looking at him with concern and care and it rips the heart from his chest.
“Stay,” is all Husker says.
Angel wants to. But he can’t.
“I’ll be okay,” Angel says in return. His voice is just barely above a whisper. “I promise.”
Angel tugs his wrist free and Husker lets it slip between his clasped fingers with very little resistance. When Angel walks away, Husk doesn’t chase after him.
*.*.*.*.*
Angel’s phone dies in the cab on the way to V tower. He’s in the middle of texting Cherri to wish her love and safety and to schedule post-extermination drinks and the screen goes black. It feels ominous, like a sign, but Angel tries not to let himself think too much into it.
He’s lucky that the cabs are still running. He’s lucky that hellborn creatures are exempt from the extermination, and that they keep working through this shitty fucking day.
Extermination Day is something all sinners fear, even if they pretend not to. Val always gets clingy and fidgety when it nears, and back when Angel was a dancer, the girls he danced with would start using more heavily in the days leading up to it. There’s something terrifying about the idea of an exorcism, because no one knows what happens once you’re gone. This is supposed to be the last stop on the train, so the thought that there’s something worse than this after it all is absolutely horrific.
Angel’s thankful that the Vees have a good safe room.
Angel gets out of the car with who the fuck nows how many minutes to spare before everything goes to shit. He rushes across the street towards V Tower, where Vox is just finishing locking up.
“Fuck,” Angel says, catching is breath. He puts his hands on his knees, breathing heavily through the relief that washes over his body. He cut it really, really fucking close. “I made it.”
Vox turns his key in the lock of the glass door and snorts.
“Made it where, exactly?” Vox asks, lifting a digital eyebrow.
Angel rolls his eyes. “Very funny, asshole,” Angel says. “The safe room. I had shit to do this morning and I didn’t think I was gonna get here in time, but it looks like luck’s on my side today.”
Vox laughs, an awful, bitter sound that makes Angel’s stomach twist.
“Oh, oh man, this is hysterical,” Vox says. “You think you’re coming in here?” He gestures inside. “Wish I could say that I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but it’s honestly my pleasure to be the one to shit all over your good mood.” He smirks. “You can’t come in here. You’re not under contract. Our safe room is for the Vees and their contracted souls only, dipshit. I thought you knew that.”
Angel feels like he’s going to be sick. There’s no way Vox is being serious, right?
“Why the fuck would I know that? Val didn’t say—”
“Val shouldn’t have had to say anything,” Vox says, and from the sound of his voice he’s really enjoying this. “It’s common fucking sense. When he said he couldn’t find you this morning, I assumed you’d finally sucked it up and gone crawling back to that card-playing prick to beg for sanctuary. I didn’t think you’d come back here, minutes before the extermination begins.” He laughs again. “You’re so unbelievably fucked, kid!”
No.
No, he can’t fucking do this! He can’t leave Angel out here with no way to protect himself. Angel cranes his neck to see if he can spot Val inside. If Val’s there, he can talk some sense into Vox. He knows that he and Val have a complicated history, but Val wouldn’t leave Angel out here to die.
“You can’t do this,” Angel says through gritted teeth. “Val won’t forgive you.”
Vox snorts again. “You really think that Val cares about you?” He looks at Angel like he’s a piece of shit on the sidewalk. “You’re a toy for him. Sure, he’ll be sad for like, ten minutes. But he won’t lose sleep over it. You’re nothing, Angel. You were born nothing, you died nothing, and now you’re going to die again the same nothing you started out as. Honestly, I’m doing Hell a favor by finally ridding it of your shitty, useless existence.”
Angel tries to push past him, but Vox sees him coming. He backhands Angel hard, and Angel falls to the ground.
“Vox—”
Vox spits on him and then turns to lock himself inside of V Tower. Before he goes, he takes one last look at Angel and smiles.
“See you in Super Hell, loser,” Val says, and then he’s gone.
Angel pulls himself up and chases after him but it’s too late. The door is locked and Angel pounds on the glass, but no one is there to see him. V Tower’s security gates start to close, slowly, over the windows and doors. Angel bangs on the metal as it covers the glass. He bangs and bangs and bangs until his knuckles bleed, until he’s on his knees, screaming—
“Fuck!”
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—
What is he going to do? He hasn’t been stuck outside during an Extermination Day in decades. He doesn’t even remember any of his old hiding places. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go or how the fuck he’s going to protect himself against the hailstorm of exorcists that are about to rain from the sky any minute now.
Fuck Vox. Fuck Val. Fuck the Vees and their stupid, selfish feuds that they always pull Angel into. How could Angel have been so dumb? Of course Vox wasn’t going to let him in. If he had just stayed inside today, none of this would have happened. If he hadn’t been so high, he would have realized that today was Extermination Day and he would have waited until tomorrow to get his stupid fucking necklace.
Instead, he’s stranded in the emptying streets of Pentagram City, high out of his mind and barely managing to shake off the heartache from his last interaction with Husker. He got himself into this situation because he’s an idiot and a junkie and a no good loser with absolutely nothing going on.
Maybe this is what he deserves. Maybe this is finally his ticket out. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to end for him — struck down by an angel during Heaven’s attempt at quelling rebellion in the hearts of Earth’s dirtiest sinners.
Because really, isn’t that what Angel has always been? A rebel? Someone who pushes back against the expectations that society has set for him? Hasn’t he always been fighting and kicking and clawing his way out of all of the fucked up shit that the world has thrown his way?
Maybe this is how it should be. Maybe he was wrong, and there is a way out of eternal damnation at the end of an exorcist’s blade. Maybe Angel wants them to kill him, to finally put an end to his miserable existence.
He lets that thought consume him for five seconds. He lets himself think about the implications; the reality of choosing to give up and let himself become another name on the list of extermination victims.
Five.
Angel thinks about everything that’s happened to him since he arrived in Hell. He thinks about Val and the drugs and the sex work, and he aches for a world in which he’s free from all of that. He thinks about the way it had felt when he first met Val and how he had thought that he was in love, but now he wonders if that were ever really true.
Had Angel ever loved Val, or had he just loved what Val gave him? Had he loved Valentino, or had he loved the drugs and the dick and money and the fame?
Four.
Angel thinks about Cherri and the sad look on her face when he told her that this time, he really would get clean. He thinks about how when he was alive, his sister had given him that same, awful look. He thinks about how he knew, deep down, that they were right about him.
He couldn’t get clean. He was kidding himself by ever thinking that he could. He thinks about how no one had ever believed in his ability to get better, not even himself.
And then he thinks about how maybe, that isn’t quite so true. There was one person who thought he had the ability to live up to his potential.
There was one person who might have actually believed in him.
Three.
Angel thinks about the kind overlord who kissed him like he was breathing air for the first time through Angel’s lungs. He thinks about the way it felt to have someone believe in him for the first time, to have someone have faith in him, to know that he was capable of so much more than any of the others thought. He thinks about soft hands and the taste of whiskey on his tongue.
He thinks about Husker’s hand around his wrist and the desperate look on his face when Angel had tried to walk away.
“Stay. “
And god fucking dammit, Angel wants to. He wants to stay. He wants to believe that there is a part of him that deserves the love he so desperately craves. He doesn’t want this all to end, not before he fixes the shit he destroyed. He wants to do better. He wants to be better.
He thinks of a pair of Envian pearl earrings sitting on his dresser at the casino with a hand-written note containing a single word.
Two.
The sky flashes blinding white and then darkens as the portal to Heaven opens up like a gaping maw on an eyeless face. Screams erupt around him in terror as exorcists burst through it, spewing like blood-hungry vomit into the atmosphere.
Angel’s hands twitch at his sides and hot tears burn at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.
One.
Angel runs.
Chapter 12
Being out on the streets of Pentagram City during Extermination Day is scary for Angel, but being out on the streets on Pentagram City during Extermination Day while high out of his fucking mind is a nightmare come to life. Angel’s legs ache beneath him as he runs and runs through the streets of screaming souls who had nowhere to go, no overlords to protect them, no saferooms to hide in as exorcists skewer them on the ends of their blades like fish in a tank.
Blood paints the asphalt in splatters of crimson carnage that Angel slips on, drenching himself as he faceplants directly into a twitching corpse. He feels like he’s going to be sick but he has no time for that, so he heaves himself back up with scraped hands and keeps moving, eyes focused only on the space ahead of him.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he goes. He has to get away, he has to find somewhere safe to hide while he waits this out. He can’t go back to the casino, not now. Husker’s surely already locked himself and the other much smarter of his contracted souls into his safe room. If he went there now, it would be a shitshow.
He can’t guarantee he wouldn't be followed by sinners or exorcists, and he can’t bring that kind of chaos into The Jackpot. He would never forgive himself if he were responsible for anything bad happening to the establishment Husker has worked so hard to maintain. He wants to go back, but he can’t. Not until today is over.
And unfortunately for him, today has only just begun.
Extermination Day is worse than Angel remembers it. It’s been a long time since he’s had to navigate his way through one, but the exorcists seem more ruthless now than ever before. They’re laughing as they massacre sinners and Angel hears them calling out numbers to one another like it’s some kind of sick game. The exorcists are dressed in monotone shades of black and white and their wings are silver, making them stand out like falling ash against the blood-red sky above.
Everything about their arrival signals the end of days, and Angel wonders who the real sinners are in this scenario. The terror he hears around him is loud in a way that makes his bones shake.
Angel is scared. He has no way to protect himself, no way to guarantee that he won’t end up dead if he isn’t careful. He wishes he had a minute to come up with a plan — just a minute, just enough time to stop fucking running and take in everything around him but he can’t. If he stops running, if an exorcist sees him, it’s over.
For good, this time.
There are a few types of souls that find themselves out on the streets of Pentagram City during Extermination Day.
There are new souls who have yet to find their footing in Hell, who got here too late or too close to the Extermination Day and don’t know any better. They’re people who died recently, who are still angry and confused about how they even ended up here to begin with. These people take up the majority of those killed each year, and it’s a statistic Angel tries not to think about too hard. How many people make it to Hell only to be struck down before they’ve even been given a chance? It’s the cruelest form of torture, in its own way. When a soul in Hell gets exorcized, what’s left of their consciousness becomes spirit matter that attaches itself to inanimate objects. They are forced to become watchers, observers of the damned for the rest of eternity. It’s the only thing that could possibly be worse than what Hell already is, and Angel shudders to think about how a few minutes ago he had been considering that eternity for himself.
Next, there are the doomsday souls who have finally snapped. Every year there’s a cult or two that agree to be exorcized as a group. They’ll dress up and make a whole show of it, only to be massacred in a bloodbath of stupidity. Cherri dated a guy from one of these groups once and she was devastated when he actually followed through with it. Angel was glad he was gone though — the guy was a dick. Looped in with this group are the other crazies; people who like the thrill of looking death in the eyes. Souls that want to feel alive again, even if it’s just for a moment before an exorcists’ blade pierces their heart.
And then, of course, there are the souls like Angel.
Souls who been done wrong by overlords or assholes that they trusted. Souls who should have known better, who should have done better to avoid ending up out here. There are souls being punished, souls tied up and left to die on the streets by bitter exes or angry mob bosses, and souls who just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong motherfuckers.
But at the end of the day, none of that really matters — because at the end of the day, they’re all in the same shitty fucking boat. They’re all out here, running for their lives, desperate for a way to save themselves from their own shitty mistakes.
It’s been years, decades, since Angel’s been stuck out here during Extermination Day, yet to his surprise, all of his survival instincts still manage to come flooding back. Running through the gutters of Hell is sort of like walking through his childhood home — he knows all of the ins and outs, and even though some things have changed, the foundation is still the same. Before Val, before his life changed and he didn’t have to fend for himself anymore, Angel was a street rat.
He was a dirty, filthy lowlife that did what he had to in order to survive. He fought and fucked his way around and he memorized parts of the city like they were intricate patterns on the back of his hands. He may have been out of the game for a few years, but this is still his turf. The trauma he experienced here is tattooed in scars beneath his fur and suddenly, he knows exactly where to fucking go.
The old club where he used to dance has a shitty apartment above it that never gets used. The person who rented it died years ago, and now the dancers use it on shifts to fuck customers on the down low without going through club management. It’s one of Hell’s best-kept secrets, and Angel knows that there’s a good chance it will be empty today. The club takes care of their own and the dancers will be safe and hidden away.
No one would risk being somewhere so underprotected on a day like today. So, Angel runs.
He knows how to get there with his eyes closed. The club was his home for so many years. It’s where he met Cherri, it’s where he met Val, it’s where his afterlife really came together into the shape of the demon Angel would become.
He sees the club in the distance, and his legs start to shake in protest from so much running but he keeps going. He looks around and is shocked to find that he isn’t being trailed by any exorcists, and he thinks that maybe, for once, things are going to work out for him. Maybe, for once, he’s going to be alright.
But just as he’s approaching the alley where the crooked, rusted-metal staircase is tucked away that leads to the apartment, a winged shadow appears on the pavement ahead of him. He screeches to a halt and dares a terrifying look skyward, only to find that the exorcist isn’t looking at him. She has her eyes trained on a soul in front of him — a fucking kid’s soul, who is running as fast as his little legs will carry him.
Oh god, Angel thinks to himself as his stomach twists, this is going to be brutal.
He allows himself a minute of fury towards the exorcists. He gets that they’re just doing their jobs, but do they really have to go after kids? Do they really not have standards when it comes to who gets slaughtered? These are human souls, after all. Don’t these angels have any fucking sense of compassion?
The kid runs directly into the alley where Angel’s hiding place is and he curses under his breath as he follows after him. He wishes there were something he could do. He wishes there were a way he could stop this stupid masked bitch from killing this kid right in front of him, but once again, Angel finds himself defenseless.
Fuck.
Angel ducks behind a dumpster when he gets into the alley. He crouches down and out of sight and watches the exorcist close in on the boy. The kid whimpers and puts his hands up in surrender.
The exorcist lifts her blade, ready to strike, and then —
Doesn’t.
Angel thinks he might be seeing things when he notices the tremble in the gloved hand that holds the spear, but then the exorcist’s other hand comes up and tugs her mask off and he knows that there’s no way he could make something like this up. The girl beneath the mask is beautiful; grey-skinned with yellow eyes and silver hair. There’s something otherworldly about her and Angel has to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping.
He’s never seen an angel in real life before, at least not one without a mask. He never imagined that they’d look so… human, underneath those awful disguises. The exorcist’s eyes are filled with emotion as she stares into the face of the young boy she has backed into a corner. She bites her lower lip, holds her spear steady, and then makes a frustrated noise.
Angel watches as she has an internal struggle with herself. She doesn’t say anything, but the expressions that pass over her face tell enough of a story.
Her brows knit together in confusion and frustration. This is wrong. Her mouth opens and moves but no words come out so she squeezes her eyes shut. I don’t want to do this. Her fists tighten around the handle of her spear and when she opens her eyes again, they’re piercing and determined.
I won’t.
To Angel’s absolute shock, the exorcist lowers her spear.
“Go,” she says to the child. “Run. Now. Go, before it’s too late! Get out of here!”
The boy does not need to be told twice. He lets out a hysterical sound and disappears out of the alley, leaving Angel alone with the exorcist. What the fuck did he just see?
Did this broad just spare a sinner’s soul?
Before Angel can process it, before he can think any harder about the fact that: yes! This bitch really just let that fucking kid go! — another winged figure lands in the alley.
This exorcist is taller than the other, and is still wearing her mask. She arrives behind the other’s back and has her sword out and ready before the other girl can even blink.
“Did I see what I think I just saw?” the masked exorcist asks. “Did you let that demon go?”
The unmasked girl grits her teeth. “This is wrong,” she says, “and you know it.”
“It is God’s will,” snarls the other. “God’s will is never wrong.”
The unmasked exorcist turns around with her spear raised but the other girl is faster. The taller exorcist slashes at the shorter one’s face, deliberately pulling her eye from her socket with precision that makes Angel’s fingers twitch. The eyeball plops onto the ground a few feet away and the shorter girl collapses onto her knees as she screams in agony. She reaches for her eye with desperate hands, as if she could somehow shove it back into the hole in her skull, but the other girl uses her sword to squish it like a tomato.
Gold gushes onto the pavement and the injured exorcist tries to run but she isn’t fast enough. She’s still on her knees, trying to pull herself up, when the other roundhouse kicks her back down to all fours. She tries again to move, this time attempting to use her hands to push herself from the red and gold blood-soaked asphalt, but the attacking exorcist stops her by placing her foot on the girl’s back.
“Sinful filth like you has no place in Heaven,” the exorcist spits. With her bare hands, she grips the other girl’s delicate wings and pulls. Angel wants to look away but he can’t, he’s too entranced by the series of events unfolding before his eyes. He watches as the exorcist tears the other’s wings from her back, stares, wide-eyed and horrified as gold blood pours from the open wounds like molten earth.
The wingless angel sobs into a pool of her own blood but she doesn’t beg for her life. She doesn’t apologize or ask for mercy — no, she just shrieks in pain as her wings are tossed into a pile beside her.
“Oh shit,” says another voice, a male voice, from somewhere Angel can’t see. “Christ, Lute, you’re hardcore. You took her wings? Badass, Danger Tits.”
Lute, the angry one, the violent one, stands to attention like a soldier.
“It’s as we suspected, sir,” Lute says, her words dripping with hatred. “She was helping them escape. I saw her let one of them go. She told him to run.”
The male figure moves into Angel’s line of vision. He’s tall, taller than the others, with the same ethereal glow and pitch-black halo. He’s wearing a mask that makes him look like a horned hellborn creature that has pointed teeth when he smiles. He approaches the injured girl and bends down to get a look at the damage Lute inflicted. He whistles and then kicks at the severed wings with a pointed boot.
“Gotta say I’m disappointed in you, Vag-a-saurus,” the male angel says, shaking his head. “I thought you were better than this. Helping sinners? Are you kidding me? Not cool, bro.”
The injured girl rolls onto her side and glares at the pair of them with her remaining eye. “Fuck you,” she spits.
Angel is starting to like her. She’s got spunk.
“Uh, rude?” says the male Angel. He puts his hands on his hips to demonstrate how annoyed he is at her comment, but Lute lashes out in fury.
She lunges forward and grabs the injured girl by the hair. “How dare you speak to him like that? You vile, blasphemous, disgusting little—”
“Whoa, whoa, relax Lute,” the male angel tells her. He puts a hand on her back and eases her away. She drops the girl back to the ground where she falls in a heap, breathing heavily. “You’ve done enough.”
“But sir—”
“Listen, Vagina, my badass girlboss queen,” he says, speaking to the girl on the ground. “Wish there was more I could do for ya here, but my hands are pretty fucking tied. You’re an exorcist, not a hero. You’re supposed to kill demons, not help them escape. If you were feeling shitty about this you could have just called out of work instead of making a total ass of yourself.” He laughs, and it’s a bitter, awful sound. “Not sure if you know this, but Heaven doesn’t exactly look kindly on traitors. Just ask Lucifer. That guy fucked up big time and now he’s stuck in this shithole for the rest of eternity.”
He laughs again, and Lute sniggers beside him.
“Honestly, Lute did you a favor by injuring you like this,” he says. Something about his tone implies that he’s trying to be grave, but his inability to take the situation seriously has it come out like it’s some kind of joke. “Now we can tell Sera that you were killed in battle and your death can mean something instead of Heaven having to go through all of the red tape of casting you out the old fashioned way, bleh.” He makes a fake gagging noise for extra effect.
“Should we kill her, sir?” Lute asks, readying her sword for his go-ahead. “End her miserable existence?”
The male angel considers this and then shakes his head. “No,” he decides. “Leave her. Let the sinners rip her to pieces. We don’t kill our own kind.”
Lute looks like she wants to protest, but doesn’t. Instead, she nods and lowers her sword.
“Maybe if she’s lucky a cannibal will make it quick,” Lute sneers. “But I hope it’s slow and painful.”
The male angel stares at her. “Man, you scare the shit out of me sometimes, you know that?”
And just like that, they turn and leave. They turn their backs on their dying sister as if she means nothing to them. They leave her bleeding out, slowly fading, on the pavement. Angel can’t believe how close he came to extermination, how near he was to being destroyed for good.
If that exorcist had looked even just an inch to her left, she would have noticed him hiding there. And maybe it’s the adrenaline that comes with a near-death experience that makes Angel do it, or maybe it’s the fact that he can’t stand the thought of knowing he could have done something to save someone and didn’t, but before he can think twice about it, Angel darts out from his hiding space and scoops the wounded girl up into his arms.
Her blood is surprisingly cold where it wets Angel's skin, but he doesn’t have time to think about the implications of that. Do angels just have cold blood, or is this a sign that Angel is already too late? Fuck, he doesn’t know what he’s going do if this bitch dies in his arms. She groans, which is a sign that she’s still alive which — thank god.
He carries her up the stairs and prays out loud for the key to still be hidden behind the loose brick in the wall beside the apartment door.
“Please, please, please,” Angel says. He uses his lower hand to wiggle the stone out and he almost cries in victory when the key is there. He puts it in the lock, turns it and pushes the door open.
The apartment is empty, thank fucking god. With his upper arms, he adjusts his hold on the exorcist and with his lower ones he closes the door and locks all four of the deadbolts. There’s no guarantee they’ll be safe here, but it’s better than nothing.
The apartment is just as Angel remembers it, aside from a few modern changes that have been made to the linens. It’s a studio apartment with a kitchenette that has never worked, a table with one chair, and a bed with a shitty mattress pushed up against the wall.
He’s never been so thankful to see this shithole.
Angel lays the girl down on the ratty mattress. Her breathing has evened out and no longer sounds shallow and labored, and Angel notices that the bleeding has stopped. Exorcists must have healing abilities, he realizes, because the wounds on her back where her wings once more have sealed themselves into crooked scars.
The girl groans when he finally backs away, but she’s still unconscious. The hole in her face has also stopped bleeding, but the gold ichor in her silver hair is still wet and fresh. She’s pale, but Angel has no idea if that’s normal or not. He’s never seen an exorcist without a mask before, he has no idea what they’re supposed to look like. He has no idea if this girl is going to live or die, and he has no idea how to fucking help her.
He slumps down beside the broken bed and leans his back against the frame. He scoots a little so that he can rest his aching muscles and still keep an eye on her, which is when he notices the steady rise and fall of her chest.
She’s alive. She’s alive and she’s stable, even if she’s broken. It’s something Angel has in common with her, and he realizes with a pang in his chest that it’s that very notion that called Angel to action when it came to saving her. He couldn’t just leave her there. He couldn’t just let her die on the streets as punishment for saying “no” to the people in charge.
This girl had let that soul escape. Angel saw her do it. She had shown mercy in the midst of a massacre, she had fought back against the cruelty of the extermination and she had been punished for it. He couldn’t leave her there after that.
“You better not die, Toots,” Angel says softly. He leans curls an arm up against the frame to create a soft place to rest his face. He drifts off shortly after that; his body is exhausted from the rush of adrenaline and so much running. His eyes fall shut and he falls asleep to the sounds of souls being slaughtered outside of their hiding place.
The result is a restless sleep. He has dreams about death. He has dreams about his death, about closing his eyes in the warm bliss of ecstasy and waking up in Hell. He has dreams about his sister, a faceless girl he can no longer remember, and he sees visions of her dying again and again in a variety of ways. He sees the faces of the souls he’s known through the year who have been lost to extermination one way or another. And finally, he sees Val. In his dreams, Valentino is sprawled out on the pavement with his wings spread wide and an exorcist’s blade through his chest.
In death, Valentino looks almost human. Angel crawls over towards the place where he rests and he looks at Val’s lifeless eyes and he wonders how someone so ugly and small could have ever managed to have such a chokehold on him.
In Angel’s dreams, death surrounds him. It echoes like a disembodied voice crying out, and Angel presses his hands over his ears to drown it out.
He wakes to the sound of fading screams with a jolt, and finds the girl sitting up in bed. She’s looking through a crack in the boarded up windows and Angel sees the flames from the extermination reflected on her pale face in a soft orange glow. She has a pained expression that startles Angel to speechlessness, and he watches as a tear gathers in her one good eye before she blinks and lets it fall down her cheek.
What must it be like, he wonders, to see the aftermath of your own carnage from the other side of the sword? Angel wouldn’t know. For him, there has always been a clear line between the winners and the losers, between the luckless and the blessed. He’s never known what it feels like to be in power, to be lucky, to have the luxury of ignorance. It’s been a struggle for him from the day he was born, until the day he died, and every single second that’s come after it.
Still, he can’t help but feel sorry for her. In an instant, everything she’s known was ripped away from her by the people who are supposed to protect her. There is a terrible loneliness that comes with that kind of heartbreak, and Angel knows it well.
“Pretty horrible, ain’t it?” Angel asks, breaking the silence.
The girl startles with a soft gasp, like she’s only just now realized that she isn’t alone. Darkness has fallen on the pride ring, but with a dead phone Angel has no idea what time it is. He has no idea how many hours are left until the angels make their way back through the portal and leave the survivors to clean up their mess.
“...Yeah,” the girl says. She takes one last look through the crack in the window and then turns away, giving her full attention to Angel. “I’ve never seen it from this side before. The suffering, the pain it’s…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence but Angel nods because he knows what she means.
“Kinda thought angels were supposed to be the good guys,” Angel says, cracking a smile.
She doesn’t return it. Instead, she scowls and looks away. “They are,” she says. “They’re supposed to be.”
She doesn’t elaborate, and Angel doesn’t ask her to.
“How’s your eye?” he asks instead. She reaches up to touch her face and pulls back her hand to reveal a small amount of blood. It’s not fully healed yet, then. She’s gonna want to get that looked at when she can.
If she can? Are there any doctors in Hell with any idea how to treat angels? Probably fucking not, now that he thinks about it.
“It’ll heal,” the girl says. She’s quiet again for a moment, and Angel lets the silence sit between them uninterrupted.
In the quiet of the room, the distant sounds of terror fade in and out between the battle cries of exorcists and the chaos of emergency sirens. Angel wonders how many souls were taken this year. He wonders which overlords are going to come out on top, and which ones are going to have to plan new ways to get their chains around more people to regain their numbers.
“You saved me,” the girl says, after a while. Angel can’t help but laugh at that.
It’s not funny. Not really. At least, it’s not funny in a way he can explain. It’s just crazy that a few hours ago, he had been ready to die and now… Now he’s sitting in an abandoned crack house with a wounded exorcist, sober for the first time in years because the drugs have all faded from his system.
“Yeah,” Angel says in response. He shakes his head and moves so that he’s sitting with his back fully against the bed. “Guess I did do that, didn’t I?”
“Why?” she asks, and there’s something accusatory in her tone that just makes him laugh again.
Angel looks at her. “Why what? Why’d I save you?”
She nods.
“What, did you want me to just leave you there? You’d have been killed.” It’s a simple answer. For the first time in decades, Angel’s human instincts kicked in. He moved without thinking, compelled by some deeper force within him to do good for once.
“But I was sent here to kill you,” the girl stresses. “To kill your people. Doesn’t that make you hate me?”
Angel snorts. “The people of Hell ain’t ‘my people’, sweetheart. And there’s nobody I hate besides me.” Okay, maybe that isn’t true. “Well, almost nobody. But I ain’t got beef with you. I don’t even know you.”
“Then why did you save me?” she asks again.
Angel shrugs. He thinks that she’s looking for some kind of big, complex answer, but he can’t give her one. He doesn’t really know why he saved her, he just did.
“Do I gotta have an answer?” Angel asks.
She looks like she wants to say yes, like she wants to grab him by the shoulders and make him explain himself, but instead she just… sits there. Then, she sighs and says, “No, I guess you don’t.”
Angel sighs too, and then he stretches his upper arms up over his head and gets to his feet. He walks over towards one of the windows and peers outside at the dark streets below them. There are fires in the distance and the portal in the sky is still open, but Angel’s pretty sure that they’re almost at the end.
He leans against the wall and fully faces the girl now. In the dark, the gold of her blood glows like starlight.
“You got a name, Toots?” Angel asks, because if they’re going to be stuck together for the next few hours, they might as well get acquaintanced. “And you wanna tell me what the little show out there between you and them other assholes was all about?”
The girl holds his gaze for a minute, like she’s not sure if she should trust him or not. Angel doesn’t blame her; this is Hell, after all. But to his surprise, she closes her eye and pulls her knees to her chest.
“Vaggie,” she says, softly. “My name is Vaggie. And I have no idea where to even start.”
Chapter 13
AN: I’m so glad that *most* of you were happy to see our beloved fallen angel enter the story. To those of you who weren’t happy with it and felt like her entrance in the story was going to take away from the HuskerDust parts… I’ve decided on a compromise. I’ve still included a lot of the Vaggie stuff in this chapter that is important for the progression of this story as well as what you need to know for Angel’s development, but I will expand on her story in a separate Chaggie fic that will exist within the same universe as Call Your Bluff! Vaggie will still be in this story, but her plotlines will not interfere in any way that distracts from this fic’s main ship. I include a VERY abridged version of what I have planned for her in this chapter as she recounts it to Angel, but I will expand on all of the details in a separate fic. I know you have a lot of questions (does she get with Charlie? How will things be different now that it wasn’t Charlie who saved her? Will the hotel still happen!?) and all of those questions will be answered in this fic as well as the companion one!
And just for clarity's sake, you will not NEED to read the companion fic to understand what’s happening in this one, it will just enhance the reading experience. This fic still exists as its own contained story.
Enjoy! This was a fun one to write.
Vaggie’s story starts with a number.
That’s what all exorcists are given before they prove their worth and get gifted with a name. They’re given a number and weapon and they’re thrown into training like children being dropped into a pool and expected to learn to swim on survival instincts alone.
She remembers nothing of her human life. That’s part of the program, she’s told, the only way to guarantee true love, loyalty, and devotion. Any soul that opts into the exorcist program is stripped of their humanity and given power in exchange for ignorance. They tell her that it’s God’s way of reclaiming Eve’s folly in Eden, but Vaggie has always had a sneaking suspicion that it was Adam’s idea.
An entire army of female souls with no memory of the parts of them that made them human? Yeah. That fucked up idea was absolutely born from Adam’s mind. Years spent under his rule has shown Vaggie that underneath his false confidence is a bitter, lonely man who can’t let go of his own past.
Vaggie doesn’t remember why she chose this life for herself, but she’s told that she did.
She’s shown that she did, via an illegible signature on a golden contract. She has no memory of her human life or her Heavenly one. She has no memory of what Heaven was like for her before she became an exorcist. She has no memory of making the choice to sell her autonomy for power.
Sometimes, the implications behind that aspect of the deal make her wonder if it really counts as a choice if she doesn’t remember making it.
The only evidence she has that she was human once is the Spanish that sometimes rolls from her tongue when she’s speaking. It’s not usually a conscious effort on her part, it just happens. Spanish words come to her in moments when she’s feeling particularly emotional — when she’s angry, frustrated, happy. Spanish is as much a part of her as her limbs are; as the eyes in her skull are, the teeth in her mouth. She can’t remember how she knows it, she just does. It’s as if even with Heaven’s infinite power and wisdom, they couldn’t figure out how to scrub clean the part of her that knows the language. It’s like it’s written into her DNA; stained onto her skin like a tattoo.
She thinks that maybe, it’s this that makes her different from the others from the very beginning. It’s the Spanish language that feels so good, so natural in her mouth that separates her from the mindless blank slates of the other nameless exorcists. It’s a part of her humanity they could not take from her.
Vaggie’s number is 7013; ironic and maybe even a little funny, if she were allowed to find it funny. Humanity’s “lucky” number coupled alongside their “unlucky” one serves as Vaggie’s only identity for the first five years of her time as an exorcist.
The early years are easy. Vaggie is a natural-born fighter with a thirst for the battlefield. She performs at the top of all of her classes, and her devotion to the cause is absolute. She believes what she is taught: sinners in Hell are trying to rise up. If they succeed, Heaven’s way of life could be in jeopardy. This world that she lives in, all of these blessed souls that worked hard to earn their place on Saint Peter’s list, would suffer as a result if the exorcists should fail in snuffing out the flames of rebellion.
It is an honor to be a part of Adam’s army. It is an honor to be one of the soldiers upholding peace in their beautiful realm. Vaggie and her sisters have been given a mission by God himself through the voice of Adam, his precious son, his first son. Lucifer is The Enemy, and all souls who are belong to him are just as wicked and corrupt.
This is what Vaggie is taught, and she does not dare question it. There’s no need to — not when all of the proof she needs that Heaven’s way is the true way is staring her in the face every day. Heaven is good. Heaven is pure and clean and the souls here are deserving of their paradise. There’s no crime, no pain, no suffering. How could Heaven be such a wonderful place if it were not divinely chosen to be that way?
Vaggie fits into the exorcist mold like it was made for her. She excels in everything she does and then finally, she’s brought onto the team of exorcists who make the yearly journey to The Pit for the extermination.
She destroys one-hundred-and-fifteen souls on her first trip to Hell, and she enjoys it. The thrill of the hunt excites her, and the praise she gets from her friends, from Adam, feels good in a way that makes her want to go back for more. Blood coats her body from her boots to her shoulders but she wears the carnage proudly when she attends the post-extermination celebration. She can feel it soaking through her clothes and onto her skin when Adam pulls her up in front of the crowd to award her for her efforts.
“I think we all need to give a round of applause to our newest badass,” Adam says, wrapping an arm around her. He’s warm, and his smile seems genuine when he looks at her. “She absolutely slaughtered those sorry sons-a-bitches, and I think she set a new record for most kills on a first crusade. You guys should have seen the way the souls begged for their lives,” he stops to change his tone to a mocking one, “help me, oh please, no, spare me — hahaha, fuck, it was great.” He wipes a tear from his eye.
Vaggie feels like she’s on top of the world. Pride swells her heart to near-bursting and she beams when Adam tousles her hair.
“I think it goes without saying that she has totally earned her place in our ranks for the rest of, well, forever. Which is why I’ve chosen a name for her that I think is the perfect reward for all of her badassery today. I’ve named her after the greatest thing in the world,” Adam tightens his grip around her. “Give it up for Vag—”
*.*.*.*.*
“I’m sorry, he named you Vagina?” Angel asks, interrupting Vaggie’s story. “Like, your actual name is Vagina?”
Vaggie winces, and then she rolls her eyes. “My name is Vaggie,” she says, stressing the enunciation of the double g.
“But it’s short for Vagina,” Angel clarifies.
She sighs. “Yes,” she says, confirming. She does not sound happy about it, and Angel can’t say he blames her. “It’s short for Vagina.”
Angel whistles and leans back in the chair he’s sitting in. He snorts and shakes his head. “Damn, that’s rough.”
“Speaking of names,” Vaggie says, meeting Angel’s eyes. “You still haven’t told me yours.”
“Oh,” Angel says. He hadn’t realized that they hadn't been properly introduced. She started telling her story and he got lost in it before he had the chance to talk to her. “It’s Angel.”
She clicks her tongue. “Your real name.”
Angel stares at her.“Angel Dust?”
“Your parents named you Angel Dust?” she asks, incredulously.
“No, I named myself Angel Dust when I got down here,” Angel explains. “Haven’t you ever heard that you ain’t supposed to tell a demon your name? It gives them power over you. Not that you’re a demon or anything, but better safe than sorry.”
That was the first thing he learned when he got down here. There are only a handful of souls who know Angel’s true name, and he plans to keep it that way.
“Oh,” Vaggie says softly. He’s surprised that someone whose entire existence has been boiled down to being knowledgeable about Hell so that she could hunt down the souls of sinners could be so ignorant to the very basics of how things work down here.
“Yeah, Toots, welcome to Hell,” Angel says, gesturing around them. The screams have started to quiet, as Extermination Day reaches its climax. By some miracle, no one has disturbed them. He wonders if maybe Lute and the other angel told the rest of them to steer clear of the area so that Vaggie wouldn’t be discovered. They left her for dead, after all. They can’t exactly afford to have more angels see what they’ve done. “You better pick a new name while you’re down here if you wanna protect yourself.”
Vaggie considers this, and then says, “I don’t remember my human name. I don’t exactly plan on making friends while I’m down here, so I think I’ll stick with Vaggie. The pronunciation is the closest thing I have to a chosen name, anyway.”
“Fair enough,” Angel says, shrugging. And then — ”Wait, was that guy that was with Princess Crazy-Pants Adam? Like, the first man?”
Vaggie nods. “Yeah,” she tells him. “He’s the only male exorcist.”
Angel can’t help the uneasiness that bubbles up inside of him at that statement. Vaggie’s story is… eerily similar to Angel’s own story, just from a completely different angle. Angel was never devout; he never felt any sense of loyalty towards a people or to a place he called “home,” but he knows what it feels like to risk it all for the sake of the approval of some shithead that doesn’t deserve it.
Adam’s army is made of entirely female souls, all of whom have been forced into having their memories scrubbed in order to exist as loyal servants with no ability to question what they’re doing. It’s literal brainwashing, and it makes Angel angry. It makes him angry because it’s so fucking familiar.
In a way, Adam isn’t quite so different from Valentino. The way Vaggie talks about him, the way he had showered her in love and affection for her violence versus the way he had acted today when he saw Vaggie’s severed wings…
It’s exactly the kind of shit Val has done, time and time again. He loves Angel when things are good, but the moment Angel does anything that isn’t aligned with Val’s priorities, his entire personality changes. Fuck — maybe Angel was devout, after all. Maybe in a way, he had worshiped Valentino. Blinded by the need to be high, Angel had convinced himself that what he was doing, the way he was living as Val’s personal sex doll, was worth it if the reward was Val’s approval.
He never would have guessed that Heaven would have similar types of souls – ones who get off on using others, ones who shower people in love only to weaponize it later.
“He sounds like a dick,” Angel says, because it’s the only word that manages to make it from his brain to his mouth.
Vaggie shudders. “He’s a monster.”
Monster is not a word Angel ever thought he’d hear used to describe an angel in Heaven. It’s a word he’s used, many times, to describe souls he’s encountered in Hell. Maybe Heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“I don’t get it,” Angel says, after a minute. “In your story, you were little miss gold star badass demon slayer. You said you were proud to be on the front lines, slaughterin’ souls like they’re nothin’. But I saw you today. I saw you spare that kid. What changed?”
She looks away again.
“Everything.”
*.*.*.*.*
It happens during an extermination.
Vaggie smirks behind her mask when her spear manages to pierce through the flesh of two sinners at once, sending them to the ground in a crumpled heap. She wrenches her weapon free and kicks the corpses as an extra measure, staining her boot in blood.
The thrill of the hunt sends a chill that feels like an electric current down her spine and she places two slashes through the mental tally in her brain to track her two kills — fifty-four and counting.
She has a bet with Lute about which of them can cleanse the universe of the most filth during today’s event, and Vaggie hates losing so she needs to pick up the pace if she wants to win. Luckily for her, this day is only halfway over. Vaggie stretches her wings and rises into the air, surveying the streets for more vermin she can exterminate. The higher she rises, the more sinners she can see, scurrying through the streets and hiding behind dumpsters like rats.
Disgusting, she thinks to herself as she wrinkles her nose against the metallic stench of blood in the air. Filthy, dirty sinners.
Vaggie spots her next target a few feet away — the soul of what appears to be an elderly woman, hunched over with a cane. She scoffs and rolls her eyes for no one to see, annoyed that this soul would have the nerve to pretend to look so frail and helpless. It’s a manipulation tactic that demons use that really makes her blood boil. They mask themselves as children or the elderly in order to trick exorcists into thinking they deserve to be spared. They use deception to protect themselves, but the joke’s on them — Vaggie and the others have been trained not to fall for their lies.
Vaggie readies her spear. The woman moves as if she has a limp, which just works against her in the long run since Vaggie knows she’s faking it. If she wants to move more slowly and make herself an easier target, Vaggie isn’t going to stop her. With a battle cry that comes from deep in her gut, Vaggie descends upon the woman like a bullet from the sky.
She closes in quickly. The sinner notices her approaching from above and stops, putting two hands up as if that would be enough to stop the force of Vaggie’s blade from ending her miserable existence. Vaggie hears the sinner pleading and lets it fuel the fury burning within her; she tightens her grip on her spear, clenches her jaw and goes in for the kill—
A burst of colorful light in her face stops her in her tracks. Vaggie can’t see, and she’s thrown off course and falls to the ground, her spear clattering on the pavement beside her.
What was that? Her vision is spotty with bruised patches of dirty light obstructing her line of sight, a result of the firework that had exploded a foot away from her in the sky. Through the obstruction, Vaggie sees the blurry figure of someone dressed in red rushing over to help the elderly soul that Vaggie had been hunting, who had collapsed in terror.
“Ohmygosh,” says a voice. “Are you okay? Here, let me help you up. Give me your hand.”
The voice is not talking to Vaggie, but to the sinner.
They’re helping one another?
Rage burns in Vaggie’s chest as she pushes herself to her feet. She grabs her spear and with a frustrated cry, she rushes forward. She’s out to kill, she’s out to destroy, but just as her vision clears, the girl in red jumps in front of her in a savior’s pose, arms stretched out wide. Vaggie watches as the girl’s pretty features morph into something frightening; her eyes darken and horns grow from her skull beneath a head of wild blonde hair that fans out around her pale face. She growls and bares her fanged teeth and it’s enough to keep Vaggie from coming any closer.
Who the fuck is this? She’s not just a regular demon, Vaggie can tell just by looking at her.
“Back down,” the girl snarls, standing directly between Vaggie and her target. “Charlie Morningstar, the Princess of Hell commands you.”
Princess of Hell? This girl is Lucifer’s daughter?
Vaggie knows from training that they aren’t supposed to harm any Hellborn creatures, including those of Hell’s royal bloodline. Normally, Lucifer and his little nightmare of a family stay hidden away during exterminations. No one has ever seen them out before, let alone on the streets in the midst of all of the chaos and carnage. What is this girl doing here?
“You don’t command me,” Vaggie spits, glaring at her through her mask. “I don’t take orders from filth like you.”
“My father is an archangel,” Charlie says through gritted teeth. Flames burn in the dark of her eyes.
She’s right, of course. Lucifer was an archangel, back when he was still a denizen of Heaven. It is for this reason and this reason alone that the exorcists don’t slaughter him where he sits on his wretched throne. Killing the souls of sinners is one thing, but killing their own? That’s the ultimate taboo.
But this girl — she isn’t an archangel, she’s the child of one. She’s an abomination; the product of a demon and an angel and a shitstain of an existence between all three realms. Vaggie should kill her, and she would if she didn’t think that there would be consequences to pay for it later. She doesn’t want to be responsible for a war between Heaven and Hell, especially when the whole point of these exterminations is to quell the spirit of rebellion, not ignite it.
“Stand down,” the princess repeats. “Leave this soul alone.”
Vaggie scoffs. “What, are you some kind of hero?” She looks at the elderly woman, still sitting on the sidewalk watching them with fear in her eyes. “You can’t save them all.”
“But I can save this one,” Charlie says, gesturing behind her. “And others like her. She isn’t doing anything wrong, she isn’t hurting anyone! She just got stuck out here.”
Vaggie can’t believe what she’s hearing. Is Lucifer’s daughter really this naive? She’s acting like this soul — like any of the souls in Hell are innocent or worth saving. She’s acting like the woman behind her didn’t earn her place down here, like she doesn’t deserve to be destroyed.
“All sinners deserved to be punished,” Vaggie says. She lifts her spear again. “You need to stand down.”
Charlie makes a frustrated noise. “Do you really believe that?” she asks. “Do you really think that everyone in Hell deserves to have their lives cut short because of a population problem?”
Population problem? This isn’t about overpopulation. This is about Heaven’s duty to keep Hell in line, to stop the sinners from uprising.
“I’m doing my job,” Vaggie tells her through gritted teeth. She doesn’t have time to argue with this girl about something she clearly knows nothing about.
“Your job is slaughtering innocent people,” Charlie shouts.
“Innocent?” Vaggie scoffs. “Sinners aren’t—”
“LOOK AT HER!” Charlie takes a step to the side, clearing Vaggie’s line of sight and path of attack. The woman she was hunting has gotten up now and is steading herself on her cane. She has violet skin and black eyes, and she’s trembling. If Vaggie didn’t know better — if she hadn’t been trained on how to recognize deception, she would believe that this woman really is scared for her life. “Does she look like a threat to you? Do you think she’s going to hurt you? She’s just trying to survive on what little resources we have available. We ask Heaven for nothing. We mind our business and we go about our lives and you still come here, year after year, and you kill our people like it's fun!”
Vaggie feels frozen in place. She’s never…
She’s never thought about it like that before. When Charlie puts it that way, when she forces Vaggie to really look into the face of the woman she was about to murder, it all suddenly feels very different. The woman looks terrified. She’s made no attempt to fight back against Vaggie in any capacity, and now that Vaggie thinks about it, she can’t recall any soul ever trying to fight back.
Can they call what they do “quelling rebellion” when there is no rebellion to quell? What is mindless murder for the sake of a false cause, if not genocide? Have Vaggie’s people been participating in something so heinous all this time without even realizing it?
“I’m done sitting up in my tower watching this happen while I do nothing,” Charlie says, and Vaggie notices tears in the corners of her eyes. “If you want to kill this woman, you’re going to have to go through me.”
Vaggie lowers her spear. She’s thankful for the mask obstructing her face so that the princess cannot see how much turmoil she’s facing within herself as a result of her words. With just a few sentences, Charlie has disarmed her.
Sensing Vaggie’s reluctance in spite of not seeing her face, Charlie shifts away her demonic features. The girl beneath it all is pretty; soft eyes and a round face, with marble skin and red cheeks. She looks at Vaggie with a hard expression and then turns back towards the old woman.
“Come with me,” she says. “I’ll get you to safety.”
Without another word, Vaggie flaps her wings and ascends back into the sky. She retreats to the ledge of Pentagram City’s doomsday clock tower and she watches her sisters savagely tear apart souls for sport. There’s a pit in her stomach that makes her want to vomit but she doesn’t look away; she forces herself to see it, to take in the reality of their massacre for what it truly is — a senseless act of violence.
She doesn’t kill another soul that day. She can’t bring herself to do it, not after… Well. Not after the Princess of Hell personally stood between her and one of her victims.
Is there truth to what the princess said? Have they really been down here for nothing? Are these souls truly just trying to exist, instead of actively plotting against Heaven like Vaggie has been told? She has so many questions and so much fear blossoming inside her that she feels like she might explode.
Her whole life up until this point has been rooted in absolutes. She fights for Heaven, because Heaven is good and Heaven is just. She carries out the will of God and she does it proudly, because she knows that she’s making the universe a better place by ridding it of evil.
Or so she thought.
That day, as Vaggie waits out the extermination with a war raging inside of her and souls begging for their lives below her, she begins to wonder who the real bad guys are.
Doubt sets in, and Vaggie unknowingly begins to fall.
*.*.*.*.*
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Angel cuts in. He’s moved from the chair to the bed and is lounging on his stomach, sprawled out in front of where Vaggie is sitting. He sits up on his elbows and gapes at her. “You’re tellin’ me you met the Princess of Hell?”
“Yeah,” Vaggie says, nodding. “And she turned my whole world upside down. Up until that point, I thought that what I was doing was righteous. She made me question everything I knew.”
Angel can’t believe what he’s hearing. The Princess of Hell convinced an exorcist to throw down her blade and forsake Heaven? What kind of alternate reality are they living in? Did Angel get killed during the extermination and wake up in a parallel dimension?
“Aren’t you afraid she’s gonna come after you, now that you’re here?” Angel asks.
“She wouldn’t recognize me,” Vaggie explains. “I was wearing my mask when we spoke. I looked just like everyone else. But even if she did know who I was, I don’t think she would try to hurt me. She… didn’t seem like the type. She was kind.”
A faceless killer in the crowd. A princess with a heavy heart, tired of watching her people be killed. An unlikely meeting that changed everything. This story is sounding a little too fantastical to be true, and yet Angel believes every word of it.
Maybe he wouldn’t have, if he hadn’t seen Vaggie have her wings ripped off with his own eyes. This girl is a fighter, and Angel respects the fuck out of her. She was faced with a staggering reality and chose to confront it head-on instead of ignoring it.
Angel wishes he could be half as brave as she is. When he’s faced with any type of uncomfortable situation, he runs away. He avoids having to deal with his problems by pumping his body with drugs and fucking until his thighs are raw. He submits to peoples’ expectations and is complicit in contributing to a system that he knows is designed to keep him feeling miserable, and he never tries to fight back against it. Vaggie though…
She realized that she was being abused — that she was being lied to, and she said fuck you. It reminds Angel of Fizzarolli, and how he had said the same thing to Mammon. All around him, Angel watches as people fight back against The Man with all they have, and he feels useless that he can’t do the same.
How had they managed to find the strength? Weren’t they afraid? Didn’t fear consume them? Didn’t it suffocate them? Didn’t their tongues swell, and their lungs catch fire when they even thought about what would happen if they failed to follow through?
“How did you do it?” Angel asks. He’s surprised by the emotion in his own voice. He sounds more emotional than he means to, but he supposes that’s one of the downsides of being sober. It’s a lot harder to keep his walls up. “How’d you walk away from your comfortable life without a second thought?”
Vaggie pulls the ratty blanket from the bed over her knees. “What do you mean? You saw how I—”
“No, I mean,” Angel corrects. “How’d you find the strength? Weren’t you fuckin’ scared? Wouldn’t it have been easier to forget all about that dumb broad and go on believin’ that the life you knew was the truth?”
Vaggie exhales softly and shakes her head. “But it wasn’t the truth.”
“Well, yeah,” Angel says. “But you didn’t need to know that. You’re an angel, Sugar-Tits, isn’t ignorance towards the suffering of others kind of supposed to be your thing?”
She gives him a look, and he snorts.
“Angels are supposed to be good,” she tells him. “They’re supposed to maintain balance, and keep the peace. At least, that’s what we were told.”
Angel can’t help but laugh a little at that. He shakes his head in disbelief. “‘Keep the peace’, huh? By exterminatin’ human souls who got nothin’ to do with you? Man, they really did have you brainwashed.”
“Yeah,” Vaggie agrees. “But that answers your question. I didn’t ‘find the strength’ to do anything. I had no other choice. I was backed against a wall, and I could either submit to what they wanted and request another mind wipe to forget about what I knew, or I could fight back. Unfortunately for Adam, he did a stupidly good job of training me to always fight back.”
It was the same situation for Fizzarolli, Angel thinks. There was no other choice. Fizzarolli couldn’t keep letting Mammon break him into pieces and sell him like a toy. If he had, there wouldn’t be anything left of him. For Vaggie, if she had continued following orders blindly, she wouldn’t have been able to live with herself. Vaggie had to tell Adam to fuck off so that her life could keep progressing forward. So that she could stay true to who she is.
So why the fuck is Angel so reluctant to do the same? Why is it so hard for him to want to move forward?
Why does he love drugs more than he loves himself?
Angel has spent the past two decades feeling like every time he takes a step forward, the universe pushes him ten steps back. He hasn’t felt like trying to improve his life because he didn’t think there was any chance in saving the shitty fucking situation he’d gotten himself into. He’d resigned himself to a life of misery because for so many years he had convinced himself that it was what he deserved.
But this morning (holy shit, was it really only this morning that this all went down?) he finally felt what it is that Vaggie’s describing. He had been backed against a proverbial wall, and he had to make a decision. Angel decided that he wanted to live. He wanted to keep going and he wanted to use the time he had to make something of himself in a way that matters.
“What about you?” Vaggie says, interrupting Angel’s thoughts. He blinks at her.
“Me?” he asks, feeling a little silly. “What d’ya mean?”
She gestures at his everything, and says, “What were you doing out on the streets during Extermination Day? You don’t seem like a soul that just got here. I thought all of the older souls knew to stay hidden when the exorcists arrive.”
Angel’s surprised to hear that she knows that. He wonders how much intel Heaven has on the workings on Hell — on the ins and outs and intricacies of how their realm works. If they’re aware that the souls they’re exterminating are made up primarily of the recently departed, is there something intentional about that?
Angel shakes the thought from his head. He does not get paid enough to think about that shit. Heaven and their shitty war is Vaggie’s problem, not his.
Angel shrugs. “Boy trouble.”
This time, it’s Vaggie’s turn to snort a laugh. Angel looks up and catches her smiling for the first time. It’s just the slightest uptick of her lips, but it makes Angel feel better.
“A boy is the reason you were hiding behind a dumpster while there were exorcists flying around trying to kill you?” Vaggie’s smile wides a little.
Angel clicks his tongue and rolls over onto his back. He stares at the rotting ceiling. “Well, it was two boys — fuck, okay, technically it was three.”
Vaggie lifts her brow, indicating for him to go on. He sighs dramatically and kicks his legs out so that they hang over the edge of the bed.
“Two of them are assholes I shoulda never gotten involved with,” he explains. “And the other one… the other one is a good guy that I blew my shot with. He was too good for me, though, so I guess I did him a favor.”
Vaggie scoffs at him. “Are you seriously throwing yourself a pity party right now? After the story I just told you? If you want to make this a competition over which of us has the shittier situation, I’m pretty sure I’d win.”
An angel who had her wings ripped off by her friends and was left to rot in the fiery pits of Hell might actually give Angel a run for his money in a competition like that, so he declines. Instead he decides to tell her his story.
He doesn’t know why he does it — he doesn’t know why he trusts this total stranger like this with something so personal, but he does. He almost died today. Maybe, in a way, he did die. The version of himself that spent decades feeling sorry for himself is gone. He has to be gone, so that Angel can rise from his ashes and start things over.
So Angel tells her everything. He tells her about his first few years in Hell and how he’d spent most of his days too high to function. He tells her about his time working at the club downstairs, and how he knew about this apartment because it was the first place he’d ever given a blowjob to a guy in exchange for coke. He tells her about Val finding him in this shithole and how at first, Val had seemed like an angel sent to save him.
He tells her about how in the early days, Val made him feel like he could do anything. The sex was good, the drugs were good, they were good. Val used his money and power to lure Angel into his web of deception and then waited for the right moment to inject his venom.
Literally.
He tells Vaggie about Val’s toxin, and how the high was like nothing else Angel had ever experienced. He tells her about how his body quickly began to crave it, and how his bones would scream in pain if he didn’t get it. Val was calculated in his entrapment of Angel, and when he offered up a contract in exchange for an endless supply and a warm bed to sleep in, Angel signed it willingly.
Which is the thing, really — the worst part of this fucking personal hell that Angel is living is that he only has himself to blame. He signed the contract on his own free will. No one forced his hand. No one made him do it.
He chose to sign it.
Vaggie makes a face at him when he says that, but she doesn’t interrupt him. Her expression says that she gets it, and that realization is startling. She had said something about a contract being what got her enlisted as an exorcist to begin with, didn’t she?
Maybe they have even more in common than Angel initially thought.
He goes on to tell her about the years of abuse he faced at Val’s hands, but he makes sure to tell her that those years were sprinkled with occasional months of love and affection, too. The reason Angel put up with it for so long is because Val is exactly the type of guy that Angel should always be sure to steer clear of — he’s a narcissistic prick who views people as possessions and he knows how to make people feel amazing with the same tools he uses to make them feel miserable. When Angel was his favorite, when Angel was a good boy, Val rewarded him. But when Angel rebelled, when he tried to get clean or when he tried to find his own happiness outside of his relationship, Val would punish him. It was a constant state of push and pull, of passion and pain. It was a special kind of torture.
And then he tells her about Husk. About the contract exchange. About the casino, about the promotion, about the credit card with no limit. He tells her about the poker game with the Seven Sins, and he tells her about the kiss.
He tells her about how he came on too strong, and how he fucked it up because he doesn’t think he deserves someone like Husk. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and it doesn’t make him feel any better.
“I’ve been dead for a long time,” Angel tells her once his story reaches its ending. “I met a lotta guys who wanted me for somethin’ I had to give — money, sex, drugs — and I met even more guys that I wanted for the same reason. But in all that time, I never met no one like Husk. He saw me for more than what I am. I guess I wanted to believe in the person he saw — that I could be that guy. But I couldn’t.”
Vaggie is quiet for a while after that, but Angel doesn’t think she’s uncomfortable. She looks like she’s processing, like she’s taking in everything that he’s shared with her. He doesn’t expect her to respond, honestly. It’s not like they’re friends.
She doesn’t owe him anything. They’re just killing time while the extermination comes to an end outside.
But then, after a while, she says, “Well, there’s still time, isn’t there?”
Angel turns to look at her.
“Time for what?”
She shrugs. “Time to change.”
Angel supposes that she’s right about that. Maybe there are some benefits to eternity.
“Same goes for you, Toots,” Angel tells her in lieu of a thank you. “Maybe we can both change. Forever is a long time, after all.”
She smiles at that — a real, genuine smile.
“Like an Extermination Day resolution?” she asks. Angel laughs.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Why not?”
A moment of comfortable silence passes between them, and the sky outside lights up in a flash that indicates the activation of Heaven’s portal. The exorcists are returning home after their day of chaos and destruction. Vaggie lifts her head and peers out of the crevice between wooden boards, and in the silver glow streaming into the room from the portal, Angel can see the sadness on her face.
Her friends are returning home. Her sisters are returning home. Without Vaggie.
“You’re better off without them,” Angel tells her, but he can tell that they both know it’s just sentiment. She’s in Hell, after all, which is kind of the worst case scenario.
Vaggie’s voice is low when she speaks again. “I told Lute about my feelings of doubt. I should have realized she would follow me. I should have known that she’d try to stop me.”
Lute is the exorcist that tore Vaggie’s wings off. The one with the sword. The one with the thirst for blood.
“You told her? Why the fuck would you do that?” Angel asks. “I haven’t even met the chick and I can tell she’s ten different types of crazy.”
“She wasn’t always like that,” Vaggie says, and there’s a desperate sort of sadness to her voice. “Adam made her that way. Before he got into her head, she was my — we were —” Vaggie stops. She closes her eyes. “She was my friend.”
“She sold you out, Toots,” Angel says, pointing out the obvious. “She cut out your eye. Ain’t no friend of yours if she’s gonna do that.”
Vaggie sighs, a sad, lonely sound. “I know.”
In the timespan of just a few hours, Vaggie’s entire life has been taken from her. She’s lost her friends, her family, and her purpose. In a lot of ways, Angel feels the same. He feels like an angel who has lost his wings and needs to figure out how to fly without them. They both do.
“It’s Anthony, by the way,” Angel says, because he knows that the closing of the portal means that their time together is coming to an end.
Vaggie startles. She pulls her gaze from the window and meets his eyes. “What?”
“My name,” Angel explains, “my real name. It’s Anthony.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to tell people your name,” Vaggie teases, with a smirk.
“Yeah well,” Angel moves a little closer and nudges her leg gently. He smiles at her. “We just poured our hearts out to one another, so we ain’t exactly strangers no more, are we? I’m cool with my friends knowin’.”
Vaggie’s eye goes wide at the word ‘friend’, but her expression is soft. She looks like she wasn’t expecting to make a friend during her first day in Hell, but Angel supposes that makes two of them. This was not how he expected today to go at all, but he’s grateful that it did. He had prayed for the strength to be better, and those prayers had been answered.
Vaggie and Angel were supposed to meet. He just knows it. He can feel it in his soul.
The bell sounds outside, alerting all of Hell that Extermination Day is officially over, alerting Vaggie and Angel that their time together is reaching its end.
Their goodbye is unceremonious. It’s not like either of them have things to gather before they go other than Angel’s purse, or any reason to linger in this space any longer than they need to. They both just crawl from the comfort of the rickety bed and walk over to the door and stare at it, like maybe it’ll open up for them on its own and reveal the answers to all of their problems.
Angel wishes he had something to offer her. He wishes he could take her with him, but Val would have a field day with her if he saw her. He could take her back to The Jackpot, but he still has issues he needs to work out there before he could ever even think about asking if a friend could stay with him.
Still, it feels weird to just let her go without offering any way to help. So Angel opens his purse, inspects the contents, and takes the only thing that matters to him out of it before handing it over.
“Here,” Angel says when Vaggie just stares at him. “Take it.”
She doesn’t take it.
“What? No, I don’t want your purse—”
“It’s got cash in it, and a phone,” he tells her. “The phone is dead, but if you can get a charge on it, call Cherri Bomb in my contacts. She can help you get settled while you come up with a plan for how you’re gonna survive down here.”
She still doesn’t take it.
“But—”
Angel rolls his eyes. “I can buy a new phone, and I’ve got more money at home. There ain’t nothin’ in here that I’m gonna miss or that I can’t replace. You need this more than I do, sweetheart, trust me.”
Hesitantly, she reaches out to take the purse from him.
“You’re sure?”
Angel nods. “The only thing worth keepin’ in there was this,” he holds up the locket, “and I’ve got it right here. Everything else is all yours. I’d offer to take you with me, but you’re probably safer out on your own.”
Vaggie huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that boss of yours sounds like a scary guy.”
Angel corrects her, “Former boss. My current boss is actually pretty alright.”
“So you’re going to go back?” Vaggie asks and Angel nods. “To the guy who believed in you, or to the guy who hurt you?”
And that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?
“I’m goin’ back to the casino,” he tells her. “But first I gotta go end things with Val, once and for all.”
She nods in understanding. “You need back-up?”
Angel snorts. “Not from a one-eyed angel,” he jokes.
She shoves him. “Fuck you. I'm a great fighter.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Angel agrees. “But I know how to deal with Val. This is a battle I gotta fight on my own.”
“Yeah,” Vaggie says softly. “I get that. I’ll be rooting for you.”
They open the door, and the world is quiet. Clean-up crew has just started their work on removing the corpses from the streets, and Angel notices a few Carmine vans parked around the neighborhood to gather angelic steel. Vaggie spots her spear and runs down the stairs to grab it. She holds it tight to her chest and closes her eyes, like she’s relieved to still have a piece of her former life to remind her of where she came from.
She looks at Angel.
“Thank you,” she says.
Angel waves her off. “Thank me by stayin’ alive, okay? I’m serious about callin’ Cherri, she’ll help you, and she can get you back in contact with me if you need it. Don’t be a stranger, got it, Toots?”
She nods. Then, without another word, they take off in opposite directions. Vaggie heads out to find somewhere to get settled, and Angel heads back to V Tower.
Armed with a life-changing memory that will shape him forever and the support of an unlikely friend, Angel feels like he can do anything. Thunder cracks in the clouds above and rain begins to fall but Angel does not turn away. Instead, he turns his face towards the blood-red sky and lets the rain wash over him. He lets it soak through the dried blood all the way down to his bones, and he feels it cleanse the shame and the hate and the misery off of his body.
He’s sober for the first time in years, and even though he’s drenched and dirty and bloody by the time he stumbles through the doors of V tower that morning, he feels clean. Vox’s entire face glitches at the sight of him and Val gasps, surging forward to wrap Angel in his arms. He kisses Angel’s neck and mutters something about being worried about him but Angel —
Feels nothing.
He feels nothing for the overlord who once had such a hold over him. He feels nothing for the man who used him and abused him and fed his addictions with sex and drugs. There is no anger. There is no hatred, or red-hot fury burning inside of him. He just feels nothing. Valentino’s hold on his heart has finally been relieved, and that realization is so freeing that it knocks the air right out of his lungs. It hits him, all at once, that it’s over.
For real, this time.
Angel rides in the elevator with Val’s arms wrapped around him, back up to Val’s apartment. When they arrive, Angel excuses himself to take a shower. His heart is lodged in his throat and the temptation to get high is strong, but Angel resists. He needs to be sober for this.
He’s careful about how he does it. He goes into Val’s room while Val is busy watching the news about the extermination and packs his shit as quickly and quietly as he can. Fat Nuggets, smart as a fuckin’ whip, realizes what Angel is doing and goes into his carrier without being asked. If Angel is going to do this, the break needs to be clean. He can’t come back for anything.
He realizes that he has very little to pack. He arrived here with only one suitcase and Fat Nuggets, so it makes sense that he’d leave with the same. It’s not like he spent the last month doing anything other than wallowing in his own self-pity, after all.
Angel closes his eyes before he heads out into Val’s living room and tries to ground himself. This doesn’t feel real. He doesn’t feel real. He feels like he’s watching himself from somewhere very far away, like he’s not in his own body.
It’s been decades of Valentino. Decades of abuse. Decades of pain and heartache. Is it wrong that Angel feels a little pull of hesitation when he thinks about what it will mean to leave? Is it wrong that he aches, just a little, for there to have been any other way? He’s already mourned the end of his love Valentino. But this? The end of their life together, the end of their potential to fix things? It feels heavier, somehow.
By leaving, Angel is closing that door forever. But… this is how it has to be.
Angel takes a deep breath and steps out into the hallway. His legs carry him towards the living room and he forces himself to stand up straight when he comes to a stop behind the couch.
“Val,” Angel says, and he’s shocked at how emotionless he sounds.
Val doesn’t turn around. He just says, “Yes, Amorcito? What is it? Daddy’s busy watching the news.”
Angel closes his eyes. “I’m leaving.”
“Uh, okay?” Val says. “You don’t need to tell me every time you leave the apartment, babe. Can you pick up some lube while you’re out?”
Angel shakes his head. Fuck.
He can do this.
“No, Val, I’m leaving. I’m leaving you. For good.” Angel opens his eyes in time to see Val’s posture shift. His back is still facing Angel and there’s something extremely terrifying about not being able to see his facial expression.
“What did you just say?” Val asks, and his tone is mortifyingly clipped.
Angel thinks about Vaggie and how she had found the strength to rebel against Heaven in order to maintain her sense of self. He thinks about Fizzarolli and the fireworks in the sky as he flipped off Mammon on live television.
He can do this.
“I said I’m leavin’,” Angel repeats. “I can’t do this anymore, Val. I’m done.”
Slowly, Valentino rises to his feet. He doesn’t look at Angel until he’s walked the length of he apartment and come to a stop directly in front of him. Then, he bends down and puts his face close to Angel’s — so close that Angel can smell the sour, bitterness of Val’s breath.
“One more time, Amorcito,” Val whispers. It makes Angel’s hair stand on end. “I don’t think I heard you.”
Angel stands his ground. He forces himself to meet Val’s eyes. “I’m breaking up with you, Val.”
Val’s response is expected, but it doesn’t mean it hurts any less. With one fluid motion, he backhands Angel hard across the face and sends him to the floor. Angel spits the blood that pools in his mouth onto the floor, and tries to get up but Val beats him to it and kicks him hard in the middle, sending him back down.
“Fuck,” Angel grunts. From his carrier, Fat Nuggets squeals in concern.
“You think you can break up with me?” Valentino shouts. “Who do you think you are?”
Angel pushes himself into a sitting position. His ribs hurt. “Yes,” Angel says. “I’m breaking up with you. I’m done being played with like I’m some fucking toy. I’m done being used in your stupid game with Vox. I’m done being treated like shit.”
Val laughs, and the sound sends a shiver down Angel’s spine.
“Oh you think you have it bad?” Val says. “You’ve been living like a fucking prince, off of my successes for years! You have no idea how the real world works. Where are you going to go? Back to that sorry excuse for an overlord, Husker? That’s hilarious.”
Angel gets to his feet. His body aches; from exhaustion, from Val’s abuse, from everything, but he still gets up.
“It’s none of your business where I’m going,” Angel tells him. “You don’t own me anymore.”
“You need me,” Val says, and Angel can see his resolve starting to crack as he realizes that Angel is being serious. “You can’t survive out there without me. Without my drugs. Without my dick.”
Angel can’t help but snort at that, but it makes Val even angrier. In a fury, Val raises his hand to strike him again but Angel stops him. Angel grabs Val’s wrist with strength that surprises even him, and he holds him back.
“No, Val,” Angel corrects him. “You need me. You always have. I was just too fucked up to see it.”
Val tries to pull his arm away, but Angel holds him tight. With the script flipped, Angel backs Val against the nearest wall.
“Your movies are shit. Your scripts are garbage. The only reason anyone watches the steaming piles of flaming horse shit you call porn is because they want to see me. I’m the star, not you. Without me, you’re nothing but a talentless dumbass who can’t even keep his primary boyfriend from cheating on him when you’re in an open relationship.” Angel’s blood is pumping so loudly, he can barely hear himself think. He can’t believe he said that.
Fuck, he can’t believe he said that.
Going for the kill with the Vox comment was a low blow, but Angel has wanted to say all of this for fucking years. It’s coming out faster than he can control it. Years of anger and resentment form themselves into words that Angel wields as weapons, striking Val down.
“You little—”
“I loved you, Val,” Angel growls. “I loved you. But you — you can’t love anything other than yourself. You used me. And I’m fucking done being used.”
Angel lets him go, and to his surprise, Val doesn’t hit him. Instead, Val stands there like a deer in headlights just staring at Angel like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Angel has nothing left to say to him.
He marches over to his bags, grabs them, and heads for the front door.
He’s almost free, but Val’s voices stops him before he can go.
“You’ll regret this,” Val says. His voice is low and angry.
Angel doesn’t turn to look at him. He just opens the door and leaves, slamming it shut behind him.
Val doesn’t follow him.
When he gets into the lobby, Vox is sitting on one of the leather couches. He often does work in the lobby on the day after extermination, because it’s the biggest day of the year for new recruits. Souls who lost everything — who lost everyone, come to the Vees looking for purpose. Vox is more than happy to give it to them in exchange for their servitude.
“I’m leaving,” Angel tells Vox. He doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t need to, he doesn’t owe that bastard anything, but it feels like a necessary step in ending things for good. He needs to close the book — he needs wrap up all of the loose ends, leave no stone unturned, and all of the other cliches that come along with that shit.
Vox tries to pretend like he doesn’t care. He lifts a brow in mild amusement but he doesn’t look up from the tablet he’s scrolling on.
“You’ll be back,” Vox says. “You always come back. You’re like a fucking cockroach I can’t get rid of.”
Angel clenches his fists and tightens his grip on his suitcase. “No,” he says. “For good this time. I’m done. I’m done with Val, I’m done with you, I’m done being a part of whatever fucking game you guys are playing. He’s yours again — you can fuckin’ have him.”
That seems to be enough to get Vox’s attention. He looks up and clicks off the screen of his tablet before setting it facedown in his lap. He doesn’t say anything at first, he just stares at Angel with a neutral expression that slowly darkens the longer their eyes meet.
Then, he sighs and presses two of his fingers to his forehead, like what Angel’s saying is giving him a migraine.
“He’s never going to let you go,” Vox says. “You know that, right?”
Angel swallows. He does know that. He knows that there’s a very real possibility that Val might kill him for this, but he has to do it anyway. He’s done being afraid. Fear has dominated his life for too long, and he has to let it go.
He has to be strong. Like FIzzarolli. Like Vaggie. Like the person Husk and Cherri want him to be.
“It doesn’t matter,” Angel grumbles, looking away. It’s true, after all. It doesn’t matter. Angel’s mind is made up.
Vox is quiet for a moment, like he’s waiting to see what Angel is going to do next. Then, after what feels like an eternity under his judgemental gaze, Vox sighs and picks his tablet back up.
“Your funeral,” he says, breezily. He goes back to scrolling.
And that’s that. Angel gathers up his suitcase and Fat Nuggets’ carrier, and he leaves. There’s a finality to it that feels almost cosmic; like it’s supposed to happen, like Angel’s story was always meant to get to this point. He leaves V tower on his own accord; no more contracts, no more obligations, no more stupid fucking feelings to tether him here. He’s finally free.
Angel’s finally ready to spread his wings.
When he goes outside, the rain has cleared. The storm has washed away the blood and snuffed out the fires. Evidence of yesterday’s massacre has all but vanished in the blink of an eye, but Angel doesn’t think that any amount of rain could wash away the impact it had on him.
He steps out into the sunlight and feels the warmth on his face, and he feels brand new. With a heavy heart and a list of apologies he has to make, of changes he needs to stick to, Angel hails a cab towards The Jackpot Casino.
Chapter 14
Angel takes a deep breath in front of Husker’s closed office door. He’s spent a long time running away from his problems, so he isn’t very well-versed in confronting them head-on. But he’s turning over a new leaf this time and he knows that if he wants this to be real, he needs to put the work in.
Starting with getting his job back.
Angel knocks and his chest feels tight when he hears the velvety smooth vibrato of Husker’s voice tell him, “Come in.”
His instincts are to turn and run. For most of his life, his defense response to bad feelings has been to flee. Angel started running the moment he could walk, and he never stopped. He ran from his problems when he was alive. He ran from them when he died; he ran to Val and from him, back and forth in an endless cycle. He ran from Husker once, but this time…
This time he wants to stop running.
He can do this. He has to do this. He turns the knob and pushes the door open.
The sight before him gives Angel deja vu of the first time he had stood in this doorway, all that time ago. Husker sits at his desk, just as he had back then, with a cigar in his mouth and a crease between his brows as he clicks away at something on his computer. He doesn’t initially look over at Angel, but when he does, his mouth opens and the cigar falls from his mouth onto the desk.
“Heya, boss,” Angel says, sheepishly. “Mind if I come in?”
Husker hisses a curse under his breath as he cleans up his fallen cigar and snuffs it out. He seems more flustered than Angel had anticipated, and it’s kind of cute.
“Have a seat,” Husker says, gesturing towards the chairs in front of his desk. Angel obeys, closing the door behind him as he takes a seat in one of the leather chairs.
Silence falls over them, but it's not uncomfortable. Husker is giving Angel the chance to talk first, he realizes, and as much as he wishes that there was some way they could just forget about this whole thing and move on, he knows that he has to apologize.
The path to forgiveness can only start in one place.
“I’m sorry,” Angel says, simply. The moment the words leave his mouth he feels lighter, like the fear alone was holding him back. “For — for everything. I’m sorry I pushed myself onto you like that, I’m sorry I disappeared without tellin’ you when I’d be back, I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you asked me to stay—”
“You don’t gotta be sorry, kid,” Husker interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m the one who—”
“You’re right,” Angel says, feeling confident enough in this conversation not to let Husker talk over him. “You should be sorry, but that don’t mean that I ain’t sorry too. I’m a mess. I — I don’t like admittin’ that out loud, but I know I’m a mess. You trusted me with a job and I blew it because I didn’t feel like I deserved to be doin’ good when there’s still so much that’s fucked up inside of me. So I’m sorry, alright?”
Husker snorts a laugh that makes Angel glare at him. He’s trying to have an emotional moment here and this asshole’s laughing?
“Shit,” Husker says, when he sees Angel’s expression. He waves a hand defensively. “Sorry, I’m not laughin’ at you or nothin’, it’s just…” He shakes his head. “You think you’re the only one here who’s fucked up on the inside?”
Angel blinks.
“Uh,” he says, feeling a little dumb. What’s this guy getting at? “No?”
Husk sighs and stands up. He walks over to the wooden wardrobe in his office where Angel knows he keeps his liquor. He pulls out the glass decanter filled with amber liquid and two familiar glasses that he fills, handing one to Angel. Then he sits in the chair beside Angel, and suddenly, with the barrier of his heavy, wooden desk no longer between them, this conversation feels way more intimate.
Angel takes a hefty sip from his glass to distract himself from how anxious their closer proximity to one another makes him feel.
“This is Hell, kid. You’ve been here longer than me, you should know better than anyone that we’re all dealin’ with shit we couldn’t leave behind up there.” Husker points a clawed finger upwards and takes a sip of his drink. “That’s why we’re down here. My soul is trapped in the body of an unintimidating cat-sphinx abomination, I’ve still got the same gambling addiction that got me killed in life and thrown to the cayotes in the fucking Nevada deserts, and I can’t go more than an hour without alcohol in my system or I feel like my head will explode, and you think you’ve got problems?”
Angel smiles a little at that. Yeah, maybe it should be common sense that everyone is fucked up in their own ways, but Angel’s never let himself think too hard about it. The truth is, Angel hasn’t given much thought at all to the other souls in Hell because it feels like if he ever were too, the weight of all of the suffering would be too much for him to handle. But maybe there’s value in accepting that everyone is going through something on the inside. Angel isn’t special because he’s miserable.
“Point is,” Husker presses on. “I don’t give a flying fuck about your past. I don’t care that you were an addict, or that you’ve got a shitty ex, or that you’ve fucked half of the guys in Hell. I don’t care about that shit because at the end of the day, you’re still the same fuckin’ genius that figured out a Hell god’s poker tell and swindled hundreds of dollars out of dozens of sorry souls with your charms alone.”
The praise is a little overwhelming. Angel finishes off his drink and then spins the empty glass in his hands. He wasn’t expecting to be forgiven so quickly. He wasn’t expecting Husker to open up like this, so easily. He doesn’t know what to do.
“You’re a loser, kid,” Husker says, after a beat of silence.
That manages to get Angel to react. He scoffs, and meets Husk’s eyes with a glare.
“What?” he says, insulted.
“You’re a loser,” Husk repeats with a shrug. “But so is every other sorry lowlife in this shithole. So am I.”
Angel hasn’t ever thought about it like that. Yeah, he’s fucking miserable, but so many other souls are in the exact same boat. It’s why he connected with Cherri. She was born more than 60 years after him, but the pain deep down inside of them was the exact same. It didn’t matter the generation or the circumstances; they were twin flames, suffering from the same agony of existing. Maybe Husker’s pain is the same too, and Angel just didn’t realize it before now.
Maybe that’s what drew him to Husker in the first place. Maybe all along, Angel knew that there was something bigger pulling them together. The appeal of Val was that he was so different. Val spent very little time wallowing in self pity — he took his eternal sentence and made it his own. He made Hell his bitch, and Angel envied that. Val never seemed to feel any guilt or shame about the things he did, which made it very easy for Angel to be around him. Being with Val let Angel forget about his own suffering and pain because Val never talked about his own. Thinking about it now, Angel is sure that Val probably does have his own kind of pain deep, deep down inside, but Angel’s never been close enough to see it.
Three decades on Val’s arm, in Val’s bed, and Angel never even came close to really knowing him.
There’s a bitter sort of sadness that settles in Angel’s stomach at the realization. But then again — did Val ever really know Angel? Did they ever know each other at all, or were they both just using one another as distractions from their own pain and suffering? Angel wonders if Vox knows Val, if maybe Vox is the one person in Hell who understands him and that’s why they’re always coming back to each other despite the toxicity. Angel has suspected for a long time that Vox and Val are each other’s punishments for whatever either of them did in life to end up in Hell. The “love” (if you can call it that) that the two of them have for one another is as addictive and deadly as Val’s poison, and it keeps them constantly in orbit of each other whether they like it or not.
There was a time when Angel truly believed that he and Val had something real. There was a time when he thought that Valentino was the one bright light in this dark fucking pit, but he had been wrong. Angel was never anything more than a toy for Val to play with; a weapon for him to use against Vox when he wanted to inflict pain.
Angel is so fucking done being used.
“A loser, huh?” Angel says with a smirk. “Guess that’s not so bad, so long as I ain’t the only one.”
Husker smiles back at him and the sight warms Angel’s entire body.
Angel lets a beat of silence pass, and then he asks, “So does this mean I can have my job back?”
“Depends,” Husker says, finishing the rest of his drink and shrugging. “You plannin’ to go back to that motherfucker again if things feel like they’re too much?”
“No,” Angel says quickly. It feels good to say it out loud. It feels good to mean it. “It’s over between Val and me. I ended things this time.” Husker’s expression implies that he doesn’t understand the significance of that detail. He doesn’t know how big of a deal it was for Angel to be the one to talk away; for Angel to be the one to finally say no. “Usually it’s — uh. It hasn’t ever been me, before. There’s no goin’ back once you close that door on Valentino.”
If that isn’t the fucking understatement of the century. Vox’s parting words have haunted Angel in the hours following his departure from V Tower, but he’s tried not to let them hold him back from making progress in spite of the weight they hold. Valentino is never going to let Angel go; not without a bigger fight. Angel knows that. He knows that it’s only a matter of time before Val does something to try and get him back, but he just needs to focus on making sure he’s strong enough to fight back when that time comes.
Valentino doesn’t like it when his pets are disobedient.
Angel swallows. “You don’t gotta worry about me goin’ back to him. It’s over.”
Husker hums in acknowledgement and then he refills his glass.
“And what about the drugs?” Husker asks. “I know I said I don’t care about your vices, Christ knows I’ve got a few of my own,” he holds up his newly filled glass and takes a sip for added emphasis, “but when I saw you on Extermination Day you were barely standing on your own. If you’re gonna work with me, I can’t have you gettin’ high like that. It’s bad for business.”
Angel isn’t proud of how much he’d given in to his addictions during his time away. He was in pain and he numbed it the only way he knew how. He knows he went overboard, but he didn’t know how else to cope with the rejection he had felt from leaving The Jackpot. That’s on him — he needs to find better coping mechanisms, he knows that.
He’s working on it.
“I’m getting that under control,” Angel answers honestly. “It ain’t gonna be easy, but I’ve done it before. I don’t wanna be like this anymore. I’m tired of feelin’ like I’m not in control of my own body.”
Again, it feels so fucking good to say out loud. Drugs have been his true worst enemy since before he even knew Val’s soul existed. If he really wants to be free from Val — from guys like Val, Angel first needs to be free of drugs. It’s just easier said than done.
Because, really, as bad as Valentino is, he isn’t Angel’s problem. Angel could point fingers all he wants, he could tell himself that he’d be better off if Valentino fucking died somehow, but in reality he knows that he’d be kidding himself. There were so many times during their relationship where Angel would wish and wish and fucking wish for some kind of miracle to happen wherein the Vees were all killed as a result of some exorcist ambush, but if he really thinks about it, he knows that such an event wouldn’t have really helped him. Val isn’t Angel’s problem, he’s a symptom of it.
If Val had died during their time together, Angel would have just found another piece of shit just like him. He’d have been woo’d by the money and the power and the drugs and he’d have found himself right back in the same fucking toxic cycle all over again. Angel’s problem isn’t Valentino — it’s addiction.
Finally admitting that to himself comes with a sad kind of relief.
Husker raises his glass. “Is it ironic if I ask to drink to that?”
Angel stares at him.
Instead of offering Angel sympathy or sadness, Husker chooses to meet Angel where he is. He treats Angel like the human he once was, and Angel’s heart feels like it might actually start beating again.
Husker knows how fucked up Angel is. He’s fucked up, too.
“Fuck,” Angel says. His throat feels tight, but he raises his glass. “Thanks.”
Their glasses clink together and the sound feels like the signal for an ending and a beginning. Maybe this time, things really will be different.
“No need to thank me,” Husker says, taking another heavy sip that drains half of his glass. “We’re losers, baby. Havin’ someone to drink with while squeezin’ pennies outta suckers is a leg up for my quality of life too.”
Angel finishes his drink in one swallow. It burns a little on the way down, but it feels good. He finds himself pleasantly tipsy, and thinks that it should be enough of a high to hold him over for the night.
Angel parts ways with Husker feeling lighter than air. Their meeting went better than he ever could have hoped, and he can’t help but feel like it’s the universe’s way of rewarding him for finally taking charge of his own autonomy. When he gets into the elevator, the sight of his own reflection doesn’t upset him the way it had before.
He looks at his features — his mismatched eyes, his gangly fingers, his warped and strangely proportioned figure, and he doesn’t feel disgusted by what he sees. More importantly, he doesn’t hate the person he sees inside of that body. He finally feels like he’s starting to grow into himself, like maybe he can see the beauty that everyone else has always managed to see in his demonic form. He’s starting to feel like he’s worth being worth something.
Fat Nuggets greets Angel when he gets to his room. Angel had dropped him off when he first got back, before he made the trek downstairs to beg for forgiveness and his old job back. Angel reaches down to scratch behind the ears of his old friend and is rewarded with a few happy snorts as he shuts the door behind him.
“I think this time might really be different, Fat Nuggets,” Angel says, scooping Fat Nuggets up and flopping onto his bed with his pet in his arms. Fat Nuggets makes no attempt to escape, choosing instead to snuggle up close to Angel’s face. It’s almost like he knows, somehow, that Angel actually believes it this time.
Chapter 15
AN: Yes — I have seen the tiktok where someone dropped my link in the comments! Thank you guys for recommending this fic to others, I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming response this story has gotten. The comments have been so kind and wonderful. I feel so lucky to have such amazing readers!
Also…..I have no idea how card games work guys I watched a bunch of Youtube videos so if this chapter offends any card game fans because of how much I accidentally got wrong…. shhh…..
Angel’s first two weeks back at the Jackpot Casino go better than he could have ever hoped they would. He feels brand new; like he’s been born again and given a second chance. The silence from the Vees is eerie and menacing, but Angel does his best to pay it no mind. He has a sickening feeling that he hasn’t seen the last of Valentino, but he can’t do anything about a feeling when nothing has actually happened yet.
If Val has tried calling Angel the way he usually does when they break up, Angel doesn’t know. He gave his old phone to Vaggie, and there are only a handful of people who have his new number. It feels weird to be cut off so completely from the Vees — weird that they can’t contact him if if they want to, weird that he hasn’t had to deal with Val’s hot and cold love bombing, weird that the ever-present storm cloud that is Valentino is no longer looming over him with everything he does.
It’s freeing in the same way that it’s absolutely terrifying.
Angel called Cherri on his new phone to give her his new number and to get an update on whether or not Vaggie made it to her safely, and what he got was a scathing earful of concern on his behalf.
“You went back to Val, and you didn’t fucking tell me, ya cunt?” Cherri had shouted, her voice shrill through the receiver. “I have to find out from some random bitch who calls me on your phone telling me you gave it to her? I was ready to stab her when she walked into the club. I thought she was holding you in some undisclosed location against your will!”
“Cherri, I’m sorry I—”
“And then she gives me some wild story about how you had saved her life after you got locked outside during Extermination Day? Angie, why the fuck didn’t you call me? You could have crashed with me and the girls, you know Trixie would have taken you in! Instead, some sheila with a missing eye who I’ve never seen in my life just walks into the club and tells me that you went back to the Vees? The Vees, Angie?”
Angel had sighed and smiled to himself. Her concern showed how much she loves him, and Angel is always thankful for that.
“I’m sorry,” is all he could say in response. “I didn’t want you to judge me.”
She had snorted at that. “Judge you?” she said. “Angie, I’d have fuckin’ killed you if you hadn’t already been trying to do that yourself! You’re lucky to still be alive. You’re lucky an exorcist didn’t get to you.”
Angel was able to discern from that statement that Vaggie is likely choosing to keep her true identity a secret. A smart move on her part. Little does Cherri realize that an exorcist did in fact get to him, just not in the way she’s implying.
“I know,” Angel told her. “I know, okay? I’m an idiot. I fucked up. But I’m doin’ better now, okay?”
She made a sound on the other line that gave Angel the distinct impression that she didn’t believe him.
“Enough about me, though, how’s Vaggie?”
“Who?”
“The girl I gave my phone to,” Angel said. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
“Oh,” Cherri had said, audibly deflating. “She’s fine. She’s cool. Trixie said she can crash here for a while, but if she wants to stay she’s gonna have to dance. Don’t think she liked that very much, but she’s got a few days to figure out a plan. You know Trixie, she’s not just gonna throw a girl onto the street without a fighting chance. Especially not one that comes with your seal of approval.”
Angel was relieved to hear that. Trixie, the madame who owns the strip club where Angel used to dance, is a reliable soul. She watches out for her own, and she and Angel have a good relationship. Knowing that Vaggie is safe gave him peace of mind.
A few days later, Cherri texted Angel to tell him that Vaggie had decided to leave the club. She left behind the phone that Angel gave her and a note thanking them for their kindness and then she was just… gone. Cherri said she didn’t know where she went, and Angel tried not to let himself be too upset over it.
Vaggie has to find her own way. Just like Angel. However she does that is up to her. He just wonders if their paths will ever cross again, or if they were only meant to be winds in each others’ sails, changing their respective courses forever and then vanishing.
Angel hopes that they’ll meet again.
He chooses not to pick his phone back up. The temptation to see if Val has been trying to contact him is too strong, and he’s also pretty sure that Vox can track that number, so it’s better to just cut his losses. The numbers in that phone are remnants of his old life — clients and drug dealers who only want to use Angel just as much as he wants to use them. He’s trying to go straight now (he snorts every time he says it, because there’s nothing straight about him otherwise) and if he’s serious about this, he knows that it means leaving his old life behind completely.
The only person Angel holds onto is Cherri, but she’s different. She’s family. You can take the Italian New York twink out of his “family comes first” mobster family, but you can’t take the “family comes first” mobster family out of the Italian New York twink.
Or something like that.
Look — it makes sense in his head, okay? Point is, Cherri helped Angel when he was at his lowest, and that means something. Loyalty means something to Angel. In Hell, people will call you their “friend” and then sell you out for a line of cocaine without even blinking. Finding a real friend, someone you can truly count on to have your back, is rare. So Angel can’t just… leave her behind.
Honestly, his real intention is to bring her with him, once he finally gets on his feet. He can’t help her yet — he can’t help her until he helps himself — but he wants to. If he can get clean, if he can take himself off the streets, if he can learn to like the person he sees staring back at him in the mirror, then so can she.
He just needs to prove to himself that he can do it first.
So Angel does what he knows best: he throws himself into his work. Husker suggests that Angel start back up on the casino floor while he sorts himself out, and he agrees that it’s the best place for him. He still takes a tablespoon of Love Potion by Velvette every morning with his coffee and every night before bed, but he manages to stay off of crack and cocaine for two entire weeks which feels like progress. The only soul he tells about his feat is Fat Nuggets, who awards him with a happy snort and a head bump. He doesn’t want to tell anyone else. Not yet. Not until he makes it at least a month without the stuff in his veins. But…
He’s doing it.
He’s keeping himself accountable, and he’s staying off of drugs (for the most part.) He still drinks heavily and hits his THC vape when he needs to feel something, but it’s a huge improvement from the way he was living at V Tower. Angel doesn’t know who he is sober, but he wants to.
It’s just really fucking scary when he hasn’t been sober in… Fuck, he can’t even remember. He’s been sober in the sense that he’s had the high wear off plenty of times, but he doesn’t think there has been a single moment in Hell where drugs haven’t been in bloodstream. They’ve been his primary means of self-medicating against the fucking disaster of mental health problems he inherited from his shitshow of a mom and dad. They didn’t exactly have a word for whatever the fuck Angel had going on in his head in the 1930’s or 40’s.
Letting go of cocaine has been the hardest part of his recovery. It’s fucked up, but in a way, Angel feels like he’s lost a friend.
When his dad caught him in bed with a guy for the first time and beat the shit out of both of them before throwing Angel onto the street, cocaine was there to numb the pain. When his first boyfriend got murdered in a senseless act of violence and Angel had to lie to the police about the nature of their relationship to protect himself, cocaine helped him forget about the emptiness in his chest. When he got to Hell, when he met Valentino, when Val — well, when Val was Val, cocaine helped him escape from all of the bad feelings and into something good.
So the thought of not having that safety net is a little scary. But his dependence on the stuff to self-treat the issues he’s been ignoring for his entire existence is even scarier, so he knows he has to do this.
Cocaine was the only thing that was there for him when he was alive and miserable, and it’s been there for him even after his death. It’s what killed him — well, sort of. His drugs were laced, so technically it was the opiods that put him in the coma, but the opioids wouldn’t have been in his system in the first place if he hadn’t decided to snort his entire bag that night. But even in spite of that, it’s been sort of a comfort to him all these years.
Working at the casino helps. He has nightly drinks with Husker after his shifts, and things have been pleasant between them. It’s like nothing happened, and Angel thinks that there are things about that that are both good and bad. On one hand, it’s nice not to have to deal with the guilt. Val was a grudge holder who loved to remind Angel every time he fucked up or made any sort of mistake, but Husker has more of a “shit happens” attitude when it comes to Angel’s wrongdoings. It makes Angel feel on edge, because he keeps expecting that attitude to change, but it doesn’t. Husker really is just a shrug-it-off-your-shoulders kind of guy. On the other hand, acting like nothing happened between them means pretending that nothing happened between them. As in, the kiss that they shared seems lost in the limbo that ignoring the elephant in the room seems to have created.
Angel is torn between wanting to bring it up and wanting to leave it floating in the negative space between them. There’s a part of him that knows it’s too soon for anything to happen, and that same part of him also knows that he shouldn’t rush into something new with someone when he just got out of an abusive situation with an ex. But the other part of him is absolutely starved for the affection that he never got from Val that he knows he could get from Husk. The other part of him feels like he’s been living a nightmare for the last couple of decades, and now he’s finally awake. He wants to rush head-first into the rest of forever with someone new, someone kind, someone hot.
He’s horny and lonely and processing the loss of Val, and he would do absolutely anything for a cock to sit on that would solve all of his problems. If he can’t have coke, he at least needs to be able to fuck out his frustrations. It just sucks because Husker seems completely indifferent to Angel’s charms and utterly uninterested in hooking up with him in a casual way.
They kissed once, and it was amazing. Angel just doesn’t know how to get them back to that place.
So instead, he finds himself stumbling around the uneven floor of their relationship, feeling like a fucking lovesick teenager. Their interactions consist of stolen glances and flushed cheeks; mumbled compliments and casual brushes of their bodies in small spaces. The formality of this weird fucking courting ritual they’re participating in is making Angel nervous, and he isn’t used to feeling that way when it comes to the pursuit of intimacy.
He’s fucking Angel Dust, for Christ’s sake. This is supposed to be easy for him.
He’s supposed to bat his eyelashes and stick out his tits and get the attention he’s looking for without breaking a sweat. He’s supposed to be able to snap his fingers and have any guy he wants begging to get between his legs.
Instead, he has a grumpy gambler rolling his eyes at Angel’s innuendos and flirtations.
Angel has no idea how to get a read on what the guy wants! He laughs at Angel’s jokes, but seems completely impervious to Angel’s attempts at wooing him. Angel has been making a genuine effort at being friends with the guy, something he’s never done with a guy he’s interested in before, but nothing seems to be working.
Are they doomed to be stuck in this “will they/won’t they” soap opera of a relationship for the rest of eternity? Angel is pulling his fucking hair out with impatience waiting for an answer that might never come.
To be fair — it has only been two weeks. But two weeks when you’re in the process of detoxing drugs from your body feels like two hundred weeks, and Angel just wants some kind of reward for how hard he’s been working on being better.
It takes everything he has in him not to fuck the clients he flirts with for work. It would be so easy for Angel to give in and just fuck some stranger to make himself feel better, but he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to be a whore anymore, regardless of how much he loves and desperately misses having sex. If he starts fucking clients, he opens the door for others clients to expect him to put out. Then, he’ll be right back where he started.
Besides, Angel doesn’t want to fuck just anyone. He wants to fuck Husker. He’s wanted to fuck Husker literally every day since he got back to the casino but with every further passing day, Angel wonders if maybe that ship has already sailed.
Which is why when Husker approaches him later that week to ask for his help with another one of his underground poker games, Angel has no idea what he should expect. The last time they did this, Angel fucking killed it at his job, but he also managed to fuck things up between the two of them in a way that still feels irreparable.
Angel’s been doing a great job on the casino floor, but if Husk is trusting him enough to be his right hand during a big shot game again, it must mean that he’s noticing Angel’s hard work, right?
The game is between a gathering of Hell’s royal demons; a group of avian creatures that call themselves the Goetia. Angel’s seen a few of them around at some of the Vees more elite events and he hasn’t ever been a fan of their pompous attitudes towards other lifeforms. Sinners share Hell with plenty of other creatures that were born here and are just trying to make the most out of the situations they were given, and most of the time Angel gets along with them but these guys…
Ugh. These guys suck.
Angel dons a cute little red bodycon dress for the occasion and tries his best to look elegant rather than slutty. If he knows anything about the Goetia demons, it’s that they tend to stick up their noses at Hell’s regular displays of sexual deviancy. They act like they’re above it, like they specifically are excluded from Hell’s debauchery despite having been spawned from the fiery pits just like the rest of the Hellborn. If Angel wants to have any chance at being useful for Husker at this game, he needs to reconstruct his image.
Luckily for the both of them, Angel is a very skilled performer. Masking as someone with an upper class upbringing isn’t difficult for him, and he slides into the role very easily. Angel can tell that Husker is impressed when he manages to make one of the bird bastards laugh at a joke, and he catches Husk glancing at him throughout the night over the rim of his drink.
“They key towards winning these guys over,” Husker tells him, as the very last of their guests arrive, “is to make them think that you’re inferior to them. The dumber they think we are, the more they’ll underestimate us.”
“Don’t think it’s going to be too hard to convince them that we’re inferior,” Angel says, taking a martini from the bartender. He holds it to his lips and savors the smooth spice of the gin on his tongue. “They already look at us like we’re cockroaches.”
Husk nods. “Exactly. We just need to keep it going. Think you can play dumb?”
Angel snorts. “That a joke?”
Husker smirks at him. It was definitely a joke.
Of course Angel can play dumb. Slutty, stupid bimbo is kind of his whole schtick. Classy, slutty, stupid bimbo is just a tiny step above that. Piece of cake.
The night goes exactly how Angel expects it to. Wooing the Goetia is worlds easier than wooing The Sins ever was, and by the time their guests leave, Husk and Angel have managed to clean out all of their pockets. All they had to do was let the birds squabble about their interpersonal dramas and try to one-up each other at every turn in the conversation and use that to their advantage. Like The Sins, it isn’t about winning for demons with that kind of wealth and political pull — it’s about showing off. Angel and Husk just used that to their advantage and cashed in on it.
When the last of the Goetia leaves, Angel and Husk stay behind in the empty room to clean up. One of the Goetia had an unexpectedly violent reaction towards seeing an imp in the poker room and demanded that he be replaced lest she rip him to pieces, so Angel and Husk took turns running the bar for the rest of the night. It was a lot of work, but in the end it all paid off. Angel finishes the evening feeling good about himself, feeling good about his abilities, and feeling like with a little hard work, anything is possible.
Angel finishes cleaning the last of the empty glasses off of the bar and spots Husker cleaning up the poker table. The chips have all been put neatly back into the organized briefcase from whence they came, and Husk is collecting the cards and putting them back into a neatly structured deck.
Angel pours himself a poorly-made dirty martini and barely bothers with mixing it before he waltzes over to the poker table and takes a seat beside Husker, kicking his feet up on another empty chair and grabbing two stray cards that Husk hasn’t managed to collect yet.
“Teach me how’ta play,” Angel says, feeling drunk and giddy. The liquor in his system is boosting his confidence and numbing the usual sting of anxiety that comes with interacting with Husker on such a personal level. With the cloudy haze of Wrathian whiskey in his bloodstream, Angel forgets about the delicate tightrope on which the two of them walk. “I wanna challenge the fancy-pants card demon.”
Husker snorts a laugh and smirks, cheeks flushed, probably from all the whiskey he drank tonight but maybe from something else.
“What do you wanna learn?” Husker asks, picking up the deck of cards and shuffling it absently between his hands.
Angel leans over the table, watching as Husker effortlessly folds the cards together. He hands the two random cards back to Husker, who folds them into the deck. “I dunno. Is there any games you can play between two people?”
Husker nods. “Sure,” he says, fanning the cards together dramatically. He makes a show out of shuffling, splitting the deck easily and washing the cards together like a professional. “You ever play Blackjack?”
Angel shakes his head. “No,” he says, eyes on the cards. Wait, is the way Husker shuffles cards… sexy, somehow? “Least not since I've been dead.”
How the fuck does this guy manage to make something as mundane as shuffling playing cards look so hot?
“We’ll start there,” Husker says, finishing his shuffle with a loud clapping of the cards. He pulls two cards from the top of the deck and places them in front of Angel, both face up. One card is the King of hearts and the other is the five of spades. He then sets two cards in front of himself, but one of them is face down. The one that’s face up is the ace of diamonds.
“In Blackjack, everyone plays against the dealer,” Husker explains. “In this case, the dealer will be me. In most cases in my casino, the dealer will be me. I don’t trust others not to rig the odds in their favor.”
Angel remembers what Husker had said, way back when he first asked Angel to be his gambling partner.
“Right, cuz cheatin’ takes the fun out of it,” Angel says, nodding at the memory. “You like playin’ with Lady Luck’s finicky ass mood.”
Husker laughs at that, a low, sexy sound. “She hasn’t let me down yet.”
Angel rolls his eyes. It must be nice to be so confident that the fates won’t leave you to the wolves to get torn apart. Angel’s tangoed with luck enough times to know that the risks far out way the rewards. “Well ain’t you just God’s favorite?”
Husk gives him a look. “I did end up in Hell, didn’t I? Don’t think God has much to do with my winning streak, kid. I told you, it’s all about readin’ people. When you know your opponent, you can pick up on their attempts to fool you. Everyone is a puzzle, it’s my job to solve it.”
Angel meets his eyes. His tongue suddenly feels heavy in his mouth but he manages not to stutter when he asks, “And what about me? Have ya solved my puzzle?”
It’s a genuine flirtation, one that Husk can take or leave. Angel has realized that courting Husker is a lot like fishing: he casts a line with bait and waits to see if Husker bites. It requires the kind of patience that Angel has never been very good at, but the challenge is enough to keep him interested in trying.
Husk glances at Angel and his eyes flick up and down Angel’s form in a way that makes him feel exposed. “I’m workin’ on it,” Husk purrs, and it sends a shiver down Angel’s spine.
Angel takes a minute to react to that because for a second there, he had forgotten that they were in the middle of playing a game.
“All card values are as the numbers say,” Husk explains. “Except for the royals. The King, Queen, and Jack have a value of ten. The goal of the game is to end with a hand larger than that of the dealer without exceeding twenty-one.”
Okay, that’s easy enough to remember.
“What about the ace?” Angel asks. “What’s she worth?”
Husk smirks, like Angel asked the right question. “The ace is worth eleven, unless that number will push your hand over the twenty-one limit. Then, its value is one.”
“Oooooh,” Angel coos playfully. “So she’s special.”
“If you’re smart about it, an ace can win you the game,” Husk says. “Now that you have your cards, you can either ask me to hit you,” Angel makes a playful “uhn” sound to that which Husk ignores, “which means I’ll give you another card, or you can stay if you’re feeling confident about the value of your cards.”
“But I don’t know what your other card is,” Angel says. “How do I know what I need to beat you?”
“That’s the risk,” Husk explains. “You want to try to be as close to twenty-one as possible before I reveal my hand. When I do, if you have the higher card value, you win. If I have the higher value, I win.”
Angel thinks he gets it. The game seems relatively easy.
“So in this case,” Husker continues, “Your cards are at a fifteen. So you’d ask me to hit you—”
“Oooo, hit me baby,” Angel whines, as obnoxiously as he can.
“You’d usually do it silently,” Husk says, rolling his eyes.
Angel pouts. “Aw, where’s the fun in that?”
Husk ignores him and flips a card from the top of the deck over onto Angel’s cards. It’s the five of diamonds. “This brings your value to twenty,” Husk tells him. “So you’d want to stay.”
Angel stares at the cards. “But what if I want to shoot for that twenty-one?”
“You’re already at nineteen,” Husker explains, patiently. “If you get anything higher than an ace, you’re gonna lose. Since there are only four aces in the deck and one of them is face up in front of the dealer, risking that would be stupid.”
“And this is fun for you?” he asks.
Husk shrugs. “There’s a little bit more to it, and usually you’re playin’ with money, but we’re both a little drunk and it doesn’t matter if you’re just startin’ out. We can have fun with it.”
Fun is exactly what Angel has been missing.
“What are the stakes?” Angel lowers his voice, makes it sound sexy. He bats his lashes. “Loser has to take his clothes off?”
Husk scoffs and rolls his eyes. “There’s no risk in that,” Husk tells him. “You’d take your clothes off with or without winning.”
It’s true, and it makes Angel laugh.
“Okay, mister boss man. How about this,” Angel says, leveling Husk with a look. “If you win, I owe you one favor. It can be whatever you want it to be — no strings attached.”
Husk tilts his head to the side, considering Angel’s proposal. “And if you win?”
“Same thing,” Angel says, winking. “You owe me a favor, no strings attached.”
Husk laughs and shakes his head. “You’re fuckin’ crazy, kid, you know that? No other soul in Hell would challenge the Gambling Demon to a game of Blackjack where the stakes are a ‘no strings attached’ favor. Are you outta your mind?”
Angel smirks at him. “You scared you’re gonna lose?”
That does the trick. Husker may do a very good job at protecting himself against being known, but Angel knows that no soul with a gambling addiction so bad that they’ve made it their entire schtick is going to back down from a challenge, especially if Angel goads him.
“You know what?” Husker says, looking down at his two cards. “You’re on.”
Angel knows that they’re only playing around, but with stakes added to their little game it’s suddenly much more fun. Angel’s two cards currently total a value of twenty. There’s a very good chance that he’s already won this game without even trying, but there’s only one real way to be sure that he wins, and that’s to risk Husk hitting him with an ace.
If he gets it, he wins no matter what. If the card has any other value, Angel will bust automatically. It’s a huge risk, but Angel is feeling weirdly lucky.
“What’s it gonna be?” Husker asks.
Angel goes for it. “Hit me,” he says.
Husk snorts. “You’re really gonna let me win, just like that?”
It’s Angel’s turn to roll his eyes. “Just hit me, asshole.”
Husk pulls a card from the top of the deck and places it face up onto Angel’s pile. It’s the ace of hearts. Angel makes a victorious noise and Husker whistles.
“Well I’ll be goddamned,” Husker says, sitting back to look at the cards. He flips over his face down card and it’s the Jack of cloves, putting Husker at a twenty. If Angel had stayed, it would have been a draw and Husker would have won. Angel has won the game on risk alone.
“Wow,” Angel says, laughing and kicking his feet. “I can’t believe I beat the Gambling Demon in my first game of cards. I’ll get you a bag so’s you can hide your face in shame.”
Husk waves him off and gets up to pour himself another drink at the bar, and Angel follows him. He leans against the bar beside Husk and watches him fill his crystal glass with that familiar amber liquor, and he wonders if it tastes the same on Husk’s tongue as it does on its own. He’s feeling comfortable and still a little tipsy and he’s still buzzing from the win, so maybe that’s why he’s confident enough to say, “So, about that favor.”
Husk smiles, eyes closed, and turns to face Angel with one elbow propped up on the bar. When he opens his eyes to look at Angel, there’s something there that Angel might almost mistake for desire under any other circumstance.
It’s not fair that Husk is still so hard to read. It’s why Angel still has no idea where they stand when it comes to their feelings for one another. It feels like a lifetime ago that they were here, in this room, desperately clinging to one another as they kissed for the first time. Angel had misread that situation, he knows that now, and he doesn’t want to make the same mistake again.
“Cashin’ in already?” Husk says, taking a sip.
Angel shrugs. “Depends.”
“On what?”
Angel’s throat feels tight when he says, “On if I can cash it in for a kiss.”
Husk stares at him, and little by little, Angel sees his resolve start to slip. That perfect poker face flickers away once again, revealing the nervous mean underneath. He bites his lower lip but he doesn’t turn Angel down. He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s mulling it over, and then he says, “You bein’ serious?”
Angel tries to keep up the confident act, even though he knows that he’s playing a risky game. It’s almost as if they’re still playing Blackjack; toeing that line between blind trust in fate and strategic bluff. Angel has to make his next move carefully. He has to decide how far he wants to push this, how close to that winning number he wants to climb without going over with a busted hand.
But just like before, Angel has a good feeling about this. He has no way of knowing what the card on the top of Husk’s deck is going to turn out to be, but has to risk it for the chance at a perfect play. He isn’t used to Lady Luck playing for his side of things, but maybe she feels like rewarding him for all of the work he’s been putting in on fixing himself lately.
So Angel leans in, just a little bit closer. He leans in so that their faces are nearly touching, so that he can clearly see the flush of Husk’s cheeks.
“You tell me,” Angel breathes. He can smell the spicy scent of liquor on Husk’s breath. This close, he can practically feel the heat radiating off of his body. “Am I bluffing, Husky?”
Husk lets out a shaky breath that sends a chill down Angel’s spine. Time seems to slow around them, and everything in the room — every teeny, tiny particle in the air, stands completely still. Angel’s chest is tight and his brain feels like it might explode out of his skull as things between the two of them rumble like a drum roll heading into a crescendo.
Angel thought that he knew what it felt like to fall in love. When he fell for Valentino, it had been fast and scary; all flash-fire heat that clogged his throat and tried to suffocate him. It had been like being plunged headfirst into a boiling lake and trying desperately to swim to the surface without knowing which way was up. Angel kicked his feet and chose a direction but no matter how hard he swam, he could never break the surface. Loving Valentino was like opening his eyes underwater and trying to see through the pitch blackness.
Loving Valentino was like drowning on dry land.
Falling for Husk (because that’s what’s happening, Angel realizes with terrifying clarity) is much different from that. Like everything else Husk does, falling in love with him is sultry and slow. He doesn’t grab at Angel with clawed hands like their mutual attraction somehow gives him permission to touch Angel where he wants. Instead, his touches are soft and gentle. His hands hesitate over Angel’s arms and he lifts an eyebrow as if asking “Is this okay? Can I touch you here?” and Angel has to swallow the lump in his throat when he nods, giving consent that he’s never been asked for before.
Angel realizes that this is what stopped them the last time they were here, in this exact place, lost in the magnetic pull of one another’s eyes — they were speaking different languages. Angel had been so fast to assume that what Husk wanted was him on his knees, obedient, sexy, pliant. He assumed that Husk was just like every other man Angel had ever encountered: greedy, hungry, selfish. Maybe Angel had been doing a “porn star act” as Husk had called it, but he had been doing it without even realizing it.
For so many years, giving himself up to others had just been his auto-setting. Angel gave himself consent because no one else ever asked for it. Angel gave himself permission to be touched, to be beaten, to be used like a toy for the men he fucked to play with. His layers of disassociation went so deep, he didn’t even know where they stopped.
With Husk, though, Angel doesn’t have to disassociate. Husk’s hands touch Angel’s body and Angel feels like his knees might give out. His hands are on Angel’s hips for Christ’s sake, not even anywhere sensitive or sexual, just his fucking hips, but they feel so good that Angel feels high from the contact.
“Fuck,” Angel breathes, feeling a little dizzy. He meets Husk’s eyes and melts under the heat of his stare. The drum roll is louder, deafening in his ears, and Angel doesn’t know what to fucking do.
He doesn’t want to screw this up again. He doesn’t want to rush into things and kiss his boss and risk being rejected again. He’s done a lot of work since that last time — he cut ties with Val, he stopped using cocaine, he’s actually tried to be better for once in his fucking life — but he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough yet to take another rejection.
Not from Husk.
But the force between them is too strong. Angel’s caught in a fucking riptide and he can’t get out of it. He wants Husk, more than he’s wanted anything in a very long time, and from the look on Husk’s face, he wants Angel just the same.
So when Husk lifts himself up on his toes to make himself just a little taller, Angel leans in to meet him halfway. When their lips touch, everything is different.
It isn’t like last time. There’s no urgency to it. Angel doesn’t feel like he has to pretend to want this any more than he already does, and it makes such a difference in the way he approaches things. Angel can’t remember the last time he kissed someone for real. He thinks that there was a porno a while back where Val wrote a sensual plotline and Angel had to pretend to be a happy newlywed and that maybe that was the last time he took his time with kissing someone, but even that had been an act. This is… different.
Angel lets his eyes flutter closed and he leans into the feeling of Husk’s mouth on his. He opens himself up in invitation and Husk slips his tongue in, and Angel loses himself in the intimacy of it. They move against one another in sync, like two halves of a whole, and with his eyes closed, it feels like they’re connected. Husk tastes like smoke and spice and liquor, and it’s so hot that Angel could cry. He deepens the kiss, eager for more, desperate to taste every part of the man who believed in Angel’s ability to be more than he thought he could be.
When the fuck did Angel become someone capable of feeling this way? How long ago had he lost his ability to love without even realizing it, and when had it managed to find its way back to him?
Husk presses his body against Angel’s and Angel feels the hard shape of Husk’s cock on his thigh. It’s tempting — fuck, it’s so tempting to sink down to his knees and ask if Husk wants him to take care of it — but he doesn’t. His instincts tell him that sexual validation is the only way for Angel to truly show Husk how much this means to him, but he resists them because he knows that this isn’t how their story goes.
Their story isn’t explosive; it’s not oil and fire and fleeting flames. It’s slow and warm and worth the wait.
Still, Angel can’t resist Husk entirely. Not when his cock feels so good against his thigh. So Angel presses his thigh up and creates friction, rewarding him a stuttered gasp from the other man. Angel smirks against the following sloppy kiss because Husk is just so fucking cute when he’s flustered.
Husk doesn’t pull away the way Angel thought that he might. Instead, he presses in even closer, chasing the friction and kisses him again. Feeling ballsy, Angel shifts their position, moving backwards blindly towards one of the bar stools. He sits down, opening up his legs and pulling Husker in between them without once breaking their kiss. He feels slightly out of practice at being the one to take the lead, but he doesn’t mind it. He can exude top energy when he wants to.
Husk responds to Angel’s confident movements with the same energy, falling into place where he’s pulled and moving to press their cocks together. They’re dry-humping, kissing and nipping at one another while they fuck through their clothes like a couple of teenagers. Angel would probably feel silly if it weren’t so insanely hot. The layers of fabric separating their bodies makes Angel feel even more desperate than he would if they were naked. There’s a special kind of heat that comes with this kind of touching that Angel had long forgotten; a desire that pools like warm honey in his belly and makes his cock twitch.
He doesn’t think he could cum like this, but it still feels good all the same. There’s something nice about being intimate without chasing an orgasm. They’re kissing and touching and gasping and groaning but it has nothing to do with needing to cum, and everything to do with wanting to be near each other, with wanting to explore the ways in which they respond to the other’s touches.
Husk’s hands move position: one of them comes up to hold Angel tenderly behind his head and the other moves to find a resting place in the small of Angel’s back. Even his hands feel sweet when they touch him, and Angel wants to fucking scream. How — how does this man manage to be so terrifyingly intimidating and tooth-rottingly sweet at the same time? It’s not fucking fair.
Then, Husk moves to bite at the base of Angel’s neck and Angel lets out a noise that sounds like the sort of moan he always tries to emulate when he’s on camera, except it’s authentic. His neck is sensitive, and his body responds without him even having to think about it. He thrusts his hips forward, desperate for relief, and stars decorate the black space behind his closed eyes.
Fuck, okay, maybe he can cum from this? Unless Husk is interested in taking this further. He could fuck Angel right now on this bar stool and Angel would have no problem with it, but if their last interaction taught Angel anything it’s that Husk ain’t interested in getting it on with Angel in that kind of way. He doesn’t want to bend Angel over and just fucking take him, even if Angel wants him to. Not yet at least.
Ugh, the guy is probably a “take our time” kind of fuck, and that thought entices Angel just as much as it infuriates him. Angel has a hard time with waiting. He’s never been very good at not getting what he wants exactly when he wants it, but maybe this is yet another way that Husker is good for him.
Maybe Husker is worth the wait.
So Angel does something that he didn’t know he was even capable of doing: he pulls away. He breaks the kiss and comes up for air and lets the steadying breaths clear the fog in his head.
“Whoa,” Angel says, blinking. He meets Husk’s eyes and finds them dark and hungry, and it sends a shiver of excitement through him. “When you make good on your word, you make good.”
Husk’s expression doesn’t change. “This doesn’t count as your favor,” he says, voice low.
Angel’s breath catches. “What?”
Husk reaches out and brushes the edge of Angel’s bottom lip with his thumb, dark eyes glued to Angel’s face like he’s seeing something beautiful for the first time. “I kissed you because I wanted to, not because of some bet we made. Hold onto your win and ask me for somethin’ else later.”
Angel’s heart swells and he feels like he might cry from the sentimentality of it all. All he’s ever known is how to give to people who want nothing more than to take from him. He’s spent most of his existence thinking that all souls were rotten from the start, that everyone capable of loving him had to be fucked in the head to even consider him a prospect. Husker takes everything that Angel thought to be true and he he throws it out the fucking window.
Husker is not interested in taking from Angel, and Angel is still trying to figure out why that is. It’s not like Angel wouldn’t give him absolutely everything if he asked for it. He’s given so much more to guys who are so much less, but maybe that’s exactly why Angel feels so perplexed. Husk could take if he wanted to, but chooses instead to give.
He’s given Angel patience and kindness. He’s given Angel second chances without holding a grudge or trying to punish him for his mistakes. He’s given Angel more than Angel can ever repay him.
So Angel thinks he can at least give Husk a little bit of patience when it comes to how things between them progress.
“So then what you’re sayin’ is,” Angel starts, lowering his voice to a delicate purr. He uses one of his upper hands to scritch a spot behind one of Husker’s ears and absolutely revels in the way the overlord melts into the touch. “You like kissin’ me? Are we people who kiss now?”
Husk huffs a laugh. “I guess we are,” he says, and Angel doesn’t know why that response catches him off guard. “If that’s what you want.”
Again with the putting Angel’s wants and needs first. “Oh, I want,” Angel replies. “I definitely want. Do you want?”
Husk grabs Angel’s wrist and pulls his hand around to press a kiss to his knuckles. The gentle feeling makes Angel’s thighs shake. Oh. Oh, that’s good.
“I want,” Husker confirms. “But I gotta warn you that it’s been a while since I’ve… Well. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything with anyone. You ain’t the only one with baggage, kid. There’s a reason I’ve spent most of my eternity in isolation. I’m not great at this, and I need time. Can we take things slow?”
“I ain’t ever done slow,” Angel tells him. It’s true — slow hasn’t ever been something Angel’s known how to do. Things with Val happened so fast that Angel barely realized what was happening before it was too late. Angel’s entire existence has been rushing into things, chasing highs, and beating the clock. But now… Maybe Angel can afford to let the slow churn of eternity age him a little bit. Maybe he can afford to try “slow” for once. “But I’ll try anything once.” Angel winks. “I think slow could be good for me.”
Husk’s face is soft and he presses another kiss to Angel’s knuckles. “Then I think we should end here tonight.”
Angel knows that it’s the right choice, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it. He whines and pulls Husk closer with his lower arms. “Can I at least get a goodnight kiss?”
“Spoiled,” is all Husk says before he goes in for another kiss. It’s slow and messy and good, and Angel savors every second of it.
When they part ways for the evening, the spicy taste of liquor from Husk’s kiss follows Angel to his room.
Chapter 16
It turns out that “taking it slow” is a lot harder than it sounds. Angel knew that it would be hard for him, but he never expected that it would be like this.
Angel’s sexual history is colorful and crowded, but nothing about it has ever been “slow” until now. Angel lost his virginity when he was sixteen years old to the closeted captain of his high school’s basketball team. That experience had been thrilling and messy; fast-paced hands exploring unfamiliar bodies, hushed breaths in the quiet confines of the janitor’s closet in which they carried out their secret rendezvous, hidden from prying eyes. It set the tone for how Angel wanted it every time after that — sex was something taboo and forbidden, a temptation that had to be sated whenever the desire showed its face. He fucked fast and he fucked hard and he rarely ever made it past the first date before spreading legs to show whichever Prince Charming he was trying to win over why he was worth it.
Angel had been gifted with a body that refused to quit in both life and death, and he’s used it to his advantage as best he could. He knows he’s sexy and it’s the one leg up he’s had over the other suckers in Hell. Rejection isn’t a feeling he’s used to.
Not that Husk is rejecting him. God, no, it’s quite the opposite actually. Every night for the next week following that kiss in Husk’s underground poker room, the two of them have snuck off during their working hours to ravage one another in secret corners of the casino. It’s been a lot of making out and groping; dry-humping and frottage through their clothing with no release, just tension. It’s driving Angel absolutely fucking insane.
He doesn’t know how many more heavy-petting sessions he can make it through before he loses his mind. Stumbling back into his bedroom with a hard-on and jerking off to the memory of Husk’s tongue in his mouth was fun the first few times — it was exciting even, the anticipation and the promise of something more — but Angel really doesn’t think he can take much more of this. His hands are not enough to get him off when he’s this horny. Husk is too hot for Angel not to want to suck his dick, and the waiting is killing him.
He knows that it’s not a rejection, but it still sort of feels like one. For most of Angel’s life, sex has been a form of social currency. If people wanted to fuck him, it meant that he had value. If a guy he was interested in wanted to fuck him, even better. So Husk’s reluctance to get Angel into bed has been making Angel feel antsy at the very least and has given him awful blue balls at the very worst.
Even now, as Husk pulls him away into one of the secluded employee corridors at the casino after Angel has just finished swindling over a grand from some sorry sucker out on the floor, Angel feels desperate. Husk’s hands are firm where they press Angel into the wall and his lips are hard in that sexy, manly way that Angel likes. He smells like cigar smoke and liquor and he’s wearing a pinstripe suit that Angel wants to tear off of him.
“Oh, fuck,” Angel breathes, feeling high from their kiss. Their height difference makes things a little tricky for them when they’re standing up, and Angel is impatient so he wastes no time in swapping their positions; lifting Husk off of his feet to pin him to the wall.
Husk goes willingly, letting out a low, sexy moan as Angel holds him up with his lower arms and cards the hands of the upper ones through Husk’s hair. Having multiple sets of arms comes in handy in moments like these, and Angel is thankful once again for the body he was given in death. With the arms he has supporting Husk’s weight, he takes the opportunity to cup his partner’s ass. Husk sucks in a breath at the contact but makes no attempt to complain about it, an observation that Angel files away for later.
Husk likes having his ass touched. Who knew?
While Angel prefers bottoming, one does not hold a steady career in porn for as long as he has without sampling all of the buffet. He’s tried a little bit of everything and has a pretty clear picture of what he likes and what he doesn’t, so the prospect of being able to try some of that out with Husk is extremely appealing.
Husk wraps his legs around Angel’s waist and thrusts his hips a little, making Angel painfully aware of how hard they both are. God, this is torture. He growls and bites down hard on Husk’s lower lip, which just makes Husk rock his hips in response.
He feels like a teenager. He’s dizzy from the kiss, high off of the euphoric thrill of fucking through their clothes, but he needs release. He wants release to come at Husk’s hands, but beggars can’t be choosers.
And then Husk slips his hand under the hem of Angel’s tight-fitting crop top and his hand brushes Angel’s nipple and it’s all over. Angel’s vision whites out and he pushes Husk hard against the wall, desperately gyrating his hips in an attempt to generate enough friction to feel something.
“Fuck, yeah,” Angel gasps. He loves being touched on the chest; a little known secret that Val rarely took advantage of. Though, to be fair, Val rarely cared about Angel’s pleasure over his own. “Right there. Shit, Husky, that’s so good.”
Husk smirks against Angel’s mouth and cups Angel’s breast in his hand fully, trapping the nub of Angel’s nipple beneath his palm in a way that would be absolutely infuriating if it were so fucking hot. Husk moves his mouth to kiss at Angel’s neck, allowing Angel a moment to catch his breath. They’re in the casino’s utility corridor; anyone could walk in and catch them in the midst of — this.
Angel’s fucked in public plenty of times, but something about doing it with someone who is usually so proper and put-together makes it hotter than normal. There’s something so sexy about Husk risking his reputation just to get his hands on Angel’s tits that sets Angel’s insides on fire.
Husk’s cock is a hard, gorgeous shape against Angel’s own and Angel would give absolutely anything to remove the layer of fabric between them and get his hands on it. Fuck, it would feel so good to use his third set of arms to take them both in his hands and jerk them off like this. Husk would cum on his belly and absolutely ruin his favorite skirt but it would be so fucking worth it.
His thoughts are getting away from him again.
Angel wants to ask Husk if he wants to move their little rendezvous somewhere more intimate but before he can, there’s a noise down the hallway that causes them both to freeze. Someone is coming their way; Angel can hear their footsteps. He sighs in frustration and gently sets Husk down on the tile before taking a sizable step backwards just in the nick of time as one of the hotel’s imp staff-members turns the corner holding a tray of over-filled ashtrays that need emptying. He spots them and lifts his eyebrows in mild amusement (he absolutely knows what he just walked in on) but says nothing as he saunters past them and through a pair of double doors that leads to the kitchens and the casino’s dumpsters. The silence that follows the thump of the closing doors is deafening, and Angel takes a few steadying breaths as he tries to talk his cock down from all of the excitement.
God, he needs to cum. Maybe he can sneak off after this and go rub one out in the bathroom. He reaches down and adjusts himself under his skirt and catches a glimpse of Husk watching him with hungry eyes. He winks and then leans backwards, lifting his skirt to give Husky a little show. Husk blushes once he realizes that Angel has noticed him, and looks away before clearing his throat.
“I should, uh,” he says, voice shaking a little. He’s so fucking cute Angel could die. “I should get back out there.”
Angel rolls his eyes playfully and crosses back over towards where Husk is on the opposite wall and leans over him. “You sure you don’t wanna pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted?”
Angel runs a long finger down the expanse of Husk’s chest and talks real close, making sure to breathe on Husk’s sensitive ears. Husk sucks in a breath and his ears twitch but he resists Angel’s charms once again and shudders as he closes his eyes.
“It’s busy hours, sweetheart,” Husk says, lowly. “We both got work to do.”
It takes all of Angel’s resolve not to tell Husk that he doesn’t give a fuck about work. He’s trying so fucking hard to be patient with Husk, and complaining about being edged within an inch of his life every night won’t do either of them any good so he just sighs dramatically and moves away, putting distance between them.
“Whatever ya say, boss,” Angel says, breezily. Husk looks at him then, fully looks at him — eye contact and everything, and it sucks the air out of Angel’s lungs. God, he’d heard the expression “fuck him with your eyes” before but didn’t realize it could be so fucking literal. There’s no question in the look Husk is giving him that he wants Angel as much as Angel wants him. So why the hesitation?
Angel thinks for a second that maybe Husk is bluffing and that they’re going to start going at it in the hallway again, but then Husk blinks and he looks away, breaking the spell. He coughs and then nods, and with that he walks away leaving Angel hard and horny in the hallway behind him.
Holy shit, talk about hard to read. Husk is like a brick wall of confusing mixed signals that Angel has no idea how to penetrate (haha, nice) without risking things falling apart between them again. He wants things to progress, but doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.
He wasn’t kidding when he told Husk that he’s never done slow before. This is all uncharted territory for him and he’s trying his best but Husk has got to throw him a fucking bone (damn he’s on a role today with the inuendo) before he blows (comedy comes in threes) his lid.
So Angel decides that there’s really only one thing he can do about this dilemma, and that’s to call his best friend and schedule a vent session.
*.*.*.*.*
It’s been a while since he’s seen Cherri, and he owes her a proper hang out after the “going back to Valentino without telling her” fiasco, so he decides to treat her to crepes at their favorite little spot on the outskirts of Cannibal Town. The menu features cannibal and non-cannibal options, and Angel’s never been one to judge people on their vices so it doesn’t bother him to go. Cherri feels the same way, and it gives them a place to go that doesn’t run the risk of running into the Vees. Cannibal Town is Rosie’s territory and the Vees are careful not to step on her toes.
Vox won’t ever admit it out loud, but Angel thinks that he has a particular aversion to Cannibal Town’s principals that keeps him from ever waging any kind of war against Rosie. Angel’s sure that he’s probably not the only overlord to feel that way, which makes Cannibal Town one of the safest and cleanest areas in Hell.
Who knew that the most depraved souls were actually the ones most capable of maintaining their humanity at the end of the day?
Either way, the crepes at this place are fucking delicious, and Angel pays no mind to the family of four sitting at the table beside them digging into an order tiramisu crepes featuring ladyfingers made from actual lady’s fingers.
Cherri also pays them no mind as she sticks a fork into her slice of matcha crepe cake with raspberries on top and moans around the bite. Angel smirks, popping a strawberry from his own crepe into his mouth as he watches her. He knows that this isn’t enough to make up for the stress he must have caused her by relapsing, but it’s a start.
“Bitch, you’re so lucky I love cake,” Cherri says, reading Angel’s mind. She levels him with a look and then points her newly cleared fork at him. “Because your ass is not off the hook for that little stunt you pulled yet, ya hear me? I’m still mad at you.”
Angel nods, unwilling to argue with her genuine concern and love for him. “I know. I’m sorry, okay? I just…”
He doesn’t have the words. He knows that she gets it better than anyone else. Cherri’s dating history hasn’t exactly been filled with prince charmings trying to sweep her off of her feet so much as it’s been a revolving door of warty, slimy frogs masking themselves as such. She knows how it feels to fall the wrong guy and then feel stuck between the pages of the Grimm fairytale they tricked you into — tragically cautionary endings and all.
Val had been the most convincing of wolves waiting in disguise for Angel to wander into his clutches.
“I know,” Cherri says, sighing. “I know why you did it. I just wish you had tried to call me first. What was it that triggered the relapse, anyway? Or was it just one of those times where nothing could have stopped it?”
Angel pushes one of the strawberries around on his plate and gives her a guilty expression. She’s going to lose it when she finds out that he let a boy be the reason he relapsed. They made a blood oath to one another that they wouldn’t let something like that happen to either of them ever again after the last time it happened to Cherri, but Angel couldn’t help it. Husk had just bulldozed through all of his carefully constructed protections and exposed him so unexpectedly. Angel wasn’t prepared for that.
“So uh,” Angel says, feeling his face get hot. “I’m kinda hookin’ up with my new boss.”
“YOU’RE WHAT?!” Cherri shouts, causing a few faces to turn in their direction. Angel hangs his head and holds up his hands in surrender.
“Calm down, it’s not — it’s not like that, okay?” Angel tells her. “He’s not like that.”
Cherri does not calm down. “Are you kidding me!? Angie, is that the reason you fuckin’ relapsed? Did that asshole do something—”
“No!” Angel says quickly; quick enough that Cherri stops talking and stares at him. “No — he didn’t do anything. That’s the problem. I came onto him, tried to get him to sleep with me, and he turned me down.”
She narrows her eye. “He turned you down?”
Her tone suggests what Angel suspected it would — she’s just as shocked by his statement as he is. She’s been his ride or die for nearly twenty years, and he doesn’t think she’s ever seen hi get rejected by someone he’s hit on.
“Yup,” Angel says, chewing on another strawberry. “Told me he didn’t like the ‘pornstar act.’’ He uses his lower set of hands to make fake quotes around the phrase and he rolls his eyes.
Cherri scoffs, affronted. “That bitch!”
“I know, right?” Angel says, laughing. It’s effective in lightening the mood. He sees her relax a little bit, and feels safe to press on. “Anyway, I totally freaked. I ain’t used to that kind of—”
“Bullshit?”
“Visibility,” he says, stressing the word. Cherri’s mouth opens as she takes in the weight of his declaration. It was not Husk’s rejection that hurt him; not really. It was the vulnerability that came with the fear of being seen. Husk had disarmed him. He had seen through Angel’s glamor and revealed the terrified, tired person underneath it.
It was too much.
“Oh,” Cherri says, her voice going soft. She understands.
“Yeah,” Angel agrees, his chest tight from the memory. “Oh.”
“Oh, Angie,” Cherri reaches across the table and puts a hand over his. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Angel nods, turning his hand over to let her lace her fingers in between his. “Yeah,” he says, and it feels weird to actually mean it. “I think this time, I am. I went back to Val and this time, I left on my own. He didn’t blow me off for Vox or kick me out for some new twink. I left him, because I was done. I’d never—” Angel takes a breath. “I’d never been done before. I know I said I was, but deep down I knew I was gonna go back. This time, when I reached down deep, there wasn’t nothin’ there. All of my feelings for Val were gone. The well was bone fuckin’ dry.”
She squeezes his hand, encouraging him to go on.
“It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, Cherri,” he says. “But I did it. And it feels incredible. I feel like a whole mess of weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel free.”
She lifts her other hand and wipes a tear from her eye. “Baby, I’m so happy for you.”
He smiles and feels himself starting to tear up. “Thanks. I’m proud’a me too.”
A moment of tender, loving silence passes between them. He feels lighter after having said all of that out loud. So many times, Angel had sat across from his friend and professed his vow to never go back to Valentino. So many times, he had sworn up and down that he was done with the abuse. Never once had he actually meant it, and never once has Cherri ever bought it.
Until now.
“Hold on,” Cherri says, after a moment. She pulls her hand back and grabs her fork, pointing it threateningly in Angel’s direction once again. “You said ‘hookin’ up with’, in the present fuckin’ tense.”
Okay, now Angel is definitely blushing. “Well, when I went back and I apologized, he took me back without a single problem.”
“Damn right,” Cherri says, nodding. “As he fuckin’ should.”
“What I mean is,” Angel says, “He didn’t hold it against me at all. He was totally cool about it, and let me just start workin’ there again like nothin’ had happened. One thing led to another and…” He shrugs. “I dunno. It just sorta happened. He’s real nice to me, Cherri. Makes me feel like a fuckin’ love-drunk teenager.”
She grins. “Angie, you fuckin’ slut,” she says, scooping up a rasberry and flinging it at him. She means it as a compliment, so Angel laughs, dodging the fruit before it can stain his favorite shirt. “You’re fuckin’ your boss? I want the details. How big is his cock? What kind of kinky shit is that fucker into?”
With the serious part of the conversation over, Angel uses the opportunity to fill her in on the rest of the gorey (or in this case, not so gorey) details of the progression of his relationship with Husk. He tells her about taking it slow and how hot and heavy things have been between them, but how he feels like even in spite of that, he can’t find a way to get a read on him.
He’s never gone this long into pursuing someone without having sex with them. This is not a game he knows how to play anymore.
Cherri listens, making appropriate faces and comments as he goes. When Angel finishes talking, she leans back in her chair and just laughs softly, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Wow, I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but…” She levels him with a look. “Have you thought about asking him to go on a date?”
Angel almost chokes on the piece of crepe in his mouth. “A what?”
“You know — a date. The guy seems like a bit of a romantic,” she says, shrugging. “Which, is so fuckin’ wild to me because I didn’t Hell had no romantics.”
“Me neither,” Angel says, miserably. How the fuck had he managed to find the only soul in Hell that isn’t interested in getting down and dirty on the first date? “Ugh, this is so hard. I’m so outta practice when it comes to this kind of shit. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
Cherri laughs. “Have you ever even been on a date?”
“I’ve been on client dates,” Angel says. “But those were always one-way trains to bone town, if ya catch my drift.”
“Angie, rent-boy shifts do not count as dates,” Cherri tells him. She shakes her head again and leans over the table with her elbows. “What about when you were alive?”
God, he hasn’t thought about his dating history from when he was alive in a while. Sure, he’d had “boyfriends” but none of them were ever allowed to be more than secrets kept behind closed doors. Most of their “dates” consisted of Angel blowing them in their literal closets while whoever he was with ripped holes in their hanging clothes by using them as gags to keep quiet.
“I died when I was twenty-three,” Angel says. “And it was the 1940’s. Couldn’t exactly go out to dinner with my sweetie when folks thought bein’ gay was a mental illness.”
“Right,” Cherri says with a wince. “Fuck, I forget you’re so old.”
Angel rolls his eyes. “Oh shut up, Millennial.”
Cherri laughs at that, and then she asks, “So you’ve never been on a real date before?”
“I’ve never done any of this before,” Angel groans, laying his head down on the table.“My last boyfriend was Valentino and we both know how that ended up.”
Cherri’s expression does something funny, and then she bites her lip.
“Hm,” she says. “Maybe…”
Angel stares at her. “What?”
She considers her response for a moment and then shakes her head. “No, nevermind.”
Angel rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have time or patience for this. Whatever she’s going to say, she needs to say.
“Cherri,” Angel snaps. “Spit it out.”
She sighs. “Well, you’re right that we both know how things ended with Val. But what about the beginning?”
“Oh,” Angel says, sitting up straight again. This wasn’t what he was expecting to talk about, but he’s not adverse to it. “Uh. Yeah. I guess in the beginning things were — things were pretty good.”
“Sorry,” Cherri says, looking guilty. “I know it’s hard to talk about. We can change the subject.”
“No,” Angel assures her. He’s surprising himself with how easy this is for him. He thinks that that lightness from earlier — from finally saying that all out loud, is responsible. “I want to talk about it. If that’s okay?”
“Yeah,” Cherri says, taking his hand again. “Angie, baby, you can talk to me about anything. I’m your ride or die, remember?”
God — of course he remembers. What would he do without her?
“Thanks,” Angel tells her. He smiles at her. “I uh… I don’t know if you can call what Val did in the beginning ‘romance’ per se, but he knew how to get a guy to want more. He was big on the love-bombing thing, ya know? Made a lot of empty promises, bought me a lot of expensive gifts. None of it was real, but I didn’t know that at the time.”
“He made you feel good,” Cherri says, nodding in understanding. Val’s tactics were not original, but they were perfected.
“He made me feel like I was magic,” Angel tells her. He closes his eyes at the memory. In his chest, he can still feel the warmth from those early days. Val had said all of the right things. He had played all the right cards. He was everything Angel had ever wanted, because Angel had fallen for his ruse. “Plus, there was the drugs too. Can’t forget to talk about the role the drugs played in attracting me to him.”
“Did he ever take you on any dates?”
Dates? God, there had been so many things they’d done together. He didn’t consider them dates back then, but looking back on them now, he realizes that’s what they were. Helicopter rides around the Pride Ring, all expense-paid shopping sprees, fine dining at restaurants that imported food from the living world, prepared by professional chefs in cities like New York, Paris, Tokyo, and delivered right to their plates in Hell. Val had whispered compliments in Angel’s ear, eaten him out in bathroom stalls and limousines, and had made Angel feel like royalty.
He had been so good and convincing Angel he was making the right choice in singing his life over.
Angel shrugs again. “I mean, yeah. He wanted me to feel like a fuckin’ queen so he pulled out all of the stops.”
“Why don’t you try something like that?” Cherri asks, leaning back,
“Try what?” Angel blinks at her. “Pullin’ out the stops?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, yes, he was an evil psychopath, but Val understood how to make someone feel special. You can try doing that but without the evil psychopath part.”
Angel takes a second to consider her advice. She’s right — if there’s anything Val was good at, it was making people feel good. He was a master in pleasure, and he may have accidentally managed to teach Angel a thing or two about romance in the process.
“Huh.” Angel stares at her, feeling dumbfounded. “That’s actually a really great idea.”
She smirks, proud of herself. “I have those sometimes.”
“I love you,” Angel says, and he means it with his whole heart.
“I know.” She kicks him under the table. “Love you too, bitch.”
*.*.*.*.*
So the next time Angel finds himself hidden away in some dark corner of the casino with a certain overlord between his legs, Angel decides to take his friend’s advice.
If Husk wants romance, Angel can give him romance.
“Hey,” Angel says, panting from having his nipples teased through his satin top. Husk leans down to lick at the spot on Angel’s neck he just got finished biting down on. “How would you feel about us goin’ out somewhere together?”
“What do you mean?” Husk stops, snorting a little bit at the interruption. He looks at Angel and his yellow eyes glow in the darkness.
“You said you wanted to take this slow, right?” Angel explains, rubbing the spot behind Husk’s ear that Angel knows he likes having touched. “Well I’ve been doin’ slow. I’ve been killin’ it at slow, if I do say so myself.”
“You have,” Husk says, agreeing easily. The confirmation gives Angel an extra boost of confidence to keep going.
“But I’m feelin’ cooped up,” Angel admits, rocking his hips (and his hard cock) against Husk’s thigh. “You gotta let me spread my wings a little bit, Husky. I can’t keep makin’ out with you in corners of the casino and then jerking off alone in my room after. If you don’t wanna have sex, that’s fine, but maybe we could spend time together that isn’t workin’ or kissin’ like teenagers hidin’ from their parents.”
Husk frowns at him, which isn’t the expression Angel was expecting. “I never said I didn’t want to have sex,” Husk says.
Angel rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point — wait, huh?”
“Never said I didn’t wanna have sex,” Husk repeats, shrugging. “Just said I didn’t wanna rush things.”
Angel… doesn’t know what to do with that.
He tries to piece it together, but it’s not making sense. “Wait, so — wait. I thought we were takin’ it slow because you’re old fashioned!”
Husk barks a laugh, throwing his head back.
“Old fashioned?” Husk says, his body shaking with rumbles of laughter. “Kid, aren’t you the one who pointed out that we’re the same fuckin’ age? Or that you’re older than me?”
Oh fuck, he did say something about that, didn’t he? He had nothing to base that claim off of aside from a hunch deep in his gut, but it felt right. Husk doesn’t carry himself as someone who died during Angel’s era or before.
Angel stares at him. “We — hold on. When were you born?”
“1928,” Husk tesla him. “October.”
Oooh, a Libra? Or, oh god — a Scorpio? Angel makes a mental note to ask about details of that later.
“I was born in 1925, so I am older than you,” Angel says. That makes him two years Husk’s senior. They could have been friends if they had grown up in the same neighborhood. “Crazy that we were alive at the same time.”
“So what’s this about me bein’ old fashioned?” Husk asks. He leans back and looks Angel up and down. “You’re the old man.”
Angel rolls his eyes. This fucker is going to be the death of him. “I was tryin’ to ask you if you wanted to go on a date with me, asshole.”
“Oh,” Husk says, lifting his brows. He looks like Angel just told him the set up of a joke and he’s waiting for the punchline.
“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Angel says, deadpan. Then he smirks, and he leans in to nip at the edge of Husk’s jaw. He makes a little noise by rolling his tongue, and then he asks, “So whaddaya say? Wanna let me wine and dine your fluffy ass?”
Husk is quiet for a moment, while he tries to figure out if Angel is serious or not. Angel watches the skepticism melt into something more serious, and then he changes his tone to something a little softer when he asks, “You wanna take me out?”
Angel nods.
Husk lets out a breath. “I haven’t been on a date since 1973, and that was with my ex wife after we had already divorced.”
Angel whistles, leaning back in surprise. “You were married?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Husk says with a wink. It makes Angel’s stomach flip.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me neither,” Angel teases right back. He returns Husk’s wink with one of his own. “So is that a yes?”
“I don’t know,” Husk says, frowning again. “I have no idea what to even do on a date, kid.”
“And you think I do?” Angel is not taking that bullshit excuse. Not after everything that’s happened. “I’ve been Valentino’s purse dog for three decades. I don’t know what I’m doin’ either. But like you said, we’re both losers, ain’t we?”
Husk smiles. “Yeah,” he says, his voice catching.
Angel swallows, and takes his last leap. “So is that a yes? You’ll go out on a loser date with me?”
Husk kisses him, slow and sexy. Then he sighs, smirks, and says, “Yeah, baby.”
Chapter 17
They agree to each pick a place to spend half of their date, and Angel is incredibly proud of his choice. He took Cherri’s advice and put thought into the effort that goes into convincing someone to take a chance on you, and it ends up being weirdly healing. He realizes through the process that Val really had managed to lure Angel into his trap in a way that had seemed so effortless at the time, but in retrospect was absolutely calculated.
Val knew what Angel liked. He put time in to get to know Angel so that Angel would fall for him. The dates he took Angel on were all places that Angel had wanted to go but could never afford, and it gave him a teasing glimpse of what his life would be like if he would just take the leap and sign.
Obviously, like Cherri said, Val was a fucking asshole with ulterior motives. But he was also a stupidly romantic asshole with ulterior motives, so Angel decides to heal some of his inner trauma about the Val situation by using the good parts of their dates to plan one with Husk. This date isn’t about what Angel wants, it’s about creating the perfect night for the person he cares about.
Which is why Angel picks a cigar bar as the first stop on their night together. He lucks out that the bar is doing an “oldies” night when they visit, and the smooth sound of Ella Fitzgerald that greets them upon their entry is an immediate comfort. Angel doesn’t hold onto a lot from his era of living, but the music was just something special.
Which, he realizes, is also Husk’s era of music. It’s like the bar knew they’d be coming and picked the music just for them.
It’s a swanky place — all dim lighting and red leather couches with small tables between them housing intimate menus that feature several types of spiced whiskey, scotch, and bourbon. Angel would never come here on his own, but he can tell right away that it’s Husk’s vibe. It almost looks like Husk’s office, with the old-timey New York City decor and rust-colored walls. Angel feels comfortable with the atmosphere as the waitress leads them to their table and sets their places.
Husk, who had been wearing a long overcoat, sheds it and drapes it over the back of his chair. Beneath it, he’s wearing a pinstripe suit and a burgundy bowtie that brings out the red detailing of his feathers. The hair at the top of his head that is usually shaggy and untamed has been combed back, and he looks so good that Angel almost audibly moans in admiration.
It makes Angel feel good that Husk got dressed up for their date night. Angel himself is also dressed for the occasion, but has opted for something more fancy and romantic than his usual (slutty) choices. He’s in an oversized black sweater that stretches down past his ass and looks almost like a dress. The sleeves are a little too long on purpose, so he can choose between bunching them up at the wrists or letting them flop over so that only his fingertips stick out. The sweater is expensive and well-made, with little bits of silver thread woven into the pattern that makes it sparkle under certain light. He’s paired the sweater with a pair of sheer leggings that hug his curves in all of the right ways and a pair of black ankle-high suede booties that click when he walks.
The outfit is deliciously androgynous in a way that he loves, and he feels sexy having actually covered himself up for once. It adds a layer of mystery that isn’t usually there, and it gives him an extra boost of confidence when he notices that Husk is checking him out.
He sits down in the leather chair across from Husk and leans over the table on his elbows. Husk slides the menu over to himself and flips it open, looking through the selections with a hooked finger perched over his lips. He looks handsome, and Angel can’t ignore the flutter in his chest at the realization that he’s on a date with the guy. Damn, when Angel scores he scores.
“Whatcha gonna order?” Angel asks. He doesn’t bother looking at the menu himself since he knows very little about which whiskeys pair best with which cigars and frankly he doesn’t care, but he knows that both of those things are things that Husk cares about, so Angel is excited to hear Husk talk about it.
“The selection here is nice,” Husk says, flipping the page of the menu. “They have imports and Hell brands of both, and this is the first place that I haven’t seen totally jack the prices for shit. I’m surprised I haven’t heard of it, but then again, I don’t get out much.”
Angel laughs at that. It’s true — Angel doesn’t think he’s ever seen Husk outside of the casino until now. The guy sort of keeps to himself and seems to like being in a space that he can consider his territory, which makes sense for an overlord. The Vees rarely left their sector of the city as well, out of concern for their own safety. Hell isn’t exactly known for it’s neighborly behavior.
“It is nice seein’ you outside of work,” Angel admits. “Guess I must be pretty special if you were willing to take a night off just to spend it with me.”
“Of course you’re special,” Husk tells him easily, like it’s nothing. He does that sometimes — he says shit to Angel that makes him feel impossible, and he says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world to just admit.
It makes Angel blush and makes his stomach twist in delight. It’s so different from what he’s used to. Husk doesn’t shower him in artificial love and affection, he just cares for Angel in such a real way. He compliments Angel without even putting effort into it, like it should be obvious to Angel and to everyone in the room that he’s this special thing worth bragging about.
Angel’s spent the better half of a century pretending to think that he’s the most spectacular thing to ever exist and trying to convince others of the same, but he’s never actually believed it. Husk, he thinks, believes it.
And once again, Angel has no fucking idea what to do with that.
The waitress comes over to take their order and Husk says something that Angel doesn’t really hear. When the waitress looks over at Angel, he feels like there’s a spotlight on him and realizes that he has no idea what to order. He looks over at Husk and then he shrugs.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” Angel says, waving a hand dismissively. “I ain’t picky.”
The waitress smiles, nods, and then enters their orders into the tablet she’s holding. Angel tries not to let the bright blue Voxtech logo on the back of it ruin his good mood, but it is a reminder that no matter where he goes in Hell, he can never fully escape the reach of the Vees.
When the waitress leaves, Husk levels Angel with a look.
“What?” Angel says, sitting back.
“How do you even know you’re gonna like what I ordered?” Husk asks.
Angel shrugs again, smiling easily. “I don’t know shit about whiskey or cigars,” he says. “But I trust you to know what’s good. If you ordered it, I’m sure I’ll like it just fine.”
Husk seems skeptical, but he doesn’t argue it any further. The song that had been playing in the bar ends, and the sound of a saxophone takes its place. The tension in Husk’s shoulders seems to melt away at the melody, and he smiles sweetly and cranes his head a little, trying to hear it better.
“Charlie Parker,” Husk says, folding one arm up on the table and using the other to lean his head dreamily. “Now there’s a cat who knew what he was doin’ with music.”
Angel stares at him, warmth blossoming in his chest. “You a fan of jazz?”
Husk nods. “Hard not to be, when you grew up black in the 1930’s and 40’s. Everyone who was anyone listened to Charlie. Once they came out with vinyl, I had his whole collection. Still do, matter of fact.”
“You have a record player?” Angel asks, intrigued. He’s never really thought about where Husk lives or what his place must be like. He’s got to have some sort of living quarters at the casino, but Angel has only ever seen his office.
Husk nods. “Yeah. Paid top dollar to have an imp service go and steal my old collection from my daughter’s storage unit in the living world. She wasn’t usin’ em though, and I don’t think she’ll even notice that they’re gone.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait,” Angel says, siting up a little straighter. “Did you say you have a daughter?”
Before Husk can answer, the waitress returns with their drinks and a small box of cigars. She sets them down and asks if she can bring them anything else, but Angel is still too shocked about Husk’s revelation to answer her. Thankfully Husk can manage it, and he sends her away with a thank you and a neatly folded bill to tip her for her service.
Then, he carefully selects a cigar from the box and examines it. He turns it over in his fingers and then holds it under his nose to inhale the scent. He grins, clearly satisfied with his choice. There’s a lighter on the table that Husk picks up and flicks open before lighting the cigar between his lips. Angel watches as Husk takes a pull, and there’s something strangely sexy about the whole thing.
He loves to keep Angel on his toes. He’s a fucking master at edging in all senses of the word. Angel is starting to think that maybe Husk gets some kind of kick at watching Angel squirm like this; at watching Angel want him. He knows that Angel wants him to talk about his past, but he’s being so slow with how he gives that information out. He gives a taste and then he pulls back so that Angel has to savor it, when all he wants to do is swallow it whole.
Angel grabs his whiskey and takes a sip for something to do that isn’t staring at Husk as he blows grey smoke from his nostrils. Right away, Angel realizes that he made the right choice in trusting Husk’s taste in whiskey. Whatever the fuck is in this glass is smooth as hell; rich with notes of sweetness. The liquid is warm as he swallows it down and it leaves a slight burn on the back of his throat that feels good. Angel isn’t usually a whiskey guy — his usual go-to is an extra dry gin martini, but whatever’s in this glass might be enough to convert him to the other side.
“I have a daughter,” Husk confirms, after a few beats of comfortable silence. “She lives in New Mexico, and she has two kids.”
Angel takes a minute to process that. He hadn’t really given much thought to who Husk was before arriving here in Hell, and learning about it is admittedly a little strange. A person’s life is obviously a big part of who they are, but Angel’s was cut so short that he doesn’t feel a lot of attachment to it anymore.
Angel was twenty-three when he died. Most of what he can remember is fraught with an endless struggle with his own mental health, ridicule for being gay in a world that had not yet made any real strides towards acceptance, and a headfirst slide downwards into drug addiction. Angel doesn’t think about his life that often because it had been shitty and awful and tragically brief, but it seems that Husk doesn’t share that sentiment.
Their mutual distaste for their time spent alive was something that Angel and Valentino shared. In a lot of ways, their souls were broken in the same places. Angel thinks that maybe that’s what drew him to Valentino in the first place — the desire to forget all about who he was to make room for who he could be, and a partner who wanted to do the same. Angel realizes that he’s spent so much of his time in Hell running as fast as he could, and now he thinks that maybe it’s finally time to stop.
His legs hurt from all that running.
“What’s she like?” Angel asks, feeling a little breathless. Then, in an attempt to make himself feel less vulnerable, he teases, “If she has kids, does that make you a grandpa?”
Husk laughs and takes another pull from his cigar. “Yeah,” Husk says, “I guess it does.”
They talk for a while after that, and Husk gushes over details about his daughter. Angel learns that her name is Joanna, but she went by Joey as a little kid and Jo as a woman. Husk wasn’t as involved in her life as he’d have liked to have been due to his struggle with gambling and drinking that developed in his 30’s and followed him like a leech into his death. There’s pain in Husk’s stories, but there’s also a bitter sort of happiness as well.
Husk’s kid is still alive. There’s something important about that detail that makes Angel want to reach over the table to pull him into a hug. There’s still someone up there who thinks about him and keeps his memory alive, regardless of how much Husk seems to think he doesn’t deserve it.
They drink whiskey and Angel listens, eager to learn more about the person who crash-landed into his life and uprooted everything he knew to be true. Angel even smokes a cigar, which Husk finds so amusing he chokes on his own inhale of smoke when he laughs.
Angel laughs too, because he feels safe to do so. It’s easy to laugh at himself in this situation. He’s clearly so out of his element and only chose to come here for Husk’s pleasure, and it’s a little bit funny to think of him as someone who smokes cigars and drinks whiskey while listening to jazz. Angel isn’t used to venturing outside of his comfort zone, but he’s surprised to find that with Husk at his side, it’s not nearly as scary as he thought it would be.
“Do you think you’ll ever see her again?” Angel asks, finishing the last of his drink. The conversation has shifted away from Husk’s daughter and into something lighter, but Angel is feeling tipsy enough to broach the topic once more.
Husk looks down at his empty glass and spins it in his hands. “God, I hope not,” he says. “Last thing I’d ever want is for her to see what’s become of me down here.”
That’s something that Angel can relate to. He has a lot of family down here, but he’s estranged from them. Getting to Hell to find out that your asshole dad and shitty fucking homophobic ancestors have all been waiting for you to arrive so they could continue to abuse you is its own special kind of punishment. Angel remembers how desperately he hoped that his twin sister wouldn’t end up in the same place as him.
Luckily for him, she never arrived. Angel has always assumed that meant she went to Heaven. He hopes that’s what it meant.
“Aw, I dunno,” Angel says, lightening the mood. He kicks Husk lightly under the table, the way Cherri so often does to him when she’s trying to be playfully affectionate. “I don’t think you’re so bad.”
Husk smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just a husk of the man I once was.”
Something about the way he says it sends a chill down Angel’s spine.
“Is that why you picked your name?” Angel asks.
Husk nods and finishes his cigar. He puts the butt out in the table’s ashtray, then he checks his watch and motions for the waitress to bring them their check. “Time’s up,” Husk says, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs into the air.
Angel blinks. “What?”
“Times up,” Husk repeats. “Your half of the date is over. It’s my turn now, and our tickets say ‘no late entry’ so…”
“Tickets?” Angel can’t help the smile that starts tugging at the corners of his lips. “We goin’ to a show, Husky?”
Husk smirks, but keeps his poker face unreadable. “Maybe.”
The waitress arrives and leaves the check on the table. Husk reaches for it, but Angel swipes it away from him. He puts down his own card, not the magic never-ending one that Husk gave him all those months ago. He wants to pay for this himself. It is a date after all.
Husk sighs, but doesn’t argue with Angel’s silent insistence on paying. They leave the bar and Husk calls them a cab and they head off towards the second half of their date in good spirits. The date is going well and Angel feels something like pride well up in his chest at the fact that he managed to absolutely slay his half of the date. It’s not a competition, but if it were, Angel is pretty sure he’d be winning. Husk is going to have to pull off something spectacular if he wants to top Angel’s date.
In the back of the cab, Husk slides his hand over the middle seat and casually laces his fingers between Angel’s. It catches Angel off guard (he’s too distracted with praising himself for a job well done in his head) and he gasps a little at the contact and then turns to gape at Husk. He’s still not used to such gentle touching — if this were a date with Val, he’d be trying to get Angel to suck his cock in the back of this car, not holding his hand.
“This okay?” Husk asks, looking down at their joined hands.
Angel responds by turning his hand over so that Husk has better access and offering up a soft smile. “More than okay, Husky baby.”
Angel realizes once they pull up outside of their destination that he may have spoken too soon about which of them won the date planning. He’s stunned into silence (a rarity, since he’s a bitch who loves to talk) as he climbs out of the open door of the cab and stares up at the marquee of the theater they’ve just arrived at.
Angel’s been here before. Of course he’s been here before. It’s been a while, but Angel could never forget the first place in Hell that made him feel like he was born to be a star. Dante’s Inferno is one of the best known drag bars in all of Hell, and the highlighter-pink neon sign of the marquee reads that tonight’s event is a sold out show, featuring a handful of his favorite queens.
“Husk,” Angel says, staring at the lights with wide eyes. His voice is soft, like he’s afraid that if he speaks any louder he might wake himself up from the dream that he’s clearly fallen into. “How did — how did you know I like drag?”
Husk shrugs. He pulls out a small silver case from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and opens it, revealing a neat row of hand-rolled joints. He pulls one out and puts it in his mouth before putting the case away and taking a lighter out of his pocket. There’s the sound of flint sparking and a flash of orange light and then the musky, sweet smell of marijuana permeates the air around them. “You’ve mentioned it.”
“I did?!” Angel gapes at him. “When!?”
Husk takes a pull from his joint and then offers it up to Angel who takes it gratefully. Husk exhales slowly, and his voice is like liquid fire when he says, “You think I’m not listenin’ every time you yap your mouth when we’re spending time together?”
Angel coughs on his inhale, taken aback by Husk’s comment. “Wait, when did I talk about drag when we were making out?”
Angel takes a proper drag from the joint, closing his eyes to let the high soak in. It’s a little weird going back to smoking flower after so many years of synthetic; Angel had forgotten how much warmer the high is. Instead of feeling anxious or buzzed, Angel feels soft and pliant. Figures — of course Husk would have the good shit.
“You’ve mentioned it a couple of times,” Husk says, taking the joint that Angel passes back. Angel hasn’t ever seen Husk high before. He didn’t even know Husk liked getting high, but he supposes that first dates are all about learning about one another. “Once when we were making out, and a few other times to clients.”
Angel snorts a laugh. “Damn, I really do just fuckin’ talk, huh?”
Angel just isn’t used to people listening to him.
Husk smirks, takes another drag, and then shrugs. “It’s cute.”
The compliment is so casual, but it still manages to make Angel’s stomach do a somersault. He’s been called ‘cute’ many times before, but it’s always been in a sexual context or a belittling one. Clients liked to call Angel cute before plowing into him while he’s face down on the mattress, and Val liked to call Angel cute when he really meant to say ‘dumb’ or ‘stupid’. Having someone say it as a compliment and mean it in an endearing way makes Angel feel warm all over.
“Thank you,” Angel says, feeling a little dizzy; maybe from the weed, or maybe from something else entirely. “This is amazing. I haven’t been to a drag show in ages.”
Husk passes Angel the joint and he takes another pull, savoring the feeling of warm fire in his lungs. Angel is already getting hazy, but in he best way. Combined with the lingering buzz from the whiskey, he feels good. He’s not fucked up — not the way he’d usually be on a night out. He’s pleasantly intoxicated, and he thinks that maybe he could get used to this.
Getting high for fun rather than getting high as a means of coping with his existential dread seems like it might be good for him.
He passes the joint back to husk who takes one last drag before snuffing out the end and placing the nearly-finished butt back into the silver case. Husk’s eyes are a little bit red from the high and the tension that usually sits harsh and stiff in his shoulders has vanished, making him seem calmer and more relaxed.
They go into the theater and Angel has a hard time containing his excitement. He hasn’t been to a drag show in a long time, and he’s really, really missed it. The energy in the room is absolutely electric, with people dressed in elaborate outfits perched at the edges of their seats in anticipation for tonight’s show. Husk hands Angel a wad of singles to tip the queens and Angel is impressed — he didn’t take Husk for someone who knows anything about drag shows or how they work, but Husk has surprised him quite a bit tonight. He wonders vaguely if Husk ever attended any drag shows when he lived in Vegas and makes a mental note to ask him about it later.
“Maybe you’ll see someone you know,” Husk says to Angel once they’ve found their seats. Unsurprisingly, their seats are incredible. They’re in the first row; so close to the stage that Angel could lick it if he wanted to.
“Husk, not every drag queen in Hell knows each other,” Angel says, feeling his face heat up. The truth is, it’s actually very likely that he will see someone he knows here tonight, but he isn’t sure if they’d remember him or recognize him out of drag. “Besides,” Angel adds, fidgeting in his seat, “I gave up bein’ on stage when I started doin’ porn. Val said it was a conflict of interest or some shit like that so I never got back around to it. I doubt anyone still in the scene remembers that I was ever a part of it.”
It’s the sad part of eternity that has often led Angel to his swan-dive of substance abuse benders. When time isn’t real, when it doesn’t pass you by in a way that matters, people have a much easier time with moving on. Getting left behind or forgotten is commonplace here in a way that it never could be in the living world, because when forever is the metal creating the links on the chain around your neck, it’s hard to feel like anything is worth fighting for.
Even if Angel does see an old friend, it’s very unlikely they’ll care to remember him after he sold himself out.
The show starts and Angel loses himself in the fun of it. The host of the show is a queen named Ivanna Bang, someone that Angel knows very well. She was a new queen back when Angel was performing here, but it looks like she’s really made a name for herself and has perfected a stage presence that captures the audience like magic.
She’s a tall, beautiful queen from the 80’s whose demon body is similar to Cherri’s. She has one eye in the center of her face and her skin is a gorgeous shade of baby blue. Tonight, she’s dressed in a get-up paying homage to Marie Antoinette, with a big, regal lavender wig of ringlet curls and a string of crimson pearls around her neck to represent the beheading.
The evening’s theme is “cunt” which Angel and Husk both find absolutely hilarious, and they watch each performance with enthusiasm and joy. Husk is surprisingly into it, and he even shoves a few singles into one of the rookie queen’s bra which makes Angel absolutely giddy with laughter. Everything about the show from the performances, to the outfits, to the music, makes Angel feel like he never left the scene at all.
God, he really misses performing.
Working for Val had taken all of the pleasure and joy away from the one thing Angel loved above all else. Acting became a chore rather than something Angel did out of passion, and by the end of his time as a pornstar, Angel had grown resentful that he’d ever gotten into the business in the first place. At first, porn had seemed like the perfect career path. He got to make a performance out of sex, which combined his two favorite things. He was good at it, too, which kept him in it for longer than it should have.
The thing is — Angel really liked doing porn. He liked the glitz and the glamor and the lights and the cameras and the fucking action. He liked the big dumb actors he got to work with and he liked the feeling of feeling beautiful when they’d fuck into him or comb his hair back while he went down on them. Before shit with Val got nasty and violent, there was a time when Angel really loved what he did.
But like everything else with Valentino, too much of a good thing ended up being his undoing.
Which is why being back here — being in a place that Val rarely ever saw him in, being surrounded by people just like him, it’s healing in a way Angel hadn’t been prepared for. There’s something just so inherently fun and queer about drag that makes Angel feel like he can be anything he dreams he could be. It’s why he fell in love with it in the first place.
He reaches over and takes Husk’s hand in his. Husk squeezes it and meets Angel’s eyes and Angel tries so hard to convey with his expression everything that he’s feeling inside.
Thank you. Thank you so much.
Angel’s chest feels tight. He can’t remember the last time he felt this happy.
Thank you for everything.
Husk smiles, and something about the look in his eyes tells Angel that he understands. Though, how could he? How could he possibly know how much this means to him? How perfect of a date this is? How could Husk have any idea how much he’s managed to disarm Angel once again, how he’s swept Angel off of his feet and turned his entire world upside down in the course of a few short hours?
Angel leans over and kisses him.
It’s a quick, short little peck, but the feelings behind it are strong. Angel realizes when he pulls away that there is a very strong chance that he could fall more in love with Husk than he ever thought possible, and that —
Well. That’s fucking terrifying.
Before Angel can dwell on that new, dark fear bubbling up inside of him at the realization, the show comes to a break. Ivanna Bang takes the stage and thanks the audience for being fantastic, and reminds everyone to tip the bartenders when they get drinks in between performances. She tells them that they’ll be returning after a fifteen minute break but before she goes, she has something important to do.
Then, Angel feels the familiar warmth of a spotlight on him. He freezes in his seat and looks around to find everyone looking at him, and remembers that he’s fucking famous. He’s Hell’s gay porn icon. Of course people here realized who he was.
“I’m sure you’ve all noticed that we have a very special guest here in the audience with us tonight,” Ivanna says, meeting Angel’s eyes from the stage. Her expression is warm and it calms Angel’s nerves a bit. “Now, I’m sure you all know him from his award-winning adult films,” she pauses so that the audience can erupt into cheers and ‘woo’s, “but not many people know that before all of that, Angel Dust used to perform here at Dante’s Inferno with yours truly.”
Everyone in the room awards her comment with thunderous applause, including Husk. Angel puts his hands over his face to hide his expression and wiggles dramatically under the attention.
“Now, I’m not sure if he’ll agree to it, but I think if we all give him an encouraging hand,” one of the other queens who has just returned to the stage with a fruity drink goes “uuuhhnnn, oh baby!” garnering laughter from the audience, “and put on a certain Verosika Mayday song, he might agree to come up on stage and give us a little performance.”
Angel can’t breathe. There’s no way this is really happening. He peeks out from behind his hands and looks up at Ivanna who has now crossed the stage and is standing directly in front of him. She winks.
“I hate you,” Angel mouths at her, but there’s no heat behind it.
“So what do you say, audience?” Ivanna asks, gesturing broadly to the room. “You wanna see if this old queen’s still got it?”
The response is a very clear and obvious “yes” that shakes the walls of the theater with whoops and clapping. Ivanna laughs and reaches out a hand towards Angel and on instinct he looks over at Husk for permission.
Husk isn’t his boss in the same way that Val was. The casino isn’t the porn studio. Angel doesn’t need to ask his permission before he performs in anything, but Angel supposes that old habits die hard. Without meaning to, Angel gives Husk a pleading look and is met with a warm smile.
“What’re you waitin’ for, kid?” Husk says, softly. “Get up there.”
So Angel does. He takes Ivanna’s hand and lets himself be pulled up onto the stage while the audience cheers for him. The lights are bright and blinding, but Angel feels infinite as he stands before an audience of fans who adore him and listens to them chanting his name.
Ivanna spins him around and then clicks her tongue, looking him up and down.
“Oh, I don’t know about this look, baby,” she says. “It’s cute, but it’s not giving Verosika Mayday, is it?”
The audience laughs and collectively shouts, “No!”
“Luckily we have a whole gaggle of gays backstage who can who fix him right up,” Ivanna tells the crowd. They cheer again. “We will be back in fifteen minutes with a special guest performance you don’t wanna miss. Go buy yourselves some drinks, get fuckin’ drunk — we’ll be back in a few!”
The lights go down and Ivanna pulls Angel by the hand into the backstage area. Once they’re out of the crowd’s line of sight, she stops walking and pulls him into a tight, bone-crushing hug. She squeals loudly in his ear and they jump up and down and he buries his face in the lavender curls of her wig.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, bitch!” Angel says, laughing when he pulls away from her.
“I couldn’t believe my eye when I saw you in that front row, baby,” Ivanna says, touching Angel’s face. “How you been?”
Angel really thought that no one here would remember him from his time as a drag queen. He had been wrong.
“You know,” Angel says, shrugging. They only have fifteen minutes, so Angel lets himself be led to the dressing room where Ivanna immediately begins rifling through a rolling rack of dresses, looking for something for Angel to wear. “I’m surviving.”
She nods, indicating that she understands Angel’s sentiment. It’s Hell, and sometimes surviving is the best you can be doing. She selects a baby-pink mermaid dress and holds it up. It’s sparkly, and there’s an intricate design of iridescent sequins that catches in the light over the expanse of the bodice.
She narrows her eye, looking between the dress and then Angel, and then the dress again, and decides she likes what she sees. She tosses it towards Angel who catches it.
“Haven’t seen you since you left for the big leagues,” Ivanna says, moving over to the wall of immaculate wigs to select one to go with the dress. Angel makes quick work of getting undressed. “Still workin’ for that porn overlord?”
“Nah, I moved on,” Angel tells her, folding his clothes neatly and standing there in nothing but his underwear. “Got a better gig now. I’m workin’ for the Gambling Overlord over at The Jackpot Casino.”
“No shit,” Ivanna says, turning to face him. She lifts her brow. “How’s that treating you?”
“It’s great,” Angel admits, and he means it. Then, because saying it out loud helps him to hold himself accountable, he says, “I’m actually working on getting clean.”
Ivanna’s brow shoots up so high it nearly disappears behind the lace of her wig. She had known Angel at the peak of his addiction, and she knows how much he depended on drugs to get him through each and every day. Most of the queens that Angel knew struggled with addiction. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Angel says. He takes the dress off of the hanger and steps into it. “Haven’t touched coke in nearly a month.”
“Shit,” Ivanna says, turning back towards the wigs. She pulls two down, one that’s big and dramatic and blonde, and another that’s a short periwinkle bob. “Most I’ve made it is a couple of days. You’re doin better than me. Which one of these do you think would go best with that dress?”
“Bitch you already know,” Angel tells her, reaching out with his upper hands in a grabby motion towards the blonde wig. She laughs and hands it off to him. “I was just tired of bein’ controlled, ya know?” Angel says, using his lower arms to zip himself into the dress. It fits like a glove. “By overlords. By drugs. It was time to focus on me.”
Ivanna turns to look at him and gasps when she sees him in the dress. She puts her hands up over her mouth.
“Oooooh, baby you’re about to make me cry and ruin my makeup,” she says, fanning herself and blinking. “My little Angel Dust is all grown up.” She comes over to him and helps him put the wig on, securing it in place. Then, she snatches a tube of nude lipstick from a nearby vanity and unscrews the cap.
“By the way, who was that cutie you were here with?” Ivanna asks, leaning in close to apply the lipstick to Angel’s lips. “He your boyfriend?”
“He’s my boss,” Angel says with a laugh. Then, because he’s feeling good about how tonight is going, he adds, “But we’re working on somethin’ more.”
She laughs, throwing her head back dramatically, before she lightly swats Angel on the arm. “That’s my Angel Cakes. Setting your eyes on the prize. Gettin’ it on with a sexy sugar daddy.”
“It’s not like that,” Angel says, waving her off. He can’t help but smile, though, because it’s weird to admit out loud that this time, he really isn’t in it for the fame and fortune. Val had arrived in Angel’s life at his most vulnerable. Angel was lost and desperately searching for that thing that would make him feel a little less empty inside. Val hadn’t been that, but he had done a hell of a job pretending he could be. Husk might actually be it. “Not this time. I uh. I actually really like him.” His face feels hot. “Think I might be fallin’ in love or somethin’.”
“Okay, now I’m really gonna cry.” Ivanna looks at him with something soft and kind in her eye. Fuck, Angel is so glad that they ended up here tonight.
There’s no way Husk could have known that Angel would end up being pulled back stage to perform a number, but it worked out perfectly. Angel isn’t even nervous, he’s excited. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this about performing.
Ivanna pushes Angel down in the chair at the vanity and starts working on powdering his face. They don’t have time to go all out, but Angel is pretty enough that he doesn’t need much make-up for the look they’re going for tonight.
“So this boo of yours,” Ivanna says, meeting Angel’s eyes in the mirror. “Has he ever seen you perform?”
“No,” Angel says. “It’s been a while since anyone has seen me perform.”
Ivanna smiles at him, and then wraps her arms around him from behind. She’s strong and warm and smells like cotton candy. Angel leans into her touch. “Well then all the more reason to go out there and show him how out of his league you really are,” Ivanna says, lifting Angel’s chin up so he can face himself in the mirror fully. “Make him worship you like the goddess you are, hunty.”
The person staring back at him is beautiful. In drag, Angel is everything he’s ever wanted to be. He’s pretty. He’s fierce. He’s powerful. Years ago, when drag was part of Angel’s daily life, he would look at himself and be unable to recognize the person looking back at him. It was a costume; an escape from the person he was so that he could temporarily become someone else.
This time, Angel thinks he does recognize the person looking at him. Not completely, not yet, but enough that they’re no longer strangers.
Angel takes a deep breath and lets it out, closing his eyes. “I’ll try.”
Angel takes the stage a few minutes later to a roaring applause after Ivanna introduces him as “the cunt of all cunts” and cues the music for his number. It’s a Verosika Mayday song that he knows like the back of his hand, and it surprises him how easily he remembers the choreography. He thought he was going to have to bullshit most of it, but being back on stage turns out to be easy. Performing is part of who Angel is, and it all comes flooding back to him when he’s standing under those lights.
The experience of performing in front of a crowd for the first time in years is absolutely transcendent. The crowd loses their minds with his every movement, but he barely hears them. He’s too focused on one person; the guy sitting front and center, with hungry yellow eyes that look at Angel like he’s something incredible.
Husk does not take his eyes off of Angel for the entire performance. He’s at the edge of his seat, and Angel forgets for a minute that there are other people around them because he becomes completely hypnotized under the intensity of Husk’s gaze. Angel’s number finishes before he’s ready for it to end. There’s an ache in his chest when the lights come back on, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. He takes a bow to a standing ovation and the rest of it is a blur.
Ivanna says something. The audience laughs. Another song starts up. Angel leaves the stage and goes back to the dressing room and he feels slightly dizzy from the intensity of everything that’s happened.
Angel slips out of his dress and back into his oversized sweater and is in the process of wiping off his makeup when there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it’s Ivanna coming to check on him, but when he opens it, he’s surprised to see that it’s Husk.
He’s wearing the same intense expression as he was when Angel was on stage, and he’s silent as he steps into the room.
“Oh, hey,” Angel says, feeling suddenly very exposed. “I was just about to come back out—”
Husk’s lips are on his before he can finish his sentence. Husk kisses him with a passion and ferocity that he’s never had before, and it makes Angel’s knees feel weak. Angel melts into the feeling and loses himself in it. Husk’s hands are strong where they hold Angel and he growls into Angel’s mouth, insistent.
They stumble backwards in a mess of limbs and Angel doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life. Is Husk all hot and bothered from watching Angel perform? If he is, that’s literally the hottest thing ever what the fuck—
Husk pulls back, and levels Angel with yet another intense look. His voice is liquid fire when he asks, “You wanna get the hell outta here?”
Breathless, Angel replies, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 18
AN: Trigger warning for canon-typical mentions of sexual trauma and the ways in which healing from that can be difficult. Proceed with caution, and take a break if it gets too tough to get through.
Angel doesn’t know shit about magic. He used to think that it didn’t exist, but now that he’s spent nearly a century in Hell he knows for a fact that it does. But cosmic magic — the kind of magic that’s written into the stars and the flow of the universe — the kind of magic that leads people down paths and brings them together and pulls them apart — that’s the kind of magic that Angel thinks is guiding them tonight as they stumble into Angel’s room in a mess of tangled limbs and frantic whispers.
It has to be magic. There’s no other way to describe the pull Angel feels towards the man in his arms. It’s like everything Angel has ever done has led him to this point in time, like every mistake he’s ever made was just labor in laying the path that was always supposed to bring him here. It feels otherworldly as Angel lets himself fall backwards onto his bed while Husk sheds his clothing, porcelain mask discarded in the heap of Egyptian cotton on Angel’s floor.
With the door closed and the rest of the world still moving on the other side of it, everything in the quiet of Angel’s room is still. The facade has been lifted, the audience can no longer see them, and for the first time since they met all of that time ago, they can see one another. Husk is looking at Angel with a broken-open expression, walls torn down, and Angel is breathless as he reaches out to touch the delicate line of Husk’s jaw.
“You’re beautiful,” Husk says, taking the words right from the tip of Angel’s tongue with a kiss that leaves them both feeling lighter than air.
Angel lets Husk pull his sweater off, and then they’re both there, shirtless and staring at each other like they’ve never seen another person’s body before. Angel feels like a person possessed, like his body is moving on its own. It’s instinct that compels his movements, a deep desire to know and be known that Angel hasn’t ever let take purchase in his heart until now.
This night feels like a dream. It feels like the kind of story Angel has only ever seen in fairytales and cheesy romance novels. He didn’t know that this kind of thing really happened to people; he didn’t know that love could feel this good.
For so many years, love had been scary. It had been a headfirst slide into the unknown, it had been plunging his entire body into ice-cold water and no way of knowing which way was up, and it terrified him. Being with Husk isn’t like that at all.
There’s still a fear that comes with this kind of intimacy that Angel isn’t quite equipped to handle. He’s been naked in front of a camera more times than he can count, but for some reason being naked in front of Husk makes his stomach flutter with the anxiety of being seen for the first time. Angel feels stupid — he feels drunk off of the taste of Husk’s lips on his, lost in the ecstasy of his careful, hesitant touches as clawed fingers tickle their way up and down Angel’s sides.
“What’re you gonna do to me?” Angel asks, his voice barely audible over the sound of his pulse roaring in his ears. They’re standing in front of Angel’s bed, swaying in place, unsure of their next move. The plush pink of Angel’s duvet is beckoning them to collapse onto it, but still they hesitate.
The bed is uncharted territory. It opens the door to possibilities that Angel isn’t quite sure they’re ready for yet. It makes them available to one another in a way that they weren’t before. As much as Angel was eager to take that leap before, now that the opportunity has presented itself, he finds himself wanting to savor the romance between them instead.
What if they have sex, and it changes everything? What if Husk realizes that Angel is a slut with a body count he lost track of and decides that he isn’t interested anymore? Or worse — what if he is interested, and that’s all their relationship ever is?
Angel loves sex. Becoming a sex worker was the easiest non-descision he’s ever had to make because he knew he’d be fucking great at it. But being good at something like that — something that provides a service that indulges those deep, sick, primal urges in others, has its downsides. Angel knows when he goes from a person with feelings in the eyes of someone he’s sleeping with to a writhing body with what Valentino called: “mildly entertaining holes” with which he can provide unadulterated pleasure. He can see it in their eyes; the realization that Angel’s value as something to fuck far exceeds his value as a personable companion.
Angel doesn’t think he can handle it if Husk looks at him like that.
But then, Husk kisses his jaw. His touch is gentle and sexy and perfect, and Angel doesn’t know why, but he thinks that Husk would never see him like that. He doesn’t have it in him. Husk’s voice is low when he asks, “What do you want me to do to you?”
He’s always asking Angel what he wants. He treats Angel like his opinions matter, like they’re in this together.
“I want…” Angel swallows. He feels dizzy again. Husk’s cock is hard where it presses against Angel’s thigh and Angel wants it. “I want to get you off.”
Angel punctuates his sentence by reaching down and stroking Husk through his pants. Husk sucks in a breath through his teeth and closes his eyes and Angel feels him shiver.
“Alright,” Husk says after a minute with a nod. He opens his eyes and levels Angel with that gorgeous yellow gaze. “But I have to warn you– it’s been a while. More than a while. I haven’t done this with anyone in a couple of decades.”
He sounds a little bit nervous. Angel wonders if maybe that was part of Husk’s hesitation. Is he anxious about having sex with someone with Angel’s level of sexual experience? That would make a lot of sense, actually.
“That’s okay,” Angel tells him. He kisses Husk sweetly, to drive home the point that Husk’s inexperience is not a hurdle for him. “It’s kind of hot. I like bein’ the one you make the exception for.”
“You’re no exception, kid,” Husk says, grabbing one of Angel’s hands and bringing it up to his lips again. Fuck, why does Angel’s body feel weak every time he does that? Shouldn’t Angel be tired of the same old party trick being used over and over again? “You’re just special.”
Angel can’t fucking breathe. Which of them is the more experienced one again? Angel’s pretty sure he has no idea how to take someone’s breath away with three fucking words like it’s nothing.
“Please,” Angel says, and he hears his voice crack but coughs to try and cover it up. Fuck, he feels like a love-sick kid with a crush. “You’re such a sweet-talker.”
“It’s true,” Husk says, pressing his lips to Angel’s knuckles. A dirty trick. “You callin’ me a liar?”
And then they’re kissing again. It’s messy and easy — hot and uncoordinated as they press their bodies together and lose themselves in the feeling of feeling. Husk’s tongue traces Angel’s bottom lip and it makes his legs feel like they’re going to collapse out from under him.
“How do you want me?” Angel asks, breathless. “On my knees, with you sitting on the bed? Between your legs while you lay back and relax? On the floor with your hand pulling my hair and you standin’ up, knees weak?”
Husk, unsurprisingly, answers with Angel’s wants as priority. “Baby, I want you however you wanna give it to me.”
Angel doesn’t know what he did to deserve Husk, but he must have done something right at some point in time because — fuck. How does he even respond to that? Does Husk even realize what he’s doing in giving Angel all of the control? Does he have any idea how much this kind of freedom is fucking with Angel’s head?
Angel hates making decisions about what he’s going to eat for breakfast, and Husk wants him to call the shots in bed? No way. That’s way too much pressure.
Angel doesn’t like to feel pressured to make choices when he’s in bed. He likes to disappear into the soft, warm place that accompanies ecstasy while his partner makes him feel good. Well — most of the time his partner makes him feel good. He doesn’t like to think about those other times.
He swallows again but he’s starting to feel uneasy.
“Just tell me what you’re lookin’ for and I can make you feel good,” Angel tells him. He hopes that it’s enough. He knows that he isn’t explaining it very well and he isn’t exactly interested in having a big, deep talk about his sexual traumas in the middle of their first time actually hooking up. He doesn’t want to be a mood-killer.
Husk, though, gets it. Without Angel having to elaborate, Husk pulls back a little, meets his eyes, and nods.
“Let’s move this to the bed, baby,” Husk whispers into Angel’s mouth before he kisses him again. Angel closes his eyes and lets Husk lead him over to his bed. They both crawl onto the mattress a little awkwardly, and then they lay side by side, facing one another.
It’s so startlingly intimate that Angel is once again unable to say a single thing. Since when has someone been able to stun him to silence so many times just by being there? Husk is so beautiful, so soft, so perfect that it drives Angel crazy. He didn’t know that he was capable of feeling this way for another person. They haven’t even touched each other yet — they’re just laying there, bodies undressed down to their underwear on top of Angel’s duvet, looking at each other and it’s somehow the hottest thing Angel has ever done.
Husk’s eyes are intense when they meet Angel’s, but Angel can’t bring himself to look away from them. He’s being pulled in like something out in space caught in a hyper beam, but he isn’t afraid. He feels like he’s been lost for ages out in the abyss and now he’s finally being rescued.
Husk moves first. He reaches out a hand and cups Angel’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. They lay like that, tangled up in one another, kissing lazily as if they have all of the time in the world. And in a way — they do. The eternity of Hell was always something that had felt like a punishment to Angel, but now, he thinks that maybe forever isn’t so bad if he has someone like Husk by his side.
Husk who understands him. Husk who took him to a fucking drag show for their first date because he listens and he cares about Angel’s hobbies and passions. He’s given Angel so much already, and it’s the least Angel can do to return the favor.
“What do you want me to do?” Angel breathes, pulling away.
Husk stares at him. “You want me to tell you?”
He’s asking for permission. Angel can tell that this type of thing might still be a little out of Husk’s comfort zone, but he’s trying. He’s working hard to accommodate Angel’s needs, and right now what Angel needs it to be told what to do.
Angel nods.
Husk searches his face for any evidence of hesitation and when he doesn’t find it, he strokes a hand through Angel’s hair and says, “I know that mouth of yours is pretty good at talking.”
Angel thinks he might choke on his own tongue. “Sure is.”
“Wanna show me what else it’s good at?” Husk doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he grabs Angel and pulls him in for another heart-stopping kiss. He slips his tongue in and bites down on Angel’s lower lip and it’s so fucking good that all Angel can do is groan into him in response.
Carefully, Angel climbs on top of Husk without breaking the kiss. He straddles him, upper arms caressing and caging in Husk’s face while the lower ones make quick work of palming Husk’s cock through his boxers. Angel hadn’t been able to get a good look at it before as it had been shrouded behind a layer of plaid cotton, but Angel’s felt Husk through fabric enough times to know that he’s very blessed below the belt.
Angel smirks into the kiss, knowing that his prowess in this area will probably work to his advantage when it comes to impressing his partner. Angel’s swallowed down an impressive number of dicks in his day; big ones, small ones, weirdly-shaped ones. Husk’s, regardless of its impressive size, shouldn’t be too much of a challenge.
He pulls Husk out of his boxers and Husk gasps, hips bucking upwards in a frustrated chase for release. It’s cute, Angel thinks, to see him come apart like this. Angel strokes Husk’s cock beneath him, working it easily to full mast before dipping down to kiss Husk’s jaw, his throat, his chest.
“Fuck,” Husk breathes as Angel slowly shimmies himself down the length of his body. He looks so good laid out against the soft pink of Angel’s bedding, breathing heavily, back arched, with his cock out and hard and ready for Angel to have his way with it.
Finally, Angel thinks, positioning himself on his belly between Husk’s legs. I’ve been waiting for this.
Angel takes a moment to admire the view in front of him. The tough, no-nonsense overlord that had managed to break down all of Angel’s walls without even trying to is now naked and shy on Angel’s bed, cock pretty and pink and twitching in Angel’s hand while Angel strokes him lazily — teasingly slow in a way that he knows must be agonizing. Husk’s hand is covering part of his face so that Angel can’t see his expression fully but the rise and fall of his chest with every labored breath tells Angel that Husk is barely holding it together.
Angel slides his thumb up and over the swollen head of Husk’s cock and swipes away the bead of precum that had begun to pool, causing Husk to suck in another sharp breath before letting out the most gorgeous half-cry, half-moan that goes straight to Angel’s cock.
They’re really here. They’re really doing this. Angel can feel the drumroll of their build-up in the pulse of Husk’s cock in his hand. Other than Val, Angel hasn’t sucked a dick because he wanted to in years. He hasn’t been intimate with anyone in even longer, not in any real way. Angel doesn’t think that he can call what he had with Val in the last two (fuck, three?) decades of their relationship “intimate.” Angel and Val stopped making love very early on in their relationship, and sex became something that was more transactional or recreational. There were rarely any feelings — well, there were rarely any mutual feelings.
This is different. Like everything else about Angel’s relationship with Husk, the start of their physical relationship feels like something important. Angel isn’t doing this because he feels obligated to. He’s doing it because he wants to.
With that realization in his chest spreading warmth through Angel’s entire body, Angel takes the leap. When he takes Husk in his mouth for the first time, Angel finally feels free.
It feels good. The slide of Husk’s cock in his mouth, the sound of Husk’s breathing hitching, the salty-sweet splash of precum on his tongue. Angel knows what he’s doing — he’s done this thousands of times — but something about this just feels so much better than all of the other times. When Angel isn’t sucking a cock for work, when he’s doing it because he wants to hear the stuttered moans of the person he’s pleasing, there’s a decadent kind of ecstasy that comes along with it.
Angel takes his time. He paces himself, easy with the pressure when he needs to be and heavy with the use of his tongue. Husk’s body language tells him everything he needs to know about when to slow down, speed up, or pull all the way off to swirl his head around the head of Husk’s cock. Husk isn’t quiet, but he isn’t loud either. He doesn’t make theatrical noises or say degrading things to Angel, but he moans and gasps and growls and Angel thinks it might be the hottest thing he’s ever experienced.
“Fuck,” Husk says when Angel takes him all the way. Angel’s gag reflex has been nonexistent for nearly a century, but even so, he usually saves deep-throating for special occasions. “God, you’re good at this.”
Husk’s cock fills his mouth and the sensation of Angel taking him so deep makes Husk’s thighs clamp shut. This close to Husk’s hips with his mouth full and his ears covered, Angel absolutely lets himself get lost in the way the world around him seems muted and blurred. He starts to slip away, escaping to that safe and warm place he usually goes to when he’s doing this.
Except, he doesn’t want to slip away. He wants to be present, he wants to be here, but his body doesn’t know how to let him. Years of dissociating during sex has made it difficult for Angel to stay present even in moments when he wants to.
The problem is that it’s been so fucking long since he’s wanted to.
Angel tries to fight it. He tries to push back against the warm, comfortable darkness that’s threatening to take over his vision, but it’s so hard when it feels so good. Angel feels his eyes start to roll back and his own cock is painful where it strains against his belly, trapped between the lace of Angel’s underwear.
Shit.
He’s starting to have a panic attack.
Angel exhales through his nostrils. Husk’s hands reach down and find purchase in the top of Angel’s hair and he expects them to push him down, to force him to keep going even when he’s so clearly starting to lose himself, but that’s not what happens. Instead, Husk’s touch is gentle and his thighs fall open and Angel is being pulled off Husk’s cock and there are sweet, soft things being uttered that Angel can’t quite hear through the ringing in his ears.
“—with me?”
“Hnn?” Angel lets himself be laid down on the bed.
“Angel? You okay, kid?”
Husk is talking to him. Fuck, no, no, no — how could Angel have let this happen? He feels so fucking embarassed. With sheer willpower, Angel forces the darkness from his vision and steadies his own breathing.
“Y-yeah,” Angel manages. He tries to sit up but Husk holds him back with a kind hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m alright, s-sorry.”
“Hey, don’t be sorry,” Husk says, his voice soft and soothing. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
But he does. They were fine, they were in the middle of finally getting somewhere, and Angel had to go and ruin it with his stupid trauma. He feels like such a fuck up. And worst of all — he’s still so fucking horny.
“It was just too much,” Angel says, looking away. Husk doesn’t leave his side, choosing instead to pull Angel in and hold him close to his chest. “I uh, I ain’t used to doin’ this kind of thing when I’m not high outta my mind. I started to slip away in the middle and I don’t know why—”
Angel swallows. He does know why. He did this to himself. Years of having meaningless sex while high and teaching himself coping mechanisms to get through the bad times (and fuck, there were so many bad times) has left him broken and bruised.
“I’m sorry,” Angel says again, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s embarrassed.
“You don’t gotta apologize,” Husk says. “And you don’t gotta explain. We can stop.”
Stop? Angel doesn’t want to stop. He’s been waiting for this for weeks!
“I don’t wanna stop,” Angel groans, turning into Husk’s embrace. They’re both still so fucking hard, and the feeling of Husk’s still wet cock on Angel’s thigh doesn’t make his want any less intense.
Husk kisses Angel’s temple.
“I know you said you don’t want to call the shots, but I need you to work with me here,” Husk tells him. “I’m out of practice with this kinda thing. I need you to tell me what you want.”
And that’s… fair, Angel supposes. He feels so stupid for being such high-maintenance. He’s not usually like this. He’s usually an easy lay who doesn’t complain.
But then again, that’s usually because the guys he sleeps with wouldn’t even notice if he did complain.
“I want you,” Angel says. “I want to make you feel good.”
Husk hums. “I want to make you feel good too, baby.”
Another thing that Angel isn’t used to.
Angel sighs. “I know I’ve been bitchin’ about it non-stop, but maybe we could…”
“Go slow?” Husk asks, lifting a brow.
Angel deflates. Husk had been right from the very start, hadn’t he. “Yes? But I’m still so horny, and this night was goin’ so well, and I don’t wanna stop when we’re both still rarin’ to go.”
Husk is quiet for a moment as he considers how to move forward. Then, he moves closer and lays on his side so that they’re both facing each other.
“Let’s try somethin’ else,” Husk says, softly. He meets Angel’s eyes and Angel swallows. He trusts Husk.
Carefully, Husk reaches down takes them both in his hand. Angel gasps and buries his face in the crook of Husk’s neck.
“Is this okay?” Husk asks, and he doesn’t move his hand until Angel nods in encouragement.
He jerks them both off, his big hand gliding up and down the lengths of their cocks. It’s amazing, the simplicity of it, how such an easy position can feel so good. Angel’s head is still spinning, but this time, he doesn’t slip away. Husk stays close, his voice like an anchor, holding Angel in place.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby,” Husk tells him. Then he growls and rolls his hips and Angel moans in satisfaction. It feels so good to have Husk’s hand on him, to feel Husk’s cock against his. There’s no penetration happening, there’s no service being provided other than the two of them rubbing against one another in a mutual pursuit of pleasure.
“I’m not gonna last,” Husk whispers after another strained noise. The proclamation does something to Angel; it makes his own release feel closer, almost tangible.
There’s nothing Angel wants more than to see Husk cum. Just thinking about it makes Angel writhe against Husk and sink his teeth into his neck. Angel doesn’t think he has the strength to speak, but he makes a noise that he hopes Husk will take as encouragement.
Husk picks up the pace. He strokes them both faster, hips bucking with every fluid motion, and the noises he’s making would give Angel’s porn-noises a run for their money. It’s hot. It’s easy. It’s better than Angel could have possibly imagined.
When Husk cums, he spills over his hand and onto both of them. The slick, warm wetness works as a lubricant that pushes the experience from amazing to fucking mind-blowing, and Angel is grateful when Husk doesn’t stop in spite of his own climax. It’s like he knows that Angel’s release is close, like he doesn’t care that his own cock is spent and oversensitive, like he just cares about Angel getting to the same place before they stop.
It’s that sentiment that does it — it’s realizing that Husk wants Angel to cum that finally gets Angel to spill his own load over the fast-paced up and down of Husk’s hand. Angel makes a noise and his body tenses before finally relaxing, and he heaves a heavy sigh of relief when Husk’s hand slows to a stop.
“Holy shit,” Angel says, after a few minutes of blissful afterglow.
“Yeah,” Husk agrees.
“Holy shit,” Angel repeats, before bubbling into laughter. Husk laughs too, and they break apart and roll onto their backs. Angel is sweaty and sticky but he’s happy, and he hasn’t felt that way after sex in…
Maybe ever.
They clean each other up lazily and make small talk, and maybe Angel is just imagining it, but it feels like Husk is having just as hard of a time with not smiling as Angel is. They fall back into Angel’s bed without bothering to put their clothes back on, and Angel thinks that he could get used to this.
They didn’t have sex. Not fully — not yet. But Angel thinks that maybe that’s okay. He’s so used to rushing into things, to losing himself in the hypnotic pull of another person, that he usually forgets to remember that he’s supposed to be falling in love with himself through the process. This time, he wants to do things right.
He wants to take his time. Tonight was a huge first step, but they still have a lot of work to do. And for the first time, that thought doesn’t seem so scary. Which is why Angel decides that tonight is as good of a time as any to get something that’s been bothering him off of his chest.
Angel had a panic attack during sex tonight. He lost himself in his own coping mechanisms and instead of being an asshole and pushing Angel to continue when he didn’t want to, Husk comforted him and got him off in a way that worked for him. That’s never happened before. Guy’s don’t usually — they don’t — they’re not like that. Husk is different.
Husk is special.
If Angel wants this to work, he needs to make sure that there’s no tension between them as they go forward.
“Why did you reject me?” Angel asks, cuddling up to Husk with his head resting on Husk’s shoulder. Husk’s arm is a strong, firm support behind him, rubbing Angel’s back gently. “That first time we… why?”
Husk lets out a breath, and then reaches over to Angel’s nightstand where a pack of cigarettes and a lighter are haphazardly thrown amongst Angel’s other small-time-problem vices (a pack of edibles and his THC & CBD vapes). He grabs the carton and holds it up in question and Angel nods before Husk opens it, slides one out with his teeth (his other hand is occupied, thank you very much) and then plops it back onto the nightstand. He gives Angel the lighter and Angel lights the end, watching the tobacco burn bright red and then fade to a dim orange. Husk takes a pull and then exhales, filling the room with the sickly-stale smell of cigarette smoke.
Angel likes the smell. It’s comforting.
“I told you,” Husk says, softly. His hand trails from Angel’s back up to his head where it starts massaging little circles into Angel’s hair. “You ain’t the only one of us with shit you gotta work through.”
“You said I was putting on an act,” Angel says with a snort. He takes the cigarette from Husk’s hand and takes a drag, savoring the warmth that burns in his lungs. Nicotine doesn’t do anything for him anymore, but the sensation of smoking always relaxes him.
“You were,” Husk replies.
“I wasn’t,” Angel insists, blowing the smoke out into the room.
“You were, kid, and you know you were.” Husk plucks the cigarette from Angel’s fingers and puts it back in his mouth. He sucks in and holds it for a moment before exhaling through his nostrils. Angel has half a mind to cut him off, to argue with him that Husk can’t possibly know what Angel knows, but he doesn’t. Normally, Angel hates having emotional conversations like this when he’s not high out of his mind, but tonight he feels like maybe he can do it. Maybe it’s the date, or the fact that they finally made it to third base, but Angel feels safe expressing his frustrations to Husk and feels like he owes it to him to hear him out in return.
“I don’t know,” Husk says after a beat of silence. “I felt like you just wanted to please me, like I was one of your clients. You were making these noises, and saying shit that just felt so fake and I—”
“I don’t really know any other way to be,” Angel says, because, fuck, maybe Husk is right. Maybe Angel was putting on an act. Maybe he was putting on a show without even trying to. “I can’t remember the last time I had sex for myself.”
Admitting that out loud is harder than Angel thought it would be. It’s true; he can’t remember the last time he had sex with someone without making a show out of it. Angel doesn’t know if he even knows how to get fucked without putting his walls up to protect himself. He needs a fortress to hide within if things start to get rough (in a bad way), so going into sex without any protections isn’t something he’s used to doing.
When Angel has sex, even if it’s because he’s horny, he goes into it with the goal of being able to be of value to someone else. For the last few decades, that “someone else” was Valentino.
Angel had let himself be used and abused by porn star after porn star for Val’s pleasure. He had let Val himself do whatever he wanted to do with Angel’s body because it meant that Angel was being useful to him in some way.
Fuck, he might start crying if he lets himself think about this too hard.
“Then maybe it’s a good thing we decided to take this slow,” Husk says, snuggling up to Angel a little closer. He tightens his grip where he’s holding him. “I don’t want this to be — I want us to — I’m nothing like that scumbag Valentino.”
“I know you’re not,” Angel says quickly. Of course Husk isn't like Valentino.
“I’m not interested in being another thing you use to hurt yourself,” Husk says. “And I don’t want you to be that for me, either.”
When he puts it like that, it’s hard not to see it from that angle. Angel is in the process of getting clean, so of course he would immediately start seeking out another vice. He hadn’t even realized that he had been doing that, but his need to fuck has been clawing at him like an itch ever since he stopped using as much. Rushing into this could mean catastrophe if they’re doing it for the wrong reasons.
“That night,” Husk continues. “When you… when we kissed after the game with the sins, you weren’t in your right mind. Neither was I, to be honest. I get a gambler’s high after a big win like that, and I wanted you because you helped me get there. Because you were hot. Because I knew you wanted me back.”
Husk sighs again. “But then I realized that I didn’t want that. You started sayin’ shit that people say in porn and I realized that we were both using each other for different things, and I didn’t want that.”
“I don’t want that neither,” Angel chimes in. His heart feels like it might burst. All he and Valentino had ever done was use one another. It was a mutual thing, and they both fucking knew it.
Angel knows he could easily brush off the pain of his break up with Val by acting hurt that he had allowed himself to be used, but the truth of it all was that he had used Val just the same. He used Val to feel good. He used Val to get drugs. He used Val to forget about all of the shit he had going on inside of him. He doesn’t want Husk to be that for him.
He doesn’t want Husk to be another vice.
“I know,” Husk tells him. “Which, not to change the subject but speaking of that bastard Valentino, there’s something else I need to talk to you about,”
Angel sits up. He feels like they’ve reached a good place in their conversation, and is almost relieved to be moving on for now. They can revisit this later, once they’ve both had time to process that’s been said. “What’s up?”
Husk shifts, looking uneasy. “In a couple of days, I have a game scheduled with Hell’s overlords. It’s an open invitation and the Vees usually attend. I can’t exactly ban them without causing a mess of problems I don’t have the ability to deal with right now, so I was thinking of maybe sendin’ you away that night. I can put you up in a hotel somewhere, or—”
“Whoa,” Angel says, putting a hand up. “Why would I leave?”
Husk stares at him. “Because he’s your evil asshole of an ex?”
“I ain’t afraid of him,” Angel says, and he surprises himself when he realizes that he believes what he’s saying. “I don’t need to hide from him. If you don’t want me workin’ the game because you don’t want me to be a distraction, I get it. But I ain’t leavin’ here like some coward. I ain’t hidin’ out in some hotel.”
Husk smirks, and his eyes are fierce when he says, “Do you want to work the game?”
Angel thinks about it. There’s no guarantee that Val is even going to be there, but if he is, Angel feels like he’s ready to face him. Val’s too obsessed with appearances to try anything more than a few nasty comments on someone else’s turf, so in a way, this might be the perfect scenario for their reunion.
It’s been a while since Angel left. He knows that there’s no way Val is over it, but the fact that he hasn’t tried to come here and force Angel back into his arms shows that in spite of his rage, Val respects the set of rules that all overlords abide by. Angel belongs to Husk. Val has zero claim to him.
“Yeah,” Angel tells Husk. “I wanna work the game.”
Husk pulls him in for a kiss, and Angel feels like maybe this time, things will be okay.
Chapter 19
Agreeing to do the overlord game had seemed like a good idea at the time, but as the night grew closer, Angel’s confidence in his ability to face Valentino began to flicker like the flame of a candle that had been burnt down to the wick. He wondered if he were strong enough to do this, if he had enough wax left in him to keep the flame burning or if he should just submit and let it burn out. The offer to put him up in a hotel room to keep him far away from the overlord game was still on the table; Angel knew that if he were to ask Husk, it would be a non-issue for him to be carefully concealed and kept somewhere safe for the evening, but Angel didn’t want to do that.
He decided that he was tired of running during Extermination Day, and he wasn’t about to lose sight of the lesson he learned that day. Fizzarolli had stopped running. Vaggie had stopped running. Angel owed it to both of them to do the same.
So when the night finally comes, Angel pushes through the anxiety that claws at him from a deep, dark place inside of him. He knows that tonight will either be fine, or it will be an absolute shit-show, and until Val arrives and they actually see each other, there’s no way of knowing which way the pendulum will swing.
The unpredictability is what makes Angel feel the most uneasy.
Still, he knows that he is not the same person he was before. The person that signed with Valentino in the first place was broken and sad and loved drugs more than he cared about himself. The person that Angel is now isn’t anything like that. Now, Angel is stronger — he’s working on getting clean and he’s starting to feel more confident with the person he is on the inside. He’s still broken, but he’s on the mend. For real this time.
Angel doesn’t need to look through his closet to decide what he’s going to wear tonight, he already knows. The gold fabric of the dress that Cherri bought him all that time ago has been tantalizing him for days, calling out to him to finally slip it on and show Husk exactly who he’s got as a business partner.
The dress hadn’t felt right the last few times he tried it on. He didn’t feel like the kind of person who deserved to look the way the dress made him look — confident, expensive, beautiful. He still doesn’t quite feel like those adjectives fit him yet, but he’s almost there. So when he puts it on and looks at himself in the mirror, he doesn’t hate the person he sees staring back. It feels sort of like being back in drag did — like he’s putting on the clothes of the person he wants to be. He’s half-tempted to put on a wig and really pull in the look, but he decides against it.
He does however still opt to accessorize with the pearls Cherri gifted him and the earrings that Husk won in the game night with The Sins. He powders his face and slaps on a nude lip and suddenly, he’s Miss New York 1945. He’s tall and slender and pretty, with a dress that brings out the color in his eyes and hugs his curves in all of the right ways. All he needs is a sash, a crown, and a bouquet of flowers and he’d pass for one of the beauty queens he always envied back when he was still forcing himself to conform to gender norms.
Angel can’t wait to show Val everything he’s missing out on.
He still has about half an hour before the game starts, and his nerves are starting to get the best of him. Angel has a stash of coke hidden under his mattress in case of emergencies, and right now, he can practically hear it calling his name. A little bit of coke would really help to take the edge off, and Angel has been so good lately that maybe he deserves a little treat.
The room is quiet when he sinks down to his knees and sticks his hand underneath the plush mattress. He finds the small plastic baggie easily and he holds it tightly in his palm. His ears start ringing and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it won’t go down. If he does this, it’s going to be hard not to take the entire bag. He knows that when it comes to cocaine, his self-control is extremely compromised. It’s the drug he named himself after for Christ’s sake, so of course trying to stop himself from basking in the high of it would be impossibly hard.
He’s stressed. He’s anxious. He’s going to have to see Valentino tonight. He needs this.
Ugh — but trying to get back to where he is now, trying to get back to a place where he hasn’t indulged in his cocaine addiction in weeks is going to be so fucking hard if he lets it back in. Would it help him feel better? Yes. It would. At least, it would for the remainder of the evening. After that, though, Angel would have to go back through the withdrawals he’s been working himself through all over again. Weaning himself off of cocaine instead of going cold turkey made the symptoms more manageable, but it also meant that they lasted longer. Angel doesn’t want to deal with that again.
Plus, there’s also the issue of the increased potency of the high after cleansing the stuff from his bloodstream. In life, this would be a recipe for an overdose waiting to happen. In death, it’s the serpentine temptation of the addiction’s warm embrace that could lead him down yet another path of self-destruction. If Angel gets high off of this tonight, it could easily lead him to a full-on relapse.
So it’s with a heavy heart and even heavier self-control that Angel decides against pulling the baggie out from beneath the mattress. Instead, he shoves it further in and pulls his hand out empty. Not tonight. He’s better than that tonight.
Instead, Angel opts to take his nightly spoonful of Love Potion by Velvette a few hours early. Val being at tonight’s game means that Angel will be within breathing distance of Val’s toxin, so Angel needs to be prepared to resist it. In a way, Val’s toxin is worse for him than cocaine is because access to it means proximity to Val, and proximity to Val means falling back into the same kamikaze patterns that led Angel to rock bottom. Being high on Love Potion will give him a wall of defense against anything Val might try to throw at him.
The potion is sweet as it slides down his throat and he shudders at the instant warmth that blossoms in his stomach. This stuff is meant as a date-rape drug, but Angel is in the unique position of having built up an immunity to it after having spent so many years hooked on the real stuff that the high isn’t strong enough to knock him out. Instead, it makes him feel loose and pleasantly euphoric.
The real stuff — the poison straight from Val’s mouth, is a little bit different. When Val’s poison enters Angel’s veins, it’s like he understands what happiness is. The stuff is like pure ecstasy; sweet and delectable in a way that makes his teeth ache. It feels like that moment before an orgasm, the height of a high that only sex can give, but for hours instead of seconds. Angel can’t help but miss it. He doesn’t miss Val of course, but he misses the way it felt to feel absolutely nothing at all. He misses the way that Val would kiss him and bleed that precious venom into Angel’s open mouth, and how he would leave Hell in the moments following it and float into a world far away.
Angel’s general state of being is fraught with so much fucking noise. There’s the noise of the suffering all around him that borders on unbearable on the good days and sends him spiraling into a fit of empathetic agony on bad ones. There’s the noise of his past, screaming at him from his nightmares as memories he wishes he could forget play like movies in his head while he sleeps. Then, there’s the madness of being awake that haunts him with self-deprecating thoughts of his own uselessness and inability to be anything more than a failure that blasts so loudly in his ears that he can barely fucking think straight.
When Val offers him his poison, all of that noise just fucking stops.
It’s why Angel stayed for so long. It’s why even now, it’s the one drug he can’t live without. The diluted stuff doesn’t quite do the trick of canceling out all of the noise, but it muffles it and makes life more bearable. So Angel swallows it down along with his shame, and he heads out of his room and into the elevator that will take him down to the floor where his partner is waiting for him.
Husk is just leaving his office when Angel arrives on that exclusive floor that they’ve been on together so many times. He’s dressed in a velvet suit with an orange cotton shirt beneath it and he looks strikingly handsome. Angel can’t help the smile that plays on his lips at the sight, and he lets an approving growl escape him as he comes closer.
Husk turns to face him at the noise and then freezes where he stands as he takes Angel in. Angel watches as Husk’s expression shifts from surprise to something else — something that Angel can’t quite place because he doesn’t know if anyone has ever looked at him like that before. It’s something stronger than desire and more personal than lust. Husk’s cheeks are flushed and his pupils are blown wide and his jaw is slack, and for a moment, Angel can’t even tell if he’s breathing.
Then, Husk blinks. His tongue peeks out between his lips and he wets them, before he sucks in a shaking breath.
“You look…” Husk looks like he may be at a loss for words. His eyes trail up and down Angel’s entire person, darkening with every inch of him that they soak in. “Incredible.”
Angel’s been complimented thousands of times, but this one hits him differently. He feels himself start to flush but he doesn’t look away. He just smiles, and then he says, “Thanks. You don’t look half bad yourself.”
Husk doesn’t take his eyes off of Angel. He reaches out and takes Angel’s hand in his and he gives it a little squeeze. Then, as he has so many times before, he lifts Angel’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. It feels just as good as it did the first time, and Angel can’t help but swoon for the man who stole his heart.
With Husk here with him, Angel feels like he can do anything. He’s been so worried about tonight — he’s been so worried about seeing Val, but with Husk kissing his hand and looking at him like that, all of the worry just disappears.
“You ready for tonight?” Husk asks, softly. Angel knows what he’s really asking; the tone of his voice and the slight lift of one his brows pave the way for the true meaning behind his words. Are you ready to see Valentino?
Angel swallows. “Yeah,” he says, and right now he thinks that maybe he is ready. Everything that he’s been through has led him to this place, and he wants to see this through. Facing Val is part of his healing journey. Eternity is a long time, and Angel can’t keep running forever. “I’m ready.”
Angel is pleasantly buzzed from the love potion he took earlier and he has his THC vape in his purse just in case he needs it. It won’t do much to calm his nerves, but something is better than nothing. He wishes he were more fucked up, because that would make this much easier. But for now, this is the situation that Angel is in, and he’s got to be strong.
Angel and Husk greet their guests as they arrive, and Angel finds that entertaining the overlords is much easier than entertaining any of the hellborn. Overlords were human once, and that gives Angel a special advantage when it comes to schmoozing them over. He knows how to deal with human souls. They’re a lot simpler, a lot more straight-forward when it comes to what charms them and what doesn’t.
Angel also finds that he knows a lot of these people. Being the primary partner of an overlord for a few decades meant that Angel was present (well, if you can call being high out your mind during meetings ‘present’) for a lot of the Vees’ business events and meetings. The Vees were newer overlords with way too much power for their own good which meant that many of the older overlords disliked them, but regardless of dislike, they were still respected as a threat. A three-way alliance between power-hungry demons meant that the Vees were untouchable and revered, and that was all part of their intentions.
Angel recognizes quite a few of the souls that join them for tonight’s game. There’s Rosie, the overlord of cannibal town, with her man-eating smile and adorably vintage sense of fashion. Angel is pretty sure that everyone in Hell knows her. She’s famously one of the kindest overlords who still manages to rule with an iron-grip on the loyalty of her people. She’s been around for a long, long time and Angel doesn’t foresee her going anywhere. Then, there’s the dinosaur. Angel thinks that her name is Zeezi? Something like that? It for sure starts with a Z. She and Velvette used to be friends a few years back and then there was drama that Angel doesn’t care about that led to a falling out but — Angel knows her well enough because of it. When she enters the room, she gives Angel an enthusiastic swat on the back and compliments him for managing to free himself from the Vees. He smiles and laughs and tells her that it was the best decision he ever made, except that it wasn’t a decision. Well — not at first, anyway.
No, Angel’s soul still does not fully belong to him. He’s here because he wants to be, yes, but he’s also here because it’s his obligation to be. He may not belong to Val anymore, but he is still subservient to a master.
It’s been a slightly sore sport for Angel in regards to his relationship with Husk that he hasn’t exactly known how to touch on. Husk has told Angel that he is not required to work for him, regardless of what his contract says, but Angel still feels like he owes it to him to remain an employee. Maybe it’s because of his trauma with Val, but Angel just doesn’t really know how to navigate having his soul bound to someone without fulfilling the duties expected of him. Husk has tried to explain it to Angel a few times — he’s tried to rationalize his decisions by telling Angel that it’s about numbers, not about indentured servitude, but Angel still doesn’t quite buy it. He doesn’t think that Husk is a bad person, he just takes issue with Husk’s understanding of Hell’s caste system and how it impacts their relationship for Angel to be contractually bound to him.
Angel isn’t with Husk because he feels like he needs to be. He’s with Husk because he wants to be, but sometimes he wonders if that feeling is entirely mutual. It’s something that Angel wants to bring up eventually, but not right now.
Certainly not tonight.
Husk is much more loose and friendly with the other overlords than he was with the hellborn. He drinks more heavily too, which Angel takes as a sign of his comfort level. He’s more willing to let his guard down with other sinners than he ever was with creatures from this realm that he could not possibly hope to ever really understand. Angel’s job tonight is easier than he thought it would be, and before he knows it, he’s cracking jokes that even manage to make Carmilla Carmine, the Ice Queen of Hell herself, chuckle behind her wine glass.
Everything is going well for the beginning part of the night before the game starts, and Angel thinks that maybe he had been anxious for nothing. Husk and him make a great team, and it doesn’t take long for Angel to realize that everyone is having a good time. But then, there’s a flash of green light followed by an icy chill in the air as another overlord that Angel has never seen joins the party. He’s a strange-looking man with magenta hair and yellow eyes. He’s well-dressed and takes a moment to wipe a bit of dust off of his pin-stripe peacoat upon his arrival. Then, he glances around the room to take it all in. He spots Angel and Husk and tilts his head to the side in consideration before casually sauntering over towards the bar where they’re standing.
“Alastor,” Husk says, and there’s a tightness to his voice that Angel hasn’t heard there before. When Angel turns to look at him, Husk is starting at the newcomer with a dark expression. Who the fuck is this guy?
“Oh hello, Husker my old friend, it’s good to see you.” The man, Alastor, is smiling. He’s been smiling since the moment he appeared at the door, but something about his expression makes Angel uneasy. His mouth is smiling; sharpened, yellow teeth on display for everyone to see, but his eyes tell a very different story. “It sure has been a while, hasn’t it?”
When you’ve worked in the industries that Angel has, you learn how to read people. Angel learned a long time ago that you can tell a lot of things about a person by their eyes, and Alastor is no exception. He may be smiling, but there’s something sinister and calculated going on behind that happy face. His eyes are surveying the room like a predator seeking prey, like a hunter looking for the next sorry creature they can strike down and make into their dinner.
“I thought they said you disappeared,” Husk says, that same tightness in his voice.
Alastor laughs. It’s an eerie sound that sends a shiver down Angel’s spine. His voice is distorted, like he’s speaking through a filter that makes him sound like an old-timey radio host from Angel’s generation. When he laughs, that filter crackles and strains, revealing a small sliver of the man beneath it. It’s that sliver, the tiny piece of proof that whoever the fuck this is was human once, that sets Angel on edge with the demon’s laughter. There’s something so cartoony, so wildly fantastical about the demon in front of him that seeing even a blink of humanity in his features is off-putting. Angel feels Husk tense up beside him and it makes him worry. Husk doesn’t get uncomfortable.
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Alastor says, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just away on sabbatical. I had no idea I would be so missed. I’d have come back sooner.”
“Why are you here?” Husk asks. “What do you want?”
Alastor’s eyes flash, but his smile does not waver. “Why, I want to play poker, of course.”
Husk looks very much like letting this guy play poker with the other overlords is the last thing he wants to do, but Angel doesn’t think he’s in the position to turn him away without a valid reason. Based on the look on Alastor’s face, he knows this already.
Husk glares at Alastor, and Alastor glares right back. Then, Husk sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking away.
“Fine,” Husk says, backing down. He gestures towards the table. “Have a seat.”
Alastor needs no further invitation. He turns his head with a snap and swaggers over to the table, where he takes a seat beside The Cannibal Overlord, Rosie. The two of them strike up a conversation like old friends, and Angel turns to check on Husk.
Husk isn’t looking at them. His eyes are still shut and he seems annoyed as he scrubs a hand over his face.
“Perfect,” Husk mumbles, just loud enough for Angel to hear. “Alastor’s fucking back.”
“Uh,” Angel says, feeling very confused. “Who?”
Husk startles, like he forgot that Angel was beside him, and turns sharply to look at him.
“Fuck, sorry,” Husk says. He seems on edge, like the arrival of this weird overlord somehow threw him for a loop and added a pile of shit to his already overcrowded list of responsibilities on a night like tonight. “That guy’s The Radio Demon. He used to be hot shit in the overlord scene a few years back, real horror-movie kind of bullshit. Got off on making the other overlords piss their pants in fear of being overthrown. He disappeared almost a decade ago though, without a trace. Figured he got caught up in some Extermination Day fiasco, or got offed by some demon he pushed too far with access to angelic weapons, but apparently he’s fine. Where he’s been for the last several years is beyond me, but I don’t think I wanna know.”
Husk visibly shudders. Who the fuck does this fucker think he is, making Husk act like he’s afraid? Husk ain’t ever afraid of no one. Is this guy really that big of a deal? Why hasn’t Angel ever heard of him until now?
“He looks like a strawberry pimp,” Angel says, shrugging. It manages to pull a small, breathy laugh from Husk, which makes Angel smile. “I don’t get it though — do you guys have beef or something? Why are you actin’ like him bein’ here is this big, bad thing?”
Husk looks uneasy.
“I’ll give you the details later, but the short version of a very long story is that the asshole came uncomfortably close to owning my soul once,” Husk explains. He doesn’t meet Angel’s eyes when he says it, and Angel gets the sense that there might be some shame pent up around the memory. Which, Angel can’t say he blames the guy — since when do overlords worry about having their souls taken? “It didn’t happen, but part of me has always wondered if somewhere out there in the universe there’s a version of me that did lose my soul to the fucker. He’s the kind of demon that will do anything to get ahead, even playing dirty. Don’t let him out of your sight, and whatever you do, don’t end up in a room alone with him.”
Angel isn’t afraid of “The Radio Demon”, or whatever the fuck he calls himself. Has Husk forgotten who the previous owner of Angel’s soul was? Whoever this pink-deer-twink is, he’s a non-threat to Angel. He gets why Husk is uneasy around him (it sounds like whatever happened between them caused a lot of tension) but Angel has dealt with the worst of the worst. He can handle this old-timey prick, no problem. He doesn’t hold a candle to Val.
As if manifested by Angel’s thoughts, Val enters the room next, followed closely by Vox. Angel’s breath catches and he must show an obvious change in body language because Husk’s hand comes up to place a comforting support on Angel’s lower back.
Val looks good, but that’s not a surprise. Val always looks good. He’s wearing his professional clothes; a low-cut v-neck shirt with an open sharkskin blazer and a pair of tight-fitting sharkskin pants. His nipples are out, which was always Angel’s weakness, and he’s wearing his favorite gold chain link between his two piercings. Vox is business-casual as usual, and he spots Angel across the room before Val does.
Vox’s face glitches and then his expression darkens. He has to have known that he would see Angel here. He has to have known that there was nothing he could do to avoid this confrontation. And yet, he still looks mildly annoyed to see him standing here. Though, to be fair, when has Vox not looked mildly annoyed to see Angel standing anywhere?
Val squints and Angel realizes that he’s standing far enough away that he probably can’t see Angel with his shitty eyesight. He’s wearing his aesthetic glasses and not his prescription ones (Angel hates that he knows that) but Angel can tell that he’s looking for him. The realization sets Angel immediately on edge. Vox nudges Val and then whispers something in his ear and Val’s head snaps over to where Angel is standing and stares.
“You got this, kid,” Husk says, leaning into Angel’s space. His voice is an anchor and Angel feels some of the tension leave his posture from the reassurance alone. “That fucker won’t try anything as long as I’m here.”
It’s true. Val won’t try anything while he’s surrounded by so many people. He may have a tendency to fly off the handle, but Vox has him trained to know when and where to keep himself in line for appearances.
Vox and Val make their way over towards where Angel and Husk are standing to greet their guests. As Val gets closer and Angel’s ensemble comes into view, his expression flickers. His eyes glance over Angel’s entire body, taking it all in. The dress looks amazing on him, he knows this, but having Val look at him while he’s wearing it makes him want to cover himself in a shroud and hide his body from the world. He knows that hungry look in Val’s eyes. He knows when Val sees something that he wants.
Angel used to love seeing that look in Val’s eyes when he looked at him. Now, all it does is make him want to vomit.
“Good evening, Husker,” Vox says, matter-of-fact. He’s using his ‘serious business’ voice that Angel has heard a thousand times, and he holds out a hand for Husk to shake.
Husk takes his hand with a firm grip and Angel tries not to freak out. He does not like the thought of Husk interacting with any of the Vees, and seeing them touch makes his stomach churn.
“Thank you for coming,” Husk says, sounding casual and professional. “We are just about to get started on the game, if you’d like to take a seat.”
Husk is keeping the conversation intentionally brief, probably to spare Angel any unnecessary stress. Val, unfortunately, doesn’t have the same mindset.
“Husker, how are you baby?” Val asks, coming up behind Vox and leaning on him. Val is smiling, with that fake voice he uses when he’s trying to play nice. “Long time no see.”
Val says nothing to Angel, even though Angel is standing right there in front of him. Val doesn’t even turn to look at Angel, and aside from that initial hungry look in his eyes, he makes no acknowledgement of seeing Angel there at all.
“Valentino,” is all Husk says, with a curt nod in Val’s direction. Husk takes a step towards the table, obviously hoping to avoid the awkwardness of their forced interaction, but Val steps in front of him.
“Yes, the last time I was here, you managed to hustle my most prized contract from me,” Val says, narrowing his eyes. “What are the chances you’d let me challenge you to a rematch?”
Angel knows that Husk won’t agree to it, but he can’t help the very real fear that he feels at the suggestion. So long as Husk owns Angel’s soul, the possibility that he could use it in a bet and lose it is still there. Angel fucking hates that.
He hates that his soul is so expendable. He hates being used as currency. He hates being spoken about like he’s an object.
“I didn’t hustle you,” Husk says. He isn’t being rude, but there’s a tightness in his voice that’s hard to miss. “I won fair and square. It’s not my fault you decided to make a bet you weren’t willin’ to lose.”
Val sneers at him. “I had been on a winning streak all night,” Val explains. “And then suddenly, you beat me. Is that not what hustling is?”
Husk shrugs. “I wasn’t giving it my all until you put something valuable up for a bet. Make it worth my while and I actually start trying to win instead of sleeping through the game.”
Val doesn’t like that answer.
“If we’re so boring, why don’t we make it interesting? You put Angel’s contract back up for bet and I’ll wager—”
“He’s not up for bet,” Husk says, dismissively.
Val stares at him. At his side, Vox tenses and glares at Angel.
“Why the fuck not?” Val demands. This time, Val does look at Angel. There’s fury like a fire burning behind his red eyes, and it makes Angel feel like he might be sick.
“Because I ain’t stupid enough to risk losin’ a soul him,” Husk says, like it’s the simplest answer in the world. “Unlike you.”
Val growls. “Who the fuck do you think you—”
“As much as I love watching the drama unfold,” Alastor interrupts from the table. His voice is loud, like he’s magically projecting it from an invisible PA system. The room falls silent, and all eyes turn to look at him. Alastor is smiling still, feet propped up on the table as he leans back in his chair. Beside him, Rosie giggles behind her hand. “I’m pretty sure that most of us came here to play a card game.”
A few things happen at once. First, everyone in the room chuckles and makes their way over to the table, ready for the game to start. Angel isn’t sure how many of them had been watching the altercation, but they all seem eager for it to be over. Second, Husk makes a frustrated noise and that angry, orange aura that Angel’s seen him emit during times of heightened emotions starts to burn hot as Husk’s hair stands on end and he glares at Alastor from across the room. And third, to Angel’s surprise, Vox turns to look at the person who interrupted their conversation and Angel swears he sees sparks erupt from the back of Vox’s neck.
Angel has seen Vox angry before. Angel has seen Vox murder people in blind fits of fury before. But this? It’s a whole new kind of anger.
He recognizes Alastor, Angel realizes, and there must be an encylcopedia’s worth of shit between them because if any of the Vees ever looked at Angel the way that Vox is looking at Alastor, Angel thinks he would light himself on fire to spare himself the torture. Val’s attention shifts from Angel and Husk and quickly over to Vox. He looks vaguely worried, an emotion Angel didn’t think Val was even capable of, and he grabs Vox by the shoulders to prevent him from lunging across the room.
“Alastor?” Vox says, through the static that breaks apart his speech. “You have got to be fucking kidding me! I thought you were dead!”
Alastor laughs, and the temperature in the room drops by at least ten degrees. “Heavens no! What ever could have given you that idea?”
“Vox, baby, calm down,” Val says, his tone shifting. “Don’t let him rile you up—”
“Seven years,” Vox says, looking around. “He was gone for seven years and none of you are going to look even remotely surprised to see him here?”
The other overlords look at each other and shrug.
“Why should I give a shit where he’s been?” Zeezi asks. “I’m just here to smoke all of your asses in a game of cards and get wasted.”
“That makes two of us, sweetheart,” Rosie chimes in, holding her glass up.
Okay, Angel is definitely missing out on like, an entire book’s worth of lore here. He makes a note to remind Husk to fully explain who the fuck this radio freak is later, once everyone is gone.
Vox looks around the room like he thinks that every single one of the other overlords is insane. He goes to say something again, to argue probably and make a scene about whatever drama he has with this guy, but Husk stops him.
“If there’s going to be a problem, the two of you are welcome to leave,” Husk says. Then, he puts his arm around Angel and pulls him close before making his way over to the game table. Angel’s face feels hot and he’s all too aware of how obvious Husk is being with his affection.
They hadn’t talked about if they were going to hide their relationship from Val or not, but it looks like Husk has made the decision for the both of them. Angel catches sight of Val’s dark expression as they walk by, and he feels a warm sort of satisfaction at being able to brag about finally being with someone who properly appreciates him.
Vox looks like he might leave. Angel hopes that they both will, considering how much they’ve managed to embarrass themselves tonight, but they don’t. Instead, they quietly join the others at the table while shooting unhappy looks at both Angel and Alastor.
The games begin, and Angel tries to have fun with it. He spends the night at Husk’s side, leaning on his shoulder, wishing him good luck, and helping make sure that the other overlords’ drinks are being filled.
It’s a busy night, but Angel takes it in stride.
A few hours in though, Angel is starting to feel like he might suffocate from all of the tension and pressure he’s been under. There’s a brief break in between games, and Angel excuses himself to go get some air. He isn’t even planning on leaving the floor, he just needs to get out of this room. Whoever this Alastor guy is, Angel wishes that he’d never shown up.
From the moment he arrived, Husk has been on edge. Angel isn’t used to seeing Husk fall apart like this, and tonight of all nights is the worst possible time for something like this to happen. Angel needs Husk to be his support, not the other way around. Val has been watching Angel all night, carefully observing his every move, and it’s making Angel feel like a zoo animal in a cage.
Which is how he often felt when he was in a relationship with Val. He feels like he’s just this thing for Val to ogle at, like Val thinks that this is all part of some stupid, silly game. Angel had hoped that Vox would be able to keep Val under control, but with Alastor here, Vox has been extremely distracted. He’s lost every round of cards that they’ve played while Alastor has won the majority, and with every victory, Angel has watched Vox’s anger rise. Alastor has somehow single-handedly managed to rob Angel of not one, but two of his defenses against Val tonight and he wasn’t even trying.
Which is why Angel needs a break. The air in the room is feeling stuffy, and he needs to breathe. He doesn’t tell Husk where he’s going because he doesn’t want to risk Valentino overhearing him, and he sneaks off into one of the other rooms on this floor for a few moments of quiet time to himself.
Angel hasn’t done a lot of exploring of this part of the casino. Aside from Husk’s office and the primary private game room, Angel knows nothing of what hides behind the other doors on this floor. The first door he tries opens up to a medium-sized room with a few leather couches, an empty bar, and a billiards table in the center. The table is set with the balls perfectly placed in a triangle, just waiting to be broken. Angel walks in and touches the soft, felt surface.
The table is blue instead of the traditional green, and Angel smiles. Husk’s aesthetic choices are all so intentional, and this one isn’t any different. He makes a mental note to ask Husk about this room later. Does he use it often? Is he a professional at billiards, as well as cards? He feels better already, being out of that room. He lets his mind wander some more and he pictures Husk in here, with a cigar hanging out of his mouth, carefully angled over the table as he strategizes his next move.
Maybe the two of them could play a game together, sometime.
Angel sighs and walks over to the empty bar. It’s pretty bare, but Angel still manages to find a half-empty bottle of tequila tucked low on one of the shelves behind a stack of folded hand-towels. He makes a noise of victory and unscrews the cap before drinking it down like water. He needs a drink after the night he’s had.
Angel’s back is turned to the door, so he doesn’t see the other person enter the room with him. He sets the bottle down on the bar and staggers a little from the nauseating rush of alcohol entering his system. He’s just starting to feel a little bit better when someone speaks, startling him.
“Well that was quite the performance, baby.”
Val’s voice is impossible not to recognize. Angel would know it with his eyes burned out of his skull; the slightly melodic cadence, the harshness of the vowels, the slight lisp of an accent that he’s spent years trying to train out. Angel knows that Val is the intruder in his space, and it makes his hair stand on end.
“I’m happy to see that you’ve still got it.”
Angel turns, knowing better than to have his back turned to Valentino for too long. Val is standing there in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his upper arms crossed and his lower ones on his hips. His eyes are narrowed and there’s red smoke trailing from the tip of a cigarette that’s hanging loosely at his side.
Angel’s fingers twitch at the sight of it. The desire to submit to Val is there almost immediately when he sees the cigarette — the tobacco is soaked in Val’s poison, making it easy to ingest slowly for a high that lasts for hours. Angel used to smoke those cigarettes exclusively when they were together, and he would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to rip if from Val’s fingers and suck the sweetness through the filter right here and now.
Angel resists, though.
“What are you doing here, Val?” Angel snaps. He doesn’t want to let his uneasiness show, so he stands up straight and uses every ounce of his will power to keep from looking at the cigarette. “This room is private, for employees only. You shouldn’t be here.”
“‘You shouldn't be here’,” Val mocks, doing a crude impression of Angel’s voice and accent. “Since when do you tell me where I should and shouldn’t be?”
Angel rolls his eyes. The door is still open, he could make a run for it, but Val is standing in his way and blocking his path.
“What do you want?” Angel asks, keeping his distance. His guard is up, because he knows that if Val followed him here there’s no way his intentions are good.
“What happened to us, Amorcito? We used to be so happy.” Val frowns and takes a step inside of the room. Angel’s eyes dart towards the doorway and Val catches him contemplating making a run for it and makes quick work of shutting the door behind him, closing them both in. “And now your ungrateful whore ass is asking me ‘what do you want’ like I’m some evil villain. I thought we had something special.”
He’s taunting Angel — purposely playing with his emotions and making fun of Angel’s pain. Playing it up like he’s not aware of the abuse he forced Angel to endure is its own kind of sick joke, because Angel knows that Val is all too aware of how much he’s hurt Angel.
Angel feels himself starting to get angry. It starts in his chest and spreads to his toes, his fingers, and it makes him have to bite his tongue to hold back the furious words threatening to spew from his lips. Val must think this whole thing is just some game. He must think he stands a chance of winning Angel back, or tempting him back with promises of drugs, money, sex, and security. The look on his face says that he’s thought this whole thing out. He’s confident in the way he carries himself, like he thinks he’s somehow already won.
Angel wants to punch him right in his ugly face. He wants to tell Val how fucked up he is, how cruel, how wrong he is for everything that he’s done. He wants to tell him that he doesn’t need him — not anymore, not the way he once did. He wants to yell and scream and cry and pound his fists against Valentino’s bare chest until he understands the fact that he doesn’t get to waltz into Angel’s life and act like he owns him. Not anymore.
But then, Angel catches his reflection in the red sheen of Val’s glasses. He sees himself standing there, wearing the dress that Cherri bought for him and the earrings Husk won for him, and he remembers everything that got him here. He doesn’t need to yell or scream. He doesn’t need to fight back. He’s regained the ability to stand on his own two feet, and he looks fucking incredible doing it.
Seeing himself in Val’s glasses, in his fucking eyes, reminds Angel that he will never be the person Val wanted him to be again. He will never be submissive. He will never let himself be stepped on for a fix.
“I have nothing to say to you, Val,” Angel says, crossing his arms. Val’s expression darkens and Angel sees his hands ball into fists. He was not expecting Angel to stand his ground.
“Nothing?” Val asks. He takes a step closer and Angel instinctively takes a step back. “How about ‘I’m sorry I left you when all you’ve ever done is take care of me’? How about a thank you for all of the times I could have thrown you onto the street, but didn’t? How about some sort of recognition of the shit you’ve put me through by dragging out this fucking baby temper tantrum?”
Angel glares at him.
“I ain’t throwin’ a tantrum,” Angel says, but Val cuts him off by picking up one of the billiards balls and throwing it hard against the wall. Angel’s eyes go wide and he feels himself start to panic, a full-body response to the trauma of seeing what happens time and time again when Val gets this angry.
His gut instinct is to apologize. Every single muscle in his body is screaming at him to run, and his brain is begging him to take the necessary steps to calm Val down.
“Tell me, Angie, does Husker know that you’re playing him for the same fool you played me for? Is he smart enough to recognize a professional con artist when he sees one? You’ve really got him wrapped around your little finger, huh?” Val takes a step closer with every question until Angel moves to put the billiards table in between them. He doesn’t want Val anywhere within arms grasp of him.
Sure, the chances of Val hurting him with everyone else in the room were slim, but now they’re alone. Val made sure to corner Angel in a way that would make him vulnerable, in a place that would be hard to escape.
“It’s not like that,” Angel tells him. He hates the way his voice cracks. He hates the way he can feel the fear starting to take over his rationality.
“Oh, really?” Val says, with a hollow laugh. “Because to me, it looked like you were hard at work riding your new master’s cock so that you can get ahead once again. Tell me, how much did that pretty little dress cost you and did any of that money come from your own pocket?”
Angel doesn’t answer him. He just glares and continues walking around the billiards table with Val at his heels. They’re circling the table like buzzards circling a corpse, and Angel doesn’t know which one of them is going to give into the inevitable pull first.
“That’s what I thought,” Val says, with a smug grin. “People like you, leeches like you, they never change, do they? You find new victims to latch onto and you suck them dry until you’re fat with the blood you stole from them. It makes me sick just looking at you.”
He’s trying to get under Angel’s skin. Angel knows that’s what he’s doing. Val is so good at knowing how to pour salt into open wounds, and he’s a master at knowing specifically which wounds will hurt Angel the most.
He knows that Angel feels insecure about using people. It’s something that Angel told him when they were together, something shared in moments of intimacy between them before everything fell apart. Val knows Angel better than anyone. Fuck, Val might even know Angel better than Angel knows himself.
Which is why being with him right now is so fucking dangerous.
He hasn’t put a hand on Angel yet, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t already done significant damage with his words. Angel knows that Val is just trying to hurt him, but he can’t help but wonder if there’s some kind of truth to what he’s saying. Is Angel just using Husk? Has he been taking advantage of his new overlord’s kindness, and pushing himself to the top so that he doesn’t have to wonder how he’s going to survive?
Shit, now Val’s in his head. Now, Angel is wondering if any of this is even real. Are his feelings real? Are Husk’s feelings real? Or is Angel just doing what he does best and putting on an act so that he can live a comfortable life? He’s been talking this big game about finding his own path and independence, but is that really what he’s doing? Because Val is right — everything that’s different about Angel right now has been manufactured by other people. The dress was a gift. The earrings were a gift. He didn’t even buy the potion he’s high off of, the potion he’s been hiding from both Husk and Cherri so that he can keep microdosing Valentino behind their backs.
“You don’t know anything about me,” Angel hisses through gritted teeth. His eyes are starting to sting with tears that are begging to fall, but he doesn’t dare let them. Not in front of Val.
Val laughs again, and it sends a shiver down Angel’s spine. “I know everything about you, baby,” Val says.
Angel is standing at one part of the shorter end of the billiards table with Val standing at the other. The vast expanse of the table is between them, dark blue felt decorated with scattered, multi-colored balls like stars in a night sky. Angel wishes he could fall into it and disappear; to float through space and forget about all of this.
There is a way, of course, that he could have that. There’s a free ticket to that endless feeling shoved under his mattress upstairs in his room. There’s an even closer ticket standing just a few feet away from him.
As Val’s words start to truly sink their teeth into Angel’s already rotting self-confidence, Angel feels himself drawn to the monster that’s dead-set on devouring him. Val’s venom is enticing, and Val must have known that striking Angel the way he did would work in his favor because he’s salivating, red poison pooling at his jaw, leaking down his chin. It takes everything Angel has not to crawl across the table and lick it off.
Directly in front of him stands Valentino: the worst of the worst of Angel’s addictions, staring him down with a sinister smile. To his left is the door. It’s still closed, but Angel thinks that maybe he could make it if he’s fast. He feels like he’s being tested.
Val has been horrible to him since the moment he walked in the door, but that’s exactly why Angel wants him. It’s Val’s ugliness in Angel’s weakest moments that draws him to him. It’s the fact that Angel feels like this is what he deserves that makes him ache to run right back into Val’s arms and let him take him far away to that place where he goes when he gets high.
In the past, Angel probably would have fallen for this. He’d have allowed Val to hurt him and he’d have crawled back with tears in his eyes begging to be forgiven in exchange for that sweet, sweet poison on his tongue. But Angel isn’t the person he used to be anymore. Now, Angel has Husk.
He has sweet, soft lips pressed to his knuckles. He has the spicy scent of cigar smoke on his collar when he goes back to his room after a night of kissing and nothing more, because they’re waiting, because the time isn’t right, because if they do this it has to be perfect. Because Husk doesn’t want to be another thing that Angel uses to hurt himself.
It’s remembering those words that solidifies Angel’s choice. He has to make a run for it.
“Come back to me, baby,” Val says, sneering. “You know that there’s no one else who can love you the way I do. There’s no one else who will put up with your selfish, needy tendencies the way that I can. I love you, Amorcito.”
Angel’s chest feels tight. Fuck. He glances over at the door. If he’s fast, he can get there in just a few seconds. A heartbeat.
“Yeah,” Angel says back. He tightens his grip on the billiards table and deepens his glare. “I loved you once, too.”
Angel runs. He dashes to his left, towards the door, but he stumbles when the bottom of his dress gets caught in the heel of his boot. All it takes is one mistake and Val is there, blocking the door and closing in on Angel’s space. His arms are strong when they grab Angel by the shoulders and Angel is too terrified to move, too stunned to fight back, and before he can even process what’s happening, Val’s mouth is on his.
Val kisses him viciously. It’s aggressive and cruel and Angel gags when Val slips his tongue in, backing Angel into the billiards table. The moment Val’s lips touch Angel’s, it’s all over. He wastes no time in saturating the kiss with venom. The sugary-sweet taste of it slides down Angel’s throat and Angel can’t resist it any longer.
It’s so fucking good that his body betrays him. He goes limp in Val’s arms, giving Val easy access to deepen the kiss. Angel’s brain is screaming at him to fight back, and for a moment, he does. While he still has a little bit of strength, Angel pushes hard against the brick wall that is Valentino and he tries to yell but Val muffles it with another forceful kiss.
The high takes only a moment to kick in, and once it does, all of Angel’s ability to fight disappears.
Angel starts to slip away. With this much of Val’s venom in his system after keeping himself clean from it for so long, Angel falls headfirst into the clutches of ecstasy. His vision blurs and his body feels numb and he can barely keep his eyes open. His mind begins to wander into that safe place it goes during moments like these and he fights hard against it, but it’s no use.
Val pushes him backwards further, onto the billiards table and he goes down easy, his body limp and pliant. Angel’s head hits the felt surface and the lights on the ceiling stretch and shake, moving in pretty patterns. Val’s hands are on him, trespassers on his skin as they pull Angel’s dress up over his knees, past his waist.
Angel is exposed; vulnerable and laid out without a single defense to keep him safe. The air is cold on his skin and Val’s fingers are scalding hot where they trail up and down Angel’s thighs.
Stop, Angel tries to beg, but his mouth won’t work. No, no, no.
Val says something that Angel can’t hear and then he dips down closer and sinks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of Angel’s throat. Angel cries out, hands coming up to weakly attempt at pushing Val off, but he can barely lift them from the table. He swats at Val’s back and writhes in place but it’s no use. Val laughs against Angel’s body and uses his tongue to force more poison directly into Angel’s bloodstream.
He pulls away and Angel touches the spot on his neck. When he lifts his hand and looks at it, he realizes that he’s bleeding. He is very aware of what is about to happen and he panics, stuck like a victim of sleep paralysis on the table, unable to do anything to stop it. Hot tears fall from his eyes and blur his vision even more.
Angel hears the terrifying sound of Val’s belt clinking as he undoes it and he tries with everything he can to get his legs to work but they won’t.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
Val comes closer, but before he can lay a finger on Angel’s body, the door behind him bursts open. Angel can just barely make out the distinct shape of Husk standing there, blurry and dark, nothing more than a familiar silhouette in a too-bright doorway.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Angel knows that voice. He tries to say something, but his mouth still won’t work. It can’t form words. He feels pins and needles all over his body, tiny termites burrowing under his skin, crawling up his arms and legs, blocking out his vision until everything goes—
Dark.
Chapter 20
Chapter 20 - Interlude
When he was still alive, Husk faced a betrayal at the hands of the person he trusted most. His business partner, a younger guy with one hell of a poker face, took every last penny that they had earned together and then vanished without a trace. Husk remembers the anger he had felt back then; the rage that surged through him as he tore what was left of their shared apartment to pieces in a blind fury. It made an ugly man out of him, and in the aftermath of his own destruction, Husk vowed never to let his temper get the better of him again.
He never wanted to feel that loss of control again; that sense of confusion when the dust clears and the evidence of your emotional outburst litters the floor in shards of shattered glass and broken furniture. He didn’t like the way it felt to act on emotion like that, and he worked hard in both life and death to get a grasp on his temper so that he would never accidentally harm someone because of the rage pent up inside of him.
But the anger that consumes him when he walks in on Valentino attempting to — to — to do whatever the fuck he was planning to do to Angel in that billiards room takes over his body in a way that makes him want to rip the bastard apart with his bare hands. He knows right away that Valentino’s intentions are filthy and depraved, and he wastes no time in crossing the room to yank him away from Angel by the throat and throw him into the nearest wall.
He can feel his corporel form bursting at the seams as the demon that dwells inside of him roars in fury. His wings spread wide and his claws grow into sharp knives that he uses to pierce Valentino through the shoulder. Hot blood spills onto his fur and he grins at the howl of pain the bastard lets out.
Good, he thinks to himself, I fucking hope it hurts.
“Shit,” Valentino hisses, attempting to squirm away. Husk holds him in place and twists the place where his sharp finger is still lodged into his flesh, causing him to cry out once more. “Qué carajo, fuck, let go of me you little—”
“The fuck do you think you’re doin’, putting your hands on him!?” Husk shouts. “How fucking dare you?”
“Oh please, don’t act like you care what one of your employees does,” Valentino says through gritted teeth. “You’re not even using him correctly! What kind of idiot gets someone like him on their chain and has him working as a cocktail waitress?”
Husk’s fist moves before his brain can process what he’s doing. He punches Valentino so hard in the face that he hears something crack and hopes that it wasn’t his hand that broke. When he pulls back, the faucet of blood pouring from Valentino’s nose confirms for Husk that he’s not the broken one in this situation.
Valentino laughs, and it just fans the flames of fury burning inside of Husk. Husk hits him again, and again, and again until Valentino crumples to the floor, laughter still shaking through his body. Then, Husk climbs on top of him and keeps going. He punches Valentino while he laughs, hits him over and over, until there’s so much blood that Husk isn’t sure which blood is his and which blood is Valentino’s.
He doesn’t know if he’s ever been this angry before. Angry at Angel for leaving the room without telling him. Angry at himself for allowing Alastor to distract him. Angry at this fuckin piece of shit bastard Valentino for being a special kind of monster, even by Hell’s standards. It doesn’t help that Husk is still a little bit drunk. To be fair, he’s always drunk, but Alastor’s surprise appearance threw him for a loop and Husk chose to self-medicate the stress the only way he knows how. The cloudiness in his brain only helps to keep Husk from being able to put a lid on the rage he’s feeling, it lets him let loose, quiets that voice in his head that’s telling him he should stop before he does any real damage.
But why should he stop? This fucker was trying to — to hurt Angel! If Husk hadn’t made it in time, there’s no telling what might’ve… might’ve…
Husk realizes with a sickening jolt that Angel hasn’t said a word since he entered the room. Husk has been hitting Val for long enough that Angel should have at least tried to stop him for his own physical safety, but he hasn’t. Fear slows Husk’s fists and sits up, still straddling Valentino’s waist, to look over at Angel.
He’s laid out on the billiards table with his dress pulled up, but it doesn’t look like Valentino managed to get much farther. Husk feels relief at that. Looks like he made it just in time. Though, maybe not soon enough, because there’s a translucent red liquid trailing from Angel’s lips and his eyes are closed, his body limp like he’s—
Husk’s heart sinks.
He knows that Angel can’t be dead. Unless Valentino managed to smuggle in an Angelic weapon without any of Husk’s security catching it, then Angel has to be alive. Besides, Husk doesn’t think that Valentino would kill Angel. No — the kid is far too valuable for Valentino to waste like that. Valentino is the kind of guy who sees the souls on his chain as toys and tools, rather than the souls that they really are.
Husk doesn’t have time right now to think about the ways in which the two of them are similar. He’s not drunk enough for that.
“What did you do to him?” Husk growls, snapping back to look at Valentino, still trapped beneath him. Valentino’s face is swollen and bloody and it takes him a minute to be able to speak.
“I just reminded him who he really is,” Valentino says. Husk thinks that he’s probably trying to smile, but his face is too fucked up. “Addict trash with the same pathetic dependencies.”
Addict…?
It is then that Husk realizes the gravity of what has happened. The pale, red substance staining Angel’s mouth is not blood. It is the same shade as the saliva leaking from Valentino’s mouth. Husk had heard a few times that Love Potion by Velvette was made from Valentino’s very own poison saliva, but he hadn’t realized that the venom could have addictive qualities.
Had Angel been that dependent on Valentino this entire time? Had he been hiding how bad it was? Had he been pushing through the symptoms of withdrawal all on his own?
Husk feels like a god damn idiot for not realizing it sooner. He knew that Angel was working his way off of cocaine and party drugs, but he didn’t know that Angel was also fighting an impossible battle all alone at the same time. How the fuck could Husk have expected him to work this game?
God, he’s the worst boyfriend—
He stops short of his own thoughts. Is that what this is? Are they together in that way, or is it something more complex than that? If Husk is Angel’s boyfriend, then he’s literally the fucking worst one on the planet because he didn’t realize how much his partner was suffering. He had been so distracted by The Radio Demon’s reappearance that he hadn’t remembered to check in with Angel and make sure that he was okay.
He knew that things with Valentino were bad. He knew that Valentino had a temper, that he was violent, that he often pressured Angel into doing shit that he didn’t want to do, and he was prepared to handle all that came with that. He wasn’t prepared to deal with this. He wasn’t prepared to find Angel passed out in a room alone with Valentino after being forced to relapse.
And the kid had been doing so well, too! He wasn’t showing up to shifts smelling like liquor anymore. He wasn’t shaking his legs when the coke wore off. He was healing, and Husk could see that. Should he have said more words of encouragement? What could he have done differently to stop this from happening?
Valentino laughs again. “Aw, don’t look too guilty. He does this to everyone. My little Angie is a master manipulator. I know the sex is good, but he’s not worth the trouble.”
Husk’s vision goes red. He punches Valentino again, and again, and again until—
“Holy fucking shit, Val!”
Husk doesn’t see Vox enter the room, but he’s being pulled off of Valentino before he can even process that he’s no longer in here alone. His claws are sharpened as his demonic form takes full control over his body, and he growls and swipes at Vox whose arms are tightly wrapped around him, taking him away from Valentino. Husk’s claws scrape against the metal shape of Vox’s monitor and Vox releases him, staggering backwards as if he’d just been slapped.
Husk feels like there are flames burning in place of where his lungs should be. On the ground, Valentino is no longer laughing. Instead, he’s moaning, hands coming up to touch his damaged face. His eyes are all but swollen shut and his pale, blue skin is barely visible behind the blood that’s pooling and dripping down his face.
“Hey, whoa,” Vox says, putting his hands up in mock surrender. His eyes are wide as he looks around the room and takes in the scene. “Calm down. Tell me what—”
“Calm down?!” Husk shouts. He’s buzzing with adrenaline. He could rip both of them apart with his bare hands right now. He could splatter them in pieces across the carpet. “The two of you come into my territory, to my casino, and touch my employees without their consent?! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill the both of you right here and now!”
In Husk’s office, just a few feet away from where they are now, there is a gun with Angelic bullets tucked inside of one of the drawers. He could get it and be back here before Vox has even managed to scrape what’s left of his shitty business partner off of the floor. He could rid Hell of the Vees once and for all.
He could do it. He should do it.
“Val did what?” Vox says, and to Husk’s surprise he sounds genuinely furious. Vox’s eyes trail over to where Angel is still passed out on the table and he winces, before looking away. “Fuck, Val, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Val groans something impossible to decipher. Vox puts his hand over his face, like he’s annoyed, like all of this is just some big inconvenience for him.
“Jesus fucking Christ I really can’t take my eyes off of you for a second without you landing yourself balls deep in shit, can I?” Vox glares down at his partner and then starts moving through the room, over towards where Angel is.
Husk growls and steps in front of him, blocking his access. He doesn’t want another Vee laying a single fucking finger on Angel ever again.
Vox lifts his brows in mild surprise at Husk’s confidence in standing up to him (he clearly isn’t used to it) and then he cranes his neck to look at Angel.
“Relax, I’m just trying to see how bad it is,” Vox says, like this is just a normal thing for him to have to do. How bad were things at Vee Tower? Angel’s soul had been owned by Val for over a decade, was this sort of thing a regular occurrence?
How much torture had Angel endured at the hands of these monsters? No wonder Angel has been so resistant to the prospect of his contract being owned by Husk. No wonder he spent his first few weeks here waiting for Husk to force him into sex work.
Husk is still furious. He’s still fucking seething with rage that is billowing off of him like steam, but Vox seems to be (horrifically) used to this, so Husk lets him pass. Husk follows him closely as he examines Angel.
Husk pulls Angel’s dress back down to cover his legs up. Angel still looks so beautiful, even in the face of such an awful situation. His makeup is smeared a little bit on his face, but otherwise he seems untouched. Husk breathes a sigh of relief at first, but then Vox turns Angel’s head to the side to reveal a nasty gash there that’s bleeding profusely onto the felt of the billiards table.
“Shit,” Vox says, clicking his tongue in annoyance. The ease at which he’s handling things just makes Husk angrier. He’s treating Angel like he’s a child who tripped and hurt their knee and might need stitches — stitches that require a trip to the hospital and therefore a massive inconvenience to him. “It looks like Val poisoned him. Great.”
He rolls his eyes and then sighs. He turns to look at Husk and puts his hands on his hips.
“It’s been, what? A little over a month since he left?” Vox asks, casual, like they’re talking about the weather.
Husk just stares at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Vox taps his foot, impatient. “How long ago did he come back here? He left, he came back to be a burden on us, and then came crawling back to you when we refused to give into his diva demands. How long has it been?”
Husk can’t believe how fucking delusional this guy is. Husk doesn’t know the details of why Angel left the Vees, but from the way Angel acts when Husk brings them up, he can assume that it had nothing to do with them refusing to meet his “diva demands” and everything to do with the circumstances that led them to where they are right now: with Angel unconscious, high, and bleeding and Valentino fading in and out of consciousness from having his skull smashed in by Husk.
“It’s been a little over a month,” Husk answers, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t see how this is relevant.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Vox says, pressing pinched fingers between his eyebrows and shaking his head. “It hasn’t been long enough to shake the dependency and it’s not soon enough for him to be used to it. God fucking DAMMIT Val!”
Vox stomps over to where Valentino is still groaning through the swelling in his face and kicks him hard in the side. Valentino cries out in pain and then turns over, shriveling up into the fetal position.
“You did this on purpose, huh? Was this part of your plan, asshole? Is this why you wouldn’t just come here and drag him back like I told you to?” Vox kicks him again. “You just had to get him fucked up, and now I’m the one who has to clean up your mess!”
On the table, Angel makes a small, barely audible noise. It’s a whine, a sob, and it breaks Husk’s heart in half. He rushes over to Angel and places a gentle hand beneath his head. The gash in his neck is bleeding pretty badly, and even though it can’t kill him, if Husk doesn’t get it patched up soon the wound could prolong Angel’s healing process.
“It’s okay, baby,” Husk says, softly. Angel is still unconscious and gives no indication that he can hear Husk at all. “It’s okay. I’m gonna get you somewhere safe.”
But first, he needs to deal with his guests. Husk turns to glare at Vox, who has just landed another hard blow to Valentino’s side with his foot.
“Wanna explain to me what the fuck is wrong with my employee?” Husk demands, his demonic energy surging again in a rush of fiery heat.
Vox glares right back. “He’s high on Val’s poison,” Vox explains, like it should be obvious. “It’s one of Val’s many ‘talents’, and the whore has been hooked on the stuff for years.”
Husk’s hands ball into fists when he hears Vox call Angel a ‘whore’, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to lunge at the asshole and rip his stupid monitor face from his stupid robot body.
“He’s been off of it long enough that the high is too intense for him to handle,” Vox says. “If I had to bet money, I’d say he’s probably been microdosing Love Potion to combat the withdrawal symptoms, which just lowered his tolerance and made it the perfect opportunity for Val to have his way.”
“So what you’re saying is that he’s experiencing an overdose?” Husk asks, putting the pieces together. How much had Angel been suffering all this time, without Husk knowing?
Had he really been microdosing Valentino’s poison, just so that he wouldn’t go through withdrawal? Husk could have helped him if he had known. He could have — fuck, he could have done something to help!
Vox shrugs. “More or less, yeah. You can’t exactly overdose in Hell, but you can—”
“—Feel like you are, yeah, I fucking know,” Husk cuts him off, gritting his teeth.
Vox looks back down on the ground where is partner is still groaning in pain. He’s quiet for a minute, thinking, and then he sighs and says, “Look, the way I see it, there are two ways that this plays out.”
Husk glares. Is this guy really going to try to negotiate at a time like this?
“Option one is you let us go,” Vox says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Husk laughs, but there’s nothing funny about this. “Why would I do that?”
Vox tilts his head to the side and frowns. “Because I know how much being an overlord matters to you. You have a reputation on the line here. If you let us go, I’ll take Val and you won’t hear from us again.”
Husk highly doubts that Valentino is going to just give up on trying to ruin Angel’s life. Eternity is a long time, and he’s spent a lot of time and energy obsessing over Angel already. Vox is incapable of making a promise like that, and they both know it.
“Or, option two is that you kill us,” Vox says, shrugging again. The ease at which is talks about his own death would be concerning, if Husk wasn’t a master at reading poker faces. Vox is very aware of the situation that Valentino has landed them in. He knows that Husk could kill them both if he wanted to, and he’s trying to act like he is unbothered by it, when in reality he’s panicking. Husk has to hand it to the guy — he’s pretty good at manipulation.
Husk is just better than most people at resisting bullshit.
When Husk doesn’t say anything, when Husk just keeps glaring at him, Vox presses on.
“I’m sure you’re already thinking about how you could do it,” Vox says. “I know that every overlord with half a brain knows to keep Angelic weapons on hand for situations like this. I probably can’t stop you from killing Val if that’s what you decide to do, but know that it would mean war against the Vees.”
Husk rolls his eyes at that. Does he look like someone who fucking gives a shit about war? Husk may not be friends with any of the other overlords, but he knows that they can’t stand the Vees. Husk would be doing Hell a favor by getting rid of them.
Seemingly aware of Husk’s thought process, Vox says, “And before you try telling me that you don’t care,” he gestures towards the door, “I want to remind you that you have a room filled with overlords over there that are just waiting for a war to break out between overlords so that they can improve their own revenue. They will pick sides and I don’t think either of us want to see which one of us has the bigger dick.”
Husk hates the fact that Vox has a point. The only thing he wants to do right now is murder Valentino for what he’s done, but doing so would mean more problems for him and for Angel. And right now, Angel still needs Husk’s help. Husk can’t get distracted with stupid fucking shit like turf wars when the person he lo—
When Angel needs him.
“Leave,” Husk commands. “Never set foot in my territory again or I will put a Carmine bullet in your chest faster than you blink. Do you hear me?”
Vox smirks, victorious. Husk wants to put his fist through his face.
“Oh, I hear you,” Vox says. He nudges Valentino with his foot again. “Loud and clear. We don’t give a shit about this dump anyway. Val, get the fuck up, we’re going.”
“You won’t be able to keep cleaning up his messes forever,” Husk tells him. “You know that, right?”
Vox closes his eyes. “Yeah, well,” he puts his hands up. “Love is a fucked up curse, right?”
Valentino groans, and starts to move, but Husk turns his attention back to Angel. He doesn’t think he agrees with Vox — not anymore. There was a time when Husk believed that, too. There was a time when Husk thought that love was only something that could hurt him, something that could tie cinder blocks to his ankles and weigh him down.
All love had ever done for him in the past was ruin his life. But that was before his Angel showed up and changed everything.
Angel’s presence in Husk’s life has felt like sunlight. Angel brought warmth into Husk’s otherwise cold heart, and he’s changed things for Husk for the better. Husk doesn’t know if he can call it love. He doesn’t know if he even knows what love feels like.
But if he had to give it a name, he thinks maybe he would call it that. Love.
“What do I do about him?” Husk asks, slowly lifting Angel into his arms. Angel’s body is burning up, and he curls into Husk’s chest.
“You need to let him detox,” Vox says. Husk hears the door creak open. “Cold turkey. Dump that over the counter shit down the drain, and watch him like a hawk.”
It’s good, genuine advice, and Husk would almost thank him for it if he weren’t such a piece of shit. Husk wants them out.
Out of his casino. Out of his territory. Out of his life.
He doesn’t watch them go. Instead, he watches Angel shake in his arms. He listens to the sound of Angel’s staggered breathing, and with all of the strength he has left in him, he carries Angel down the hall towards his office.
On his way there, Husk tells one of his imp employees to let the other overlords know that the remainder of the game will be canceled tonight. It means losing out on money, but Husk doesn’t care. He has more than enough money to last him three centuries. These games are all about clout, anyway.
Plus, it means Husk can get that bastard Alastor out of his casino. He has enough shit to deal with without that sneaky shithead poking around where he doesn’t belong.
Husk carries Angel easily. He’s lighter than Husk thought he would be, and he carries Angel into his office and through the hidden door in his bookcase that leads to his private apartment.
He’s never had a guest in here, other than the imps that do his cleaning and errands. Angel is the first human soul that’s crossed the threshold, and somehow that feels right.
Angel is special, after all.
Husk lays Angel down in his bed. Angel is scalding hot to the touch and trembling, so Husk pulls the blankets up over him and tucks him in nice and snug so that he can sweat it out. He hadn’t realized how bad things were. He hadn’t realized just how much of a hold Valentino had on Angel, and now that he’s facing the reality of it, he feels slightly overwhelmed.
He thought that being closed off was a good thing. He thought that making himself impossible to read would protect him from all of the things in life that had tried to kill him — the things that did kill him, eventually. But now he thinks that maybe putting those walls up kept Angel from being honest with him.
Husk doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the only soul he cares about to suffer in silence while he does nothing. He wants to help. He has to help.
Because as much as he’s fought himself against the truth, looking at Angel now in his bed, Husk knows that there’s no denying it.
It’s simple. It’s easy. There’s no other explanation for it.
He’s in love.
Chapter 21
AN: Hi everyone! Sorry for the late update. Grad school finals are the worst and have killed me, I am posting this from beyond the grave. Also it’s over 10k words so hopefully that makes up for the wait!
Withdrawal chapter, so trigger warning for aaallll that comes with it. Emetophbia warning. Realistic descriptions of the physical & mental parts of detoxifying your body or a substance it’s reliant on. There are also a few nightmare/dream sequences woven into this chapter. Proceed with caution but if you’ve made it this far, I don’t think there’s much in here that gets any more graphic than previous chapters. Also I use bugs in a metaphor at the start of “DAY EIGHT” so if that’s a squick for you just skip that first paragraph of that section! Thanks friends, please enjoy!
DAY ONE
“Anthony!”
Molly’s voice is like a songbird’s, sweet and pretty. She sounds exactly as Angel remembers her, and when he turns to look at her, everything from the fluffy bounce of her blonde hair to the sky blue of her eyes is the same as it once was.
She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, and they are in her room — or, some version of it. The real memory has long since faded, and Angel can’t recall what his sister’s bedroom had actually looked like.
In its place is a piecemeal display of his mind’s creation; pink walls with tattered wallpaper that fades away into dull white in certain places, like missing pixels on a television screen. There’s a window on the wall behind the bed, but the space beyond it is empty. There’s nothing there, not even space that wants to be filled.
Just nothing.
“I have to go,” Angel tells his sister. He’s standing at the door, after all, so he knows that he must have somewhere important to be.
“Please, just a little while longer,” Molly begs, puppy-dog eyes. “Come sit with me, let me hear about how you’ve been.”
She pats the space on the bed beside her. Angel’s hand is on the doorknob. He really should go. The desire to leave is strong, it pulls at his stomach like a magnet. There’s somewhere he needs to be.
Her question stalls him.
How has he been? Angel isn’t sure he remembers the answer to that, either.
Hesitantly, Angel releases the doorknob from his grasp. He needs to go, he knows that he needs to, but he can’t go just yet. Not when there’s someone who needs him.
Angel sits down on the bed beside his sister, and the room disappears in a flash of darkness.
*.*.*.*.*
Angel can’t move. The room he’s in spins around him in a horrible dance, and he can’t fucking move.
Shadows pass through his clouded vision; movement in the room he’s in. Where is he? How did he get here? He can’t remember.
His body screams in pain like it’s been set on fire. He can feel the blood in his body, he can feel the places where his bones slide together beneath his skin. There’s a pounding behind his eyeballs that won’t cease, and everything feels like it’s too much.
Somewhere far away, Angel thinks he hears music playing. He chases it; reaches for the sound with the part of him that’s trapped beneath his aching skeleton, and lets it lull him to sleep.
DAY TWO
Angel is standing at the edge of a hole in the ground. The sky is cracked open; the Extermination Day portal is a tear in the crimson atmosphere, through which only death awaits him. The battle cries of ten thousand exorcists scream through the air like the song of the summer cicada, a warning of what is to come.
Angel swallows and looks down into the dark hole that stretches wider before his eyes. He steps back, toes tracing the edge of the pit, and he feels the terrifying urge to jump.
Above him, the ultimate punishment calls to him. Heavenly angels with bloody wings and razor sharp weapons circle the sky like vultures, and Angel feels his decision time tick by with each deafening cackle from above.
“You have to jump,” Vaggie tells him. She’s beside him now, her damaged eye an endless, horrible hole in her face. “Go! Now!”
“I can’t!” Angel tells her, and his knees feel weak. “What if I hate it? What if I die?”
Vaggie looks up at the sky. When she faces him again, both eyes are gone. She opens her mouth and a black, tar-like substance pouts from it.
“It has to be better than this,” Vaggie says. “It has to.”
Angel takes her hand in his. Thunder rumbles through the sky and dark clouds gather above them.
They jump.
*.*.*.*.*
There is someone here, someone beside him, but he doesn’t know if they’re real.
A strong arm. A warm chest. The tickle of a mouth against his ear.
“I love you.”
Angel wishes he could open his eyes. He wishes he could turn towards that precious sound, and catch the lips that spoke that phrase between his teeth.
Of all of the dreams, of the nightmares, that he’s had, this one is probably his favorite.
DAY THREE
Colors swirl in his vision. Angel doesn’t know what to call the state he’s in — something in the liminal space between conscious and asleep. He’s vaguely aware that he’s in a room, but he can’t tell if it’s real or just another dream that’s determined to wreak havoc on what’s left of his mind.
He tries to move but his limbs feel like they’re tied to cinder blocks. His head is pounding and that familiar pull is back in his chest, the pull of desire, the need for something to take this pain away. He groans, and flashes of purple and blue blossom behind his closed eyes.
He’s still slightly high, but he’s coming down. The descent has always been the worst part, and Angel needs to know that he’ll be able to come back up. He needs more, he needs Val’s toxin like he needs air in his lungs.
Where is he? Is he back in his room? If he is, there should be a stash somewhere close, he just needs to get to it. Angel forces his eyes open, but everything is blurry. The room he’s in is dark, mostly, or at least he thinks it is. His vision is distorted, like he’s on a carnival ride that’s spinning so fast that the colors of everything around him bleed into one another.
Fuck, he’s going to hurl.
Angel reaches around the space he’s in, blindly searching for something, anything that would give him any indication of where he is, but there’s nothing but plush mattress and blankets everywhere he touches.
“Hey,” a voice says from somewhere close. “Hey, shh, it’s okay. What do you need?”
It’s Husk. Fuck, it’s the real Husk. At least, Angel thinks it is. He hopes it is.
A strong arm wraps itself around Angel and suddenly he’s overwhelmed with warmth. Husk is soft and sturdy, and he smells like Heaven. Angel still isn’t sure where he is, or how long it’s been, or what the fuck even happened, but he knows that Husk is here and he’s good and he’s safe.
Husk touches Angel’s face and Angel positively melts into the touch. He still feels like he’s spinning, like the bed he’s on is on a turntable that’s out of control, but holding onto Husk helps him feel grounded.
“What do you need?” Husk asks again.
Angel opens his mouth to speak, and realizes that his tongue feels like sandpaper behind his teeth. What does he need? Instantly, his mind tells him that he needs water. He’s so fucking thristy that it aches in his bones, like he’s been laid out in a desert and left to shrivel up in the sun.
He needs to drink something. He needs to ask for water.
What comes out of his mouth, however, is not a request he makes consciously: “Poison,” Angel begs. Something else takes over him, like a hand shoved into the skin of a puppet, forcing his mouth to move. “I need it, please, I need more.”
Angel feels Husk tense.
“I can’t help you with that, baby,” Husk says, softly.
“Under my mattress,” Angel explains. Fuck, everything is spinning faster. “Please, just a little bit. Please, Husky, please, I just need a little bit.”
Just enough to get him high. Just enough to make the pain stop.
“I’m sorry,” Husk says, and Angel doesn’t understand.
“Please,” Angel repeats. “Just a little bit.”
Please. He doesn’t need a whole dose. He just needs a taste. Fuck, Husk could get Val in here for all Angel cares — anything that would make the room stop fucking spinning.
“I can’t do that, Angel,” Husk tells him. “Here, drink some water. You’re burning up.”
Husk speaking it outloud makes Angel realize that he is in fact burning up. His body is trembling in response to the fever that is currently boiling through him, and it just makes the ache for relief even stronger. He needs to get high. He needs to not feel like this for a second longer.
“Husky, baby, please,” Angel begs. “I’ll do whatever ya want, okay? I’ll suck you off, I’ll lay here and let you do anything to me, just please go under my mattress and bring me that love potion—”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Husk is getting angry now, which isn’t what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to take Angel up on his offer, he’s supposed to give Angel what he wants in exchange for the only thing Angel has ever been good at. It’s how this has always worked out for him in the past.
Angel’s been turning tricks for a fix since before he was dead. Why the fuck is Husk being so difficult?
“Drink, baby, please,” Husk says, his voice still so soft in spite of his obvious frustration. He holds a glass of water in front of Angel’s face and Angel’s throat burns at the sight of it.
The room is spinning. It’s spinning so fast and he can’t keep up.
He takes the glass of water from Husk and drinks it, but the sensation of having something other than the poison his body so desperately craves sliding down his throat finally pushes him over the edge.
Angel knows he’s going to be sick before it actually happens, and Husk seems to realize it too because before Angel can completely ruin the sheets he’s laying on, Husk has a container in front of his face for him to empty the contents of his stomach into.
Angel pinches his eyes shut and wonders how many times he’s woken up and done this exact thing without remembering it. Husk seems like he’s prepared, which just makes Angel’s stomach feel even worse.
The substance that leaves his body is an awful shade of neon pink. How much of Val’s poison had he managed to take in? He doesn’t think he’s ever had this much before, not like this. He’s vomited from heavy dosage, but he’s never —
He’s never had his body seize up in response to the detoxification process like this. He’s never tasted the poison on his tongue as it comes back up.
Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Angel must look so pathetic.
Once he’s done getting sick, Husk leaves the room to empty the container which Angel is thankful for. He doesn’t need the reminder of his shame in the room with him. The physical exhaustion of vomiting seems to have taken every inch of Angel’s strength from him, and his vision starts to fade as darkness closes in.
When he’s like this — when he’s fucked up, and still high, and in the very worst stages of withdrawal, sleep is not a consentual activity. Sleep takes him when it wants to; it pulls him down faster than he can fight it, and swallows him whole.
*.*.*.*.*
Angel is in Valentino’s bedroom. Val isn’t here. He’s somewhere else – somewhere far, but also close. Too close.
The door to his bedroom is open, but Angel can’t see what waits for him beyond it. There’s only darkness there, but a feeling tugging at him from the pit of his stomach tells him that there’s something else there, too. Something waiting for him.
Calling to him.
Angel’s chest feels tight. Fear consumes him like a sickness and makes him want to vomit, but he doesn’t. He knows that he needs to leave, he needs to push himself to go through that door before Valentino gets back.
He’s undressed and sitting under a mountain of pillows that threaten to suffocate him. He starts to move and realizes that he can’t — he’s chained to the bed. Red chains, soul chains, hold him in place and keep him from leaving. Angel grabs hold of them and pulls, trying to find the source of where they are tethered, but the pillow pile is too dense.
“Fuck,” he hisses, pulling at the shackles that are too tight around his ankles.
Somewhere far away but much too close, Angel hears Val laugh.
“Nice try, Amorcito. You aren’t getting away from me that easily.”
Angel starts frantically throwing the pillows, and he feels his body start to sink down into the bed. There are too many of them, and the more he tries to fight against them, the more he tosses them off of the bed and onto the floor, the angrier the remaining ones become.
They suck him down like quicksand.
DAY FOUR
Angel wakes up.
It’s the first time he’s been fully aware of his surroundings since that night with Val, and he isn’t fully clear on what happened or where he is. He knows right away that he isn’t in his room. There are no pink neon lights or posters on his wall, and the comforter he’s under is not the same pink, fluffy one that he usually sleeps with. The room he’s in is dark, but he doesn’t feel unsafe.
He forces his eyes open and looks around. His body feels like it’s been torn to pieces and he’s had to pull himself back together and for a moment, he panics out of fear that maybe that’s exactly what happened. With all of his strength, Angel pushes himself up into a sitting position, throws off the covers and looks down at his body in the dark.
There’s no indication that he’s been hurt like that, and he sighs in relief. His body seems to be mostly intact, aside from the throbbing pain in his neck. Angel reaches up to touch it and feels a swollen, bloody gauze there, and flashes of Valentino come flooding back into his brain like scenes from a horror movie.
He remembers Val sinking his teeth in. He remembers the flow of poison and the rush of heat as the venom started to work its way through his bloodstream. He remembers getting high and starting to slip away, and then he remembers Husk’s silhouette in the doorway.
Had Husk saved him?
He realizes then that he has a pretty good idea where he is now. He had been too groggy in those earlier moments, but now that he takes a moment to really consider his surroundings, he knows that this must be Husk’s bed.
The room smells like Husk, Angel realizes, and it makes him pull the covers back up over his body and snuggle himself beneath them. The blankets have that spicy, smokey smell that Husk himself has, and Angel thinks he could lose himself in the warmth it makes him feel. In the darkness, Angel can’t quite make out all of the details, but the room feels so remarkably like Husk that it puts Angel immediately at ease.
The bed itself is huge, and piled with pillows and blankets. Angel can fully sprawl out in it and still have room to move around. He can make out the shape of a dresser in the corner and some bookshelves along the walls, but without any light he isn’t able to make any judgements on Husk’s reading choices. Figures.
Then, the door opens, and Angel has to put up a hand to shield his eyes against the burn of gold light that shines through. Husk is standing there, Angel can see his feet beneath where his hand is covering the rest of him, and he gasps when he sees that Angel is awake.
“You’re up,” Husk says, and Angel could absolutely melt into the sound of relief in Husk’s voice.
Angel’s eyes adjust to the brightness and he lowers his hand, and he can’t help but smile when he sees Husk standing there holding a glass of ice water, looking at Angel like he’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Which is fucking hilarious because Angel knows that he must look like fucking shit.
“I’m up,” Angel says, or — tries to say. His voice comes out broken, and he realizes how dry his mouth is. Husk sits on the edge of the bed and hands him the water, which Angel downs in about 0.2 seconds.
He doesn’t know which of the things he remembers are real and which of them are nightmares. He had been so high that he couldn’t think straight. He vaguely remembers snippets of consciousness, but he doesn’t know what he said or did during them.
Husk puts a hand on Angel’s back and Angel groans, putting his head in his hands. He feels like he’s been crushed beneath the heavy metal fist of a trash compactor, and he smells like it too. Even with the water, Angel’s mouth is still dry and the roof of it tastes like vomit.
“How do you feel?” Husk asks.
“Like I’m double dead,” Angel tells him. He scrubs a hand over his face. “How long’ve I been out?”
“‘Bout four days.” Husk rubs Angel’s back, and it feels so good that Angel could cry. “You were in and out of it a few times, but this is the first time you’ve really seemed like yourself.”
That’s funny, because Angel doesn’t feel like himself at all. He feels like a shell of the person he’s supposed to be, like a zombie.
“What happened?” Angel asks, though he isn’t quite sure he wants to know the answer to that.
Husk makes a face. He looks angry, which makes Angel’s stomach twist. “That bastard forced you into an overdose,” Husk explains, and suddenly, it all makes sense.
That’s why Angel feels so awful. This wasn’t just a normal high — this was an overdose. In Hell, the only way to die twice is to be killed with an Angelic weapon. All other methods of “killing” someone are impermanent, making way for a special kind of torture only Hell can dish out. When you “die” without an Angelic weapon, when your body is torn to pieces or a bullet rips through your flesh, you feel the pain of death but none of the release. Your body heals itself, slowly, painfully, and in some cases your bones regrow in an agony unlike anything Angel has ever experienced.
Healing from an overdose is its own kind of Hell. The overdose didn’t kill him in the sense that he is still conscious and his soul is still intact, but his body still died. His limbs are sore with the aches of rigor mortis, and the come down from a high that was supposed to kill him is a nightmare. In the time since his life on earth ended, Angel has overdosed only twice.
The first time was his own fault. He wanted to see how far he could go on his new tolerance in Hell. He wanted to know if he could touch God's hand if he let himself be lost to the warm embrace of blissful ecstasy. He had taken more drugs than he could even measure, and the result was a solid week of vomiting and pain. He swore to himself that he’d never put himself through that again, and he kept that promise to himself for a long time.
That is, until Val used poison to punish him for disobedience. The second time Angel overdosed in Hell was Val’s doing. Angel refused to perform for a kink that Val wanted him to do — he can’t even remember what the kink was now, because after a while all of those fucked up memories sort of fade into white noise. Val’s fury manifested itself in a strain of poison so good, so potent, that Angel disappeared completely.
When he came to, the shoot had been done without his memory of doing it, and his body had to spend several awful days detoxifying. Needless to say, Angel never refused a shoot again.
This time, though? This might be the worst one yet, because this time, Angel doesn’t have easy access to the drug he’s detoxifying from to make the pain go away.
“Fucking asshole,” Angel mumbles.
“I told that fucker Vox that if I ever see either of them on my turf again, I’ll kill ‘em myself,” Husk tells him, and that makes Angel smile.
“Val won’t give up on me,” Angel says. “This isn’t… He’s like a cockroach. Every time you think you’ve squashed him, he shows back up.”
Husk is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Well he can’t have you.”
And that? Fuck, that almost gets Angel to cry. He wants to cry, honestly. He’s in so much pain and he knows that he has a really rough few days ahead of him as he attempts to detoxify the poison from his body, and the dread is starting to set in.
But Husk cares about him. Husk might even love him, and that’s an overwhelming thought all on its own. Angel feels safe with Husk, but he doesn’t know how much Husk is going to want to be around him while he’s going through withdrawal. It’s not a pretty picture.
“Did Val say anything to you?” Angel asks, rubbing his hands together anxiously. He doesn’t remember much, but he remembers what Val had said to him. He remembers having his worst insecurities used against him. He remembers being accused of using Husk, of being incapable of caring about anything but himself. If Val said those things to Husk, if he planted those seeds of doubt in Husk’s head, Angel doesn’t know what he’ll do “About me?”
Husk scoffs. “Kinda hard to talk when you’re choking on your own blood.”
Angel stares at him. His heart sinks into his stomach. “You… hit Val?”
Husk smirks at him, because he doesn’t realize the gravity of this. “I kicked his stupid teeth in.”
Angel can’t believe this. Fuck, oh no, oh no, no no—
“Husk, you can’t do that,” Angel says, fear starting to take over. “You can’t hit Val! He’s dangerous, he’s gonna come back for revenge! You don’t know what he’s capable of—”
“Hey,” Husk says, placing a hand over the place where Angel’s hands are still rubbing together in an attempt to self-soothe. “Relax, baby, he’s gone. He can’t hurt you.”
“You don’t know that!” Angel shouts, and his eyes start to burn. If Husk hit Val — if Husk put himself in danger on Angel’s behalf, if anything happens to Husk because of Angel, he won’t ever forgive himself. “Val is a monster, Husk, he’s obsessed with power. He won’t let me go. He won’t stop until I’m his again, or until I’m dead.”
“You think Valentino is the only overlord who’s obsessed with power?” Husk asks, his voice stern. “I’ve got more power than you give me credit for, kid.”
Angel shakes his head. “No, Husk, you don’t get it—”
“Angel, he can’t hurt you anymore,” Husk says, softly. “Your soul belongs to me. As long as I have your contract, he can’t touch you without there being consequences.”
And that’s… true. Angel has been struggling with the prospect of having his contract owned yet again by a man he’s involved with, but maybe there are some benefits to it, too. Husk is right that as long as Angel is “off the market” so to speak, there isn’t much Val can do to interfere with Angel’s life.
The last time Angel went back to Val, he did it on his own accord. Husk didn’t go after him, but he could have. He had the power to summon Angel back whenever he wanted to, he just didn’t because he wanted to let Angel figure shit out on his own. So long as Angel’s soul is owned by Husk, he’s protected.
He doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to feel about that. It’s complicated and messy at best and abusive and controlling at worst. He knows that Husk isn’t the kind of person to use Angel’s contract to abuse him, but there was a time when he thought the same thing about Val. He hates comparing them, he knows that they’re different, but he wishes that he could trust himself enough to have ownership of his own soul.
Because really, that’s what this is about. Angel can’t trust himself with his own soul. If Husk were to release Angel right now, there’s no way of knowing if Angel would be able to resist selling himself off again when the weight of eternal life becomes too heavy to shoulder.
Right now, the safest place for his soul might genuinely be in Husk’s pocket. Angel just fucking hates it.
The nausea that had been swirling softly in his gut suddenly transforms into something more urgent. This is all too much.
“I’m gonna be sick,” Angel says, and Husk reaches down to the floor and comes back up with a small, plastic trash can. Angel vaguely remembers seeing this exact thing in his dream — at least he thought it was a dream. Maybe it wasn’t?
If that one was real, then maybe the other one — the one that helped him through the very worst of the nightmares — maybe that one was real too.
“I love you.”
Fuck.
Angel takes the trash can from Husk’s hands and vomits. What comes up is pink poison diluted with stomach bile and it burns his nose on its way out.
Husk might love him. Angel is sick and vomiting in his bed and Husk might fucking love him. How the fuck did he end up in this position?
“That piece of shit Vox said that you need to detox,” Husk tells him, once he’s finished puking and has downed another glass of water. “He said you’ve been microdosing Love Potion to fight off the withdrawal for months. That true?”
Angel can’t look at Husk. The shame of having his secret exposed like that hurts like a slap in the face. He nods.
Husk hums, but doesn’t say anything to scold him. Instead, Husk places a hand on Angel’s thigh.
“You need to get this shit out of your system, baby,” Husk says, gently, and Angel knows that. He’s known that for a long, long time. “For good. No weaning yourself off. You need to stay here and fight it until you’re clean.”
“And where exactly is ‘here’,” Angel asks, deflecting. He looks around. Now that the light is on, he has a much clearer view of Husk’s bedroom.
The room is spacious but still very cozy. The bed they’re in is huge and pushed against a wall in the corner, and the rest of the space is decorated with crowded bookshelves and plants. In the center of the room is a large, stunning rug — red with detailing in brown, blue, and gold. Angel wonders if maybe Husk won it in one of his games, and if its place of origin is Hell or Earth.
There are little nick nacks here and there, set up on the shelves. There are empty whiskey bottles and old, human items that Angel figures must be mementos from Husk’s time alive. He wonders how much money he had to spend to get those things to Hell, since he knows that he spent years saving up to get his locket back.
The room is beautifully Husker in every way, and Angel feels safe here.
“We’re in my apartment,” Husk explains. “It’s on the same floor as my office, tucked away behind a bookcase.”
Angel laughs. “You have a secret apartment tucked behind a bookcase? What are you, some kind of evil villian with a lair?”
Husk cracks a smile. “Something like that.”
Angel can see that there’s more of the apartment beyond the door. He wants to go out and explore — he’s dying to know what kind of place Husk lives in, what his style is, but he can feel the siren call of sleep beckoning him once more into its clutches and he doesn’t think he’s well enough to walk that far without collapsing.
“I know that goin’ cold turkey is the best option,” Angel admits, swallowing his pride and shame along with the bile that’s threatening to come up again. “But this ain’t gonna be easy, Husky. For either of us.”
Angel’s been down this road before. He knows how ugly it can get when he’s going through withdrawals.
“I know,” Husk says.
“I’m gonna beg you,” Angel explains, desperate for Husk to understand the gravity of the situation. “I’m gonna lie to you and yell at you and do whatever I can to get drugs from you.”
He needs Husk to resist him, but he also knows how hard he can be to resist. It’s a blessing and a curse.
Husk squeezes Angel’s thigh. “I know.”
“You’re gonna see the ugliest parts a’ me,” Angel tells him, and he tries not to let himself cry. The only person who has ever been able to handle him when he’s like that is Cherri. She’s cleaned his vomit from many floors, bedsheets, and mattresses while he’s attempted to detox in the past. She’s dealt with his screaming at her, with his cruelty, and she loved him through all of it.
He’s terrified of letting Husk see that side of him.
“You could never be ugly to me,” Husk says, and Angel wants to believe him so badly.
He wants to believe that there’s another person who will be able to see him like that, and love him all the same. Angel takes Husk’s left hand in his and raises it. He weaves their fingers together so that their rings are both visible, proof of the bond that they share, for better or for worse.
“I need you to keep my soul safe for me,” Angel says. “Can I trust you to do that?”
Husk looks at the rings. He squeezes their hands together, and then leans down to kiss at the gold.
“I’ll keep it safe,” Husk tells him. “You have my word.”
DAY FIVE
Angel is too hot and too cold at the same time. He trembles as he sweats beneath the biggest blanket Husk has to offer him. His stomach growls in pain but he struggles to keep anything other than dry crackers down without it coming back up.
Husk stays by his side and holds him through the worst of it. He brings Angel water, but it does very little to soothe the thirst that dries out his throat.
When he sleeps, Valentino torments him through nightmares. He shows up in crimson flashes of blood-soaked memories, and he reminds Angel of all of the things he hates about himself.
When he wakes, Husk is there to tell him that they aren’t true.
DAY SIX
Angel misses being high.
He misses it like someone may miss a severed limb. He fantasizes about how good it would feel if he could just do it one more time.
Just one more time.
Angel closes his eyes and he wishes that he had the strength to believe that he’s strong enough to get through this, but deep down, he hears Val’s voice telling him that he isn’t.
DAY EIGHT
There are bugs under his skin. His addiction is a parasite wreaking havoc on his skeleton; eating him from the inside out, sucking the meat from his bones. Angel scratches at his flesh and tears at himself until he bleeds, his fingernails dulling from overuse as he tries to soothe an itch that can’t be scratched.
He feels like he’s going to explode from discomfort. Eight days is the longest he’s been without a fix, and he’s starting to think that there’s no scenario in which he survives this. Husk is still denying him access to his stash, and Angel would be a filthy liar if he said he hasn’t contemplated all of the ways in which he could manipulate or trick Husk into giving him what he wants.
Unfortunately for him, his boyfriend is Hell’s great gambler, and Angel knows that this is a game neither of them would win.
He doesn’t want to fight with Husk, but he wishes that Husk could understand how much misery Angel is in. Not having drugs in his system feels like not having air in his lungs. It hurts. He feels like a shark that swam too close to the shallows and is slowly choking on oxygen, trapped in the waves that refuse to break long enough to cut him loose. Husk doesn’t get it. He has no fucking idea what Angel is going through.
Angel knows that Husk has his best interest in mind, but it still fucking sucks. Withdrawal makes Angel angry; it makes him bitter and causes him to think things he knows aren’t true. It makes him say things he knows aren’t true. It makes him want to hurt people, so that they’ll know how much he’s hurting, but all that does is make him hate himself even more when the moment passes.
“Husk,” Angel says, on the eighth day when his body feels like it’s dying again, when he feels like a corpse that’s starting to rot. “Look, I know why you don’t think it’s a good idea for me to get high right now. I get it, I do, okay? I’d probably feel the same way in your position. But ya gotta help me out here, I’m not doin’ good. This cold turkey shit? It’s not for me. It doesn’t work, Husk, okay, there’s been studies—”
“Angel,” Husk says, sitting at the edge of the bed. His mouth is pressed into a firm line, and Angel knows right away that this is a moot point. Husk is a cement wall that refuses to budge.
“Come on!” Angel argues, frustrated. “Can’t you see how much I’m hurting? Don’t you fucking care?”
Husk closes his eyes. “Of course I care.”
“No,” Angel snaps, going in for the kill. “You don’t. You don’t care about me, all you care about is makin’ sure I don’t embarrass you by bein’ high in front of customers!”
Husk looks hurt, but he’s so fucking good at not showing it that Angel can barely tell. The only indication is the flush of pink on his cheeks and the way his eyes flick away for a moment; Husk’s tell. If Angel weren’t so fucked up right now, he’d probably revel in the fact that he knows Husk well enough to recognize when he’s bluffing.
If Angel weren’t such a terrible person, he’d probably feel proud of how far they’ve come.
“You know that isn’t true,” Husk says, and he’s right. Angel knows that it isn’t true. He knows that Husk is doing this because he cares, not the other way around. This isn’t a punishment, it’s rehabilitation.
“Yeah, well,” Angel grumbles, falling back against the pillows again. Husk’s refusal to get angry with him, even when he’s saying shitty, horrible things to him, only makes the shame and guilt feel more suffocating. “Sure feels like it. If you cared about me, you wouldn’t wanna see me like this.”
For some reason, that seems to be what pushes Husk over the edge.
“You think I like seein’ you like this?” Husk says, anger rising alongside the volume in his tone. “You think this is fun for me? Seein’ the person I — seein’ you in pain? You won’t eat, you won’t drink, it’s like you’re on some kind of hunger strike until I give into your demands and I’m not fuckin’ doin’ that!”
“You have no idea how I feel!” Angel says, glaring at him. His body is shaking again, and he feels cold. His stomach churns with nausea, but he knows that there’s nothing left in his stomach for him to puke up. “I don’t wanna get high, I just want enough to take the pain away! Just a little, just enough so that I can eat without feeling like my stomach is going to turn itself inside out!”
“Don’t know how you feel?” Husk scoffs, glaring right back at Angel. “You think I’ve never been in your shoes? Kid, I lived at least twenty years longer than you did during my time topside. I had a wife and a daughter, you think I never tried to get clean?”
Angel… hadn’t thought about that before. When Angel was alive, he never tried to get clean. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t know if he’s ever really given getting clean a true shot before. He’s said it dozens of times. He’s weaned himself off of drugs and he’s lowered his dosage, but he always kept a stash close by and he always kept a small amount of the stuff flowing through his bloodstream at all times.
Even when Angel was doing well, even when he wasn’t trying to escape all the fucking time, he was still high. It was the only way he knew how to be. Husk is the same way, Angel realizes. Has there ever been a time that they’ve interacted when Husk wasn’t drinking? Maybe Husk knows what Angel is going through better than Angel realized.
Ugh, that just makes Angel feel even more like a piece of shit. He knows that Husk is trying to help. He knows that Husk is right, that even the smallest amount of Val’s toxin will bring his addiction back to life with a vengeance, but it doesn’t mean Angel has to like it.
“You can throw your toddler temper tantrum all you want, but if you want to leave this apartment and go get your stash, then go. I won’t stop you,” Husk says, gesturing towards the door. “I ain’t gonna force you into this. You told me that you wanted to get clean. You told me that you wanted that bastard out of your life. This is how you do that.”
Angel stares at him. Husk is playing a dirty fucking game by telling Angel that he’s free to go. Angel knows that he’s been free to go this whole time, he knows that Husk has really only been a barrier in so far that he’s been around in Angel’s proximity, but he also knows that there isn’t anything Husk can do to stop him if he wants to leave. If Angel wants to get drugs, he can.
Husk pointing that out, Husk saying it point-blank and pointing to the open door, puts Angel on the spot.
Angel stares at him with wide eyes.
Fuck.
“Go,” Husk says, shrugging. “Be my guest.”
There are pivotal moments in every person’s life where a decision has to be made that changes the direction of their story in a way that’s permanent; in a way that can’t be taken back, no matter how hard they try. It’s like a fork in the metaphorical road, and when they make their choice, there will always be a version of them that takes the other path. It’s the kind of decision that splits your destiny in two, and there’s a strange sense of loss that comes along with it. You will spend the rest of your life wondering how things would be different if you had taken the other road, even if the one you chose feels like the right one. Indecision is something that Angel has struggled with all of his existence. It’s why drugs have been such a safe escape. He doesn’t have to think about complicated shit like destiny or responsibility when he’s high. He can just disappear into the warm dream in the back of his mind and not have to think about anything.
Angel has come to the fork in the road many times, but usually, he elects to not to make a decision at all. Drugs helped him with that. Drugs let Angel sit down in the middle of the path and refuse to move forward with either option.
Right now, Angel is being faced with one of those decisions and sitting down and refusing to choose is not an option. Husk looks at Angel with his brows raised in expectation, and Angel feels his entire body tense up.
He could leave. He could stand up and walk out that door right now, and go to his room, and get his stash, and swallow down that poison to make all of the pain go away — but in doing so, he’d be letting everyone down. He’d be letting Vaggie down. He’d be letting Cherri down. He’d be letting Husk down.
He’d be letting himself down.
These last few months have been a rollercoaster of emotions. Angel never expected to have his life ripped up from the ground by the roots and forced into someplace new, but it ended up being the best thing that could have ever happened to him. Val betting his contract changed him, even if he hadn’t been intending on making that change.
Falling for Husk changed him.
Angel stands in the middle of the road. To his left is a life of uncertainty; where he lets himself fall harder and deeper in love with yet another overlord. There’s warmth there, Angel thinks, and hope. There’s a version of himself that he doesn’t know yet, one that isn’t hooked on drugs and sex, one that isn’t constantly looking for the fastest way out of every uncomfortable situation he encounters.
To his right, is the open door.
To his right is an elevator filled with mirrors where he will have to look at himself as he ascends to the place where his room is. To his right is a mattress with cocaine and a bottle of Love Potion by Velvette tucked beneath it. To his right is misery and heartache, but familiar misery and heartache.
Angel feels his heart split in two. He closes his eyes and swallows past the dry, painful lump in his throat.
“What’s it gonna be, kid?” Husk asks, and when Angel opens his eyes he finds Husk watching him, waiting, like he knows that Angel is about to make one of those fork-in-the-road decisions.
“Fuck,” Angel says, and he feels tears start to fall from his eyes. He’s dehydrated and crying fucking hurts, but his body is having a physical response that he can’t control.
Angel gets up. His legs are shaky, since he’s barely used them in the last few days, but they’re strong enough to carry him to the door. Angel stands there for a moment. He takes a deep breath, lets himself imagine what life might have been like if he’d taken that other road, and he closes the door with an anticlimactic click.
He doesn’t realize that he’s sobbing until Husk’s arms appear around him. Angel lets himself be held, and he lets himself cry. He lets all of it — all of the grief and the anger and the frustration, pour out of him. Husk holds him, and leads him back to the bed where they fall down together in a tangle of limbs. Angel digs his fingernails into Husk’s flesh and tries with everything he has to hold him tight, tight, tighter, and Husk doesn’t resist him, even though Angel is sure that it must hurt.
He feels himself let go, and knows that the road ahead will not be an easy one.
When Husk kisses him, when he wipes away Angel’s face and holds him there and just fucking looks at him like he’s something worth doing all of this for, Angel feels like he can’t breathe. He gives in; he lets Husk love him, he lets Husk care for him, and he does it without apology.
Husk slips his tongue in and Angel knows that he must taste fucking disgusting, but Husk doesn’t seem to care.
“I’m so proud of you,” Husk says, softly.
It’s the best high Angel has ever felt and he lets himself be lost in the feeling of feeling it.
DAY TWELVE
Once Angel makes the decision on his own to get clean and stay clean, withdrawal has good days and bad days.
On bad days, Angel spends his time in bed. He lays there and tosses and turns and fights off the nightmares that still haunt him even without the poison in his system. On bad days, Angel barely eats anything at all, and what he does manage to get into his stomach always finds its way back up again.
On bad days, Angel feels his own self-hatred wrap around his throat like a boa constrictor. It suffocates him and chokes him until he falls asleep and wakes back up to Husk holding him while he shakes through the cold sweats that occasionally find their way back to him after hours of restless sleep.
On the good days, though, Angel feels okay. The desperate clawing of his addiction from deep inside of him is quiet, and Angel can function like a person for the day. On those days, Angel ventures out into the empty space of Husk’s apartment while Husk is working, and he familiarizes himself with Husk’s things.
The apartment is unlike anything Angel has seen in Hell. It’s not over the top or gaudy the way that V Tower was, it feels more like something that Angel’s seen in movies (the movies that make it down to Hell, that is, not porn.) It’s an open floorplan with a kitchen that has an island with stools around it, and an intricate lighting fixture above it. He doubts that Husk is the type to have guests over very often, so he assumes that the extra seating is really only there for the novelty of it all. Angel wonders if the apartment has been modeled after Husk’s old place in Vegas.
The decor and aesthetic are all very 1970’s and early 80’s. The apartment isn’t sleek and organized the way that Val’s was — it’s more cluttered and lived-in, which Angel loves. There’s an entertainment system that melds into a collection of bookshelves that seamlessly frames the walls in a way that makes the whole place look bigger, and the long sectional couch in the living space is brown leather and absolutely covered in well-loved throw blankets and pillows.
There are a lot of plants here, too, just like in Husk’s bedroom. Some of them Angel recognizes as being from Hell, but there are a few others that Angel knows must have been imported from the living world. Now that he thinks about it, quite a few of Husk’s things seem as though they’ve been imported from the living world.
Angel knows that Husk is rich, but didn’t think Husk was this kind of rich. Sending an imp from a third party company to the living world can cost tens of thousands of dollars, for just one item. The collection of things that Husk has is worth more than all of the money that the Vees have put together.
On the entertainment system is a gorgeous vintage record player. Angel crouches down near where it’s set up to admire the massive collection that Husk has of vinyl records. He has originals — mint condition copies of classic artists ranging from Angel’s time in the 20’s all the way to modern day singers and performers. Upon further inspection, Angel realizes that they’re organized by genre, and then alphabetically within that genre.
The last record that Husk listened to was Jimmy Hendrix’s 1967 classic, “Are You Experienced,” and it makes Angel smile to imagine Husk dancing around alone to “Purple Haze” or “Foxey Lady.” God, what Angel would give to have gotten to meet 1960’s Husk back when he was still kickin’ it up on Earth. Angel imagines that he was quite the stud.
After he peruses Husk’s music stock, Angel makes his way over to the bookshelves. He can’t remember the last time he read a book for pleasure, but if he’s going to be stuck here in Husk’s apartment for an extended period of time without a television (because of course Husk doesn’t have a fucking television) then he’s going to need to find some way to entertain himself. The books are also organized, but Angel doesn’t know the titles well enough to even begin to guess how they go together. He assumes it’s probably by genre, but since they aren’t labeled with anything other than their titles, Angel is sort of reaching around in the dark as he picks a book to read.
He ends up settling on one that’s at least vaguely familiar: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. Angel hasn’t ever read it before, and he has no fucking clue what it’s even about, but Val had him act in a porn version of it once and Angel was a big fan of the 1920’s inspired costumes and set for that shoot, so it seems like a fair enough gamble for something to do with his free time.
It turns out, the novel is pretty fucking scandalous! Angel isn’t sure if he’s supposed to think that it is, but the drama alone is enough to keep him turning the pages. It’s about some fancy-pants fella named Gatsby who throws big, immaculate parties in the hopes that his long lost love will return to him by showing up. Turns out that the broad he’s after is married to some other rich asshole who treats her like shit, and the two of them start a passionate affair in secret. The whole thing is told from the point of view of a gay guy named Nick, who Angel pegs immediately for a freaky voyeur who probably likes getting cucked.
He’s nearly at the end of the thing when the bookshelf (Angel snorts because come on! It’s so cheesy!) swings open and Husk comes home for the day. Husk startles at seeing Angel on his couch, but then smiles, probably relieved that Angel has found the strength to pull himself out of bed for the first time in over a week.
Husk takes off his suit jacket and folds it over his arm as he closes the shelf behind him. He looks handsome; wearing a burnt-orange button up with a tight vest overtop of it and a black bowtie to pull the look together. His hair is slicked back, the way he wears it when he has a big game, and Angel wants to run his hands through it and mess it up. Husk comes to sit beside Angel on the couch and lifts his brows at the book in Angel’s lap.
“Gatsby, huh?” he asks, amused. “Interesting choice. Didn’t take you for a Fitzgerald fan.”
Angel snorts. “I’m not,” he says. “I just figured I’d check it out, seein’ as it takes place in my era.”
Husk rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Please, you were born in ‘25, the twenties weren’t your era.”
Angel elbows him, and clicks his tongue in mock offense. “Hey! I’m a twenties baby, okay? I may not have lived them, but I reaped their benefits.” Angel wiggles his brows. “Besides, what’s not to love about a book with a gay protagonist?”
“Gay?” Husk asks, taking the book from Angel’s lap and turning it over. “Since when is anyone in this novel gay?”
Angel laughs. “Husky, it’s all about that subtext baby! I ain’t ever heard a straight guy talk that way about another guy’s smile.”
Husk snorts at that. “If you like queer subtext, you should check out Anne Rice’s stuff.”
“Who’s she?”
“Horror novelist from New Orleans,” Husk explains. “Wrote about gay vampires, but did it all with not-so-subtle subtext.”
“Ooooh,” Angel says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Kinky. I like it.”
Husk laughs again and pulls Angel in to plant a kiss on his head. “You seem in better spirits,” he says, careful not to over assume. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“M’not hungry,” Angel grumbles, nuzzling into Husk’s chest. In truth, the answer is no. Angel hasn’t eaten anything in a few days.
It’s hard to find the strength to eat when he still feels so shitty inside. He’s having a better day today, yes, but he still feels nauseous all the time and gets random bouts of intense shakes that rattle him to the core and make him feel woozy.
“Please, baby,” Husk says, rubbing his hand up and down Angel’s arm. “You’ve gotta eat.”
Angel’s chest feels tight. “I can’t. I’ll just puke.”
Husk hums in acknowledgement of Angel’s plight, and doesn’t try to argue with him, which Angel appreciates. He doesn’t push, not ever, which helps Angel feel like he has more autonomy.
Then, Husk says, “If you could have anything in the world to eat right now, what would it be? Anything.”
Angel thinks about it. After a long, miserable shoot at the studio, the food that always made him feel better was pizza. Val let Angel use his delivery apps, and Angel always ordered himself a pepperoni pie, and it always fucking tasted like he was eating cardboard.
“New York City pizza,” Angel says without hesitation. He closes his eyes and imagines it; tastes the crispy crust and the gooey cheese on his tongue. “Not any of the shit you can find in Hell, real pizza. With the Brooklyn water and the busy kitchen with no air conditioning.”
Husk snorts another laugh. “Pizza?”
Angel pulls away from the cuddle to level Husk with a look so he knows how serious Angel is about this. He changes his tone to one that’s more stern. “Husky I would kill for a real genuine slice of New York Pizza right now, but since we’re in Hell there ain’t no way you can—”
“Hold on,” Husk says, moving so that he can reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.
Angel watches him, confused. “Husk, what are you doin’?”
Husk hits a number on his speed dial. Angel can’t hear who is on the other line, but then Husk says, “Go to New York City, Pizza Suprema on eighth avenue between 30th and 31st. Bring us back a pepperoni pie and a couple’a sodas.”
He hangs up, and Angel stares at him.
“The fuck was that?” Angel asks.
Husk shrugs and smiles. “I just sent one of my imp employees to the living world to get you that pizza you wanted with my Asmodean crystal.”
Angel’s jaw drops. “You have an Asmodean crystal?!”
Husk nods. “Won it off of old Ozzie a few years back. I use it to help my daughter out from time to time, but she doesn’t know it’s me.” He reaches out to run a finger along Angel’s jaw. “But of course there are other benefits to having it.”
Angel feels like he can’t breathe. No one has ever done something like this for him before. No one has ever been so selfless and kind to him, without expecting anything in return. Angel wants to cry. He wants to throw himself at Husk and kiss him until his mouth hurts.
Angel, unwilling to let himself melt down like that over pizza, plays it off like a joke. “Like getting my pathetic ass a pizza when I’m goin’ through withdrawal?”
Husk winks, and Angel melts. “Exactly.”
A few moments later, a hole opens up and the imp that scolded Angel for not being in a safe zone on Extermination Day steps out holding a pizza box and two fountain soft drinks in a cup holder. Angel’s stomach growls the moment the smell hits his nose, and he realizes how ravenously hungry he is.
Husk takes the food and the imp bows before seeing himself out.
Angel spends the night indulging in the best pizza he’s ever tasted, with the arms of the man he loves wrapped lazily around him and a throw blanket tossed over their tangled legs. He knows that they’re in Hell. He knows that both of their souls are damned for all eternity. But in moments like these — in moments of peace and serenity, where the outside world doesn’t matter and Angel’s belly is as full as his heart is, Angel thinks that maybe he catches a glimpse of what Heaven must be like.
DAY FIFTEEN
A little over two weeks after Valentino’s attack, Angel finally starts to feel like himself again. The urge to get high is still there; it still chews at his bones like an itch he can’t scratch, but it’s manageable. Angel doesn’t feel like he’s going to die without drugs, but he doesn’t think that the ache in his chest will ever really go away, either.
It’s weird in the way that it sort of feels like grief, like there’s a hole in his chest that he won’t ever be able to fill. He catches himself wanting to cry if he thinks about it too hard, and his body shakes with the sorrow of a “goodbye” he never thought he’d be able to deliver without killing himself in the process.
He doesn’t want to call it mourning, but there isn’t a better word for it. Losing his addiction means facing life with a slew of new challenges. It means the end of the life he worked so hard to build. It means the end of his escape-methods, his safety nets.
It means the end of Valentino.
And maybe, that’s why it hurts so much. He left Val a while ago and he hasn’t loved him in even longer than that, but as long as he was still addicted to Val’s poison, the bridge between them still existed. It connected them. It gave Val access to Angel’s heart, to his soul, even after their deal had been bartered away. It was a short cut into relapse that taunted Angel as if he were a child, and it guaranteed an escape route if he ever decided that he wanted out of this Good Thing he has going with Husk.
Now, Angel stands at the edge of his own recovery and looks down at the burning remnants of his addiction and hates the fact that it makes him sad. It feels like letting go of a piece of himself, and Angel thinks that maybe, it always will. Without that bridge between them, Angel and Val are no longer connected. His former master’s final attempt at reeling Angel in had been his undoing, because now, Angel doesn’t need him for anything.
The forced detox had been miserable, but in a way, it’s what Angel needed. He isn’t sure that he’d have been able to do it himself; he doesn’t think that he’d have had the strength to cut himself off completely. Val forcing him into this is the only reason why Angel is clean now.
How fucked up is that?
He showers on that fifteenth day, and he lets the water do more for him than just wash away the stench of withdrawal. He lets the warm water run hot, and he lets that heat massage his sore muscles. He shampoos his entire body not once, but three times, and then finishes off with Husk’s sexy-smelling conditioner. As he lathers the soap into his hair, as he gets it into every possible place he can reach, the smell of Husk surrounds him. Angel revels in the scent for a few minutes before he washes it away, and once he’s all clean and dries himself off with the towel, he’s pleased at the subtle way he still smells like Husk.
It feels right. It feels like Val is finally gone from his life, gone from his mind; from his bloodstream. The smell of safety rests on his skin now; it kisses him and reminds him that he has nothing to be afraid of.
He slips on a robe that he finds hanging on the back of the bathroom door, and realizes that it was purchased for him specifically. It’s brand new, and has the extra arm holes for someone of his body-type. It’s pink and soft with little white rabbits on it, and Angel takes a moment to close his eyes and appreciate the thoughtfulness of the gift as he pulls it snug around his body.
He feels like a brand new person when he exits the bathroom and enters the comfortable space of Husk’s apartment. His stomach growls at the smell that’s filling the apartment, and he lets it lead him to the kitchen where Husk is standing with his back to Angel, stirring something on the stove.
There’s a record on the turntable, and the velvety sound of Frank Sinatra provides a relaxing soundtrack for their afternoon. Husk hums along to the melody of “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Angel can’t help but smile as he watches his lover’s hips sway to the music.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Angel says, leaning over the edge of the kitchen island and propping his chin up with his elbows. “Is it weird if I say that you just got like, ten times hotter than you already were?”
Husk startles at the sound of Angel’s voice and then turns, greeting him with one of his signature, gorgeous smiles. He’s dressed down today, wearing a pair of jeans and a tight-fitting black tee shirt that leaves very little to the imagination. Angel feels himself grow hungry for something other than the food Husk is cooking, and he takes his time letting his eyes travel up and down the delicious shape of Husk’s physique.
“Hey, baby,” Husk replies. He looks Angel up and down, expression softening as he does. “You showered.”
Angel takes a seat on one of the stools, so that he has a better view of his new favorite cooking show. His hair is still a little damp, and he reaches up to twirl a little bit between his fingers.
“It was time,” Angel says, and it’s that simple. He felt better today — better than he has in a while. It was time to move on from these last two weeks and start fresh.
Husk hums, and then turns back to the stove to stir whatever he’s cooking. “You hungry? I’m making a sir-fry, nothin’ special. Made a little extra in case you were in the mood to eat today.”
Angel’s stomach growls at the mention of food. “I’m starving,” Angel says, but his words don’t even come close to conveying what he really means.
Being clean for the first time in…ever, has him feeling like he’s been born again. He feels like a butterfly that’s finally grown strong enough to break free of his chrysalis; he’s still the same person, but new, somehow. Without drugs holding him back, without his addiction holding him back, Angel is free to spread his wings and see how far they can take him.
He’s starving. Not just for the food that Husk is making, which smells fucking incredible, but for life beyond addiction. He’s hungry for his own potential, for discovering his own interests outside of drugs, for facing the world with clear vision instead of clouded and cracked lenses. Angel is starving for the future that waits for him.
It’s not going to be easy. He knows that just because he feels good today — just because fifteen days is by far the longest he has ever made it during a detox without a relapse, doesn’t mean that he isn’t going to have more bad days in the future. He knows that addiction is a permanent tattoo on his skin and that sometimes, that tattoo is going to itch. Sometimes, that tattoo might itch so badly that Angel will want nothing more than to scratch at it until it bleeds. Angel just… needs to spend his good days practicing how to resist that urge.
Husk serves them both plates of food, and Angel moans around the first bite. He doesn’t feel nauseous today, which is a good sign. Eating gives him strength, not lethargy, and he clears his plate with impressive efficiency.
They spend the remainder of Angel’s fifteenth day being bums together. They snuggle on the couch and Husk lets Angel pick the records they listen to and they read, and talk, and Angel sleeps with his head in Husk’s lap and Fat Nuggets curled up at his feet. Husk had brought Fat Nuggets down from where he’d been feeding him in Angel’s room a few days ago, and Angel has been unbelievably thankful to have his pet back.
All is well. For the first time in forever, Angel feels like he’s going to be okay. He feels safe. He feels strong. He feels loved.
Chapter 22
AN: -Lion King voice- It is time.
The first time Angel has sex with Husk, it’s entirely unplanned.
In his head, he sort of imagined that it would be a much bigger deal. He thought that they’d have to have a lot of long talks about it and figure out when the time was right. He thought that maybe there would be flowers and music and foreplay, but that’s not what happens at all.
Instead, they’re laying in bed together, sharing a lazy morning kiss and it just happens.
Just like that. There’s not much talking and absolutely no planning. It’s just Angel and Husk with their bodies sharing heat beneath one of Husk’s thick blankets, pressed up against one another and knowing that they want this more than anything else.
It starts slow. Husk kisses Angel’s neck, careful not to touch the scar from the place where Val had bitten him, and his hands eagerly explore the exposed expanse of Angel’s torso; his calloused fingers rough against Angel’s sensitive skin.
Angel is breathless and desperate, feeling like a toy that’s been wound up past its limit. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been holding in, how much tension, how much frustration. When Husk touches him, Angel falls to pieces.
He can hear his breathing in his own ears, but he’s too in the moment to let himself feel self-conscious about it. He moans and grabs Husk’s face to pull him in for a kiss — an urgent kiss, teeth and tongue and little breaths, all saliva and the stale taste of morning on the other person’s lips. They’ve kissed so many times before, but this one feels strangely instinctual, like it’s just something they know how to do, something they need to do, because it’s morning and they’re waking up together and so much has happened that words aren’t enough anymore.
Saying “good morning” isn’t enough anymore.
Not when there’s the promise that all mornings could be like this. Angel is awake and he isn’t instantly filled with a dark, miserable sense of dread like he normally is. He’s awake and he isn’t reaching for the little baggie of coke he used to keep on his bedside table. He’s awake and he’s sober and for the first time in his entire existence, he feels like he can see everything clearly.
He knows what he wants. He knows that there’s no one else in the world he would rather be with right now. He knows that Husk’s hands feel like fire on his skin, and he knows that he’s done waiting.
They’re both hard. Angel can feel Husk’s desire pressed against his belly while Husk kisses him slowly from where he’s laying on top of Angel. He wants Husk so badly, and he knows with certainty that Husk wants him too. Angel shimmies his underwear off without breaking the kiss, and then does the same with Husk’s pajamas and followed by his boxers. They’re naked, and warm, and so insanely in sync that Angel feels dizzy from it.
How is it possible to feel this close with someone? How is it possible to know, and to be known, without feeling like the weight of the world is crushing you? Angel thought that he knew what love felt like. Even now, he thinks that in a way, he absolutely did love Val. It just… wasn’t the good kind of love.
Before this experience — before the casino, before Husk — Angel thought that love only came in one shade. Before all of this, if he had to give love a color, he’d have probably said that it was blood red. He’d have said that love is the color you see when you split someone open; when you tear their heart from their chest, when you squeeze them so hard that blood spews from their lips. Now, Angel thinks that maybe love comes in many colors. It’s like learning to love Husk opened his eyes, and suddenly, there are hues and shades he never could have imagined associating with the feeling of love, and of being loved.
Loving Val was red. Loving Val was a branding iron held into a flame and pressed against sensitive skin. Loving Val was pain and passion and poison.
Loving Husk? Well — loving Husk is like watching the sunrise. Loving Husk is shades of purple and blue; it’s yellows and oranges. Loving Husk is a prism of pastels that dazzle and delight Angel and make him feel like he’s infinite.
Angel never wants to go back to how it was before. He never wants to go back to a world of black and white and red; not now that he knows all of the colors it can be.
“Husk,” Angel says, breathless and suffocated by the fullness he feels in his chest. “Please.”
That’s all he says.
That’s all it takes.
Husk knows what Angel’s asking for. He doesn’t need to clarify — he just knows. He nods against Angel’s jaw and pulls back. Yellow eyes search Angel’s face for any sign of hesitation, but they find only hunger and devotion.
“Yeah,” Husk says, softly. “Yeah, okay baby.”
The sex isn’t gentle, but it isn’t rough either. It’s strangely primal, like both of them are being puppetted by a deep need to feel one another. Husk, to Angel’s surprise, does have lube and he uses it to take his time with fucking Angel open. Angel writhes beneath his touch, hips lifting from the mattress in a desperate attempt to beg Husk for more, but Husk just places a firm hand on Angel’s belly and holds him in place while he uses his two incredible fingers to rock Angel’s world.
Angel doesn’t particularly need to be stretched, but he can tell that Husk wants to do this so Angel lets him. He lets his thighs fall open and he tilts his head back and he moans in rhythm with each hurried thrust of fingers inside of him. Husk is good at this, even after having claimed inexperience the last time they were intimate, but Angel suspected that there was probably more insecurity lurking in the sentiment than actual inexperience. You don’t walk around looking like Husk, with an attitude like Husk’s, without knowing that your dick is fucking phenomenal.
That thought just makes the desire burning in Angel’s belly burn hotter. He doesn’t just want Husk — he needs him. He needs to feel Husk inside of him, needs to feel connected to him in a way that’s tangible. He’s so fucking hard, so fucking horny that he could cum just from being fingered, but he wants to last.
Angel leans up and looks at Husk, who is already looking at him. Husk’s eyes are dark and his pupils are blown out, and he looks like he’s about two seconds from lunging at Angel and tearing him to pieces. Husk moves to sit up on his knees, and he grabs Angel’s legs to put them on either side of his waist. Angel lets out an involuntary gasp, eyes going wide at the sight of Husk’s cock — swollen and pink, ready and wanting.
Husk lets out a slow, steadying breath. He picks up the tube of lube that had been discarded onto the blankets earlier and squeezes way too much out onto his hand and then lathers himself up so that he’s nice and slick. Angel bites his tongue and doesn’t tease Husk for how much care he’s showing, because honestly, he thinks it’s pretty fucking cute. He can tell that Husk is worried about hurting Angel; that he wants to be sure that this is pleasurable and not painful, and Angel doesn’t have the heart to tell him that there’s nothing he could do to hurt Angel in any way that Angel hasn’t already been hurt.
Which — fuck, that’s a depressing thought.
Angel shakes it from his head. With one of his lower hands, Angel reaches down to stroke at his own cock. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth at the stimulation, and then lets out a deep, gorgeous moan. It’s a real sound, a genuine sound, not one of the buttons he has on the soundboard in his brain for when he’s supposed to sound sexy.
It occurs to him that he doesn’t really know who he is in bed when he isn’t putting on a show. Even during private times with Val, there were always cameras watching. Private, intimate times between them were always shared with Vox — the silent, distant voyeur who got off on watching Val have his way with Angel night after night. Vox, who would listen as Val whispered sweet nothings into Angel’s ear. Vox, who hated Angel but loved Val, and hated that Val loved fucking Angel, but loved seeing Val with power. Angel doesn’t know if there were ever times with Val where it was just the two of them. Vox had eyes everywhere.
So really, Angel doesn’t think he’s had sex that wasn’t a performance in years. He was always doing it for the eyes of another — always worried about how he sounded, how he looked, how he was perceived. But right now, with Husk, in the private, closed space of Husk’s subterranean bedroom, there are no cameras. There is no audience. The only eyes Angel has to worry about are the two beautiful yellow ones burning a hole through his skull with the fire raging within them.
For the first time in his life, Angel can just be himself.
Husk moves them again, into a more intimate position. Angel is taller, so Husk can’t cradle him the way that Angel knows that he wants to, but they make it work. They end up with Angel on his back and Husk positioned between his legs with both of Angel’s legs hiked up over his waist, thighs spread, while Husk lines himself up. Angel feels like he’s going to lose his mind from the anticipation of it, and when he feels the press of Husk’s cockhead against his entrace, it takes every ounce of his strength not to fucking beg for Husk to hurry the fuck up already.
Husk presses in, and Angel isn’t surprised by how easily he fits. Angel’s vision blurs and his heart feels like it’s about to burst from his throat because — yes, holy shit, finally! They’re finally here, they’re finally doing this. Husk makes a beautiful noise, a grunt of surprise, a stuttering breath of pleasure, and he falls forward and has to steady himself on shaking arms. He stays like that for a few agonizing seconds; he says fully seated inside of Angel, completely still, his chest rising and falling as he tries to swallow air with heavy breaths. And then — he moves.
There’s no real method to the way he does it. Angel doesn’t think that either of their brains of capable of putting much thought into how this goes, not this time, not when their need for one another has become something so beyond what either of them can fully comprehend. Husk just moves, he thrusts his hips in and out and he chases the feeling of ecstasy as it guides him through their first time like he’s moving on instinct alone.
When Angel thinks about it, maybe that’s what this is. Maybe that’s always been what’s drawn him to Husk. Instinct. Something written into the code of his soul, carved into his bones, that just knows when something is right.
Husk has always been something that is right. Even when Angel left, even when he was so fucking afraid of what falling for someone in this miserable fucking pit could mean for him, he knew deep down that Husk had always been the right choice.
Husk moves inside of Angel like he knows that Angel is something right — something good. He doesn’t try to impress Angel, he doesn’t make a show out of it, he just rocks his hips with desperate movements and Angel rocks his in sync, and they fuck like they’re afraid the world around them might collapse if they don’t.
Angel hasn’t ever experienced sex like this. He feels connected to Husk in a way that absolutely terrifies him. He can feel every inch of Husk inside of him, he can feel the sting of Husk’s cock, and he feels so fucking full that it almost hurts. Angel cries out, another noise he doesn’t recognize, another desperate sound in his own ears, and he reaches out to pull Husk closer.
Husk fucks him faster, filling Angel up with the feeling of him, and he leans in to lick into Angel’s mouth. The brush of their tongues sets Angel on fire and he reaches down to take his own cock in his hands, hungry for friction, starving for release.
Husk is not gentle with him, which Angel appreciates. They’re well past the point of needing to be gentle with each other when they’ve both been through literal Hell and have come out stronger because of it. The sounds Husk makes while he fucks Angel are mind-numbingly sexy. The velvety pur of his voice turns Angel’s inside into molten lava, and each time he grunts or moans Angel feels a shiver of pride and pleasure run up his spine at the realization that he’s the one doing that to Husk. He’s the one making him come apart like this, making him lose himself.
“M’not gonna last, baby,” Husk says, slowing his pace to a near stop and squeezing his eyes shut. He looks like he’s trying so hard to hold himself back, so hard not to cum from how good Angel feels around his cock, and it’s the hottest thing Angel has ever seen.
Angel’s hips keep moving, desperate for more, and he says, “Please,” because it’s the only word he remembers how to say.
He wants to feel Husk finish inside of him. He wants Husk to fill him up with all of the lust and desperation he’s been holding inside. He wants to feel Husk’s cock pulse through the aftershocks, and swallow the sounds he makes in another delicious kiss.
“Fuck,” Husk says, and his voice cracks. Angel feels himself start to lose control. Shit, he’s going to cum, too.
Realizing that he’s approaching his own climax, Angel shifts their positions. He lifts his legs up and locks them behind Husk’s ass, pulling him in as close as he possibly can. He feels himself stretch as Husk is pushed in deeper and he makes a strangled noise as he fucks his hips in rhythm with his lower hand jerking off his cock. Husk matches that same rhythm, and for a few beautiful seconds, Angel swears that their souls actually ascend from the pits of Hell and into somewhere new.
They’re connected. They’re in sync. They’re two wayward sinners with several lifetimes worth of pain who somehow managed to find each other in spite of it all, and they’re finally fucking doing this.
“Husk,” Angel says, eyes falling shut as his climax builds. Husk says nothing, he only moves faster, each thrust becoming more urgent until Angel feels him cum inside of him. He feels that delectable pulse of Husk’s cock and the rush of warmth and it’s enough to get Angel to the same place. Angel cums so hard that he thinks he might pass out — his mind goes blank and his body seizes up and he feels his own cum spill out over his hand in hot bursts.
Angel feels all of the tension leave his body with his climax. He had been holding onto so much, he had been carrying around so fucking much, and now he finally feels lighter. This was an inevitability. This whole thing with Husk has been backwards from what he usually does. Normally, Angel starts off having fucked someone and the feelings come later. This time, it a steady build up of feelings that have culminated into this moment — everything that they’ve been through has led them here, has lead them to wrapping themselves up in the warmth of one another's arms, catching their breath as they come down from the high of having finally had sex.
Angel thinks that maybe he finally gets what all of those cheesy fucking romance stories were talking about. He thinks that maybe there’s actually value in waiting for things like this, because it makes the moment so much sweeter.
Husk pulls out and Angel gasps at the loss of him. He’s wet between his legs and he feels empty, two feelings that he usually associates with the beginnings of subdrop (though, they hadn’t even done anything kinky) but before his mind can let itself start to fade away, Husk has moved to pull him into a tight embrace.
Angel lets himself be claimed, and he nuzzles his face into Husk’s shoulder and says nothing as his mind reels from the adrenaline. He feels dizzy. He feels high. He feels lighter than air, like he can float away. Husk kisses Angel’s temple and rubs a hand up and down Angel’s back.
“Shh,” Husk tells him, and that’s when Angel realizes that he’s sobbing yet again. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying this time, he just is. It’s like his body is finally catching up with itself, with how exhausted it is after having been through so much.
Angel can’t control himself. He sobs into Husk’s arms and makes awful, embarrassing noises as he starts to hiccup from how hard his body is pushing itself to get it all out. His breathing is labored and his throat hurts but the sobs keep coming, and his brain panics as it struggles to figure out why this is happening at all.
“Baby, hey, what’s wrong?” Husk asks, his hand a calming presence on Angel’s trembling back. “Did I hurt you, was I too rough?”
That manages to pull a watery laugh out of Angel, and helps him clear his head just a little.
“N-no,” Angel says, sniffling. “It’s not that. A-and, that wasn’t rough, Husky.”
Angel’s had it rough before. Sometimes Angel likes it rough. But what he and Husk just did? That was the farthest thing from rough. It was intense, yes, and emotional, but it wasn’t rough. It was perfect.
“I’m just…” Angel says, struggling to find the words. He lets out a shaky breath and digs his fingers into Husk’s arms. “I think I just need to cry.”
Husk hums in understanding. “That makes sense,” he says. “You’ve been through a lot.”
He has been through a lot. He lost so much during these last few months. He cries for the years of himself that he wasted on being an addict, and for the past versions of him that said he would get clean and couldn’t. He cries on behalf of the person he used to be, and the pain he’d felt, and the hatred he’d felt — he cries for that fucking sad, miserable whore that couldn’t catch a break, but wanted so badly to keep going in spite of it all. He cries because things are better now, and it doesn’t seem fair, in a fucked up way, it just doesn’t seem right that something this good could happen to him now when it couldn’t have before.
He cries about Val, and the realization that all of the times that they had sex with each other combined cannot compare to the experience he and Husk just shared together.
“Fuck this is so embarrassing,” Angel says, calming down a bit. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. “I don’t cry like this in front of anyone but Cherri, and now I’ve cried like a baby in front a you twice.”
“It’s okay to cry, baby,” Husk tells him, and it makes Angel laugh again. “But you’re sure you’re okay?”
Angel wipes his face again and nods. “I’m okay. I think that just… was a long time comin’ ya know? A lot of pent up feelins came outta me. I knew that once we finally did it, it would be good, but I didn’t think it would be good enough to make me fuckin’ cry.”
Husk shrugs. “Guess I should take that as a compliment.”
Angel kisses Husk’s chest. “It is a compliment.”
Husk presses another kiss to Angel’s temple. “We should get cleaned up.”
“Mm,” Angel agrees, but he makes no effort to move. “See, that involves moving? And I just got fucked into a sex coma so good I cried, so…”
Husk chuckles and wraps his arms around Angel just a little bit tighter.
“What if we took a bath?”
Angel perks up at that. “A bath?”
God, he’d kill for a bubble bath right now. Val had a gorgeous jacuzzi tub that Angel loved taking advantage of, and it was particularly relaxing after a long day of working shoots. He didn’t realize Husk had a bathtub, but now that he thinks about it, it actually makes a lot of sense. Husk totally seems like a bath guy.
“Mmm,” Husk says, nodding. “Got a nice clawfoot in the other bathroom. I think we could both fit.”
Angel stares at him. “This place has another bathroom?”
Husk laughs. “Yeah, in the back by the kitchen.”
“I thought that was a closet,” Angel says, sitting up. The tears have stopped now, and he’s much more interested in this new information than he is in wallowing in self-pity some more.
It turns out, the mythical clawfoot bathtub and secret bathroom do exist, and the tub is better than anything Angel could have hoped for. It’s deep and clean, and there are little bottles of oils and salts beside it. He tries not to let it show how fucking giddy he is about it, but it’s hard when the tub is so inviting.
Husk turns the water on and lets Angel pick out which products he wants to use, and Angel only goes a little overboard. He chooses a lavender bubble bath and some calming salts, and then he adds a couple oils that he thinks compliment the soothing smell of the lavender to create the ideal amateur aromatherapy experience.
The tub is in the corner of a large bathroom with stone tile, and it has a little ledge beside it built into the wall where even more plants decorate the space. Husk leaves the room and comes back with two lit candles that he sets on the ledge, careful to keep away from the greenery, and then he dims the lights making the room look like something out of a very expensive porno. Husk leaves the bathroom door open, and Angel realizes that he’s put a record on the player, and the sound of smooth, piano jazz fills the empty space around them.
Angel feels like royalty as he takes Husk's hand and lets himself be led into the hot water. He moans the moment it touches his skin and sinks down deep, letting the oils and heat do their job. Husk joins him, and they settle in comfortably with Angel (being the taller of the two) resting with his back against the smooth curve of the tub and Husk settled between his legs with his head resting on Angel’s chest.
“I think I’m ready to try going back to work,” Angel says after a little while has passed in comfortable silence, scooping up a handful of bubbles and watching the oil slick colors swirl within them. The music is relaxing and the water is warm, and he feels a peaceful sense of calm and clarity as he thinks about his future.
“Yeah?” Husk asks, leaning back so that he can see Angel’s face.
“Yeah,” Angel says, smiling softly. “I feel better. I still want to get high, sometimes, but that voice inside me that’s telling me to throw it all away is being drowned out by a new voice that believes in me and wants me to stay clean.” He laughs and then with one of his lower hands, he playfully splashes a little bit of water onto Husk’s chest. “ Actually, it’s a little weird, the voice is kinda familiar. It kinda sounds like you.”
Husk lifts a brow. “That right?”
“Yeah,” Angel says, smirking. His heart feels full and weirdly light at the same time. “It’s annoying, actually.”
“Does that voice also tell you how sexy you are?” Husk asks, eyes searching Angel’s face. “How strong you are? How great you are?”
“Mm, it might,” Angel teases. “Why, you jealous?”
“Yeah,” Husk says, matter-of-fact. “Let me catch that fucker at my casino and I’ll show him who’s boss.”
Angel snorts.
“Ooo, scary,” he says, playing along. “Big strong daddy overlord gonna protect what’s his?”
And then, because he just always seems to know how to catch Angel when his guard is down, Husk takes Angel’s hand in his and he threads their fingers together. Angel stares, wide-eyed and hypnotized as the person he loves runs his thumb over Angel’s knuckles with a fond look in his eye.
“Yeah,” Husk says, his voice just above a whisper. “I always protect what’s mine.”
Angel could cry again. Husk is so fucking perfect, and Angel has no idea what he did to deserve him. He’s hit with the sudden urge to tell Husk how he feels. He knows that they’ve said it through actions, but neither one of them has verbalized it yet. Well — okay, at least Angel thinks that neither one of them has verbalized it yet.
He has a strange, fuzzy memory of Husk’s voice saying “I love you” while he was in and out of withdrawal fever dreams, but he doesn’t know if the memory is real or if it’s just what his drug-riddled mind wanted him to hear so he could get himself through it, and he’s too anxious to ask about it. What if he had imagined it, and bringing it up shatters this beautiful thing they have?
Or what if he didn’t imagine it, and saying it out loud means that now they have to figure out what that means for them?
Angel wants to tell Husk. It’s just… not time yet. For now, he just needs to be happy with what they have. And then, maybe one day soon, when Angel is free from the bonds that are still holding him back, he can tell him.
“So is that a yes?” Angel says instead, twirling a finger through a tuft of Husk’s hair. “To me comin’ back to work? I sorta miss swindlin’ money outta suckers and then sneakin’ off to make out with you in the staff corridors.”
Husk smiles at the memory. “Course you can come back. If you’re up for it, I’d love to have you back up there with me. It’s been lonely without you.” Husk pokes at Angel’s cheek. “Quiet, too.”
Angel turns and attempts to bite Husk’s finger playfully, but Husk pulls it away and laughs. They spend a good hour or so soaking in the bath together, listening to music and basking in the pleasure of one another's company.
Angel thinks that he could get used to this.
Chapter 23
AN: Slightly shorter chapter here, but they can’t ALL be 8-10k words haha. I want to take a minute to thank you all for your patience with me while I navigated my final weeks of grad school this semester. It’s been a long and tiring few weeks, but I did it!
I wanted to shout out all of the INCREDIBLE artists who did fanart for the previous chapter. Please, PLEASE go admire them for their hard work because I am so obsessed.
Commenter Kiritimati created <a href="this">https://www.instagram.com/p/C627h32sonx/?igsh=emttYnd0NnI4dGs4&img_index=1</a> gorgina art which you can find on Instagram.
Twitter user @Mystiiie created <a href="this">https://x.com/Mystiiie/status/1792572911473356925</a> beautiful piece.
And Twitter user @haajenn created <a href="this">https://x.com/haajenn/status/1789637297492595053</a> stunning piece that is now my phone background.
Thank you all so so so much! I hope you enjoy this short but sweet update.
Angel’s first hard day comes when he and Husk go through his bedroom to get rid of his stash of drugs. He feels like a child who has been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to, and there’s a deep sense of shame that comes with pulling every drug from its hiding place. It isn’t like Angel was pretending he wasn’t on drugs before, he was pretty open about it, so the drugs out in the open are easy enough for him to swipe from his dresser and into the trash bag that Husk is holding.
It’s the drugs he has hidden away that are a lot harder for him to get rid of. It’s not because he doesn’t want to — at least that’s not the entire reason. It’s because each time he uncovers one from its hiding place, he feels judgment for the fact that it was hidden in the first place. Husk doesn’t say anything. Nothing about his demeanor indicates that he feels any kind of disappointment in Angel at all, but Angel feels it anyway. Maybe it’s because Angel is ashamed of himself that he’s projecting that disappointment onto Husk. Maybe it’s because Angel wants Husk to scold him, he wants Husk to make him feel like the pathetic addict he is.
There’s nothing quite like the evidence of your addiction sitting in a pile on your mattress to remind you how much of a piece of shit you are, after all.
It’s hard. It feels like ripping his own hair out of his head with each new stash he uncovers. He goes through the stages of grief no less than five times during the process, and by the time he’s thrown out nearly 90% of his drug stash, his body feels like it’s made of lead and he thinks he might collapse from exhaustion.
The worst of it comes when it’s time to unearth the shameful supply of Love Potion by Velvette he keeps hidden around his room. There’s a bottle under his mattress. There are several bottles in his dresser. There’s one sewn into Fat Nuggets’ bed. There’s one tucked into the frame of his boxspring. Angel never wanted to be without access to it. He knew that Val’s toxin was the one drug he could not live without, and he stocked himself on it accordingly.
Seeing the evidence of it without his brain being clouded by the poison is… a lot. Angel feels embarrassed. He feels overwhelmed by the sheer number of bottles that end up in a pile on his blanket. Husk doesn’t say anything, he just sits down and looks at them with a sad expression on his face.
“Go ahead,” Angel says, feeling tense and defensive. “Say what you’re thinking. Tell me I’m a fuckin’ mess and that I shoulda done something about this a long time ago before it got this bad.”
Husk frowns. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
Angel rolls his eyes. “Yes you were,” he says. “I know you were. I know what this looks like, okay? I know how pathetic I am.”
Husk is quiet for a moment, looking at Angel with those hard to read, gorgeous yellow eyes. Then, he says, “Is that what you think? ‘Cause it’s not what I fuckin’ think.”
That catches Angel off guard. He startles, walls breaking down, and sits down at the edge of his bed. He feels dizzy, looking at the pile of glass bottles. He feels guilty. He feels sick.
Is that what he thinks of himself? Has that always been what Angel thinks of himself?
Angel sighs. “I—”
“If that’s what you wanna think about yourself, I can’t stop you,” Husk continues, cutting Angel off. He sits down on the bed, close to Angel but not so close that it feels overbearing. “But don’t go putting your self-loathing onto me. If I’ve got a problem with you, I’ll tell you point-blank. I’m not gonna beat around the bush. This?” Husk gestures towards the pile and Angel recoils on instinct. “This ain’t anything worth judging you for, baby. The fact that you’re even going through the effort of getting rid of this shit so soon after getting clean is impressive.”
Angel feels a little lighter at the compliment. He softens, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. “Ya really think so?”
Husk smiles, and reaches out to hold one of Angel’s hands.
“Yeah, baby,” Husk says. “This ain’t easy, and I sure as shit didn’t expect you to do all of this so quickly. I don’t think I’d be able to do half of the shit you’re doin’ without fallin’ apart. You’re tough.”
Tough.
That’s not a word Angel has ever heard used to describe him. Val loved to remind Angel how weak he was, how pathetic. Val loved to call Angel addict trash and throw his inability to get clean in his face. Val had said so many nasty things to Angel that Angel started to believe them to be true.
But Val was a liar; this much Angel knew. So why should Angel believe anything that asshole said to him?
“Thanks,” Angel says, letting out a breath. “I don’t feel very tough. But I guess it does feel kinda good to get rid of this stuff once and for all.”
Angel moves the trash bag to the edge of the bed, and with one fell swoop, he knocks all of the bottles off of the blanket and into the trash. They clatter loudly and with a finality that sends a chill down his spine, but he doesn’t even dare to look inside to see if any of them broke. He’s too afraid that the temptation to stick his finger into the bag to lick the syrupy substance off of the shards would be too strong to resist.
He ties the bag off and tosses it towards the door and then falls onto Husk who catches him with waiting arms. He isn’t sure what his emotions are even asking for him to do. Part of him wants to cry. Part of him wants to laugh. Part of him wants to beg Husk to fuck him into his mattress just so he can feel something other than this hurricane of complicated frustration that’s swirling inside of him.
Husk comforts him by running his hands up and down his back. It feels good; grounding in a way that nothing else is. Angel breathes in the smell of Husk and lets his brain wander a bit as the feelings threaten to overflow.
Husk is the one to break the silence. “I’ve been thinking…” He says, resting his head on top of Angel’s. “This room is a bit small for you and Fat Nuggets, isn’t it?”
Angel pulls away to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno,” Husk says, smirking with a little shrug. “I guess it just feels like Fat Nuggets has made himself pretty comfortable staying in my apartment. I wouldn’t want to stress him out by having him move back here.”
Angel takes a minute to process what’s being said. It’s been a little bit over a month since Angel started spending his nights in Husk’s apartment, and he has to admit that he’s gotten pretty used to his life down there. He knows that for the most part, Husk is letting him stay there so that he can monitor Angel’s progress during his recovery, but he’s been doing well so he figured it was only a matter of time before he had to go back to staying in the casino’s living quarters.
But if Husk is saying what Angel thinks he’s saying, then…
“Husky,” Angel says, a smile creeping its way involuntarily over his face. “Are you askin’ me to move in with you?”
Husk’s eyes go wide and his face starts to turn red, and it’s the cutest thing Angel has ever seen. The fact that this fucking overlord can still blush like a teenager in love makes Angel’s heart sing.
Husk swallows. “If you want,” he says softly. His voice is only a few octaves above a whisper.
And fuck — Angel wants. He wants so badly. The thought of waking up in Husk’s bed every morning and cooking dinner together in his kitchen is the most deliciously enticing thought Angel has had in a while.
“I could be convinced,” Angel teases. He moves, gracefully changing their positions so that Angel is straddling Husk’s waist. It catches Husk off guard and he lets out a little gasp before allowing Angel to push him backwards onto the pillows.
Husk looks at him. Angel watches his pupils dilate as he makes himself comfortable in the seat of Husk’s lap.
“That a yes?” Husk asks, voice low and sexy. One hand comes up behind Angel to cup his ass, and Angel takes the opportunity to rock his lips a little just to pull another delectable gasp from those perfect lips.
“I dunno,” Angel says, reaching one of his hands down towards Husk’s face. He traces the shape of Husk’s jaw with a gentle finger, and revels in the way that Husk’s eyes flutter at the sensation. “I think I might wanna check and make sure that this bed ain’t worth stayin’ here for. It is pretty comfy, you know.”
Angel moves his hand towards Husk’s mouth. He doesn’t need to tease much for Husk to realize what he wants. Husk’s mouth falls open, just enough for Angel to trail the very tip of his forefinger along the soft skin of his lips.
“My bed is comfortable, too,” Husk says, and Angel takes the chance to slip his finger in exactly where he wants it. Husk closes his eyes and uses the other hand that isn’t currently squeezing Angel’s ass to grab his wrist and hold him tight.
He sucks Angel’s finger into his mouth, his tongue sticking out to slick it up before he closes his lips around it. Angel moans at the sensation, rocking his hips with a little more energy this time to feel the shape of Husk’s hard cock trapped beneath him.
Husk sucks in a breath through his nose and takes Angel’s finger in deeper. He presses the pad of Angel’s finger down against the wetness of his tongue and then rubs it back and forth, leaving absolutely nothing up to imagination.
“Oh wow,” Angel breathes. Who knew something as simple as finger sucking could be so sinfully sexy? Angel feels like it’s his dick in Husk’s mouth, and now all he can think about is how much he wants Husk to suck him off. “Husk.”
The sound of his name seems to do something to Husk, because he opens his mouth and allows Angel to slip his middle finger in alongside his index and then swallows them both down between closed lips.
It feels so good, and Angel has to reach down and adjust his growing hardness in his shorts. He makes a breathless sound and Husk groans in response, which Angel feels as vibrations through his whole body.
He could cum like this, he realizes. He could cum just from the friction of his crotch rubbing against Husk’s and his fingers in Husk’s mouth. It’s so sensual and slow, it’s so fucking simple, but it’s also so intoxicatingly sexy that Angel feels like he might explode.
He starts fucking Husk’s mouth with his fingers; a smooth in and out motion, feeling the slick heat of his saliva. How incredible would it feel if Angel could get his cock in there? The deeper Husk takes his fingers, the wilder Angel’s imagination becomes. Is Husk secretly really fucking good at sucking dick? Who knew?
Angel can’t take this. He needs Husk on his cock now.
“Shit, Husk,” Angel says, filling the silence with the sound of his own voice. “Want that mouth somewhere else, baby. You think you can—”
There’s a knock at the door that startles Angel so badly that he yelps and falls over onto the floor. His fingers slip from Husk’s mouth with a wet pop, and Husk growls at the loss of them. The sound is absolutely gorgeous, but Angel is too freaked out to properly savor it.
The intruder knocks again.
Husk looks pissed and he glares at the door like he wishes he had the power to blow it off its hinges. Who the fuck is bothering them at a time like this?
“Mr. Husker, sir,” says a voice from the other side. “Sorry to bother you, but we have a situation down on the show floor.”
Husk looks over at Angel and then scrubs a hand over his face. Angel can see that he’s still very obviously hard, and there’s a strain in his voice when he says, “This better be important.”
He stands up and smooths his clothes before offering Angel a hand which Angel takes. He goes over to the door and wrenches it open. The person standing on the other end is one of the hosts who works the show floor — Angel can’t remember his name, but he’s a soul from the 60’s, and from what Angel remembers, he’s pretty cool. He looks a little guilty and the expression on his face gives the impression that he’d rather be literally anywhere else right now.
He glances in and sees Angel and mouths the word “sorry” before turning his attention to Husk.
“There’s a guest here who wants to speak to you,” the soul says.
Husk clicks his tongue. “That’s what you interrupted us for?” he asks, clearly not caring if his phrasing gives them away. “Since when does that constitute a ‘situation’? Just send them away, I’m busy.”
Husk goes to close the door but the soul stops him.
“We tried, sir,” the soul tells him. “But it’s not exactly someone we can just send away. Then they started soliciting the other guests for this weird idea, and things are getting out of hand, so—”
“Who is so important that you can’t send them away from my casino?” Husk demands, eyes narrowing. “If I go down there and it’s anyone other than Lucifer himself, I swear to fuck I will—”
“Not Lucifer,” says the soul, swallowing nervously. “His daughter.”
Chapter 24
The princess of Hell inviting herself to The Jackpot Casino seems to be enough to convince Husk that the interruption was worthy of his time. He pinches the space just above his nose and dismisses the soul before making a frustrated noise and cursing under his breath.
He pulls back on the jacket he had discarded earlier, and looks into Angel’s heart-shaped vanity to check his hair. It’s a little unruly from their earlier activities, but he manages to smooth it out to be semi-decent looking. He grabs his keys from the vanity, and turns to Angel.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, with an apologetic look. “I gotta deal with this.”
Angel, who has already decided on which dress he’s going to wear, snorts dismissively before crossing the room and pulling it from his closet. It’s a hot pink, floor-length satin gown that hugs his curves and makes him look sexy. It was a gift from Val a few years ago, but Angel barely wore it while they were together because Val didn’t deserve to see him in it.
“If you think I’m missin’ out on the chance to meet the princess, you’re delusional.” He pulls off his shirt and shimmies his leggings off, making sure to give Husk a clear view of his ass as he does so. He steps into the dress and pulls it up before he backs up to silently request that Husk zip him in.
“You don’t have to,” Husk says, but he obeys Angel’s request and pulls up the zipper. He’s standing behind Angel, and he places a hand on Angel’s waist and then leans in to press a kiss to the place where Angel’s neck meets his shoulder. It sends a shiver down Angel’s spine. “I was kinda hoping I could make this quick and then come back up here to finish what we started.”
And oh, that’s a tempting notion. Angel was really enjoying what they were doing before, and he’d be lying if he said that he couldn’t easily be persuaded to lay back on the bed and touch himself while he waits for Husk to get back.
But it’s not every day that Angel gets the chance to meet someone as interesting as the daughter of Lucifer himself, and he’s not about to waste this opportunity. So, Angel turns so that he’s facing Husk, and meets his eyes. Husk’s gaze trails over the shape of him, clearly appreciating how good Angel looks in this dress. Angel knows he looks good, so he winks and then leans in close.
“Why don’t we pick up where we left off when we’re back down in our apartment, after we deal with our royal guest,” Angel says, reaching out a finger to poke at the little space between Husk’s open top two buttons. He trails his finger downward and then over the fabric.
“Our apartment?” Husk asks, picking up on what Angel is putting down. “So, that’s a ‘yes’ to moving in with me, then?”
Angel can’t help the fact that he’s smiling. His heart feels full. “Of course it’s a ‘yes’, baby,” Angel tells him.
Husk reaches a hand up to pull Angel down into a kiss. Angel laughs into Husk’s mouth, giddy with the feeling of joy as their lips touch. He feels like a stupid fucking kid; love-drunk and obsessed with the person he’s with to the point that it’s almost funny. He didn’t know he could feel like this.
He didn’t know that love could feel like this.
Husk waits for Angel to throw on the smallest bit of makeup and then holds Angel’s hand as they make their way down to the casino’s show floor. It doesn’t take them long to figure out where the princess is, because there’s a crowd gathered around where she’s standing on one of the blackjack tables talking loudly to everyone.
Husk tenses at Angel’s side and Angel squeezes his hand to calm his anger. Husk isn’t an angry person, but it’s not exactly proper etiquette to invite yourself into an overlord’s territory and then make use of the space as if it's your own. Husk is a professional, and in spite of the gambling and debauchery that goes on in The Jackpot on a daily and nightly basis, things run at an equally professional level most of the time. The crowd seems annoyed, and Angel can’t hear what the princess is saying, but she looks animated and passionate.
So the soul was right about her soliciting the casino’s business. But for what?
“The fuck does this bitch think she’s doing?” Husk growls, speeding up so that he can get to her faster. As they approach the crowd, the people part easily to make way for them. At the very front, Angel recognizes a few tired-looking employees anxiously glance at Husk after having clearly tried and failed to make the princess stop.
“You don’t have to spend your eternity gambling away your hard earned money,” the princess says to the crowd. “There’s a better way to live! My hotel offers rehabilitation programs for addictions to all vices, even gambling!”
“Why the fuck would anyone do that?” says a soul from the crowd. “We didn’t come to the casino to stop gambling. We came here to win big and get fucked up!”
The crowd cheers, and the princess looks distraught.
“Well, yes, I assumed that was why you are all here,” she says, recovering from the fumble by quickly plastering on another smile. “But what if I told you that your lives could be better, and that improving your lives could grant you entrance into Heaven?”
Angel stops walking, and Husk’s hand slips from his grasp as Husk pushes forward in fury.
What is this broad even talking about? Entrance into Heaven? That’s not possible. There’s no fuckin’ way that’s possible.
…Right?
“How about granting me entrance into your pants, pretty lady?” asks another soul, garnering a few whistles and whoops from the crowd.
The princess looks deeply uncomfortable at that comment. “Oh, uh,” she stammers, deflating a bit. “No thank you, kind sir, I appreciate the compliment and I’m sure you’re a lovely person, but I’m—”
“What exactly do you think you’re doin’ standing on my table, botherin’ my guests?” Husk has reached her, and the crowd takes a collective step back to give him space. Angel curses under his breath and pushes his way forward, eager to join Husk’s side. The princess startles and then stares at him, cheeks turning pink.
She gasps. “Are you The Gambling Demon?” she asks, like she’s meeting a celebrity for the first time. “Hi, I’m Charlie, it’s so nice to meet youuauugh—”
In an attempt to reach her hand out to shake Husk’s, the princess stumbles and falls off of the table. The crowd laughs, and someone pushes through the people to come to the princess’s aid. Angel feels his breath go still when he realizes who the princess’s companion is.
“Hey,” Angel says. “It’s you.”
Vaggie stares back at him.
“Oh,” the Princess of Hell says, expression pleasantly delighted as she dusts off her bright red suit. She looks between the both of them, oblivious to the range of emotions passing over their faces. “Do you two know each other?”
So she’s alive, then. Cherri said she left the club and that she hadn’t heard from her since. Angel assumed that they would never see each other again.
It turns out fate has other plans for them.
“Yeah,” Vaggie says. She blinks, like she’s snapping herself out of a thought loop, and then turns towards the princess. “This is Angel. He saved my life.”
The crowd is feeling too claustrophobic now, so Angel straights himself up and shakes the shock from his face. They don’t need an audience for their reunion.
“Alright, party’s over folks,” Angel shouts to the crowd. “Boss is here to take care of the disturbance, ya can all go back to spendin’ your money now. One free drink to everyone who fucks off immediately.”
Angel meets the eyes of the other employees and nods, and instantly they begin to disperse the crowd. Husk makes a defiant noise at Angel’s promise of free drinks without his approval, but he’ll get over it. Drunk guests spend more money anyway.
“Saved your life?” the princess says, turning to gape at Angel. “Oh my gosh, thank you!”
Angel doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it sure as shit isn’t a tight, bone-crushing bear hug from the Princess of Hell. For a tiny girl she’s strong as fuck, and she makes a squealing noise when she squeezes him. Angel has no idea what to do in this situation and he looks to Vaggie for help, and she immediately reaches out a hand to pull the princess off of him.
“Okay, that’s enough babe,” she says, which also — babe? “Let the nice man go.”
The princess gasps again and then releases Angel and takes a big step back. “Oh! Sorry about that, I just got a little bit excited about finally meeting one of Vaggie’s friends.” She turns towards Vaggie, gives her a curious look and then says, “Why haven’t I met your other friends? And why didn’t you tell me that you had a friend working for the Gambling Overlord? It would have made things like, ten times easier if we could have called him and asked for a meeting instead of just barging in like this.”
The princess… is not what Angel expected. She’s energetic and a little bit scatter-brained, and not all as intimidating as her father has been rumored to be.
“If you wanted to set up a meeting, you could have set one up with my associates,” Husk interrupts. Angel can tell right away from his tone that he’d annoyed, and that suspicion is confirmed when he looks over to find Husk glaring at the princess. “What makes you think you can just invite yourself in here and harass my guests?”
The princess grimaces. “Shit — I mean—” she shakes her head, “I am so sorry about that. I was trying to find you, or trying to find someone who could help me find you, and I got a little distracted telling people about my hotel.”
“Hotel?” Angel asks, because that’s the second time she’s mentioned it. “What are you talkin’ about?”
The princess blinks, and then her face splits into a smile. “You haven’t heard of the Happy Hotel?” She claps her hands together excitedly. “That’s great, that means I can explain everything to you. I hope you like songs, because I’ve got one that will blow your socks—”
“Hasn’t anyone told you can’t go around intruding on overlord territory to solicit business? People get killed over shit like this.” Husk is clearly not entertained by any of this. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t care who you are, you can’t come into my house and start stealin’ away my customers.”
“Hey, man, she wasn’t stealing anything,” Vaggie interjects, standing up a little taller. Angel’s brows shoot up because he knows that protective tone very well. Did his little exorcist manage to bag the Princess of Hell? Impressive. “She was trying to get an audience with you, but your ‘associates’ kept giving us the run around.”
Husk laughs, but Angel doesn’t think he finds any of this funny. “My associates know better than to interrupt me when I’m busy because some little girls got lost and wound up in my casino.”
Fuck, okay, normally Angel likes it when Husk gets all intimidating like this, but not right now. He isn’t sure why Husk is being so defensive, but he wants to do what he can to snuff out the flames.
“Little girls?” Vaggie scoffs. “Listen here, old man, if you think—”
Angel says, “Whoa, hey, why don’t we—” at the same time that the princess says “Hey, Vaggie, it’s okay—”
They look at each other, and Angel feels himself relax. She smiles apologetically, and he shrugs in acknowledgement before putting his arm around Husk to try and calm him down.
“You said you wanted an audience with The Gambling Overlord, right princess? Why don’t we take this conversation down to Husk’s office so we can talk this out like grown-ups?” Angel suggests.
Husk turns to look at him, and his face indicates a slight feeling of betrayal, but Angel gives him a reassuring nod.
“What’s the harm in hearin’ them out? I think we got off to a rough start.” Angel feels Husk’s tension ease beside him.
“Yes! Yes, we absolutely got off on the wrong foot,” the princess says. She reaches a hand out again. “I’m so sorry about that, Mr.Gambling Overlord sir. I’m Charlie, and this is my girlfriend Vaggie.”
Oh, girlfriend? Interesting. Angel’s suspicions were correct, then.
Husk takes her hand firmly. “Husker.”
“And I’m Angel Dust,” Angel says, with a wink. “I’m Husk’s—” Angel stalls, eyes going wide. Fuck, what is he?
It doesn’t feel right calling himself Husk’s employee, not anymore. It’s still true, but it’s more than that. He doesn’t know if “boyfriend” is the right label, either. They haven’t really talked about it, yet, and Angel hasn’t been sure how to bring it up. They’re both old men who have been through their respective fair shares of shitty relationships, and having the “so are you my boyfriend” conversation has felt… childish? They’re together, and that’s what really matters. They don’t need a label to make things “official” between them.
But it sure would be helpful to have a label for situations like this one so he doesn’t just stand there looking like an idiot.
“Partner,” Husk supplies for him. “Angel is my partner.”
And that? Well, that feels like the perfect word to describe them.
Angel hasn’t been anyone’s partner in a very, very long time. Possibly ever. He remembers back when Husk first asked him to be his business partner all that time ago and how good it had felt, but the word seems to feel a little bit different this time around.
It feels all encompassing. It feels right. After everything they’ve been through together, “boyfriend” seems like it would feel too casual, too informal. Husk is his partner, in all meanings of the word.
Angel feels a little choked up, but tries not to let it show. He places a hand out for the princess to take, making sure to look at her and not at Husk (otherwise he will absolutely start crying on the spot). “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”
The princess takes his hand and squeezes. “Please, Charlie is fine. Thank you for your willingness to hear us out.”
Husk leads the way, making a beeline towards the large glass elevator at the back of the casino. Angel is not unaware of the way that the eyes of their patrons follow them as they make their way through the crowd, but he tries not to let it get to him. It is pretty strange to see Hell’s princess doing any sort of business with an overlord, let alone an overlord like Husk. It’s no secret that Husk does his business by dealing in souls, so Angel is sure that gossip is going to spread quickly regarding the nature of their meeting.
Which is exactly why he suggested moving it to somewhere with more privacy.
In the elevator, through her reflection, Angel realizes that Vaggie has been staring at him. She looks a little uneasy, but he can’t figure out why. They parted ways on good terms — or so he thought. He was sure he’d hear from her again, but it’s been months since Extermination Day and he hasn’t gotten so much as a phone call from his little fallen angel. What gives?
The elevator dings and the doors open, and they make their way down the long corridor towards Husk’s office. Charlie’s heels click loudly, echoing in the empty expanse of the eerie hallway. She looks around with a smile and bright eyes, like she’s absolutely fascinated by everything she’s seeing. She reminds Angel a bit of a kid in a candy store, and she isn’t anything like he imagined she’d be.
Which, to be fair, he hasn’t ever really given Charlie Morningstar much thought at all. Since his arrival in Hell, Angel’s priorities have been focused on building the best afterlife for himself (doing whatever the fuck he had to do to get drugs and money) so he never really had time to worry about the lore or politics of Hell. As far as he’s concerned, whatever Lucifer did to land himself in the clutches of eternal damnation is his own damn business, just like every other sorry soul in The Pit. Angel doesn’t give a shit about some king and his daughter ruling over a city of depravity and sin — he has more important things to worry about.
So seeing this happy, energetic girl take a seat in one of Husk’s leather office chairs and look around the room like she’s in some kind of museum with interesting shit to stare at catches him by surprise. She seems as out of touch with Hell’s denizens as Hell’s denizens are with her, and Angel wonders how things ended up this way. Even more than that, he wonders what it is that the princess could possibly want with Husk.
Angel takes a seat on the couch and Husk takes a seat behind his desk with the two girls seated in the leather chairs in front of him. It places Angel in an observer’s position; not quite involved in the action of this conversation, but adjacent to it. He prefers it this way, so that he can make his own judgment calls. Charlie is here to talk to Husk, not Angel, but they’re partners now so Angel should still be involved in big things like this. He wonders if this is how it feels to be the president’s wife.
“Alright,” Husk says, sliding open his desk drawer to pull out a cigar. It gives Angel deja vu from their earlier encounters, before everything changed between them. Husk looks powerful sitting behind the heavy, wooden desk, and he looks even more powerful when he has a cigar in his hand. “You’ve got your audience with me. You wanna tell me what this is all about?”
Husk lights the cigar and Vaggie wrinkles her nose in disgust.
“Okay, so,” Charlie says, clapping her hands together. She sounds a little out of breath, like the excitement of what she’s about to share is too much. She keeps her palms pressed together and then points her hands towards Husk. “I have a proposition for you! You know how for the last, I dunno, ten-thousand years, we’ve had to deal with that pesky extermination problem?”
“Uh,” Husk’s eyes dart to Angel for a moment, brows raised, and Angel just shrugs, “Yeah?”
“Well, what if I told you that I have a way to get rid of it for good!” Charlie says, unable to keep the enthusiasm from her voice. “You see, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I’ve realized that there’s a much better solution to our problems that doesn’t involve the loss of precious souls. I was born here in Hell, and growing up I always tried to see the good in everything around me. Hell is my home, and you — both of you,” she gestures towards Angel and gives him a smile, “are my people. All of Hell’s souls are my people. It breaks my heart to see my people being slaughtered every year. No one is even given a chance to prove that they deserve to be spared, and I just — I can’t stand idly by while the people I love are subjected to such violence. Soooooo, I’ve been thinking! Isn’t there a more humane way to handle overpopulation here in Hell? Perhaps we can create an alternative way to change souls through,” she pauses for dramatic effect, smile growing impossibly wider, “redemption!”
Angel can’t help the snort that escapes him, and doesn’t miss the glare Vaggie shoots in his direction. Redemption? This broad can’t be serious. This is Hell, and everyone here is here because they deserve to be. Charlie hears Angel’s snort and he sees her smile waver for a moment, but she presses on anyway.
“S-so, that’s what I’m here to talk about! I’m opening the first of its kind — a hotel that rehabilitates sinners!” Charlie reaches into the pocket of her red blazer and pulls out a folded up piece of paper. She unfolds it and smooths it out on her thigh, and then holds up what appears to be a crayon drawing of a building with a rainbow over it. The building is labeled ‘The Happy Hotel’ and all around it are smiling stick figures. “Get it? Because hotels are for people passing through temporarily!”
She ends her presentation with another huge smile, like she’s waiting for applause, but Husk just stares at her, the ash on his cigar threatening to fall at any moment.
“Are you fucking with me?” Husk asks her, point-blank.
Charlie deflates again, and lowers her drawing. “No,” she says, earnest. “I’m not! I’m being completely serious! A-and I’m here to ask you if you’d be willing to sponsor my project. I need overlords who are willing to recommend souls that they think can be redeemed to pilot the program I’m launching at my hotel. If I can get you to endorse my project, it would help others feel more comfortable with—”
Husk barks out a laugh, cutting her off. “You want me to just give you some of the souls on my chain? Are you fuckin’ high? No one's gonna buy into this shit.”
“That’s not true!” Charlie argues. She gestures towards Vaggie, who suddenly goes still and then glances over at Angel again. “Vaggie is a sinner who believes that her soul can be saved. She’s supported me through every step of this process, and if she thinks that it’s possible, then I’m sure that there must be others out there like her. Others who want to be better people.”
Angel takes a moment to realize what Charlie’s just said, and then he meets Vaggie’s eyes. Vaggie is most certainly not a sinner who believes in redemption. She’s an angel of Heaven who used to participate in the slaughtering of Hell’s people. She holds Angel’s gaze and then, very subtly, shakes her head in warning.
So she’s lying, then. She’s lying to her girlfriend, and she’s letting her girlfriend embarrass herself by believing in this psycho pipe dream of redeeming souls for Heaven. It isn’t Angel’s business why Vaggie would feel the need to lie, and honestly, he’d probably have done the same fucking thing — but for them to come in here and ask something like this? It’s — it’s insane, that’s what it is.
There’s no fucking way Husk is going to willingly let any of The Jackpot’s souls participate in something like this. Charlie is going to be hard-pressed to find any overlords willing to sponsor such a crazy idea.
“Sorry to interject,” Angel says, interjecting. “But I gotta be honest here, Toots, I don’t think you’re gonna find many sinners who are interested in somethin’ like this.”
“Well, what about you?” Charlie asks, automatically.
Angel stares at her. “Me?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Are you saying you wouldn’t want to go to Heaven, if you had the chance? That you wouldn’t want to live a better, happier life, if you could?”
And that’s a loaded ass fucking question to be asked by a stranger. He looks over at Husk who looks back at him, just as caught off-guard by her question as Angel is.
“I-I mean,” Angel stutters, grappling for something to say. It’s complicated. A few months ago, Angel would have laughed in her face for asking a question like that. A few months ago, Angel would have known himself well enough to feel like he was incapable of changing, like he was deserving of the shitty hand he was dealt because of all of the ways in which he was fucked up inside.
But… his perspective has changed quite a bit in the last few months. Now, he knows that he’s capable of change. He’s more than capable of change. He’s blown his own expectations of himself out of the water, so he knows that he’d be a fucking liar if he were to look Charlie in the eyes right now and tell her that he didn’t think it was possible for souls to make themselves better.
Angel sighs. “Look, this ain’t about me,” Angel says.
“Why not?” Vaggie interrupts, speaking for the first time since they entered the office. “The last time I saw you, you told me that you were going to try and improve your life. By the looks of it,” she gestures towards Husk, towards Angel’s dress, towards all of this, “You’ve managed to do exactly that. Are you going to tell me that you really don’t think that Charlie is onto something?”
Angel stares at her, and feels like his stomach is about to fall out of his ass. It’s not often that he’s able to be seen by someone, and it’s making him feel uneasy. He and Vaggie spent 24 hours together. How the fuck does she know him so well?
“Wait, I’m confused,” Husk says, snuffing out his neglected cigar. “Did I miss the part where you explained how the fuck you two know each other?”
“Oh, yeah. We met a few months ago,” Angel tells him. “During Extermination Day, when the Vees locked me out.”
Husk’s response is immediate. His demonic form swells in a burst of fury and makes all three of the others in the room gasp. An orange, burning hot aura washes over the room and makes Angel’s hair blow back as Husk slams his hands on his desk.
“YOU WERE LOCKED OUT DURING EXTERMINATION DAY?” Husk asks, sharp teeth bared. And — fuck, did Angel forget to mention that?
Angel feels a pang of guilt at the realization that this is how Husk is finding out about that incident, and he tries to calm him down.
“Relax, baby,” Angel says, feigning casualty. “It’s not a big deal, I’m okay ain’t I?”
“Not a big deal?” Husk says, his anger a palpable presence in the room with them. His wings open and his claws grow long and dangerous. “You could have died, Angel! Those bastards could have fuckin’ killed you by locking you out!”
“I know, I know,” Angel tells him. He gets up and goes over to where Husk is sitting and he sits down on the edge of the desk. He puts a hand on Husk’s shoulder, and watches him visibly start to calm at his touch. “But I survived, okay? That’s what matters. And it’s what made me come back here, back to you, and finally say fuck you to Val once and for all—”
“Not to be that guy,” Charlie interrupts. “But we wouldn’t even be having this discussion if Extermination Day weren’t a problem.”
Angel glares at her, because right now is a terrible time to say something like that, but he also can’t deny that she has a point.
If it weren’t for the threat of Extermination Day, Angel’s life wouldn’t have been in danger that day. He remembers the terror on that child’s face, the one that Vaggie spared, and he remembers her story about the army of angels in Heaven with hatred drilled into their skulls by an asshole with a personal vendetta against Hell and its people. The princess’s dream of redemption is a wild one, but it makes sense when Angel really thinks about it.
“Do you really think that there’s a chance this could work?” Angel asks, turning to face them.
Charlie perks right up. “I do! I really, really do! In fact—”
“Not you,” Angel says, cutting her off. He points to the ex-exorcist sitting beside her and raises his brow. “Vaggie. Do you really think Heaven would give us sinners another chance at savin’ our souls?” He says it pointedly. He says in a way that carries weight, so that she knows exactly what he’s implying.
If Vaggie — if an angel thinks there’s a chance that Charlie idea could work — then maybe Angel can be convinced.
She holds his gaze. “I do,” she says. “I believe in Charlie’s vision. I believe that souls can change, no matter what they’ve been through.”
Angel remembers her story. He remembers how much she had to change her state of mind in order to do what she did. Hearing it is what gave him the strength to change his own destiny. The two of them know better than anyone how much a soul can accomplish once they start taking accountability for their actions.
“You’re not actually buyin’ this shit, are you?” Husk says, his anger dissipating little by little. Angel knows that this isn’t the last conversation they’re going to have about the incident, but he’s thankful that Husk is willing to wait until they’re alone to push it more. “I’ve been dead a long time, and I ain’t ever heard of souls gettin’ sent to Heaven for good deeds.”
“That’s because no one has attempted to do what I’m doing,” Charlie explains. “Before now, souls who wanted to better themselves were alone. They were surrounded by depravity and temptation and every step forward resulted in another even bigger step back. My hotel — the Happy Hotel, would provide a safe space for people to take those steps forward and keep up that momentum. I just need one soul to believe in me, one soul who is willing to be the spokesperson for what I’m trying to do in order to get started.”
She sounds so earnest and determined that it’s hard not to believe in her. Angel wonders if that’s her thing — if the princess of Hell is secretly a silver-tongued ray of sunshine who can convince anyone to follow her with a smile on her face.
Her words make him think about how big of a role being alone played in Angel’s reluctance to get clean for so long. He had been alone, he had been so alone or so long that he had lost sight of who he was. That’s what Hell does, though, it’s part of the realm’s design. It swallows you up and isolates you from any kind of connection until everything that made you human is gone.
If it hadn’t been for Fizzarolli’s televised fuck you to Mammon and Vaggie’s rebellion against her fellow exorcists, Angel doesn’t know that he’d had ever been able to walk away from Valentino. It was once he realized that others had the strength to move forward that he realized he had that very same strength within himself. If this hotel could offer that feeling to others, then Angel thinks he can get behind it.
Angel can’t explain it. He doesn’t know why he does what he does next, but something deep within him tells him that he should.
“I’ll do it,” he says, suddenly.
“Excuse me?” Husk says loudly, confused.
Angel looks at him. Husk is staring at him incredulously, like Angel just agreed to sign his life away. “I’ll do it. I’ll be the spokesperson or whatever.”
Husk makes a frustrated noise. “Now wait a minute—”
“Oh my gosh,” Charlie squeals. “Are you serious! That’s — that’s amazing news! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, Vaggie this is huge, this is—”
“Why can’t your girlfriend be your spokesperson?” Husk asks. Vaggie goes still, eyes wide, and looks at Angel.
It’s Charlie who answers, though. “Vaggie isn’t exactly a people person,” Charlie explains. “She’s much better suited for helping out backstage, rather than being on stage in any capacity.”
That’s a great analogy, so Angel adds, “And I love being on stage, so it’s a perfect fit.”
Angel can tell that Husk is upset with him. He knows that maybe he shouldn’t have been so quick to jump in, but he couldn’t help it. It just felt like the right move.
It felt like something he had to do. For himself.
“Why don’t you take a day to sleep on it,” Vaggie offers, clearly picking up on the growing tension between them. “You can get back to us with your answer.”
Charlie, oblivious to the tension, says, “What? But Vaggie, he said he’d do it! This is what we’ve been waiting for!”
Vaggie puts a hand on her girlfriend’s thigh. “Yes, I know. But shouldn’t he be sure about a choice like this? And besides, remember what we talked about?”
Charlie looks confused for a moment, and then her face brightens. “Riiiight,” she says, smirking. “Sales tactics.”
Charlie winks, and Vaggie shakes her head and rolls her eyes but there’s so much affection in the action that Angel feels his heart swell.
Charlie and Vaggie leave, and before they go Charlie takes all four of Angel’s hands between hers and squeezes them.
“Thank you,” Charlie says. “Thank you for believing in me. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.”
“You got it, Toots,” Angel tells her. “We’ll be in touch.”
Charlie gives him one last thankful look before she leaves. Angel closes the door behind them, and he and Husk are alone again for the first time since their earlier interruption.
Angel turns and leans his back against the door and gives Husk what he hopes is a convincingly cute puppy-dog look, but Husk is unphased. Husk is sitting at his desk with his head in his hands looking at Angel like he’s just sucked the life force from his body.
“Okay,” Angel says, biting his cheek. “I can explain.”
“Yeah,” Husk replies. “Start explaining. From the beginning.”
Chapter 25
Angel explains himself. He starts from the day at Val’s when he watched Mammon’s Clown Pageant on television and felt the very start of his desire to heal blossom deep within his chest. He hadn’t realized that’s what it was at the time, but when he looks back on it, when he explains it out loud, he knows that if it hadn’t been for Fizzarolli, he probably never would have had the strength to walk away.
Husk seems to soften at that point of the story, happy to hear that Angel had started to realize that the life he was living wasn’t sustainable. Angel has this conversation seated in one of the leather chairs across from Husk with his elbows resting on his knees, and Husk watching him from behind folded hands. It feels uncomfortably formal, but Angel doesn’t know any other way to do this.
He just made a decision without consulting Husk — one that could change the progression of their relationship permanently. Angel doesn’t think that this is the kind of talk you have while curled up on the couch listening to music; no, those moments are reserved for conversations of comfort and safety. He needs to properly explain himself before they can go back to the reprieve of their apartment.
When Angel tells Husk about Vox leaving him to fend for himself on Extermination Day, Husk’s anger comes back.
He makes a frustrated noise and sits back in his chair. “I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance,” Husk says, eyes dark. “Should have killed both of those bastards, would’ve done Hell a favor.”
Angel can’t say he disagrees with that.
“It was rock bottom,” Angel tells him, closing his eyes against the pain of the memory. “There I was, high outta my mind, stuck out in the streets while exorcists were rainin’ from the sky and tryin’ to kill me. My phone was dead, I was so torn up inside with guilt and shame and fucking hatred for everyone and everything, and I thought ‘maybe I should just let one of ‘em kill me,’ ya know? Maybe things would be better if I just disappeared.”
“Fuck, Angel,” Husk says, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks heartbroken, and Angel has to look away so that he doesn’t start crying. “I’m so sorry. I shoulda made you stay. I shoulda—”
“No,” Angel cuts him off. “I wouldn’t have stayed. I was in a bad place that day, I would have left regardless. It ain’t your fault, Whiskers, it’s all on me.”
Because really, it is. It’s his fault. He’s the one who panicked at the first sign of rejection from Husk and went running back into Val’s arms. He’s the one who was too high to realize what day it was and wound up outside on such a dangerous day to begin with. He’s the one who should be sorry for putting that kind of worry on Husk.
“It’s on the Vees,” Husk says, and there’s a finality to his tone that makes Angel feel like he should believe him. “They’re the assholes who should be sorry. It’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
Angel nods, because yeah, he knows. He could have died that day. Hell, he should have fucking died that day, but he didn’t. He survived, and now he has the chance to use that life he has to make a difference and he feels a deep sense of obligation to see that through.
“I ran into that girl, Vaggie,” Angel explains. “The princess’s girlfriend. She was…” he reaches around in his head for the right word, one that explains the way that they both felt so helplessly alone in their respective situations with no way out, and he settles on, “...stuck, just like me. She was trapped with nowhere to go and we sort of leaned on each other to stay alive. I don’t know if I’d have made it without her.”
He doesn’t tell Husk about Vaggie’s true identity. It doesn’t feel like his place. If Vaggie is keeping it a secret from Charlie of all people, she must have a reason. Angel doesn’t want to be the one to take away that sense of safety, especially if Vaggie has managed to find someone she trusts enough to call her “girlfriend” in this pit of despair.
“She said you saved her,” Husk says, eyeing Angel carefully. “That true?”
Angel can’t help but laugh at that. “If you had asked me about this before, I would have said that she saved me. I think we saved each other, in a way. Sittin’ with her that night and listenin’ to the sounds of souls being destroyed out on the streets… it’s the kinda experience you don’t easily forget.” Angel sighs, and looks down at where his hands are anxiously rubbing themselves together in his lap. He hasn’t really taken time to process how awful that night was, how traumatic. Neither of them had dared to look out the window when they heard an exorcist close-by, both out of fear of being spotted and out of self-preservation for their own psyches. “A-anyway, when the sun came up and the night was done, we both left there feelin’ a sense of — I dunno, clarity, I guess? I thought, hey, I’m still alive, ain’t I? I shouldn’t waste my time with a piece of shit like Val. I should go after what I really want.”
Angel looks up and meets Husk’s eyes.
“So you came back here,” Husk says, softly. “You came back to me.”
“Yeah,” Angel replies, a little breathlessly. “I was tired of punishin’ myself for shit I’d repented for a long time ago. I was tired of gettin’ stepped on. You never made me feel like I wasn’t deserving of being happy, not the way Val did.”
Husk’s face is hard to read. Once again, Angel is reminded of his partner’s incredible poker face, and the good and bad parts of it. Angel never knows what the guy is thinking. He never knows how he’s feeling, either. Angel has to guess what’s going on inside of Husk’s head based on vibes all of the time, and it’s hard for him as someone who wears his emotions on his sleeve.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Husk says, closing his eyes. He slowly stands and Angel watches as he crosses the room to open that familiar cabinet in the corner where he stores his Wrathian liquor. “Wish you had told me, but give the circumstances, I understand why you didn’t.”
His tone is strained, but his face is giving nothing in terms of revealing what’s going on inside. He pulls out one of his crystal glasses, fills it, and then downs the entire thing like a shot before pouring himself another.
“I was gonna tell you eventually,” Angel offers, feeling a little defenseless. He needs Husk to give him something, anything for this conversation to not feel so stiff. Is Husk upset with him for withholding the truth? That’s not very fair. Angel was going through a lot back then and —
“So now what?” Husk asks, cutting off Angel’s thoughts. He isn’t looking at Angel. His back is mostly turned and he’s facing the bookshelf in his office on which the crystal decanter is resting menacingly. “You just gonna move out and go stay at this fancy hotel?”
Angel feels like he’s been sucker-punched. “What?”
Husk’s face flickers into something like anger and then he looks away completely, turning his back so that Angel can’t read him.
“Nah, it’s okay, I get it,” Husk says, and his voice is harsh. “Why would you wanna stay here, anyway? I’m just another asshole overlord that’s gonna use you and mistreat you. You should go.”
Wait, what?
“Husk, that’s not—”
“I couldn’t protect you,” Husk says, slamming his glass down. “Fuck, Angel, you could have died and I wasn’t there to make sure you were safe! You’re a soul on my chain, you’re my responsibility, and I let you walk away because of my own fucked up shame about how things went down between us.”
Angel stares at Husk’s back. His wings are drooping in despair, and his lead is bowed. Husk places both hands down on the shelf at his waist to steady himself, like he’s afraid his knees might give out.
Angel doesn’t know what to say. He’s never seen Husk lose his cool like this. He’s seen Husk get angry, sure, but he’s never seen anything like this. Angel thought that Husk would be frustrated with him. He thought that Husk would be upset that Angel lied, upset that Vox locked him out, not guilty that he wasn’t able to do more to keep him safe.
“Husk,” Angel tries again. “I thought you heard me. This ain’t your fault! A-and I learned a lot from the experience, if it weren’t for that day, I don’t know if I’d have been comfortable bein’ Charlie’s sponsor—”
“So you are going,” Husk cuts him off again. He still doesn’t turn to face Angel. From where Angel is sitting, he can see Husk start to tremble. “Good, you should go. You shouldn’t stay here with a drunk loser.”
Angel gets to his feet but doesn’t move any closer. What the fuck is Husk saying? What happened to being losers together? Why is Husk acting like Angel is breaking up with him? “Goin’ where? Husk, what’re you talkin’ about? I never said anything about goin’ nowhere. I’m stayin’ right here with you!”
“She said it was a hotel, Angel,” Husk counters, back still turned. “Presumably people who want redemption stay there until they earn it. Don’t think Princess would be too keen on you keepin’ close quarters with an overlord like me. Might hurt your chances of getting into Heaven.”
Husk punctuates that last sentence by downing the rest of his drink and then abandoning the glass to drink straight from the decanter itself.
Okay, so something is wrong. Something is obviously very wrong, but Angel has no idea what.
“Then I’ll tell her I’m not stayin’,” Angel says, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. “I ain’t interested in movin’ in with her, I just think that she’s got the right idea when it comes to helpin’ people get better. I thought you’d feel the same way!”
Husk laughs; a dry, bitter sound. “Ain’t no way my soul is ever getting saved.”
Angel makes a frustrated noise.
“What’s your problem?” Angel demands. “You aksed me to explain myself, and then you just shut me out without even listenin’ to a word I’m sayin? I never said shit about movin’ out or breakin’ up or anything like that! Why are you so upset?”
Husk shakes his head, but still does not turn around. Angel is starting to get fed up with this tantrum-like behavior. If Husk wants to be moody, he at least needs to communicate what’s wrong. Angel can’t do this passive aggressive, self-deprecating bullshit. He’s never been very good at puzzles, and he doesn’t want to try to figure out what the problem is when Husk is more than capable of communicating what’s wrong.
“Princess thinks she can waltz in here, spoutin’ bullshit about redemption,” Husk mumbles, and that just pisses Angel off even more.
“Bullshit?” Angel asks, taking a few brave steps forward. “Redeeming yourself ain’t bullshit, Husk, I should know—”
Husk scoffs. “It’s nonsense, Angel! A pipe dream!”
Angel puts his hands on his hips. He’s close to Husk now, just a few short feet, and he can smell the liquor from where he’s standing. Husk might be right about Charlie’s dream. It might be bullshit. It might be nonsense. But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t try.
Angel is proof of how much a person can change. He’s sober now, and a few months ago he wouldn’t have believed himself capable of that. Being in Hell is meant to be a punishment, but why the fuck does that punishment have to be forever?
A lifetime of suffering for a few years of bad mistakes? How is that fair?
Angel can’t guarantee that there’s any truth to what Charlie believes in, but he knows that at the very least, souls are capable of leading better lives right here in Hell. Heaven is a neat promise — it gives hope to the hopeless, but it’s not the only reason why someone should want to better themselves.
Angel stands his ground. “And what if it’s not?” he asks. “What if souls can be saved, what if there’s a chance people can go to Heaven?”
Angel doesn’t know why that seems to be what finally breaks him, but Husk turns to face him at that question and the look on his face takes Angel’s breath away. The poker face is gone; slipped off and shattered on the floor beneath them. Husk’s eyes are wide and glassy, like he’s about to cry, and his cheeks are red.
Husk’s voice trembles when he shouts, “Exactly!”
Angel blinks at him. “What—”
Husk presses a fist to his own chest, and takes a step forward. “What if it’s not? What if by some fuckin’ miracle the princess has managed to find a way to get souls into Heaven? What does that mean for us?”
Angel swallows, and tries to form some sort of cohesive response. He’s never seen Husk come apart like this, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s wanted it — fuck, he’s wanted it so badly; he’s wanted to be able to know what Husk is thinking more than anything else.
He just… hadn’t realized how much self-hatred the guy was holding onto.
Angel’s voice is low when he says, “Us? Husk, if you think I’d go to those pearly gates without you at my side then—”
Husk throws up his arms in aggravation. “I’m not gettin’ to the gates, Angel! What part of that don’t you understand? I’m down here for a reason, okay? I’m down here because I deserve to be here. I ain’t interested in some paradise filled with people who did everything right the first time around.” Husk blinks and a few tears escape his dark eyes. “My soul’s too broken, too dirty. They’d never let me past security, kid.”
Now it’s Angel’s turn to get angry. “You think you’re the only person who feels like they’re in Hell because they deserve it?” Angel asks, refusing to back down. “Husk, you have no idea what kinda person I was when I was alive. You have no clue the kind of shit I did, the people I hurt, the lives I ruined all for the sake of gettin’ high!” Fuck, now Angel is crying, too. It’s just so fucking awful to hear Husk talk about himself the way that Angel used to talk about himself. He spent so many decades hating himself, feeling like he didn’t deserve to get clean, letting himself be abused and mistreated because of all of the ways that he had screwed up while he was alive. It wasn’t until recently, it wasn’t until Vaggie, and Fizzarolli, and Husk, that Angel was able to feel anywhere close to deserving of a life less miserable. “So are you sayin’ I shoulda stayed with Val and let him treat me like garbage, shoulda kept doin’ drugs that made me sick, all because I deserve it?”
Husk deflates. His ears droop just like his wings and he looks so small compared to Angel. “Of course not—”
“If I can get better, so can you!” Angel shouts. “Look, do I think Charlie has a chance of convincing Heaven to let in the souls of the damned? No, I fuckin’ don’t. But I think she’s on the right path when it comes to people doin’ better for themselves. Gettin’ into Heaven is one hell of a motivator, but it shouldn’t be the only motivator. I’m gettin’ better for me. I’m gettin’ better because I was tired of rotting down here and wishin’ I was double dead. I got better because I met someone who actually liked me for me, and not because of my body. I got better because I met you, Husk, and you helped me realize that I couldn’t keep livin’ to die.” His voice cracks. “I got better because I fell in love with you.”
The silence that follows Angel’s final exclamation is so loud that it makes his ears ring. They stand there in the wreckage of their argument, both buzzing with adrenaline and struggling to catch their breaths.
Husk is the first one to speak. His voice is quiet, barely audible over the deafening silence that’s settled between them. “You’re in love with me?”
Fuck.
Fuck, Angel hadn’t even realized that he had said that. This wasn’t how he had planned to tell Husk. He had wanted it to be more intimate, more soft. He had wanted to make sure that Husk knew that he meant it, that it came at a time when they were both ready.
But it’s out there now, and Angel can’t bring himself to regret saying it. This wasn’t how he planned for it to happen, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
“I — I uh,” Angel stutters, before closing his mouth and deciding to stand his ground once more. “Yeah. I am. Does that scare you?”
Husk moves so fast Angel doesn’t have time to prepare before he’s slamming their mouth’s together, hand coming up behind Angel’s head to pull him closer. They stumble backwards, a tangled mess of thrashing limbs and desperate tongues, teeth clicking together as neither of them makes an effort to correct their positions. They move until Angel’s ass comes into contact with Husk’s desk, and Husk pulls away long enough to swipe an arm over the top of it and knock all of his papers and things to the floor in a clatter. With his other hand he pushes Angel backwards, and Angel goes easily, jumping up a little to lay back on the cool mahogany surface.
Husk pulls his tie loose and climbs on top of him. “It fuckin’ terrifies me.”
Angel tries to swallow but it won’t go down. His voice is a whisper when he asks, “Why?”
“‘Cause I love you too,” Husk says, simply. He discards the tie and then starts working on undoing his belt. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself.”
The wave of emotion that comes with that is overwhelming. It hits Angel like a punch to the gut and makes his mind go blank. All he can think to do is reach up and pull Husk back down for another kiss.
It’s less messy but just as intense the next time their lips meet. Angel’s heart feels like it’s going to burst from his ribcage, and he moans into Husk’s mouth when Husk’s tongue comes out to lick the shape of Angel’s lower lip. Husk makes a hungry sound and then reaches down to hike Angel’s dress up over his waist, pink fabric pooling at Angel’s belly and revealing his hard cock trapped beneath frilly black fabric.
Husk reaches down and takes Angel in his hand and Angel gasps, back arching up off of the desk as he props himself up on his elbows for better access to Husk’s mouth while he’s being touched. Husk’s kisses are hot and heavy, and Angel feels drunk off of the taste of him. His tongue tastes like whiskey and spice, and Angel savors every note of that Wrathian goodness.
“Fuck,” Angel gasps, when Husk strokes his cock. He tries to steady himself but he cant. He’s high off of the adrenaline from the fight and everything that’s come with it, and he needs release. “Husky, baby, I need you to—”
“I know,” Husk says, kissing him quiet. “I know what you need, baby. Turn over for me.”
Husk climbs off of the desk and finishes with undoing his zipper. He drops his pants and boxers to his ankles, revealing his hard, leaking cock. He’s watching Angel with heavily lidded eyes and a desperately hungry expression.
Angel obeys the instructions and shimmies himself to the edge of the desk. With one hand he pulls his panties off and tosses them away and then he turns over, legs falling over the side of the desk and steadying him. Husk wastes no time in closing the distance between them, and before Angel can even think to be self-conscious about the vulnerability of his position, Husk’s finger is circling his hole.
Angel groans and rocks backwards, urging Husk to keep going, but Husk reaches over him and slides open his desk drawer. Angel is too horny to pay much attention to what Husk is doing, but after a few seconds of rustling through the drawer’s contents, Husk lets out a soft “aha!” and sets a small container of vaseline down beside the place where Angel’s elbows are resting.
Angel lifts a brow and turns to give Husk a questioning look, and Husk just shrugs and says, “Hands get dry sometimes.”
Angel snorts a laugh and then goes back into position. He leans down, so that his chest is flush against the wooden surface, and gives Husk better access. Husk sucks in a breath at the sight and Angel preens a little at the admiration. He’s watched his own porn, he knows how pretty he looks when he’s positioned like this. He’s glad that now Husk is the only person who gets to see what he looks like when he’s not behind a screen.
Husk unscrews the lid and then digs his fingers into the vaseline, scooping out a generous amount before his hand disappears again. When he touches Angel, his fingers are warm. Angel melts into the feeling, spreading his legs and groaning as Husk’s crooked fingers trace the shape of him before pressing in gently.
Angel doesn’t know how to tell Husk that he doesn’t need gentle right now. He’s tired of gentle. They’ve been gentle for long enough, Angel needs to be fucked within an inch of his life. He needs to feel Husk inside of him as deep as he’ll go. He needs to clench himself around the shape of him, lose himself to the feeling of Husk’s thrusts going in and out—
“God,” Angel cries out, cock twitching at the fantasy. “Would ya hurry up already?”
“Impatient,” Husk tuts, slipping another finger inside. Angel gasps, and then whines, legs going weak. “You gonna be a good boy for me?”
That sends a shiver up Angel’s spine and he whines again when Husk accentuates his question by curling his fingers.
“Y-yes,” Angel chokes out, breath hitching.
Husk pulls his fingers out to the very edge of Angel’s hole and teases him, twitching the tips of his digits in a way that drives Angel crazy. “Yes, what?”
And oh, that’s good. That’s so good. Angel knew Husk had it in him to be a dom, and finally getting to see this side of him does something to Angel’s head.
“Yes, sir,” Angel tells him, and Husk rewards his good behavior by fucking him hard with three big slicked-up fingers. Angel makes another incoherent sound and grips the edge of the desk to keep himself from completely collapsing at the sensation.
It feels incredible, but Angel needs more. He asks for what he needs by rocking backwards, forcing Husk’s fingers to go deeper. Husk chuckles in response, and then leans down to press a kiss to Angel’s lower back.
“Mmm,” Husk hums, fingers slowing their pace. “You want me bad, don’t you baby?”
Angel swallows loudly and nods. “So bad,” he says, breathlessly. “Please, sir, please.”
Husk slowly pulls his fingers all the way out and then shoves them back in, hard and fast. It makes Angel shout, and makes his knees start to buckle.
“Please?” Husk teases. His voice is low and sexy. He uses his free hand, the one that’s not currently inside of Angel, to trail a finger down Angel’s back. “You gotta be more specific, baby.”
So, Husk likes it when Angel begs, huh? Oh, Angel can beg. He can beg all fucking day. In fact, Husk isn’t going to be able to handle just good Angel is when it comes to this kind of thing. Angel is quite skilled in the bedroom, and hasn’t really had a chance to showcase those skills before now.
“Fuck me,” Angel purrs, lowering his voice in a way that makes it sound like he can barely speak. He gasps a breath, makes a little show out of it, and then says, “Please, sir. Please fuck me. I need it, baby, I can’t tell you how much I need it.”
Husk gives himself away by the sharp sound of his breath catching, and Angel grins. Angel reaches around himself with one of his lower arms and takes his own cock in his hands and starts to touch himself in the small confused space between his hips and the desk. Husk’s fingers stop moving, which Angel thought they might, and he growls in Angel’s ear.
“Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?” Husk demands.
Angel whines again, but stops the motion. “Please,” Angel says for what feels like the hundredth time. “Please, Husk, fuck me baby.”
Husk lines himself up against Angel’s hole, but doesn’t press in. He teases himself there, pressing the head of his cock against Angel’s stretched entrance. He’s doing it to drive Angel crazy, and it’s working. Angel tightens his grip on the desk and sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t dare rock himself backwards when he’s this close to getting what he wants. Husk pushes in a little bit, and the sensation is almost too much. Angel isn’t used to being fucked slowly; that’s not usually what his audience was interested in seeing. He’s used to being slammed into until he’s a moaning, writhing mess of himself. He likes being slammed into. He likes how powerful it makes him feel when his partner loses control.
But slow? Slow can be good too.
Husk takes his time, and Angel can feel every inch of him. He’s silent when he does it, so that the only sounds in the room are Angel’s moans and pleas. He pushes in a little at a time until he’s fully seated inside of Angel, and then he lets out a low growl of pleasure that makes Angel feel like he’s going to explode.
“Damn, baby,” Husk says, and the tone of his voice makes him sound like he’s just as destroyed as Angel feels. “You feel so good.”
Angel can’t speak. He feels so unbelievably full that it’s overwhelming. He needs Husk to move, so that he can think straight, but Husk seems dead-set on taking his time. Angel opens his mouth to say something, maybe to ask for more, but all that comes out is a strangled cry of pleasure. Husk is big and hard and hot inside of him, and Angel’s thighs are trembling with desire to feel Husk fuck him the way he needs to be fucked.
Husk’s hand comes up to caress the side of Angel’s face, and Angel leans into the touch. He lets his eyes flutter shut and tries to focus on the feeling of being filled by the person he loves, and that’s when Husk finally starts moving. He pulls back, painstakingly slow, but just as he’s reached the tip of his cock as the only remaining part inside, he slowly pushes back in.
Going this slow, Angel can feel everything. He can feel every impurity of Husk’s cock inside of him, can feel his own tightness welcoming him in. He makes a long, dragged-out noise and lets himself get lost in the feeling of being fucked slowly, mind going blank on everything but the warmth and pressure between his thighs.
Angel slips away for a moment, into someplace new. This isn’t like the last time, and it isn’t like any of those times with Val, or his clients, or the fuckers Val cast to star alongside him, it’s different. The place Angel goes this time isn’t an escape, but a new space that exists alongside the one he’s conscious of.
He’s here, but he isn’t. He feels so good that he would almost believe he’s high, except for the fact that he knows he’s completely fucking sober. All of his thoughts go quiet, and Angel can only feel the sweet euphoria that comes with each thrust of Husk’s hips. Angel’s body starts to tingle, starting at his fingertips and spreading to his chest.
His vision is blurred and fuzzy around the edges but things aren’t dark the way they usually are when he starts to slip. Everything is bright and warm and good, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s moaning, that he’s fucking drooling, until Husk is gently tapping his cheek.
“Baby?” Husk says, and Angel realizes that Husk has stopped moving. “Hey, you with me sweetheart?
Angel sucks in a breath, and his vision clears. He blinks a few times, and then feels that warmth once again in his belly.
“Yeah,” Angel says, turning so that he can see Husk over his shoulder. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows but he’s too shaky. “I’m good, Husky. I — I’m amazin’. You feel amazin’.”
Husk’s concerned expression lingers for just a moment more before it shifts into relief. He leans down and presses a kiss to the back of Angel’s neck, lips soft and warm. He rocks his hips, pushing in deeper, and then combs his fingers through Angel’s hair before he leans back again.
“Okay,” Husk says, his voice rough with desire. “You sure baby? Looked like you were disappearin’ again for a minute there.”
Angel doesn’t know how to explain that he was slipping, but that he wasn’t disappearing. He wasn’t getting away from the moment, he was existing alongside himself. Angel had briefly separated soul from body and had floated away on the gorgeously blissful feeling of being fucked into a literal stupor.
“I’m here, Husky,” Angel assures him. He moves his hips to punctuate his point, driving Husk to grab him by the waist to keep them from moving off of where Angel is still bent over the desk. “I’m here and I’m yours, all yours.”
That seems to be enough. Husk rewards Angel’s declaration by picking up the pace. He starts to fuck Angel, hard and fast, recklessly plowing into him like he can’t control himself. Angel fades into the version of himself that loves that shit, the version of himself that isn’t ashamed to be a sex-crazed slut and is proud of the way he can make men lose their minds. Angel feels good about himself in bed for the first time in a very, very long time. He moans with every movement, crying out Husk’s name.
It’s nice, accessing that version of him. It’s nice to be enjoying sex for fun, rather than as a chore. Angel’s cock is dripping where it rests abandoned between his legs, but he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to ignore it much longer.
“Husk, please,” Angel begs again. “Wanna cum. Please, baby.”
Husk, who Angel suspects is close to climax himself, grunts in response. “Go ahead, baby,” Husk tells him. “You earned it.”
With the go-ahead from Husk, Angel reaches down with his lower hands and starts to jerk himself off to the rhythm of Husk’s thrusts. His cock is hot to the touch in his palm, and it only takes a few hurried strokes before he’s spilling into his hand and onto the delicate fabric of his dress. Angel cries out when he cums, and his knees finally give out and he starts to crumble, but Husk catches him and holds him up as he fucks into him, chasing his own realease.
Angel is basking in the afterglow of his orgasm when Husk blows his own load into Angel with a groan that sets Angel’s insides on fire. Husk fucks him through the aftershocks, panting and trembling with every movement of his hips.
When they break apart, Angel uses all of his strength to stand up from where he’s bent over the desk. Husk’s floor is a mess; papers and pens and files litter the floor in a chaotic display of the desperation with which they just went at it. Angel snorts a laugh and goes to start cleaning up the mess, but Husk stops him before he can by catching Angel’s jaw between his fingers and turning his face to kiss him.
“I love you,” Husk says, and Angel fears for a moment that his legs might give out again. “Sorry I got mad, I just can’t —” He winces, closing his eyes against whatever painful thought comes into his brain. “Losin’ you, be it to Heaven or an exorcist’s blade, or whatever… Losin’ you would destroy me.”
Angel thinks he might cry. He turns around and then sits down on the desk. His thighs and ass hurt, but he ignores the pain and beckons Husk into his arms where he wraps him up in a tight hug. He hadn’t understood why Husk had been so upset before, why he bad been so disgruntled about Angel’s willingness to support Charlie, but it’s starting to make sense now. In the post-sex clarity, Angel feels closer to Husk than he did before.
The sex was a conversation. It was a declaration of their feelings and a reassurance that both of them are equally in this thing, come Hell or high water. Angel has no intention of leaving Husk behind, redemption or not.
“You ain’t gonna lose me,” Ange assures him. “Not now, not ever. You’re stuck with me, Whiskers.”
Husk smiles weakly at that and leans in for another kiss.
“I think we should give the princess a chance,” Angel says, after a minute. Husk frowns, but he doesn’t tense up the way Angel thought me might. “I’m not sayin’ that we should buy into the whole ‘get a free ticket to Heaven’ shit, but I’m sayin’... I never thought I’d get clean, and I did. It’s still a struggle every day, but with each day that passes, it gets a little easier. If I can help people like me realize that they can get better too, then I feel like I gotta do it. Charlie said she needs a sponsor to help promote her program and I dunno… I guess I just feel like…”
Angel lets his voice trail off. It’s a stupid thought, really, and he doesn’t see any point in finishing it. He stopped believing in cosmic shit a long fuckin’ time ago, and he’s not about to start spewing nonsense now.
Husk, though, finishes the thought for him. “It feels like you were meant to do this.”
Angel’s throat feels like it’s swollen shut, so he just nods in response. Because, yeah, maybe it does feel a little bit like destiny. What are the odds that Lucifer’s daughter wandered into Husk’s casino looking for someone to be the face of a program meant to helping people get better, accompanied by the fallen exorcist Angel helped save all of those months ago? The chances have got to be slim.
Angel feels like this is something he has to do.
“Okay,” Husk says, sounding a bit defeated. “I’ll support you, if this is what you wanna do. But if things start gettin’ out of hand, if it looks like Princess Positivity is medling too much into Heaven’s business, we’re out of there. The last thing either of us needs is a pissed off exorcist who wants us dead because we decided to fan the flames of rebellion.”
Angel snorts. It’s not funny, because Husk has a point — what Angel is agreeing to do is dangerous, but at the same time, Angel just never thought that this is where he’d end up. Angel, who stays out of politics, is about to aid the Princess of Hell in her dream of cleansing sinners of their depravity for a chance at getting into Heaven. Fuckin’ wild.
“I can agree to those terms,” Angel says, smiling. He teases a finger along the spot where Husk’s chest is peaking out beneath his shirt. “You wanna make it a deal, Mister Overlord?”
Husk’s eyes glow orange at the mention of the word, and Angel can’t help but laugh again when Husk shakes his head against the surge of power.
“No,” Husk tells him, eyes closed. “I just want you to be safe. I’m a filthy, dirty gambler, but this is one chance I’m not willin’ to take. Your soul isn’t one I’m willin’ to bet against anything. I won’t lose you.”
Angel feels like he could melt into a puddle at those words.
“You won’t lose me,” Angel promises. He knows that keeping his word on that isn’t going to be easy, but damn it if he isn’t willing to try. “I’m yours.”
Chapter 26
The Happy Hotel isn’t anything like Angel thought it would be. For starters, the place is a wreck. It’s housed in the remnants of what Angel can only assume was once some kind of walk-through circus-themed amusement park. The place is run-down and filled with cobwebs. The tacky wallpaper is peeling and water-damaged, and it smells like stale corn chips. Not to mention that the location is less than ideal, situated atop a hill on the outskirts of the city with nothing around it for miles.
If Angel weren’t already in Hell, he’d probably be worried that the car Charlie called for him (a fancy-schmancy limo) was carting him off to some murder house where he’d be tortured to death. Given the fact that his host is Lucifer’s daughter, Angel still isn’t entirely sure that isn’t what’s happening.
Charlie though, in spite of everything, seems in good spirits when Angel arrives. She has a platter of cheese and crackers laid out on one of the dusty tables, and her smile is bright when she sits down on one of the rickety chairs. Angel sits down on a moldy, stained couch and tries to meet Charlie’s energy, but finds it hard to do when everything around him looks like it’s about to collapse with one single gust of wind.
“So,” Charlie says, clapping her hands together. “Tell me about yourself. What’s your story? Who is Angel Dust, when the cameras aren’t rolling?”
Angel feels like he’s interviewing for a job. He shifts a little, uncomfortable, and then finds himself defaulting back into the person he has to be in situations like this.
“Aw, I don’t wanna bore you with all that,” he says, voice raising to his high-pitched catty tone. He leans back on the couch and kicks his legs up. “I don’t know if it matters who I am, it just matters who you need me to be. What kind of angle are you trying to spin for this little project?”
Charlie wrinkles her nose at that. “What do you mean? I — I thought we’d just go with the truth—”
“The truth ain’t gonna cut it, Toots,” Angel tells her. “No one wants a sob story.”
Charlie is quiet for a moment, and then she looks over at Vaggie who is sitting beside her. Angel watches in mild annoyance as the two women have a telepathic conversation with only their facial expressions, and then Charlie says, “Try us.”
Angel shoots Vaggie a look. She’s heard Angel’s story. She knows how pathetic it makes him look, and she should know that he doesn’t want to share all of that with the denizens of Hell.
“Ain’t this whole thing about tryin’ to get people to want to come here? No one's gonna want to come to a place that makes them sad when they think about it,” Angel explains. He knows how his story makes him come off, and the princess does not want a fucked up loser like Angel to be the figurehead of her little project. He’s sure of it. “If you want a face for your hotel, you’ve got mine. The story can be whatever you need it to be. It’s better if we just go with a character for me to play. I ain’t very interested in bein’ myself, and trust me when I say that no one has ever liked me when I’m myself.”
Charlie’s brows pinch together. She tilts her head to the side and looks at Angel with that sickeningly sweet heartfelt expression on her face. “No one? Not even your partner?”
Angel freezes, because yeah, okay, she’s got him there.
“Okay, maybe like, one person ever has liked me for me,” Angel says, dismissing her. “But he’s a special case. Most of Hell likes who I am when I’m pretendin’ to be the version of me they need me to be.”
Charlie clicks her tongue. “I don’t think that’s true,” she tells him. “I know that I for one am very interested in knowing you. The real you, not some version of yourself that you put on like a costume for movies and TV.”
Angel sits up a little straighter. Is this broad being serious?
“You told me a version of your story during Extermination Day,” Vaggie adds on, meeting his eyes. Her yellow irises burn holes into Angel, like she can see right through his ruse. “And the version I heard was enough to motivate me to keep going. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this world, like I could — like I could do anything. If you hadn’t shared your story with me, I wouldn’t have had the strength to keep going. I wouldn’t have left the club to try and find my own path, and I wouldn’t have met her.”
Vaggie reaches over and takes Charlie’s hand in hers. Charlie gives her a soft, loving expression, and Angel can’t help but smile at how happy the two of them seem. He gets it — what it feels like to find love in this hopeless, desolate place. He hadn’t ever thought that he’d find someone like Husk, and now…
Now he can’t imagine what life would be like without him. Angel thinks that in a way, he’s spent his entire existence searching for what he has with Husk. He thought he had found it with Val, but he had been wrong. Husk has been his light in a dark place, and he’s been the one thing that’s helped Angel keep himself steady on his path of healing.
If Vaggie really means it when she says that meeting Angel helped her find her way to her own version of Happily Ever After, then maybe Angel owes it to her girlfriend to tell her his story. After all, it was Vaggie’s story that helped Angel achieve his happiness. It’s the least he could do to return that favor.
Angel fidgets with his hands in his lap.
“You guys sure you wanna hear it?” Angel asks, looking at them both with a serious expression. “It ain’t pretty, and it ain’t fun.”
Charlie, to her credit, gives Angel a genuine look of compassion. “Please,” she says, softly. “I’d love to hear your story. It’s important for me to get to know my people, and where better to start than with the man who saved Vaggie’s life.”
Angel can’t argue with that, so he sighs and leans forward. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell it to you.”
*.*.*.*.*
Anthony is born too early.
Anthony’s birth is what most medical professionals at the time refer to as a “miracle.” He is born three months premature in the 1920’s and weighs just two pounds; a tiny, pink thing that can barely breathe on his own, Anthony manages to survive in spite of all of the circumstances being stacked against him.
Maybe he shouldn’t have survived. God knows he’s spent nearly a century wishing he had been spared of the horrors that awaited him from the moment he could open his eyes, and sometimes he wonders what death would have been like if he hadn’t been given a chance to live at all. In Sunday school, he is told that babies that die go straight to God. Babies that don’t live long enough to sin are welcomed into Heaven with open arms, their names written in permanent ink upon the pages of Saint Peter’s list. What would have become of him if he had never been allowed to feel the sweet, sinister sting of a needle filled with heroin poking into his flesh? Who would he have become if he had been kept safe from the corruption and temptations of a world determined to chew him up and spit him out?
Anthony will never know, because in spite of his best efforts as an infant to avoid the inevitable, Anthony survives. He survives over two decades in a frail body that his father ridicules for being too feminine, a body that is often ill, a body whose bones creak and ache, and whose stomach is always sour and sick. Anthony is the second son of a first generation Italian immigrant family that relies on crime to pay the bills, and is a disappointment before he can even be given a chance to prove himself.
He is a disappointment because from the moment he is aware of what attraction is, he knows he is attracted to boys, and being attracted to boys is wrong, and he knows that, but he just can’t help himself. He isn’t able to hide the parts of him that are more drawn to softer things, to prettier things, and his father’s attempts to beat the queer out of him only work enough to make Anthony hate himself more than he already does.
The first time Anthony tastes a cock is when he’s fourteen years old in the dugouts after his high school baseball team wins their final game of the season. The cock in question belongs to Anthony's coach and he learns that power tastes like salt and sweat, and that there are few better feelings than a big, strong hand woven through fine-textured hair.
The first time Anthony kills is when he’s sixteen, and someone who owes his father money doesn’t deliver in time. Anthony’s dad and brother drag the man, tied up and gagged into a back alley and force him to his knees. The rats and roaches of New York mostly scurry away, but a few stay behind in the shadows to bear witness. Anthony’s father hands him a revolver and curls Anthony’s fingers closed around the cool metal grip, before he orders him to “be a man” and do what has to be done. Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and he fires, mind going blank, because he knows that if he doesn’t shoot then he’ll be the one who gets shot. Anthony discovers a two things that night: one, that blood turns cold shortly after it leaves the body and becomes sticky like glue and that it seeps itself into clothing in a way that never truly leaves, no matter how much it’s washed, and two, that killing is easy when you’ve never really understood the point of being alive.
The first time Anthony tastes cocaine is when he’s eighteen, and Ronny D. invites him over for a party because his parents are out of town, and Ronny’s older brother knows a guy who knows a guy who shows up to Ronny’s brownstone with a wax-paper bag filled with white powder that tastes like gasoline and feels like the American dream. One bump turns into seven, turns into ten, turns into a bloody nose and an itch for more that Anthony soothes with a phone number in his pocket that connects him to a dealer who tells him that if he likes cocaine, heroin will make him see God. And Anthony has never been religious, but the prospect of seeing the person responsible for all of the fucked up shit in his life is promising enough to make him want to try.
It’s all downhill after that.
Anthony’s twenties are a blur plagued with dangerous gay sex and the cheapest drugs money can buy. His self esteem plummets right along with his mother’s trust in him as he lies, cheats and begs his way through his addictions in a country riddled with homophobic politicians that think people like Anthony deserve to die alone in the gutter. His own father spits at his feet when he finds Angel shaking through withdrawals, and calls him slurs that hurt him beneath his skin and leave scars that carve themselves into his skeleton.
Anthony’s first boyfriend swallows his heart and then empties his bank account before skipping town, and the damage that does to Anthony’s psyche sends him into a downward spiral that he never really finds his way back from. Anthony is twenty-five when he learns that no amount of drugs and alcohol can heal something that’s broken inside, but he tries anyway, because every time he gets a fix he feels like he’s close to cracking the code. With every dose of heroin in his veins, Anthony feels like he’s one step closer to figuring it all out, to finally being okay, all he has to do is get a little bit higher so that he can see through all of the murky, muddy mess in his head.
Anthony is twenty-five years old when he realizes that there are no answers, and probably no God, either, because God wouldn’t leave him here like this to piece together the mess of a life he was born with. Anthony was born broken, he was born too early, too fragile for the cruelty of the world around him.
Maybe he’d feel better if he had never been born at all.
When Anthony dies, he dies too early. He dies before his life can ever really have a chance at fixing itself. He dies sick and alone on the floor of his apartment, staring at the water stain on the ceiling and wondering if this is all there is.
Unfortunately for him, it’s not.
Anthony arrives in Hell in a body that is hideously not his own. Everything about it feels wrong, and yet there’s something poetic about Anthony’s punishment for the life he lived culminating in the form of his body as literal vermin. A spider with gangly limbs and feminine curves that’s practically begging to be squashed under the boot of someone stronger, someone more powerful. Anthony’s self-hatred takes a physical form in his outward appearance, but he quickly discovers that there are far scarier demons in Hell.
Anthony’s initial entrance into The Pit lands him into the care of his extended family. Hell isn’t what Anthony expected it to be, because instead of being a fucked up sort of free-for-all, there are souls there with established roots and reputations that run the whole place. There are overlords who use the power of other peoples’ lives to control their own sectors of Pentagram City, but there are also demons who prefer more traditional means of organized crime and fear to maintain a power balance within their own communities.
Anthony arrives in Hell and learns that his family has been running the show on organized crime in a particular part of the city for centuries. He meets his great grandfather, his great uncles and aunts, and people who share his bloodline dating back hundreds of years. They live in a small sector of the city, and they are all cursed with the same arachnid body that Anthony has. They take Anthony under their watch, and offer him a safe place to rest while he tries to maneuver his way around the afterlife.
He works alongside one of his cousins to torture and murder the souls of the damned for the first ten years of his eternal damnation, and in exchange his family provides him with access to drugs that keep him high enough that he doesn’t have to think about the fucked up shit he’s doing for them. Time moves differently down here, Anthony realizes, because a decade passes by in the blink of an eye and then suddenly, his father dies along with his brother in a double assisination.
Anthony’s father is as cruel in death as he was in life, and his brother’s bitter resentment over Anthony’s overdose carries over with him as the three of them get reacquainted with one another. It becomes increasingly difficult for Anthony to pretend that he’s okay with living his life in Hell the same way he had lived it on earth: closeted and pretending to be something that he isn’t. It takes exactly five years of his father’s abuse in Hell for Anthony to run away, and when he does, he finds solace in a small community of queer people who have made themselves a home in one of the racier districts of the city.
Anthony meets a drag queen prostitute named Jupiter who has hair like starlight, and she takes him by the hand and helps him learn the ropes of sex work. She helps him shed his name and don himself a new one, and the first time he’s ever called Angel Dust is when he gets into the limousine of a powerful soul who looks at him like he’s something beautiful, instead of the ugly, deformed monster Anthony knows himself to be.
Anthony dies for the second time that night and is reborn again as Angel Dust. Angel is in many ways everything Anthony was afraid of being, and the freedom that comes with the new identity gives him the strength to carry on. Angel takes a job at a strip club, and he never looks back at the person he was before that, because the person he was before doesn't matter.
Angel learns quickly that Hell is a nightmare dimension where happiness goes to die, but it is also a blank canvas on which souls can paint the picture of their own destinies. He buries himself in sex and drugs, and vows to never lose sight of the pleasures that come along with letting go of his inhibitions.
The 80’s changes things for the queer scene in Hell. The 80’s gives Hell some of the mortal world’s hottest musicians, artists, and creators, and suddenly, Hell is a party. The districts are packed with freshly dead gay demons, and Angel feels himself start to thrive in a way that he couldn’t before now. Drag becomes more popular, clubs become higher in demand, and the drug scene introduces a mess of new research chemicals that are potent enough to make Angel forget about every awful part of the previous decade in a single fucking night.
The 80’s are when Angel comes to life for the first time since his death.
Valentino enters Angel’s life in 1986, exactly when he’s supposed to. It’s like a scene out of a movie; eyes lock from across the room, time slows, sound distorts, and Angel is drawn into Val’s thrawl like a moth to a flame. It feels cosmic, somehow; inevitable, like they were meant to meet. Val sits in the club’s VIP booth and watches Angel with hungry eyes, legs spread open to reveal an impressive cock trapped beneath tight leather pants, and Angel kneels between them with everyone in the club watching and palms at him. Angel is high on E and horny enough to beg for it, and Val has spent the night undressing him with his eyes so Angel knows he wants it too.
Val’s shocked expression melts into a sinister grin. He takes a drag of the cigarette he’s been slowly nursing and blows a blood red cloud into the air. The first words he ever says to Angel are, “Wow, you’re kind of a freak, huh baby?”
Angel looks into his eyes. Up close, Angel can see that Val’s eyes aren’t dead inside like everyone else’s. Angel’s been dead for forty years, and he’s spent nearly every moment of every single one of those years searching for something to remind him what it feels like to be alive. That something, that flame of desire and passion, burns bright behind the red of Val’s eyes. Angel wants to pluck them from his skull and swallow them whole.
“I’m into freaks,” Val purrs. Then, he sucks in another drag and when he blows out the smoke, he directs it to Angel’s face. The high that washes over him feels like a warm blanket. Mingled with the E tingling through his veins, Val’s toxin feels like nothing else in life or in death.
When Angel swallows down Val’s cock in front of a room full of people, he learns that power in Hell tastes an awful lot like power in the mortal world; like sweat and salt, and it feels like a big hand with sharp fingers woven through fine-textured hair. It’s familiar, and Angel can work with familiar.
It all happens so fast after that.
Val becomes a regular at the club, requesting private rooms with Angel and showering him with praise and gifts and amazing sex. Val is everything that Angel has ever wanted — he’s hot, and rich, and powerful, and he makes Angel feel like he can do anything, like he can be anything. Angel loses himself in Val, drowns himself in him until he’s being crushed by the pressure and his lungs are collapsing in on themselves, but he never complains. After all, struggling to breathe seems like a small price to pay for the ability to gorge himself on drugs, money, and sex.
It’s at that same time that Cherri arrives in Hell, and she’s there in the front row to watch the whole fucking show go down. Their friendship is that of soulmates, she just gets him, and she’s the only thing that keeps Angel alive during that decade. They dance together at the club and tag-team losers who worship them at their feet, and they split their earnings on drugs instead of paying the rent on their shared apartments because the high of knowing that their lifestyle could implode at any moment makes them feel alive. Hand in hand, they take on Hell together, causing chaos with the bodies and minds and refusing to give a shit about anything and everything.
Things change a little bit the first time Val hits Angel.
Cherri sees it happen. Val has a jealous streak, and Angel (high out of his mind) makes the mistake of offering to suck some other guy’s cock while Val is within earshot and Val absolutely loses it. The ensuing argument culminates with two things: a black ring around Angel’s left eye and an official proposal for Angel to be Val’s and only Val’s. Boyfriends.
Delirious, Angel is thrilled, but Cherri pulls him aside later that night and tells him that she fears for him and warns him against going too far too fast with a guy like Val.
But the thing is — Angel doesn’t know how to slow down. Val is more addictive than the sweetest black tar heroin. He’s everything that Angel didn’t know he was missing and more, and Angel falls for him before he can even realize that his feet have left the ground.
It’s easy; falling for Val. It feels good, it feels right. Angel leaves the club in favor of doing work for the new up-and-coming porn studio being backed by Hell’s media demon and Val’s business partner, Vox, and quickly gains celebrity status. As the 80's shift into the 90’s, Angel’s dependence on drugs gets worse than ever before. With enough money to afford what he needs, Angel’s self control disappears right along with every awful thought that the drugs help to purge from his mind. He doesn’t realize that he’s spiraling out of control until it’s too late.
(In retrospect, Angel thinks that maybe Val had been waiting for Angel’s inevitable crash. As fame and fortune became the nicknames for the two halves of Angel’s brain, his sense of self started to disappear, and Val was ready to devour him the moment it all went wrong.)
Angel signs with Val in 1992, after a messy bender lands him in a press nightmare and makes the business that Vox is building look bad. Too much PCP mixed with cocaine had Angel making an absolute fool of himself in front of some reporters and the legitimacy of V & V’s business model was brought into question, which sent Vox into a rage. In a rare shift in the power dynamic between the two men (one that Angel does not yet understand, but soon will), Val is the one tasked with damage control, and he lays it all out of Angel in a way that makes it feel impossible to refuse.
“You’ve been hurting for so long, mi amor,” Val says, conjuring up a golden contract that glows with menacing ethereal light. “I can make all of that hurt go away. You already work for me anyway, this would just make things more… official.”
Angel swallows, hands trembling with the need for another fix. “I dunno, Val,” Angel says, pulling his legs up onto the chair he’s sitting on. The conversation happens in Val’s penthouse apartment, the one he lives in before Vee Tower becomes their base of operations. It happens somewhere safe, somewhere Angel knows, so that he doesn’t feel like he’s being backed against a wall (even though that’s exactly what’s happening.) “Y-you got anything I can take? So’s I can think about this?”
He can’t think straight when the only thing on his mind is getting high. He can’t make rational decisions about things like signing away his soul while he’s sober. He knows Val has drugs — Val always has drugs. He just needs something light, some cocaine, maybe, to clear his head and make the shakes go away.
“Of course baby, how rude of me,” Val says. He moves to place a gentle kiss on Angel’s forehead before he disappears into his bedroom. When he comes back, he’s holding a mirror with a razor blade that already has four gorgeous lines of coke portioned out for him.
Angel resists the urge to reach for it, though it takes every ounce of his self-control. He knows that Val doesn’t like it when he’s greedy, but he needs it so bad it hurts. He needs anything to make the awful feelings inside of him go away.
“This would be a really smart move for your career,” Val explains to Angel, right as Angel snorts a line from the tray. It’s crazy how quickly it works to calm his nerves; how decadent that gasoline smell is as it coats the inside of his nostrils. “Voxxy and I are on the rise, and this company is really going to be something soon. Getting your foot in the door this early would be good for you, Angelito. Plus, having me there to make sure you don’t go off the rails again will keep Vox from wanting your head on the end of an angelic stake.”
Angel laughs, but there’s no humor in the situation at all. Vox had wanted to kill him when the tabloids came out, and Angel hadn’t given a flying fuck what that square-faced asshole thinks of him, but Val does. And Angel loves Val, and wants Val to be happy, so Angel says, “Does it gotta be a contract?”
Angel’s been dead for nearly half a century, and has somehow managed to avoid selling his soul. No matter how desperate he got, no matter how bad things were, Angel never went crawling to an overlord for help. He knows that there’s no coming back from something like that; when an overlord owns your souls, there’s very little you can do to get it back. Angel’s soul is still his, he still has a choice in the things he does. Signing himself away to Val would change that.
“I’m still just a low-level overlord, by signing with me you’d actually be doing me a huge favor,” Val tells him. He slides the tray over to himself, away from Angel, and snorts a line. His eyes go wide and he moans in satisfied pleasure before letting out a laugh. “Damn, that’s fuckin’ sweet. I’d owe you one. Having a soul on my chain with actual value instead of the lowlifes I have now would be good for me. It would help the business.”
The business. That’s always what everything is about these days.
“I ain’t really interested in the business Val,” Angel says, shrugging.
“Angel, baby, my sweet, sweet little lamb, don’t you get it?” Val says, grinning. “This is your ticket out of this life of struggling. If I own your soul, you won’t have to worry about anything. I can put it in writing that no matter what happens, you always get paid with both money and blow. All you have to do is what you’re already doing, which is look pretty for the camera. You can live with me, so you don’t ever have to go back to that ratty little place you share with that chiquita — what’s her name? It doesn’t matter, point is, you don’t have to be interested in the business, babydoll, let the business be interested in you.”
And fuck if that isn’t a really, really good pitch. Angel has often wished he could just throw all of his responsibility to the wind and just fucking go nuts. If he didn’t have to worry about things like making rent or finding a new dealer every time his gets killed, how much easier would his life be? He likes doing porn. He’s good at doing porn. It doesn’t usually feel like work, and he gets to spend more time with Val when he does it so… Getting to help Val out while also benefiting from the system he’s helping corrupt sounds like a pretty sweet deal.
“I just feel weird about givin’ up my soul,” Angel admits. He’s pleasantly high now, and less antsy, but he still feels like he’s being asked an impossible question. “It’s hard to agree to somethin’ like this.”
And because Val knows Angel so well, too well, he comes around to where Angel is standing and he wraps his arms around Angel from behind. He smells good, like lilac soap and that musky cologne he knows Angel likes, and Angel can’t help the way he relaxes under the weight of his lover’s touch. His own hands come up to hold Val’s forearm, and he cranes his neck so that Val has easier access to place a kiss on the exposed flesh there. Val nuzzles his face into the space and then gently presses his lips to Angel’s throat, making Angel gasp.
“You wouldn’t be giving it up to just anyone,” Val tells him, voice low and sensual. “You’d be giving it up to me. You can trust me, Amorcito. This will only bring us closer together.”
Closer together. God, Angel would give almost anything to feel closer to Val. He loves Val so much that he barely knows what to do with himself. Maybe signing the contract would be good for him. Angel is such a fucking mess all of the time, maybe it would help to have someone as cool and collected as Val to keep him in line.
“I love you,” Angel breathes, as Val’s hands start to wander beneath the loose fabric of his shirt.
“Mmm,” Val hums, pulling Angel off of the chair and into his arms. “I love you too, mi amor. Why don’t you take some time to think this over? We can discuss it on Wednesday, over dinner.”
Angel closes his eyes against the feeling of Val’s fingers brushing against the sensitive flesh of his nipples. His body turns to putty in his lover’s hands and he lets himself get lost in the kiss Val shares with him. Val slips his tongue in and Angel gulps down Val’s poison like the sweetest honey straight from the hive.
“We don’t got plans for dinner Wednesday,” Angel says, but he’s quickly losing his ability to speak, too overwhelmed with sensation.
“We do now,” Val purrs. “Somethin’ special, just me and you. It’s been a while since we’ve been on a date, hasn’t it, Amorcito? Let me take you out. Let me spoil you.”
And how the fuck can Angel say no to something like that? He agrees, and lets Val carry him off to his bedroom where the sex they have is exquisite in its ability to lull Angel into complicity. The sex they have is always like that; it’s good and satisfying and it makes Angel want to do whatever it takes to make sure he can get more of it. Angel’s memory of this time in his afterlife is blurred with a rose-tinted filter placed there by Val’s hypnotic sensibility and Angel’s idiotic mistake of falling once again for the wrong person.
The time between that night and their dinner plans gives Angel enough breathing room to think properly about the issue at hand. He goes back to the apartment he shares with Cherri, one only a stone’s throw away from the club where they work, and considers his options. When he arrives home, Cherri is in her bedroom, and by the sounds of it, she’s clocking in some over time with one of the club’s regular clients. She doesn’t usually bring clients home, which is what makes Angel realize that rent is due tomorrow.
Fuck.
He had lost track of time while on his bender. He’d also blown his entire savings. He wonders if Cherri is working overtime to cover his share on his behalf, and he swallows down the shame that bubbles up with stomach bile at the thought. God, he really is a mess, isn’t he?
Cherri’s stifled moans follow him into the bathroom where he crushes a roach with his bare hand before stopping to stare at his reflection in the cloudy, cracked mirror. The person staring back looks like shit, and Angel reaches up to smear the remainder of his eyeliner away with his fingers.
He has an impossible decision to make and he has no idea where to even start sorting out the pieces of his shattered mind to figure out what the right choice is. Angel likes the freedom of owning his soul. He likes the fact that while he doesn’t plan on leaving Val anytime soon, he still can if he wants to. A contract could complicate that. A contract could make it so that Angel and Val’s relationship has even more of an imbalance than it already does. Being attached to Val by ways of his soul would give Angel an obligation to be with him, a duty, and Angel doesn’t know how he feels about that.
He loves Val. He knows that he does, and from what he can tell, Val loves him back. Val’s right that there are so many benefits to Angel signing with him, and that while there’s the risk of this ruining them, there’s also the possibility of reward in the sense that this could also raise them up even higher. Signing could mean an eternity of devotion towards one another; it could mean the rest of forever with Angel in Val’s arms and Val taking care of Angel’s needs. It could be the closest thing to that white picket fence life that Angel has sometimes dreamt of, the life he might have had if Anthony had died before he had a chance to live. Val could be that for him. Val could be Angel’s ticket out of the nightmare he’s been living.
What this comes down to, Angel realizes, is the strength of their bond.
Can they withstand something like this? Does signing your soul over to your boyfriend usually result in a happy ending, or is it just a mistake that will haunt you for the rest of your eternal life? Angel tries to think about what he’d say to Cherri if she approached him with something like this. He’d probably do everything in his power to talk her out of it. He’d tell her that there’s no coming back from something like that, and that there’s no guarantee that the asshole she’s signing with won’t wait until the moment he has her on his chain to show his true colors. Cherri’s taste in men is just as bad as Angel’s, it’s something they have in common. But Val is –
Val is different.
Val sees Angel in ways that no one else does. Val has helped Angel out of so many tough spots, and he’s never once asked Angel to repay him. Val knows how much Angel is hurting inside and all he wants to do is make it better. Angel’s lucky to have him.
Cherri stumbles into the bathroom, hair a mess, wearing nothing but an oversized tee shirt that goes down to just below her ass. She startles when she sees Angel, like maybe she wasn’t expecting to see him home.
“Angie,” Cherri says, blinking. She sounds relieved when she says, “You’re back.”
Angel tries not to let that hurt. Had she been worried about him? Why hadn’t he told her that he was okay? Everything has been such a blur these last few weeks as his misery and self-hatred hit its peak. He’d been so dead set on going crazy to feel something that he’d neglected to realize that his friend was probably worried sick about him.
Wouldn’t it be nice for her not to have to worry about him? Wouldn’t it be nice if she knew where he was and who he was with? Another check in the box of benefits that would accompany his contract.
“Hey,” Angel says, trying and failing to force a smile. “Sorry if I made you worry. I-I’m back now.”
She searches his face, concern lining her features, and then she jumps up to wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a hug.
“I saw the tabloids,” she tells him, squeezing tight. “Are you alright? They — they said you crashed a car into a club?”
Angel winces at the memory. Mixing drugs while also struggling with deep emotional turmoil is a terrible fucking idea, and he knows that.
“No one got hurt,” he assures her. “Just my pride.”
She pulls back from the hug and gives him another concerned look. She reaches out to cup his face, and he leans into the feeling of her soft palm on his cheek.
“Is uh, is — is Val pissed? I’m sure this can’t be a good look for V & V, seeing as it was a company car.” She’s worried. She’s seen Val’s temper at its worst and she’s never forgotten it. Sometimes it annoys Angel, because he wishes that she could see the man he is underneath it all. Val gets angry, yeah, and sometimes he can’t control himself when he gets like that, but everyone has problems. Val isn’t always like that — he’s a genuine sweetheart most of the time, and he loves Angel. He doesn’t ever mean to hurt him, and in his defense, Angel isn’t exactly an easy person to love.
Angel touches Cherri’s hand. “No,” he says. “He’s not pissed, he’s worried about me Cher, just like you. He offered to let me stay at his place until this whole thing blew over, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
Cherri clicks her tongue. “Intrude? Angie, he’s your boyfriend, it’s the least he can do to—”
“I know,” Angel cuts her off. “I know, okay? He wanted me to stay. He wants to help me. He wants me to get better.”
Cherri looks at him like she seriously fucking doubts that, but spares him the stress of arguing.
“He uh, he actually came up with a way for me to do that,” he tells her, looking away. He can’t look her in the eye while he says this. The shame is too much. “A way for me to get better on my own terms, with uh, w-with a safety net to catch me when I fall.”
Cherri is quiet for a moment while she takes in Angel’s words. He’s being indirect, and he knows that she hates it when he does this, but he doesn’t know if it can just come out and say it. He feels her tense up in his arms when she realizes what he’s saying.
“No,” she says, sounding panicked. She takes a step back, and Angel instinctually reaches for her when the warmth of his embraces leaves him. “Angie, no, absolutely not! We have a rule about this shit, you can’t just — no. No.”
He makes a frustrated noise. “I don’t see what other choice I have! I can’t keep living like this, Cherri, I can’t! I can’t keep blowin’ all of my savings on drugs and then humiliatin’ myself. I can’t keep fuckin’ guys after hours to make ends meet, while wishin’ I were double dead the whole time!”
“Then quit!” Cherri shouts back at him, anger rising with the color in her cheeks. “No one says you have to be a stripper, Angie, or a fuckin’ whore! That was the life you chose for yourself when you got here. If you don’t like it, then no one is making you stay! If you sign with him, if you agree to a deal with that piece of shit, someone will be making you. You’ll never be able to quit. It’s a trap Angie, why don’t you see that?”
Angel turns away from her. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“You’ve never liked him,” Angel says, feeling his own anger starting to rise. “From day one, you’ve always had a problem with the fact that I’m dating Val, even though he’s the only person who understands me.”
Cherri’s voice breaks when she says, “The only one who understands you? Then what does that make me?”
Angel groans and meets her eye again. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he says.
She stares at him, brow creasing. “It’s what you said, though,” Cherri argues, hands going to her hips. “And that’s exactly why I don’t like him, Angie! He makes you feel like you don’t have people in your corner, like you’re alone in this world, and you’re not!”
Angel knows that she’s right, but he doesn’t know how to tell her that he hates the fact that he feels like a burden to all of the alleged “people in his corner”. How many more people is he going to disappoint? How many more shifts is he going to miss, forcing others to work twice as hard to make up for time and money lost by his carelessness? Angel isn’t good at being reliable, and he isn’t good at making people proud. Val can keep him in line. Val has the time, money, and resources to scrape Angel off of whatever pavement he lands on when he decides to take his next swandive.
“Val looks out for me,” Angel says, crossing his arms over his chest.
Cherri stomps her foot in frustration. “Val looks out for himself. I’ve met plenty of guys like him, and so have you, which is why I don’t understand why you’re falling for this bullshit.”
Angel feels sick. This conversation is going nowhere. Cherri doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get the fact that Val has been the only person who has been able to handle Angel at his worst and still love him in spite of it. He’s seen Angel ugly, and high, and hysterical, and he’s stayed through all of it. Why would someone do that if they didn’t love him?
“Cherri, I know you don’t like him but you gotta trust me,” Angel tries, offering her a smile that he knows she recognizes as insincere. “He cares about me. He wouldn’t be doin’ this if he didn’t.”
“He cares about you because of what you do for him,” Cherri fires back, refusing to back down. “He’s a predator, hunting for his prey and you’re the perfect fucking meal.” She blinks and a few tears leak from the corners of her eye. “You can’t let him do this to you. You think you’re not worth it, that if you don’t let him love you that no one ever will, but that’s only because for some fucked up reason you can’t see how brilliant you are. Angel, please, please don’t do this.”
She’s being so earnest, so genuine, that it’s hard for Angel to argue with her any further. It’s not like he’s made a decision yet, anyway, but this has given him something to think about. He doesn’t want Cherri to be disappointed in him. Fuck, that’s the last thing he wants. He doesn’t know if he’d ever be able to survive down here without her.
“I’m still—” Angel sighs, “—I’m still thinkin’ it over, okay? I haven’t made any kind of big decision yet. I told Val I needed time before I sign.”
Cherri visibly relaxes at that. Then she comes over to Angel again and gently touches his arm. “Thank god,” she says, and it stings a little bit. “Please just… don’t do anything you might regret later on.”
Angel snorts at that. He can’t help it. There’s something funny about that particular piece of advice that makes him laugh in a fucked up sort of way. Neither of them have ever been very good at making decisions that aren’t saturated with the woes of regret, and Angel doesn’t know why they’d start now.
“Okay,” Angel says, but the word tastes like a lie.
Cherri smiles anyway, and Angel tries to convince himself that she believes him.
“Now would you get out of the bathroom, you sicko? I’ve been holding in my piss this entire conversation,” Cherri jokes, shoving Angel a little bit towards the door. Angel laughs and swats at her hands, playfully pushing them off of him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Angel says, eyes rolling playfully. “While I’m out here, you want me to get rid a your guest?”
Cherri looks confused for a moment. “My…? OH! Pfft, nah, he’s probably long gone already. He’s just some sleaze from the club. I needed some extra cash and he’s been practically living in my ass since he started comin’, so I figured it was easy money.”
That familiar feeling of shame hits Angel once more. He shifts a little bit, uncomfortably rubbing his lower hands together, and says, “Oh, uh, about tomorrow’s rent—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Cherri cuts him off, and all that does is make him feel fucking worse. “I’ve got you covered, babe.”
So Angel was right. That is why Cherri was clocking in overtime hours with some fuckface loser from the club. He feels like absolute garbage as he exits the bathroom, and he eagerly snatches his pack of cigarettes from the kitchen table and shoves one into his mouth with shaking hands as Cherri’s bootycall shuffles from her bedroom and out the front door without even turning to look at Angel. The cigarette is nice, and the monotonous inhale and exhale helps to calm his nerves. He wishes it were one of those special cigarettes that Val laces with his toxin, but he ran out of those a few nights ago.
If he were to sign with Val, he would never have to worry about needing a fix ever again. Being with Val in that way, so securely, would mean that their souls would be bound together. It would mean free drugs and free sex and a safe, warm bed to sleep in every night. Angel has been searching for a place to call home for almost half a century, and he thinks that with a few compromises on his morals, Val’s place could be that for him.
Cherri doesn’t bring it up again when she’s out of the bathroom. Angel doesn’t bring up the rent again, either. They just sit there, side by side in their dirty apartment, smoking cigarettes and listening to the sounds of Hell coming to life as night fades into morning.
Dinner comes and Val manages to somehow surprise Angel in spite of Angel’s expectations for extravagance already set sky-high. He books them a reservation at the Pride Ring’s version of a similar restaurant in Lust. The one a few rings down is called “Ozzie’s” and is owned by Hell’s very own Lust demon, and it’s rumored to be one of the hardest reservations to come by for the Hellborn creatures that have the ability to travel between the rings. It’s counterpart is owned by a soul who had been some kind of famous gourmet chef in life, and has an eye for the finer things in death. It’s called “L’Amore” and it’s located in the penthouse of one of Pride’s highest skyscrapers. The atmosphere is suffocatingly romantic, but the panorama windows offer the most breathtaking views of the city from anywhere in the ring.
The restaurant specializes in exotic meats, imported inhumanely from the mortal world. It’s one of the most heinous business models in all of Hell, but the food is rumored to be so decadently delicious that it’s worth every morally wrong bite.
Val somehow managed to secure them a private table by one of the windows, and he pulls Angel’s chair out for him and has a rose — a real, earthly rose that must have cost him a fortune, waiting for Angel in a tiny vase on the table.
“Only the best for my Angelito,” Val tells him, when Angel lifts the flower to his nose. He can’t remember the last time he smelled something so sweet, so real. It feels like a symbol of their love, and Angel is careful not to prick himself on the thorns as he gently places it back into its vase.
The restaurant has a professional pianist playing, and the sound of smooth, velvety jazz fills the room. Angel feels at ease, like he’s back home in New York, and he relaxes into the comfort of the sound. The waiter brings over a bottle of wine and fills both of their glasses before bowing and leaving the bottle on the table between them. Val hadn’t even ordered wine, so Angel feels in awe of the pre-planning that must have gone into their night together.
He feels like a princess in a fairytale.
“I paid the piano player to play songs from the 30’s,” Val tells him, lifting his wine glass and swirling the contents. “I wanted it to feel like it did when you were young and alive. I wanted tonight to be special.”
The sentiment is sweet enough to make Angel’s teeth hurt.
“You didn’t have to do all of this,” Angel tells him. He grabs his own wine glass and takes a sip; the contents are somehow bitter and sweet at the same time.
Val smiles at him. “I wanted you to see what things could be like for us,” Val says. “If you sign with me, we could do things like this more often. We could spend more time on us, baby.”
Angel’s thought about that a lot. Less time dancing at the club in order to make extra cash and more time spent doing what Val needs him to do means that they’d both have more time for their romance. Angel loves being spoiled, and Val loves to spoil him, and more time for that to happen is more appealing than Angel can comprehend.
“I have been thinking about it,” Angel says, downing the rest of his glass. Val quickly grabs the bottle and refills it for him. “I think that there’s a lot for me to gain here, Val, and I wanna do it, it’s just…”
Angel grapples for the right words. It’s just…what? Hard for him to do something that is so heavily against his own personal morals? Impossible for him to agree to breaking a promise he made with his best friend?
“You want to keep your autonomy,” Val says, nodding like he understands. “I get that.”
He reaches out and takes one of Angel’s hands in his. He turns it over and then rubs his thumb against Angel’s palm. It’s a soothing touch and makes Angel’s heart flutter, and he huffs a small laugh and smiles, thankful for how patient and understanding Val has been through all of this.
“Yeah,” Angel agrees, because that’s exactly it. He doesn’t want to lose his sense of self (not that there’s been very much self for him to hold onto lately anyway) and being Val’s all of the time, unable to make his own choices, would take that away.
“What if I told you that I have a way for you to have your cake and eat it too?” Val asks.
Before Angel can ask him to elaborate, a waiter comes over to take their order. Angel hasn’t even looked at the menu yet, too distracted by Val to think about anything else. Angel fumbles with the menu and tries to scan it for something that looks anything close to appetizing (he’s not very picky, but he also doesn't want to just say the first thing he sees) but there’s no need, because Val speaks for him.
“He’s going to have the rabbit,” Val tells the waiter. Angel gapes at him, but makes no attempt to argue. Rabbit does sound good, and Val knows Angel’s tastes well enough to know what he’d like, but Angel doesn’t know how to feel about Val taking charge and ordering for him like this. “And for me…” Val turns the menu over in his hand. “I’ll take the roasted coyote leg, with the reduction on the side.”
“Very well, sir,” says the waiter. He walks away, and Angel kicks Val playfully under the table.
“You gonna cut it up into tiny pieces and feed it to me too?” Angel teases. He’s feeling a little lightheaded, a little high, but he isn’t sure why. Aside from his usual buzz of coke running through his system, Angel hasn’t taken anything that should make him feel like this. Maybe it’s the high that comes with being with Val, Angel thinks, maybe there’s a special kind of euphoria that only people in love get to experience, a chemical reaction in the brain caused by the impossible union of two tattered hearts beating as one.
Or maybe it’s the wine.
Val smirks. “You’ll like it,” he says. “Trust me.”
Angel looks at his wine glass and then at the bottle on the table. Slowly, carefully, he lifts it up to inspect it. From the outside, it seems to be an ordinary bordeaux, but when Angel swishes the contents inside, he sees the unmistakable glow of something familiar that shouldn’t be there.
He looks at Val, stomach sinking.
“Val,” Angel says. “Did you — is this wine spiked?”
Val’s smirk widens to a grin, and a dribble of poison drips down his chin. “Just a little treat for my baby,” Val tells him. “Something to take the edge off.”
Angel stares at him, and then at the bottle, and then back at him. He should be angry. He should be furious that Val drugged him without fucking asking, but at the same time, the toxin is starting to take effect and Angel is feeling good. All of the stress and anxiety from earlier today has dissipated, and he’s suddenly feeling much more capable of having this difficult conversation.
Val’s right. This does help take the edge off.
“As I was saying, my sweet baby love,” Val coos, reaching up to wipe away the stray toxin on his chin with his thumb. He reaches his hand across the table and presses that same thumb to the plump edge of Angel’s bottom lip. Angel does not hesitate to open his mouth in invitation and suckle that succulent venom right from Val’s flesh. “I found a way to make this deal work for both of us, and still give you access to what I know you’re so desperate to hang onto.”
“I’m listenin,” Angel says, feeling the tingle of poison on his tongue.
“What if I make it so that in our deal, I only get to be your master in the studio,” Val offers. “When you’re with me, when we’re filming, you do what I say. I’m the director, the overlord, which means that I’m the one in charge. On set, what I say goes. Not much different from how things already function, am I right?”
Angel nods. That is how they already function. That wouldn’t be much of an adjustment.
“In exchange for your cooperation, you will receive access to all of the drugs and alcohol your little heart desires,” Val explains. “I won’t make it a requirement that you have to live with me, but I’ll add in a clause that if you are ever without a safe place to lay that pretty head, I am obligated to provide you with one. Angie, baby, let me be your lighthouse. Let me guide you into the life you were always meant to have. Let me provide for you, let me be the safe place you land when you’re finally done running.”
Is that what he’s been doing all of this time? Running? Angel hasn’t ever really thought about it like that, but maybe Val is right. Maybe he has been running away. He ran away from his life. He ran away from his family. He ran away from every opportunity he ever had for happiness because he’s spent the majority of his eternal damnation feeling like he didn’t deserve it.
Angel thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’s done running away. Val could be that safe place to land. Val could be the thing that keeps Angel in line. He really could be good for him. Maybe Angel deserves to be happy for once.
“Val, I—” Angel starts, but words fail him. He closes his mouth and swallows down his anxiety. “I love you.”
It’s true, and it’s the only thing that Angel thinks can really sum up how he’s feeling at this moment.
Val stands up. Angel’s eyes go wide as Val comes over to Angel’s chair and gets down on one knee. He takes two of Angel’s hands into his and he levels Angel with a stare that makes him feel like he’s standing under a spotlight.
“Angelito, mi amor,” Val says, tongue rolling on the delicacy of his consonants. “Let me be the one who will keep your soul safe from harm. Move in with me. Be at my side. I will take care of you, I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted. All you’ve gotta do is sign your name, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Angel thinks he might cry. Is Val really framing this as a proposal? God, the guy is such a hopeless romantic. Angel doesn’t know how he got so damn lucky, but his heart feels swollen and ready to burst at Val’s grand gesture.
Angel nods, chest tight, and tells Val that he’ll do it.
Val kisses him and fills Angel’s glass once more with poison wine, and they dine on their meals like two kings sharing in one anothers’ glory. Val is right, Angel does love the rabbit. It’s tender yet soft, and it melts in his mouth like butter. Across from him, Val carves into the bleeding meat of the coyote leg resting on his plate atop a bed of leafy greens, and as Angel watches him chew, he thinks about the creature it once belonged to. He considers the coyote, just as he considers the rabbit, as two once-beating hearts whose position on the food chain determined their respective fighting chances. In the wild, the rabbit would surely end up dead when faced with the growling, hungry jaws of the coyote. In Hell, though, Angel tries to think of things a little differently. If Val really is a predator like Cherri says he is, then isn’t it in Angel’s best interest to work alongside him? If the rabbit is aware of the coyote, if the rabbit knows to fear him and is able to keep him fed and satisfied, is he really in any danger at all?
They finish dinner and Val takes Angel back to his apartment. They have sex, and after Val has brought Angel to a leg-shaking climax that leaves him feeling pliant and relaxed, he joins Angel on the balcony outside of his bedroom and wraps his big arms around the slender frame of Angel’s body. Angel is pleasantly high when Val conjures up the contract. It glows gold in the dark of the night around them, and Val pricks Angel’s finger with a special quill that uses his blood as ink.
The contract is simple: ownership of Angel’s soul transfers to Valentino, where Val has full authority over Angel’s actions and clients inside of the film studio. Angel will become an official employee on Val’s payroll, and his payment comes in the form of drugs and money, specifically unlimited access to the venom Valentino produces. Angel forfeits the right to refuse any and all requests made by the overlord when the cameras are rolling, and Val promises to always provide Angel with a place to live. Angel will become a whore with a fancy title; selling his body and soul in exchange for comfort, stability, and the ability to get high whenever he pleases.
One last time, Angel considers his options. If he says no, he dooms himself to an eternity of sleeping with sleazy guys at the club and struggling to make ends meet with Cherri. If he says no, Cherri will spend her eternity cleaning up his messes while struggling to keep her own in check, until one of them ends up skewered at the end of an exorcist’s blade or dead in a ditch with an angelic bullet in their skull. When Angel closes his eyes and pictures the future he has without Val, all he sees is misery and despair.
The choice seems so easy, after that.
Angel takes the pen and writes down the easiest seven letters he’s ever written, sealing his fate and handing himself over to Valentino for good.
Chapter 27
“But wait,” Charlie interrupts. Her face is red and splotchy from the times in Angel’s story that she started crying, and she sniffles once before giving Angel a confused look. “I thought that your master’s name is Husk, the Gambling Overlord?”
“Yeah, Husk is my master now,” Angel says. “But that change only happened recently. I belonged to Valentino for thirty years before that.”
Charlie’s mouth opens in surprise. “Your contract was transferred? I didn’t — I didn’t realize that was even allowed.”
Angel shrugs. “Neither did I.”
“I think it’s sort of a special thing, something only the Gambling Overlord can do,” Vaggie chimes in. She places a comforting hand on Charlie’s thigh. “It’s his MO. He gambles in souls.”
“Isn’t that risky, though?” Charlie asks. “Couldn’t he also lose souls just as quickly as he wins them? Why would anyone want to do something like that?”
“For the high, obviously.” Husk’s voice from behind Angel makes him jump. Angel turns, eyes wide, to see Husk standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. The corners of his mouth tick up when Angel meets his eyes.
“Husk?” Angel gasps. “What’re you doin here?”
Husk shrugs, cool and calm, and says, “Missed ya. Shit’s lonely without you there, and I figured that if you were serious about helpin’ the princess out with this crazy dream of hers, then I should do what I can to support you.”
Angel thinks he might cry. What a night and day difference there is between Husk and Val. Reopening the wound of his love story with Val has been painful, and it takes everything Angel has not to run into Husk’s arms and melt at the sight of him. It’s strange to tell this story out loud, but explaining it the way he is has already really helped put so many things into perspective for him.
Telling the story has made Angel realize that he loved Val. He knows that with complete certainty. He loved Val so much that he was willing to throw it all away just for the chance at achieving some sort of happy ending wrapped up in his arms. Angel would have followed Val to the ends of Hell if it meant that they could be together, and now that he looks at everything that happened after, he feels like an idiot.
He had been tricked by a master manipulator. Cherri had tried to warn him, and he’d acted like she didn’t know what she was talking about. He owes her a huge apology.
“That’s so sweet!” Charlie says, looking at Husk with big, glassy eyes. “Come in, come in! Have a seat! It’s so good to see you here.”
Husk sighs and comes further into the room, and then he sits down on the dusty couch beside Angel, legs spread wide with his arm draped over the back. He looks bored, but Angel knows that he’s just putting on his best “aloof overlord” act for the girls.
“How much of that did you hear?” Angel asks, feeling a little bit apprehensive. Husk knows bits and pieces of Angel’s story, but not all of it. Letting him in on these parts of Angel’s life will inevitably bring them closer together, but there’s still a lot of fear that comes with such vulnerability.
Angel’s story is one about being used, over and over and over again, by every single person in his life. He was used by his father when he was alive. He was used by Valentino when he died. He’s been used by every John he’s fucked and every lowlife drug dealer that he’s come into contact with. Angel’s existence has been him being chewed up like bubblegum and spit onto the sidewalk to be stepped on by the heavy boots of those bigger than him. Revealing all of that to Husk, regardless of how much of it Husk had already assumed, is tough.
“Showed up when you were talkin’ about how that friend of yours tried to talk you outta signing with that bastard,” Husk tells him. “Sounds like my kind of girl. I’ll have to thank her when I meet her.”
It occurs to Angel right then that he hasn’t introduced Cherri to Husk. It’s been a while now, and normally Angel would be jumping on the opportunity to gush to his best friend about how happy he is, but he hasn’t. He thinks that maybe there’s a part of him that’s still terrified that this thing — this wonderful, precious thing that he has with Husk, is going to crash and burn. He thinks that maybe he's afraid of Cherri telling him the same thing about Husk that she had about Valentino, and he doesn’t know how he’d handle something like that.
He knows that Husk isn’t Valentino, but at the same time, there was a time when Angel trusted Valentino completely and never dreamed that Val could hurt him the way he did. Angel doesn’t exactly have a good track record when it comes to character judgment, especially when love is involved. Love is a high just like all of the others; it impairs his ability to think rationally.
Still, this story has made him realize how important it is for him to listen to Cherri when her intuition is to tell him to turn and run. Maybe it’s finally time for Angel to introduce them, even if it means hearing her words of warning against him.
“I’ll set somethin’ up,” Angel says, smiling. “She’s been askin’ to meet you for a while.”
“She sounds like an amazing friend,” Charlie says, that air of awe and wonder still present in her tone, like Angel’s story is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard.
“She’s cool,” Vaggie agrees. “She’s the one who helped me out I — uh, when I lost my way.”
Charlie takes her girlfriend’s hand and squeezes it. “Well then I owe her a whole heck of a lot, now don’t I?”
Angel reaches over and takes Husk’s hand. Husk looks startled, eyes darting over to the girls, but he relaxes quickly. Angel knows that this whole thing has got to be just as hard for Husk as it is for Angel. Trusting people in Hell isn’t exactly something that comes easy, and can get you killed if you’re not careful.
But… Angel wants to trust Charlie. He wants to trust that this dream of hers can actually help others build themselves up, and that they can rehabilitate souls to lead better existences in Hell. If Angel can help just one person not end up the same way he did, then he thinks that all of this is worth it.
“So what happened after you signed?” Charlie asks, redirecting the conversation. “You said that you spent thirty years with this guy, and from the sounds of it, you guys really loved each other.”
Angel winces at the question, because he thinks that this part of the story is going to be a lot harder to tell than the first bit was.
“I did love him,” Angel admits. “I loved him more than anything. I would have followed him to the ends of the fucking world if he asked me to. I was willin’ to throw it all away for him. I was all in.” He lets out a slow breath. “I just hadn’t realized that the feelin’ wasn’t mutual.”
Husk squeezes his hand in gentle reassurance.
Charlie gives him a kind look, and asks, “So when did it all fall apart?”
*.*.*.*.*
The first few months at Val’s side are amazing.
Angel feels like a princess that has been swept off of her feet by prince charming, only his prince charming is a demon overlord who runs a porn business. Val takes Angel out to dinners and spoils him with clothes and drugs that keep Angel happy and compliant to whatever Val wants him to do. The sex is better than ever before, and for a brief period of time, Angel actually believes that maybe everything is actually going to work out for once.
His films take off, and with them, so does V&V and everything that Vox and Val have ever wanted. Angel’s fame skyrockets and without the anxieties of being poor holding him back, Angel is able to keep his chaotic drug benders and self-destructive behaviors secluded to the inside of his shared apartment with Val. He doesn’t make a mess of himself in public anymore, and the damage he did to V&V’s image in the past basically disappears. It’s the best situation Angel could hope for.
Though, in spite of all of the good that’s finally happening to him, it’s during this time in his afterlife that Angel learns that happiness comes with a cost.
Cherri doesn't take the news of Angel’s contract very well at all. She cries and throws cruel, nasty words at Angel as he’s packing up his few possessions, and even though he tries to ignore the things she’s saying and chalks them up to her just being upset with him over the situation, some of what she says still manages to cut pretty deep.
“He doesn’t love you, Angie,” she says, her voice breaking along with Angel’s heart around the sound of his name. “He’s gonna destroy you. He’s gonna break you into pieces until there’s nothing left!”
But Angel doesn’t hear her. He can’t hear her, not now, not when the contract has already been signed. He made his choice, and it was his choice, no one else’s. He knows that she cares for him, and that her feelings are coming from a place of love, but he doesn’t need to hear this right now.
Cherri doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand the fact that Val loves Angel and that he wants what’s best for him. She thinks he’s a monster, but who in Hell isn’t? Angel doesn’t know how to explain to her that he’s had a moment of clarity, wherein he’s realized that he’d much rather be helping feed the monsters around him over being the thing that they feed on.
She doesn’t get it because that’s not the way she is. Cherri is strong, and Cherri is independent, and Cherri doesn’t need validation to feel like she’s worth anything the way that Angel so desperately does. Angel needs someone there to praise him, to tell him that he’s beautiful and sexy and desirable. He needs to be showered in gifts and fucked out of his mind to know that his existence means something. Val offers Angel all of those things. The life he was living in Hell before now was unsustainable for him, and she’s going to realize that eventually.
It’s just… hard, doing this all without his best friend at his side. He feels good. He feels happy. He’s finally doing work that he feels like he can be proud of, he’s in a good, healthy relationship, but his ride or die isn’t here to share in any of that joy with him because she thinks that Val’s behaviors are “abusive,” as if Angel wouldn’t be able to fucking tell when he’s being abused.
Does Val have a temper? Yeah, he does. Angel isn’t going to pretend that his boyfriend is Mr. Perfect all the time, but anytime he loses his cool and gets violent, he always makes it up to Angel afterwards. He always apologizes and buys Angel the things he wants and spoils him with kisses and words of affirmation. Angel thinks that Val probably had a hard life, and that those hardships carried over to the afterlife with him when he died.
No one in Hell is perfect, but Angel likes to think that he and Val are perfect for each other. They fit together perfectly because they’re broken in the same ways. They fit together like pieces of a kintsugi bowl, with their love as the gold that bonds them together perfectly, creating something new and even more beautiful from their broken pieces.
And Angel really believes that. For five years he believes that to be true, and for five years, he stays loyally at Valentino’s side. He rationalizes every angry outburst, he talks himself through the covering of every bruise, and gaslights himself into thinking that he’s overreacting, even when he can feel Val starting to pull away from him.
Angel will never forget the day that it all went wrong. He had been living his life as Cinderella at the ball without keeping his eye on the clock, and when the chimes sounded for that midnight hour, Angel couldn’t have possibly prepared himself for what it would feel like when the magic of the spell wore off.
Angel should have seen it coming. He should have realized it sooner. In the grand scheme of things, it occurs to Angel how obvious everything was from the beginning, but he thinks that maybe he just hadn’t wanted to see it. He had been content with wearing blinders. He had been happy to play pretend and fall into line when he was asked because it allowed him to live his life more indulgently. Believing the lies he was told allowed Angel to live without consequence, it let him feel like he was taking part in a passionate love story; one with two people who were meant for one another and have a relationship with eternity that puts them in one anothers’ orbit because they were meant to find each other.
Angel finds out that Val is cheating on him with Vox by pure circumstance.
He’s home early from his manicure and decides to take some selfies to post in his Sinsta to show off his new set of nails. He takes a few in the bathroom, but the lighting isn’t quite right, so he has to resort to finding a window that he can properly position himself near so that he can get the perfect shot. He ends up opting for the row of glass doors up on Val’s loft, the ones that lead out to the balcony that overlooks the shared rooftop courtyard between Vox and Val’s apartments.
Angel wasn’t a huge fan of Vox being in such close proximity at first, but he has to admit that it is good for business to have Vox readily available any time they need. He’s Val’s business partner and Val’s friend so Angel tolerates him, but he isn’t exactly a big fan of him. Vox is a douchebag from the 50’s who still struggles with internalized misogyny and homophobia, and Angel just doesn’t have the patience to deal with educating an old man who looks at Angel like he wants to call him a slur. Angel has his suspicions that Vox is probably dealing with his own sexuality crisis, but most sinners go through something like that upon their arrival. It’s just been decades since Vox got here, and Angel would think that he’d have worked through his mortal prejudices by now, but no. Vox is a stubborn asshole who, from what Angel can tell, only cares about himself.
Having him close by like this means that when Val has something important go over, Vox is right here. It keeps things at V&V moving smoothly, which keeps Angel’s life moving smoothly, so Angel sees no reason to complain.
From where he’s standing in the light from the windows is absolutely perfect. Angel pulls one of Val’s curtains into place behind him for a backdrop and starts angling his camera to snap some cute photos. Angel doesn’t realize that the balcony door is open until he hears Vox and Val speaking in the courtyard below. He can’t hear what they’re saying that clearly, but from the frustration lacing Vox’s tone and the subtle rise in volume accompanied by Val’s bitter laughter, Angel can assume they’re arguing.
It’s none of his business. Angel shouldn’t eavesdrop. He should probably just walk away and pretend he hadn’t heard anything at all. But… Angel is still feeling a little fucked up from the three Xanax he popped earlier, and he’s enough of a curious bitch to throw morality out the window and slowly push the door open a little bit more. Angel crouches down and sneaks out onto the balcony, where through the vines from the plants that Val has growing along the metal fence, Angel has a birdseye view of the argument happening beneath him.
It doesn’t take Angel very long to realize that the thing they’re arguing about is him.
“Why don’t you go run back to your little ‘Angelito’,” Vox snaps, his voice spitting Val’s pet name for Angel with teasing sarcasm. Angel has long suspected that Vox isn’t his biggest fan, but getting confirmation like this makes his stomach churn uncomfortably.
“Is that what this is about?” Val replies, sounding intrigued and amused more than anything else. He does this, sometimes, when other people are emotional; he acts like the argument they’re having is all some fun game. Angel can’t fully see Val’s facial expression from this far away, but he can tell that Val is smiling. “Are you jealous of Angel?”
“I’m not jealous of one of your whores,” Vox says, crossing his arms over his chest. Angel doesn’t flinch at the insult, both because he’s used to it and because it isn’t exactly an inaccurate description. “It’s not jealousy, it’s fucking anger. Since when does that fucker take priortiy over me? This was supposed to be about us, Val! Me and you! Not me and you and him! When I call you for something, you are supposed to come right away, not when you’re done fucking your pet. My time is valuable.”
“Oh, baby, I didn’t realize you felt this way,” Val says, that same patronizing tone still present in his voice. It’s the exact same way that Val talks to Angel when Angel’s upset — like Angel is a toddler who needs his snot wiped away with a kleenex and a kiss on the cheek to make it all better. Val reaches for Vox, and Vox swats his hand away.
“You were just supposed to get him under contract,” Vox says. He looks away, and Angel puts his hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping. He’s never seen Vox show emotion like this. He’s usually so guarded.
Who knew he had a soft side? An emotional side? Who knew that the only person he lets see that side of him is Val?
Angel hadn’t realized that they were this close. There’s a lot of Val’s life that Angel is still in the dark about. Val has shared a little bit of his past with Angel in moments of intimacy, but those moments are rare and far between. For all of his sweet, sensitive demeanor, Val is a difficult person to get through to. Angel hasn’t managed to figure out how to get inside of his heart yet, but…
It looks like maybe Vox has.
Val rolls his eyes and scoffs, “And I did, didn’t I?”
“Yeah but you didn’t have to let him move in with you. You didn’t have to let him believe you loved him.” Vox is still looking away. Angel’s brain short-circuits over Vox’s words — let him believe? The fuck is he talking about?
Val changes his tone. He lowers his voice, to that soft, sensual sound that always works to make Angel’s limbs feel like they’re made of jelly, and he says, “Amorcito, eres es amor de mi vida. Angel means nothing to me, you know that. You’re just being sensitive because you’re still hurting over that radio demon—”
“Don’t,” Vox interrupts, voice rising, “mention that fucker in front of me.”
“See? That’s why you feel like this, not because of Angel. You know that you’re the only one I love, Amorcito. Angel is just — he’s just fun, baby, that’s all. Angie is going to bring this company so much money,” Val tells him. “You just don’t see his worth yet.”
Angel’s heart feels frozen in his chest. His entire body feels like it’s been frozen in a block of ice. He can’t move, he can’t fucking breathe, because — what?
What the fuck?
Is Val sleeping with Vox? Behind Angel’s back? There’s no way, there’s absolutely no way that Angel wouldn’t have fucking noticed something like this. Though, to be fair, maybe he’s been to high to notice. Or maybe, he didn’t want to notice.
Angel thinks he might be sick. If what Val is saying true, then Angel’s entire fucking relationship with Val has been a lie. Has he really just been a stepping stone for Val to launch his career off of? Has he really been played for such a fucking idiot, for such a fool?
Below him, Val reaches out a hand to caress Vox’s face and Vox does not turn away.
“I love you, baby,” Val says in a tone of voice that Angel has never heard him use with him before. His voice is soft and genuine, real in a way it never is normally. It makes Angel feel like he’s been stabbed in the chest. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been giving you enough attention. Why don’t we go into your apartment and you can let me make it up to you?”
And fuck, Angel knows that voice. He knows what Val is suggesting. He knows what it sounds like when Val is horny. Angel goes to look away, but before he can, he catches sight of Vox’s walls coming down as he leans into Val’s touch and then—
Then they’re kissing, and Angel feels like he might die.
When the kiss breaks the spell on Angel’s delusion, the truth hits him so hard that it knocks the air from his lungs. Suddenly, the memories of his time with Val feel different, they look different in his mind’s eye when he considers how much of it had been shrouded in lies. How long had Val been sneaking around behind his back? How many nights when Val had to “stay late at the studio” had he really been sucking Vox’s cock without Angel having any idea at all? Angel’s heart feels like it’s been ripped from his chest, and he struggles to find the strength to stand up. Rose-colored memories turn maroon as Val’s empty promises ring loudly in Angel’s ears.
How could Angel have been so stupid? How could he have been so fucking blind?
Angel knows that he has no choice but to run away. He can’t stay here with Val now that he knows the truth. Val had promised him his undying love. He had taken Angel for a fucking fool. Angel can’t be here — he can’t work for Val, and be naked in front of him, and know the entire time that Val is in love with someone else. It would hurt more than dying.
So, when the others have gone away into Vox’s apartment to do — ugh, god knows what — Angel pulls himself up with numb legs and stumbles towards his bedroom. He doesn’t know how much time he has before Val gets back, but he knows that he needs to be quick if he doesn’t want to be stopped. Angel finds a duffel bag and a suitcase in Val’s closet and he tosses them onto Val’s bed before hastily grabbing as many of his possessions as he can and throwing them into the luggage. He doesn’t know where he’s going to go — if he goes to Cherri’s, Val will probably find him there — but he needs to get out.
Angel is too caught up in his own panicked thoughts to notice that the television monitor on Val’s dresser has turned on, and that a pair of blood-red eyes are watching him from behind. He doesn’t notice that he isn’t alone in the room until he hears Vox’s voice and almost jumps out of his skin.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Vox demands, and Angel turns to stare at the screen with one of his dresses clutched in his hands. Val’s television is huge, so Vox’s face plastered on it from corner to corner is terrifying. Angel feels so small under Vox’s gaze, trapped beneath those narrow, angry eyes like a gnat caught in a black widow’s web. Angel tries to swallow past the lump in his throat but it won’t go down. “You’d better not be packing your shit so that you can run away.”
Angel’s hands start to shake, because that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“I should be askin’ you the same thing,” Angel snaps, finding the confidence to stand up to Vox buried within him. He’s afraid, yes, but the anger he’s feeling is so much more intense than the fear. “I saw you and Val—”
“Yeah, I know what you saw,” Vox says, sounding almost bored. “I don’t see why the fuck you’re being so dramatic about it, it’s not like this should come as a surprise. We haven’t exactly been subtle about it.”
Angel is frozen in place by Vox’s honesty. “Y-You know what I saw? But how—”
“Kid, I’ve got cameras set up in every inch of this place, you really think I didn’t notice your nosy ass sticking itself where it doesn’t belong? You got curious and started snooping around, and now you’ve found something that you don’t like. Boo fucking hoo, cry me a river. If you didn’t want to know, you probably should have stayed in your place,” Vox tells him.
Angel’s blood runs cold. His eyes flick up to the corner of the bedroom where there’s a camera installed, pointed directly at him. Angel didn’t realize that Vox had access to them all like that. He didn’t realize that Vox was always watching, that he kept tabs on Angel’s life so closely. He feels like he’s going to be sick because the camera that’s currently pointed at him is also pointed at the bed. The one that Angel shares with Val. The one that they fuck in almost every night. The one that they fucked in this morning.
Does Vox… Watch them?
“Know my place?” Angel says, his mind reeling from that realization. “That’s funny coming from Val’s mistress.”
Vox’s response to that is a laugh so cold that it sends a chill down Angel’s spine. His teeth take up the majority of the screen, casting Angel and the room in bright blue light, and he laughs loudly and cruelly, like he’s about to reveal the punch line of some sick fucking joke.
“Are you really that fucking stupid? God, I know that Val likes ‘em dumb, but this? This is a new level of idiocy, even for him. Angel, you fucking imbecile, you’re the mistress, not me.” He sounds so sure of himself, so confident in his convictions, that Angel thinks his knees might collapse out from under him once more.
“You’re only here because I let you be here. Val likes having his chew toys with him in his cage, so I tolerate the noise of your incessant squeaking for his sake, not yours. If I gave the word, Val would toss you right back out there on the street that he scraped you off of. You aren’t the main character of this story, Angel, you’re a fucking nameless walk-on role that got a big head over your sixty-seconds of fame.” Vox’s eyes narrow again, and Angel’s eyes start to well up with tears. He fights hard to hold them back, but his chest starts to ache from the sobs he’s struggling to hold back. “It’s time for you to remember your place. Val doesn’t know about this little diva temper tantrum of yours, and he doesn’t have to know. Unpack those fucking bags, go fix your makeup, and go back to being the obedient little concubine you were hired to be, okay?”
With that, the screen goes black and Vox is gone, having done his job of destabilizing Angel with only his words as weapons. Angel collapses to the floor in a fit of hysteria that makes him feel dizzy. He’s making an awful noise, something between a cry and a laugh, and his body is shaking out of control. Vox is right, and Angel knows that he’s right without a shadow of a doubt.
Now that he thinks back, it all seems so fucking obvious. Val had always put Vox first. He spent so much time doing what Angel assumed was “working” when in reality, he was putting work and time into his relationship with Vox, the real person he loves. He kept Angel fed and watered and drugged like a fucking animal awaiting their slaughter and Angel had ignored every fucking red flag and warning sign because he was in love and he didn’t want to believe that Val could do something like that.
Now, he feels like the floor has been ripped out from under him and he has no idea how he’s supposed to find his way back up again. Val doesn’t love Angel. Val never loved Angel. Val loves Vox.
Val does everything that he does for Vox. He creates porn for Vox. He scouts out talent for Vox. And he lures in helpless, pathetic addicts with his prince-like charm, and trains them to be the perfect actors in his shitty films that make so much fucking money, all for Vox.
Angel really had been the perfect fucking prey to wander into his trap.
It’s at that moment that Angel realizes that he is indeed taking part in a passionate love story; one with two people who are meant for one another and have a relationship with eternity that puts them in one anothers’ orbit because they were meant to find each other. It’s just not his.
Angel wishes that he had the strength to walk away, but he doesn’t. As he sits there on the floor of his bedroom that smells like Val, Angel considers everything that he has in this imperfect lie of a life with Val. He considers the money and the fame and drugs. He considers the sex and praise and the good parts of Val that kept Angel in love through all of the bad times, and he cannot find the strength to leave. He would lose too much if he walked away now.
Angel resigns himself to pretending. If this entire life he built with Val is a lie, then it’s a lie. He can’t change that. But he’s a fucking actor, and if there’s anything actors are good at, it’s playing make believe.
He tells Cherri the truth a few days later, and he can’t look her in the eye.
“You were right,” he admits, feeling like every bone in his body has been turned to dust. “About all of it.”
She looks at him with a sad expression and says, “I wish I wasn’t.”
It turns out that forcing yourself to pretend to love someone that you know doesn’t love you back makes all of their flaws stand out like festering boils on their skin. The things that Angel had been able to ignore before suddenly seem so much more horrible now that the veil of Val’s lie has been lifted. Val’s temper, which Angel had been able to rationalize before, is suddenly this hideously ugly thing that makes Val look like the monster he really is. Val’s violence that Angel had brushed off as just small outbursts of his passion coming out of him are now more clear for what it has always been: abuse. Every blow to Angel’s face with the back of his hand for speaking out of turn feels like a siren going off beneath Angel’s bones, loud and painful, warning him against his urge to strike back.
Being around Val feels like torture, because that ugly, disgusting beast of a man had once convinced Angel that he was a prince, and even though the magic of his deceit has run its course, Angel still has to pretend to believe the lie. He has to smile through every compliment. He has to moan and sigh with every stroke of Val’s fingers up the exposed length of Angel’s thigh when they sit side by side on the couch of their shared living space and emulate domesticity like they’re actors in a tv show. He has stare straight into the camera pointed at their bed as Val fucks him hard and good, and know that Vox is there, watching them.
The years that follow are some of the worst of Angel’s entire existence.
It takes Val an entire decade to realize that Angel knows about Vox. Angel is using a lot of drugs in order to cope with the nightly torture of Val’s increasingly frequent departures from their bed to go be with Vox, and Val takes notice.
He’s waiting for Angel in the living room late one night after Angel has been out drinking. He’s sitting there on the couch, reading a book under the light from a single lamp, like a scene out of a fucking romantic comedy. Angel stumbles in and locks the door behind him and Val closes his book loudly enough to get Angel’s attention.
“Angelito,” Val says, and there’s something scary in the tone of his voice that sets Angel on edge. “Can we have a chat?”
Angel assumes that the chat is going to be about his drinking, which admittedly has gotten much worse over the last few years. Val isn’t exactly one to talk about the use of vices to cope since he has his own fair share, but Angel supposes that was under the pretenses that Val would take care of Angel when he goes too far that Angel signed the contract to begin with. So, like he always does, Angel obeys. He sighs and throws himself into one of the armchairs as far away from Val as he can, but Val isn’t having it.
“Why so distant, mi amor?” Val says, clicking his tongue. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack that’s resting on the table beside him and lights it, the crimson smoke rises in supernatural clouds from the tip and gathers around him like a fog. “Come closer, so that daddy can talk to you properly.”
Angel swallows and stays put. The Beezlejuice from earlier is still buzzing through his system, and he worries he might vomit if he moves.
“Angel,” Val says, when Angel doesn’t get up and obey his command. The false kindness from before lingers on his tone but is quickly draining, making Val sound clipped and frustrated. “Over. Here.”
The smoke moves like a living thing, traveling across the empty expanse of their living room and over towards Angel. It smells like Val’s poison, bitter and sweet, and it caresses Angel’s body with soft touches. Then, very pointedly, the smoke moves towards Angel’s throat. Angel feels the heaviness of his soul collar start to weigh him down as it takes shape, and then the chain appears, like the red string of fate, connecting Angel to his master.
“Please,” Val says, though the collar and the chain make it clear that Angel has only the illusion of a choice.
If he refuses, Val will use force to pull him from his chair and drag him closer. If he says no, this conversion shifts from a “chat” to a reprimanding. The appearance of the chain makes Val’s intentions clear to Angel: we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.
Angel glares at Val and then sighs, pushing himself out of the arm chair before he walks over towards the loveseat on which Val is sat. Val’s expression softens, his frown shifting into a sinister but satisfied smile.
“Good boy,” Val coos. “Now, Vox tells me that you’ve discovered something you shouldn’t have. It’s honestly past time for me to tell you this, baby, and I’m sorry that I haven’t before now — time got away from me. You know how busy I am.”
He looks at Angel expectantly, and Angel swallows the bitter taste in his mouth and says, “Yes, Val.”
“It’s not that I wanted to lie to you, I just assumed that you knew what this arrangement was,” Val explains, like he’s talking himself out of a parking ticket. “I thought you knew that this thing we have,” a funny fucking way of describing a decade-long relationship, but okay, “it’s not — it’s not exclusive. Eternity is a long time, baby, and I have needs that you can’t fulfill. Neither of us should feel like we’re tied down.”
Angel doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t “we’ve been in an open relationship this entire time, you were just too stupid to realize it.” Angel knows that Val thinks he’s dumb, but he can’t possibly think that he’s so much of a moron that he would believe a bullshit excuse like that.
“So you’re saying that it’s totally fine for me to go fuck whoever I want,” Angel asks, emotionless.
“Don’t you already do that?” Val counters.
Angel rolls his eyes. “I don’t mean for work. I mean for fun, Val. Are you seriously gonna sit here and tell me that you’re perfectly fine with me sleepin’ with anyone I want to, so’s that we ain’t ‘tied down’ by each other?”
Val stares at him, and his eyes flash for a moment before he smiles. “Of course you can fuck other people, baby. I encourage it.”
Angel seriously fucking doubts that.
“Really?” Angel asks, deadpan. Val is the most jealous person Angel knows. There’s no fucking way he means that.
“Really, Angie. I just want you to be happy. I want us both to be happy.” Val reaches out a hand to caress Angel’s cheek, and Angel hates how fucking good his touch feels. Angel wishes that this were easier. He wishes that ten long years were enough to give him the strength to leave Val, but he can’t. He doesn’t know what it is — it could be the drugs that Val offers, it could be the comfort of their shared home, or it could be something much deeper. Angel fears for the latter, because that’s the one that makes it hardest to walk away.
If Angel is in love with Val — if he’s genuinely in love with this piece of fucking shit — then he might as well be doomed for the rest of eternity.
This is the first time that Angel wonders if Val is a greater power’s elaborate plan at punishing Angel for his time in the living world. There’s no other explanation. Val has to be some sort of sick, twisted, karmic punishment. He’s everything Angel has ever wanted, and Angel loves him more than he ever thought possible, but Val doesn’t love him. At least, not in the way Angel needs him to.
“Do you love him?” Angel asks, because he can’t help himself, because he has to fucking know. “Do you love Vox?”
Angel expects Val to hit him for asking something so bold, but he doesn’t. Instead he considers Angel’s question with a tilt of his head, and he says, “Probably, yes,” like Angel asked him if he likes chocolate cake, like the stakes are so fucking low. “But I love you too, Angelito.”
Angel realizes that Val doesn’t see people as people. He doesn’t see other demons as anything other than things that he can possess. To Val, the value of other souls lies in their usefulness to him. He functions in a world where he is the center of the universe and everyone else exists in an orbit around him. Of course he believes that he loves Angel. Of course he believes that Angel would love him back. To him, Angel is just another dollar in his fat, overstuffed wallet.
“Do you love me?” Val asks, pinching Angel’s face in his hand. His thumbnail digs into Angel’s skin, and it stings.
Deep down, beneath the infatuation and the drugs, Angel is pretty sure that what he feels for Val is so much more complicated than love. It’s something else — like a hatred so strong that it could drive him insane. He wants Val around him, all around him, always, but he also would give anything to see an angelic bullet lodge itself in between his horrible fucking red eyes. He doesn’t just want Valentino — he needs him, the way that he needs cocaine, the way that he needs heroin, the way that he needs affection and love and praise. Val is a dependency that Angel just can’t fucking kick, no matter how much he wants to.
“Yes, Valentino,” Angel answers, robotically, like he’s been trained to.
Val doesn’t notice, and if he does, he doesn’t care. He just smirks and leans in to seal Angel’s compliance with a kiss, and they go right back to pretending that everything is okay.
Angel decides that if Val wants to pretend that they’re in an open relationship, he might as well have some fun with his new allowances. For the last decade, the only person that Angel’s had sex with outside of work is Val. Angel probably could have started cheating when he found out that Val was cheating, but… he didn’t. There were a few reasons for it, of course, starting with the fact that Angel isn’t ever sure what Vox can and cannot see. Ever since that day that he caught them together and Vox admitted to watching him, Angel hasn’t been able to stop noticing the cameras everywhere. They’re all over Pentagram City, on every street corner, every building, always watching. Angel didn’t think that it was a very good idea to cheat on Val when Vox could use that against him next time he needs something from him. There’s also the hopeless, heart-broken romantic aspect of it all. Angel had been in denial for years, hoping that maybe if he wished hard enough, he could make the pain go away. Maybe if Angel got high enough, he could forget about the ways in which Val had used him, the ways in which Val had crumpled him up like a piece of trash and thrown him away. It hadn’t worked, and now that Val has given Angel full permission to go crazy, he intends to make good on that.
Luckily for Angel, it’s around this time that Velvette dies and joins them in Hell. She seeks them out, approaching Vox and Val with an offer that they can’t refuse. She’s a natural, and her experience with the living world’s social media market makes her an invaluable asset to the team. She’s fierce and no-nonsense, and her work ethic and determination to bring Vox Tech (formerly V&V Industries) from a powerful company with moderate pull in Hell to a corporate monster that rivals Disney’s evil in the mortal realm provides a fantastic distraction that Angel can use to sneak around when Val isn’t looking.
He likes Velvette, and she seems tolerant of Angel’s existence, so they make a decent team when it comes to navigating their way through the disastrous shit-show that is Vox and Val. Now that Val doesn’t have to hide his relationship from Angel, the ugliness of their partnership also comes to light. In the way that Val had spoken to Vox with a love that Angel hadn’t thought him capable of before, their relationship seems to have an equally toxic side to it as well. When they fight, it becomes everyone’s problem. Val gets angry and violent, and he breaks things and sometimes he even breaks Vox, and then Velvette gets annoyed because fixing him takes time away from them that should be used to make money. Val curses and cries and goes to Angel for comfort, and Angel provides it because the alternative is having that same rage turned against him instead, and Angel doesn’t need another broken bone right now. Shit takes way too long to heal properly, and he’s got plans for after work.
Those plans include getting shit-faced at a club and letting whatever big-dicked asshole that looks at him have their way with him.
Their arrangement works out fine for a while after that. Val gets to have his relationship with Vox and Angel gets to maintain a blissful ignorance towards how much he’s being used by distracting himself with enough cock and blow to make his fucking head spin. They develop a routine of sorts: Angel goes out and gets shitty at a club while fucking a bunch of nameless nobodies, and then goes crawling back to Val for a few months while Val and Vox enter into an “off again” phase of their toxic relationship, then back to the club when they kiss and make up, again and again and again until the years bleed into a mess of time that makes Angel feel dizzy, because eternity starts to eat away at him, the way it does for so many others.
Angel thinks that he probably would have lost himself completely if it hadn’t been for the unlikely circumstance of finding himself accidentally in love with a stranger. He didn’t plan for it — he wouldn’t have planned for something like that to happen, not with Val being the way he is. But one drug-fueled hookup with a guy who calls himself Roads pulls Angel from his downward spiral and reminds him for a brief moment what it feels like to be alive again.
Roads is Angel’s biggest regret. He shows up in Angel’s life out of nowhere and he’s soft and quiet, but he listens to Angel’s problems and he laughs at Angel’s jokes, and Angel finds himself seeking out his company on nights when things with Val feel like they’re too much. He’s a soul from the 80’s, who died in a motorcycle accident in his 20’s and appears in Hell with flames for hair and asphalt eyes, but he manages to swallow Angel’s heart the way all men do. Roads doesn’t fuck Angel like he thinks he’s some toy to be played with — no, Roads fucks Angel with tender love and care, and it makes Angel cry and it makes Angel’s heart feel like it’s going to burst in his chest and Angel falls before he even realizes what’s happening.
Roads gives Angel something he cannot give himself, and it’s thrilling in the same way that it’s absolutely terrifying. While Val spends time in Vox’s apartment night after night, Angel starts spending nights with Roads, falling asleep watching stupid movies from the mortal world. They don’t put a label on what they are, but after a while, Angel dares to call themselves friends.
It feels like a dream for three short weeks. Angel stops using so much and starts smiling more, and he thinks that maybe this time, things will work out.
Maybe this time, he can actually have that happiness he’s been searching for since the moment he took his first breath.
How stupid it all seems now, though. Val finds out about Roads by the time the month is up, and he finds out fresh off of a nasty fight with Vox. Angel thinks that Vox is the one who told him, that Vox knew about Angel’s happiness from watching it happen through the surveillance cameras he has set up all throughout the city, and that he had been holding onto it like a bomb that he could drop the moment he needed to turn Val against Angel.
Angel is at work when it happens. He doesn’t even get to say goodbye. He finishes up his shoot and checks his phone to find that Roads hasn’t texted him all day. Feeling anxious, Angel showers quickly and hopes to get to Roads’ apartment to check on him, but Val is waiting for him when he steps out of the bathroom.
It’s unceremonious; Val revealing that he’s personally seen to it that Roads’ existence in Hell was snuffed out. He says it while drinking a margarita and cleaning blood from an angelic blade, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. There’s something evil and dark in his eyes, and Angel is frozen in place with fear and anger and heartbreak as Val walks him through exactly how he did it and where.
“But why?” Angel chokes out, feeling sick.
Val opens the kitchen trash can and tosses in the rag soaked in Roads’ blood, the only thing left of the man Angel could have loved if they had been given more time together, and says, “Because you forgot your place, mi amor. Your holes are yours to share with whatever piece of shit you want, but your heart and your soul belong to me.”
Angel learns that day that Val’s hold over him is stronger than he had ever realized. He learns that day that signing his soul away meant losing any chance he had at happiness. When Val told Angel that he could fuck whoever he wanted, what he meant was that he had Val’s permission to be used but never loved, and that makes Angel feel less than human.
Angel falls into place after that. He moves like a machine, doing what he’s told, always obeying, never risking his feelings or his agency for anything other than a needle full of heroin or a mouthful of toxin. Angel’s worth is boiled down to what he services he can provide for others with the body that he was cursed with, and this he thinks, is his punishment.
He is damned to be wanted but never loved, kept but never valued.
He becomes complicit in his misery, and it is that misery that follows him for years until one day, Val comes to him and tells him that his soul has been traded away in a game of cards.
Thirty years of servitude, of devotion, thrown away like trash. The foundation upon which their love had been built had long since withered away into nothing, but Angel still feels his heart break at how easily Val had given him away.
It shouldn’t feel like as much of a blow as it does, but this life of misery is all he’s ever known. Val is all he’s ever known. It’s why Angel went back to him when things with Husk got too scary. It’s why Angel had such a hard time walking away. He had conditioned himself into thinking that Val was what he needed, what he deserved, and it wasn’t until Angel came to terms with how fucking bullshit that logic was that he was able to move on.
What Angel didn’t know then that he knows now is that Val betting his soul to The Gambling Demon would end up being the best thing that ever happened to him. Val betting his soul and accidentally losing his hold over Angel is what brought Angel here, to the Happy Hotel, where for the first time since the moment he was born, he feels like he has a purpose.
*.*.*.*.*
The room is silent when Angel finishes telling his story. There’s a clock on the wall that’s ticking loudly, and the movement of each passing seconds echoes through the room like a heartbeat.
Beside him, Husk is tense. At some point during Angel’s story he had taken Angel’s hand and held it tightly in his own, and his grip is tight and grounding. Angel chooses to look at Husk over the girls, because Husk’s reaction to this story is the one he cares about the most.
Husk knows that Angel was abused by Val, but Angel doesn’t think that he realized how deeply he had been hurt. Husk’s face is, as usual, difficult to read, and he meets Angel’s eyes for only a moment before he looks away and squeezes his eyes shut. There’s a slight tremble in his hands that Angel feels shake through him, and if they weren’t currently being watched by other people, Angel would probably offer to kiss away whatever anxiety is causing Husk to feel this way.
Did Angel’s story hurt him? Had it been too triggering to hear, too hard? Should Angel have held back?
God, this is exactly why he had been so adamant about not sharing the truth with the world. His story is too sad. It’s a tragedy that has no poetic allegory, that no one can make sense of, it’s just endless suffering for the sake of suffering. Angel’s life and death are two pathetic sides of the same shitty coin that was flipped over and over again until the faces had been eroded away to smooth metal: indistinguishable.
Angel sighs and turns towards the girls to ask them if that had been convincing enough for them to finally agree to come up with a makeshift story, but when he turns, he is shocked to find that Charlie has moved from her seat and has come over to wrap her arms around him.
Angel hasn’t been hugged like this in years. Other than Husk, and Val, the only other person who holds Angel has been Cherri, and her hugs are nothing like this one. Charlie’s hug is warm in a way that is almost suffocating, but is also comforting. Charlie’s hug reminds Angel of what it felt like when his sister hugged him — when the girl whose face he cannot remember comforted him in times of pain. On pure instinct, Angel’s arms come up on either side of her and pull her close, returning the gesture.
“Oh, Angel,” Charlie says. Her voice is wet with the sobs he can feel shaking through her. “I’m so, so sorry that you’ve suffered so much.”
Angel’s mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton. “It ain’t your fault,” he says.
Charlie sniffles and nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck. “But it is. Hell is my home. Its denizens are my people, and I’ve let them down. I’ve let them suffer for so long, and I’m so sorry that I didn’t do more to help sooner.”
Angel pats her back and leans his head against her fluffy blonde hair. She smells like flowers and smoke, and it’s strangely calming.
“It ain’t your job to fix people, Toots,” Angel tells her. “The souls that wind up in Hell ain’t exactly here because we’re upstandin’ citizens, didn’t you listen to my story? I was a drug addict, and I killed people. Every choice that I made was just that — a choice. My sob story is my own responsibility.”
Charlie pulls back from the hug and levels him with a strange look. “But you still chose to get better at the end of it all, didn’t you?”
Angel swallows. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”
Her eyes are fierce and filled with fire and tears when she says, “That’s exactly why you’re the perfect person to help us get this hotel up and running. Your story, Angel it’s — it’s not a sob story. It’s an inspirational one. You went through so much shit and still chose the path of healing. You’re proof that anyone can crawl out of the inferno if they try. We can help them realize that!”
Angel can’t deny that she makes one hell of an argument.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe sharing his story can help other people. It’s a terrifying thought — Angel has always been the kind of person to melt into the role that was required of him in order to protect himself. Acting isn’t just a hobby, it’s part of Angel’s defense mechanism. It keeps him safe. Asking him to abandon that in favor of being himself is… fucking terrifying.
“She’s right,” Husk says from beside him. Angel looks over at his boyfriend and Husk is looking at him with a broken-open expression. There are tears in his eyes and his face is flushed, and that poker face that he’s always so good at maintaining has finally slipped away.
“Husk—”
“You’re one hell of a fighter, kid,” Husk says, and his voice sounds so small. He closes his eyes and exhales, and then he speaks again, he sounds a little bit stronger, “I don’t… I haven’t said this to you, and I ain’t exactly thrilled to be sayin’ it in front of strangers but seein’ as you just bared our soul for everyone to see, I guess I can afford to lend you that same kindness.” He clears his throat, and looks at Angel with a hard expression. “You saved my life, Angel. Knowin’ you — winnin’ your soul in that game, it healed something I didn’t even know was broken. I had no idea what kind of life you had before you ended up in my casino, and I thought that I didn’t care, but hearin’ it now, I realize that knowin’ that story just makes how amazing you are even more of a fuckin’ miracle. I think you’re right, I think that this hotel is something you have to do, and I — I wanna be there for you. I wanna help you help people the way you helped me.”
Angel feels like he can’t breathe. His heart feels so full that he’s worried it might explode in his chest. How the fuck is he supposed to respond to that? He hasn’t — no one’s ever — he doesn’t know how to — fuck! Angel’s eyes burn. He can feel sobs starting to fight their way out of his chest, and he knows he’s heading for a fucking melt down.
“That was some speech, Whiskers,” Angel chokes out. He blinks and a few tears escape his eyes, blurring his vision.
How could he have ever worried for even a second that Husk was anything like Val? Husk said that Angel saved him? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
“He’s right,” Vaggie says, getting up from her seat across from him to join the pile of people hanging off of Angel. She places a hand on Angel’s shoulder. “You inspire people, Angel. You saved me too, remember?”
For some reason, that’s what finally breaks him. Angel bursts into tears, which causes Charlie to lunge into another hug. He feels Husk’s strong arms find him, too, and then Vaggie’s. They end up in a ball of warmth, limbs tangled up in a desperate attempt to soothe Angel’s pain.
But the thing is, Angel doesn’t know if it’s pain that he’s crying from. It’s relief.
Relief that he isn’t holding onto that story anymore. Relief that he isn’t alone anymore. Relief that he can finally, finally move forward.
Chapter 28
Hey, you’ve reached Cherri Bomb. If I didn’t answer for you, I’m either fuckin’ busy or I hate you, so fifty-fifty shot if I call you back. Leave a message or don’t.
BEEP
“Hey Cher, it’s Angel, where the hell have you been? I’ve been blowin’ up your phone and I’m startin’ to get worried,” Angel says into the receiver, phone pressed tightly to his cheek. “We gotta schedule a gossip sesh soon, I have so much shit to catch you up on. Give me a call when you get this, kay bitch? Love ya.”
He hangs up and bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. It’s been over a week since he’s received even so much as a text message from her, and he’s starting to get worried. The conversation with Charlie and Vaggie really made him reflect on how much of an apology he owes her for… everything that happened with Val, and he wants to make this right.
He knows that Cherri has never held it over him — that she’d never dream of doing something like that. She’s an addict too, so she gets how it is. She understands that an addict isn’t always in control of their actions. Angel had been so stupid to ignore her pleas to stay the fuck away from Val, and now that he’s finally voiced the story out loud, he sees how lucky he is to have a friend like her.
“Still no answer?” Husk asks from the kitchen. He’s cooking them dinner and Angel is curled up on the couch with his legs tucked securely beneath a blanket. Husk can tell that Angel is anxious, so there’s no real point in trying to hide it from him.
“She does this sometimes,” Angel says, but it tastes like an excuse. “Just goes dark. She’s got a lot of issues, and sometimes gettin’ offa social media and stayin’ away from people helps her get back to herself, but she usually tells me when she’s gonna do that. She coulda just lost her phone, or maybe she’s busy, or—”
“Baby,” Husk interrupts. He points his tomato sauce covered spoon in Angel’s direction. “If you’re worried about her, just go check on her and make sure she’s okay.”
Angel’s considered doing just that so many times this week. It’s probably nothing. He knows that he’s over-reacting, because he wasn’t lying when he said that this isn’t exactly unlike her to do, but something feels off.
“I don’t wanna overstep,” Angel says, but Husk isn’t having it. “I don’t wanna poke my nose into shit that ain’t my business—”
“Bullshit, she’s your best friend,” Husk says. “Sounds to me like she’s always had your back, so I don’t see the issue in you returning that favor.”
He’s right. Angel should go check on her. He’s sure that it’s probably fine, but there’s no harm in following up with a wellness check. Angel’s been busy lately, and he’s been on a journey to get clean and stay clean. That’s no excuse for him to have neglected his relationships, though, so he wants to try and do better in regards to showing up for the people who need him.
“You got anything goin’ on tomorrow? Go out to her place and see how she’s doing. I’m sure she’d appreciate the effort,” Husk tells him, like it’s simple.
“Charlie’s got that interview with Katie Killjoy tomorrow promoting the hotel,” Angel replies, biting his lip.
Securing that interview was hard for her, and Angel is pretty sure that the only reason they even managed to get it was because someone else for tomorrow’s segment had to call in sick. Surprising no one, Charlie hasn’t had much luck with converting sinners over to the idea of redemption when nothing like this has ever been done before. Trying to schmooze over the overlords didn’t work out in Charlie’s favor, so she decided to try switching it up by broadcasting the idea on TV.
“Yeah, but that’s got nothing to do with you, right? It’s not like you’re being interviewed.” Husk has a point there. The interview is important for the hotel as a whole, but it’s not like Angel has to sit around and wait for it to air. He’s sure that Charlie is going to want to do a group screening of it once it’s done anyway.
“Would it be okay with you if I went by her place tomorrow?” Angel asks. He looks over the side of the couch towards where Husk is setting out two bowls so that he can start plating the food he made. It smells good, and it sets Angel’s nerves at ease.
Husk is a good cook, it turns out, and he’s been making an effort to try more Italian recipes for Angel. It’s more than Angel could ever ask for and more than he deserves, but he’s thankful for it nonetheless. Tonight, he’s making pasta with a homemade red sauce and chicken cutlets, and he’s come over to the couch with a sauce-coated wooden spoon and asked Angel to taste the sauce every step of the way.
It’s disgustingly domestic, but Angel likes it.
“How many times do I gotta tell you that you don’t have to ask me for shit, Legs,” Husk says with a huff. Angel watches as Husk scoops spaghetti out of a large pot and portions it out into the bowls. “If you wanna go and check on your girl, be my guest. I ain’t stoppin’ you.”
Angel smirks at him and then leans his crossed arms over the back of the couch where he then rests his head. “I dunno, feels a little bit like I ain’t pullin’ weight these days,” Angel teases. Husk shakes his head and then grabs the pot that Angel knows to contain the sauce and ladles a generous amount onto each of their pasta bowls. “I am a soul on your chain, after all. Shouldn’t you be putin’ me to work?”
There’s been a significant shift in their dynamic ever since Angel moved into Husk’s apartment. Angel doesn’t want to use the word spoiled, but he can’t think of any other adjective to describe life as Husk’s partner now that things are official. He’s been doing less shifts on the casino floor and has been encouraged to enjoy his time at his leisure, rather than work for his keep as his contract requires. Angel knows that it’s because Husk loves him and wants to make sure he’s comfortable, but he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t a small part of him that feels a little bit like he’s taking advantage of Husk’s kindness.
Husk rolls his eyes. “You know you’re different,” Husk tells him. “You may be on my chain on paper, but I ain’t interested in tryin’ to control your life. Hell, I barely try to control any of my souls’ lives, I’m too busy for that shit. My casino runs just fine on the raport I’ve built, and I don’t think anyone gives a flying fuck what you do with your time.”
He’s right, of course, and Angel knows that, but it doesn’t immediately make him feel better. He knows that no one in the casino cares what Angel does, but no one at Vee tower cared what Angel did either because it gave Val something to take his anger out on that wasn’t them. This situation is a little bit different, but Angel still thinks that a lot of the sentiment is the same. If the boss is busy being distracted by Angel, it means that the souls on the boss’s chain have a lot more freedom.
Angel supposes he should take that as a win, even if it means that he still feels a little bit like he doesn’t quite know where he fits in.
“Mmm, I think most of them know exactly what I do with my spare time,” Angel purrs, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Husk snorts. “Right, because you’ve never tried anything while we’re on the clock.” He rolls his eyes and smiles before bringing Angel his bowl of food.
Angel touches his chest in mock offense and clicks his tongue. “Whiskers! You tryna say somethin’ about me? I’m a classy gal, baby, I’d never dream of doin’ somethin’ so scandalous!”
Husk shakes his head and rolls his eyes once more. He hands Angel his bowl, and Angel takes it gratefully. The food smells amazing, and looks even better. Angel’s stomach growls, reminding him that he hasn’t eaten all day. He’s been too worried about Cherri to feed himself properly, but thankfully Husk is here to look out for him.
“Oh, right,” Husk says, sarcastic. “My bad. Forgot who I was talkin’ to.”
Angel loves that he and Husk can tease one another like this. It’s something he never had with Val, but has always had with Cherri. Teasing is his love language, he realizes, and there’s a comfort that comes with being able to poke fun at his own insecurities in the safety of his partners’ presence. It heals something within him that he didn’t realize was broken.
The food is amazing, just like Angel knew it would be. Husk is good at most of the things he does, and cooking is no exception to that rule. Every bite tastes like love, and it warms Angel right up.
He wants Cherri to be able to feel this kind of security as well. He wants everyone to feel what this is like, to have pulled yourself out of an impossibly horrific situation and to finally be in a place that feels okay. It’s still so unbelievable that this is real, and Angel goes to bed most nights hoping that he won’t wake up in the morning to find out that this has all been a dream.
Angel had been a hopeless case just a few short months ago. If you had tired telling him back then that he’d be where he is now, he’d never have believed you. But now? Now it feels like anything is possible.
He resigns himself to going to see Cherri tomorrow. She deserves to know how he’s doing, and she deserves to be a part of his healing journey. He knows that he can’t convince her to get better — that’s something only she can do for herself, after all. But at the very least, he can make sure she knows that he isn’t going anywhere as long as they’re both in this afterlife together.
It’s the least he can do after all she’s done for him.
*.*.*.*.*
Angel knocks three times before he decides to let himself into Cherri’s place with his spare key. Her place is small, just one bedroom and a small living space that smushes the kitchen and living room together with a tiny bathroom off to the side. The lights are off — all of them, even her salt lamp, which she usually leaves on all the time. Angel’s heart sinks and he flicks on the light switch on the wall which only confirms what he already suspected: her power has been turned off. Fuck, has she been struggling to pay her bills again? Has he really been so wrapped up in his own shit that he didn’t realize his friend was suffering so much?
Angel turns on the flashlight on his phone and steps into the apartment. Cherri’s coffee table is littered in garbage: a bong with dried up water caked to the inside, several fast food wrappers, and unopened mail marked URGENT that Angel knows to be unpaid bills. By the looks of things, Angel doesn’t think that Cherri has been back here in a few days. He shuffles around some of the garbage looking for something, anything that could be an indicator of where she’s gone, and feels his heart stop when he finds one.
Beneath the pile of literal trash, is a metal spoon dirty with the crystalized remnants of Cherri’s relapse, a lighter, and a needle.
“Oh no, Cherri,” Angel says to himself, lifting the spoon to inspect it closer. “What have you done?”
If Cherri is back on heroin, this could be really, really bad. The last time she was hooked on this shit, Angel and the other girls at the club had to hunt her down and pool all of their money together to pay off the fuckers that sold her the drugs in the first place. If Cherri is back on heroin, there’s no telling what kind of trouble she’s in.
Angel feels so fucking stupid. He feels so guilty for not reaching out sooner, for not realizing that his best friend was going through this. Cherri has always been there for him, she’s had his back through everything, and this is how he repays her?
He has to find her.
Angel goes into Cherri’s bedroom in search of her phone, and he finds it wrapped up in the blankets on her bed. It’s dead, so he plugs it in and waits for it to get a charge while he ransacks her room in search of any sign that could point him in any direction that may lead to her. In her drawers he finds her stash of party drugs, and it’s looking pretty scarce. From what he can tell, there’s a small plastic baggie with just enough MDMA in it for a mild high, some cocaine, and the DMT vape that Angel had bought her a few months back. He picks it up and turns it over, and realizes very quickly that it’s basically been sucked dry.
How bad have things been that Cherri would need to binge this hard? She’s always been an addict, but she’s also been careful and resourceful. Angel’s never known her to let her supply get this low, and he’s never known her to be this much of a glutton with what she does have on hand. The last time Angel saw her get anywhere even close to this bad was when Cherri’s 2000’s boyfriend got himself beheaded by an exorcist. It was awful. Angel barely managed to make it out of that one with his skull intact, let alone their friendship.
After that, they made a promise to be there for one another if things ever got bad again. They were supposed to be each other’s lifelines. Why hadn’t she reached out? Why hadn’t she told Angel what was going on? The guilt Angel feels is all-encompassing. He sways a little bit where he stands and has to steady himself on the lip of Cherri’s dresser to keep from collapsing.
Cherri’s phone screen lights up as her battery finally gets enough juice to turn it on. He stumbles into his lunge to grab it and his hand is trembling as he enters Cherri's passcode (it’s the same as his, they agreed upon that after the first time one of them disappeared without a trace and had to be rescued. Hard to forget your friend’s passcode when it’s the same as your own.)
Please, oh please let there be something in her recent messages that would give Angel any indication where she’s gone. His heart sinks the moment he unlocks the phone and sees the background picture because he realizes right away that this phone isn’t Cherri’s.
It’s his.
It’s his old phone, the one he gave to Vaggie after Extermination Day. She must have given it to Cherri when she decided to forge her own path, and Cherri must have forgotten to give it to him. It’s a strange realization and it feels like a relic from another dimension. He feels weirdly disconnected from the small piece of technology resting in his palm, but he always feels a magnetic sense of familiarity. The version of himself that last used this phone is gone. He died when Angel decided that he was finished with taking Val’s shit once and for all.
The home screen’s message app shows over 1,000 missed texts. That checks, he realizes, since this was the phone that Val would have texted after their break up. Angel sucks in a breath and clicks the message icon and sure enough, the little bar indicating Val’s message thread is bright with notifications. He knows that he has other things to do right now, more pressing things, but he can’t help himself.
With a trembling finger, Angel clicks the thread.
It’s about as bad as he expected it to be, but that doesn’t make it any easier to see. There are hundreds of unanswered texts calling Angel every awful name in the book. There are death threats and mushy fake apologies and dick pics that make Angel’s stomach churn in disgust. Val had really tried everything to get Angel back, and it makes Angel realize how fucking lucky he is to have managed to get away from that by sheer fucking dumb luck.
If Val hadn’t bet Angel’s soul, who knows if Angel would have ever had the strength to walk away. If Husk hadn’t come into the picture, Angel is sure that he’d have spent the rest of his eternal life groveling at the bastard’s feet and wishing that things could go back to the false sense of safety Angel had when it all started.
But looking at these messages, seeing a reminder of who he was and what he used to put up with, really puts into perspective for Angel just not okay things have always been between them. Val’s tactics are calculated and clever. He knew every single one of Angel’s insecurities and he fed on them like a leech. He used Angel’s weakness to control him, and Angel had let him because Angel thought that he was in love.
Now, it all seems so clear.
I’ll make you wish you had never been born, the last message reads. Angel can’t help but snort at that, because you’re too fuckin’ late for that, Val. Angel’s been wishin’ he wasn’t born for most of his existence, he doesn’t need some big-dicked asshole to make him hate himself. Val saw all of Angel’s deepest insecurities and flaws and chose to prey on them rather than work with Angel on fixing them. For Val, it was easier if they suffered together, rather than healed together. This is Hell, so Angel can’t blame him entirely, but it’s been way past time for Angel to walk the fuck away from that.
The phone in his hand rings and it practically gives him a heart attack. He gasps when the caller ID says that the incoming call is from Cherri. Angel slams his finger onto the green “accept” button and presses the phone tightly to his ear.
“Cherri?” Angel says, feeling desperate. “Where the fuck are you? I’m at your place and—”
“ANGIEEEEEE!” Cherri squeals, loud enough that Angel has to pull the phone away a bit. “Baby, where have you been? I feel like I’ve been callin’ you non-stop with no fuckin’ answer ya cunt!”
Angel closes his eyes and tries to calm down. “You’ve been callin’ the wrong number, Cher. I got a new phone, remember? You’ve been talkin’ ta my ghost.”
That statement sends a chill down Angel’s spine. He doesn’t want to think about a world without either of them in it, he doesn’t want to think about calling a phone that will never be answered, about texting a number that will never be marked with a read receipt. A world without Cherri in it is impossible to think about.
“Ohhhh, right, fuck that makes so much sense,” Cherri says. In the background behind her, Angel hears what sounds like an explosion. “Listen, I’d love to joke about this all day, but I actually really need your help. Are you busy right now?”
Angel blinks. “What? Cherri, where the fuck are you?”
The sound happens again, but this time Angel is sure that it’s an explosion.
“I’m out in the Slasher District, and I kinda got myself into some trouble with some loan sharks. I’ve been kicking ass, but I’m runnin’ outta stock and I could use an extra set of hands or two,” Cherri tells him. “Can you get over here and help me out?”
Loan sharks? So Angel was right, she has been getting herself into trouble to get her hands on this shit. He’s furious at her for getting herself into this situation, but she helped him out of similar shit in the past so he has no right to judge her. If she owes money to these fuckers and can’t pay them, it’s probably going to result in a bloodbath.
“Yeah, I can get there,” Angel says. He goes back over to her drawer and grabs her gun and a few of her bombs. He also finds a knife, but he’s no good with close combat fighting so he leaves it behind. The handgun should do just fine for what he needs. “Just don’t do anything crazy til I get there, okay?”
Cherri cackles. “No promises, Angie!”
The line goes dead and Angel is left sitting there staring at his phone. Why the fuck had she not been answering his text messages? He knows that sometimes reality can get a little skewed when you’re high, but she should have at least realized that she was getting texts from Angel’s other phone, right? Angel pulls out the other phone and checks to make sure that Cherri’s number is correct, which it is, and he racks his brain for some kind of answer.
She must not be in her right mind, he decides, dropping his old phone back down onto the nightstand and pocketing his current one. He needs to get to her, and he needs to get to her now.
Luckily, the Slasher District isn’t far from where Cherri’s apartment is. Angel decides to try and reach her on foot, because Hell’s public transit can be unreliable at best and this situation is starting to feel more and more dire with each passing moment. Angel is thankful for his long legs as they carry him swiftly through the uncrowded streets of the slums that border Imp City, and he takes a shortcut through that sector to reach his destination a little more quickly. There aren’t many sinners in this area, so he gets a few wild looks from hellborn that recognize him but he doesn’t pay them any attention.
He’s sure that there will be some tabloids about his unexpected detour tomorrow and some wild rumors as well, but he’ll squash those when the time comes. He has more important things to worry about than his reputation.
Angel hears the chaos before he sees it. Cherri’s bombs are not quiet when they explode, so Angel follows the sound until he sees a cloud of bright-green smoke billowing up from behind a building. He pulls the gun from his bag and unlocks the safety before pointing it carefully in front of him and heading towards the sound of screaming.
He turns the corner and Cherri is drop-kicking a shark who hits the pavement hard with a yelp. She laughs victoriously and then sees Angel and her smile widens as she practically skips over to him and wraps him up into a tight hug.
“Angie! You made it!” Her skin is burning hot to the touch, which raises an immediate red flag. She’s out here fighting for her life against loan sharks that he’s sure have gotten their hands on angelic weapons ands he’s fucking high?
“Cherri! Fuck, what happened to you?” Angel asks, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her away to get a good look at her face. Her eye is bloodshot and her pupil is dilated and when she laughs at his concern, her breath smells like liquor.
“What’re talkin’ about, babe? I’m better than I’ve ever been!” A bullet wizzes past and shatters the glass storefront window beside them. Angel and Cherri fall to the ground on instinct, but the next bullet grazes the side of Angel’s left arm before he can get down and he shouts in pain.
Blood stains his white fur and Angel grits his teeth against the sting. Cherri laughs, rolling backwards and away from him before digging into her bag for one of her bombs. She lights the fuse, screams “TAKE THAT YA CUNTS!” and throws the explosive in the direction of the shooter. There’s a loud bang and then the ground beneath them shakes.
Angel’s heart is pounding and he’s pretty sure that explosion blew one of his eardrums out, so when he sees Cherri grab another bomb from her bag, he puts his upper hands over his ears. She’s grinning when she throws the second bomb, and she whoops in victory at the carnage that follows. When the second bomb ignites, pieces of loan shark rain down around them, splattering them both in blood.
“There’s only a few more of ‘em,” Cherri says. “Think you can handle taking the assholes to the right if I go left?”
Angel looks at her and searches her face for something that could indicate that she can be talked out of this. When he doesn’t find it, he resolves himself to helping her out. He’s trying to be better, he’s succeeding in being better, but right now they’re surrounded by creatures that want to kill them and he doesn’t have much of a choice in how he proceeds. Angel sighs and holds up the gun.
“Piece a cake,” Angel says, grinning.
Then, they’re both off.
It should probably be a little concerning for Angel how easily he falls back into killing. The first press of the trigger under his forefinger is the only time he feels any tension at all before he’s firing shots and splitting skulls left and right. It makes his blood feel hot beneath his skin, gives him a thrill that feels almost like a high that he can’t help but want to chase. It’s fun, killing these assholes and watching them collapse into piles of blubber on the asphalt.
His gun loses ammo after a few minutes but it’s no problem for him because two of the loan sharks that he finished off were carrying gorgeous tommy guns fully loaded with bullets. Angel pries them from dead hands and doesn’t bother cleaning the blood off before he’s firing in a frenzy, laughing as bullets ricochet in rapid fire all around him.
It’s over quickly, or at least it seems like it’s over quickly, and once Cherri’s smoke clears it’s just the two of them standing in an empty street surrounded by bloody corpses. Angel lets out a relieved sigh and then tosses his gun to the ground. He won’t be needing it again any time soon. He feels a little bit high on the adrenaline still, and his fingers twitch at his side as he resists the urge to ask Cherri if there are any other fuckers they can go wipe off the map.
A small voice in the back of Angel’s mind reminds him that this is bad. This feeling, the tug in his chest to keep going, to want to follow the rush whereever it takes him, it’s what landed him down here in the first fucking place. Angel should know better than to let himself even think about scratching that itch, but it’s hard to resist. He’s an addict. He needs something to stimulate that awful, clawing desire within him otherwise he’ll explode. For a while it was drugs. Then it was sex. Then it was drugs again.
He can’t let his new vice be killing, even if the fuckers he’s offing deserve it. Not when he’s trying to be an advocate for redemption; not when he has the hotel and Charlie’s reputation to consider.
“Where the hell have you been, Angie?” Cherri asks with a gentle punch to Angel’s arm. “Thought you up and died or some shit!”
Angel laughs, and watches Cherri reach into her pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. She slides one out, places it between her teeth and then offers the carton to Angel who shakes his head. Yeah, a smoke sounds great right now, but given the state of Cherri’s apartment he can’t guarantee that the cigarettes aren’t laced with something and that’s not a risk he can take. She shrugs and then shoves the pack back into her pocket before leaning in to light her cigarette on one of the bright-green fires that her bombs started that are blazing hot all around them.
Angel’s suspicions are confirmed when the smoke that billows out from the tip of her cigarette is bright red instead of gray. It reminds him of when he used to have Val douse his tobacco in venom so that he could get his fix on his smoke breaks at work. It only gave him a little buzz, but it was enough to help him disappear during the rougher scenes that Val would make him do. He knows that Cherri isn’t smoking Val’s venom — that would be fucking insane — but the reminder is still enough to make him feel a bit queasy. He doesn’t know what her cigarette is laced with, but it’s probably nothing good.
“I’ve been busy,” Angel says, and the words feel all wrong in his mouth. That feels like such a simple way of answering the question; such a fucking copout. But they’re in public right now, and Angel really doesn’t want to have this conversation out in the open, so he tries to find a way of explaining his last few months without sounding avoidant. “I’ve kinda got a good thing goin’ with my boss, and a coupla broads approached me with this crazy idea that you ain’t even gonna believe when I tell ya.” He shakes his head and laughs because it’s honestly a little bit funny. A year ago he’d never have believed that these words would be coming out of his mouth. “A-and I’m clean now! Coupla months, which ain’t anything spectacular, but it’s somethin’.”
Cherri takes another drag from her cigarette and then exhales slowly. “No shit? You’re clean?”
Angel shrugs. “Yeah, figured it was time to try somethin’ new.”
Cherri stares at him for a minute, and her expression makes him feel uneasy. She narrows her eye, like she’s trying to call his bluff and see if he really is as clean as he claims, but then she looks away without saying anything.
“These broads the ones makin’ you get clean?” Cherri asks, and there’s a note of hurt in her voice.
Angel can’t place why she’d be upset, but he has a hunch that it probably has something to do with him getting clean and keeping his healing journey from her. The thing is — Angel didn’t have a choice. Cherri is his best friend, but she is also his greatest enabler. She has always encouraged his substance abuse, and healing had to happen separately from her before he could bring what he learned to try and help her the same way he helped himself.
“No,” Angel says quickly. “I got clean for me.”
Cherri blinks at him, taking it in, and then she sighs and says, “I’m happy for you Angie.”
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite seem genuine. She seems… off. Angel’s seen her angry. He’s seen her happy. Sad. High. Tired. He’s been at her side from a plethora of emotions, and he’s learned how to handle them all. But right now? Right now, she seems avoidant. She seems like something is wrong, but she doesn’t want to talk about it, and that alone is enough to send up even more red flags about her situation.
Cherri Bomb is a lot of things, but she’s never been one to hide things from Angel. She’s a firecracker who wears her heart on her sleeve, but right now, she seems beaten-down. It’s only now that there isn’t chaos happening around them that Angel is really able to take in the state she’s in. Her hair is a disheveled mess of unwashed cotton-candy pink, her clothes are blood and dirt stained, and she’s covered in bruises on almost every patch of exposed skin.
The fight they were just in had been rough, but not that rough. Most of their fighting had been long range with bullets and bombs, so there’s no reason why Cherri should look so beat up. Had these assholes taken her hostage and beaten her? Had they — had they hurt her because she owed them money? The thought alone makes Angel want to puke. He should have been here sooner.
He wants to make this right. He needs to make this right.
Angel opens his mouth to tell her about the Happy Hotel, about a place where she can go and heal from all of this, where she’ll be safe and secure, but before he can say a single word, a half-dead loan shark sneaks up behind her and knocks her unconscious with the heel of his gun.
It happens so fast that Angel barely has time to react. The shark laughs maniacally and then goes pale when Angel lunges at him in retaliation. He goes down easily, already weak from the burns and bullet holes ravaging his body. It only really takes one good punch to the bastard’s face before he stops moving, but Angel doesn’t stop. He pounds his fists into the loan shark’s face until his teeth cut Angel’s knuckles to shreds.
He’s so angry that he can barely think straight. He’s angry at himself for letting it get this bad for his friend and he’s angry at whatever fucking bastard decided that souls like Angel and Cherri who did the best they could with their shitty fucked up lives should still burn in Hell with the rest of Earth’s shittiest sinners. It isn’t right. It isn’t fucking fair.
And Angel is so fucking fed up with all of it.
“FUCK!” Angel shouts, and tears spill from his eyes. He punches the shark one more time. And then again. And again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck you! Fuck you!”
He pulls himself off of the (now very dead) loan shark and goes to tend to Cherri. She’s unconscious, but otherwise seems okay. There’s a bump on her head that might be a bitch to heal, but shouldn’t keep her knocked out for more than a few hours.
She groans when he picks her up, and he just shushes her and strokes her hair back with one of his other hands. She’s not heavy at all as he carries her off and away, knowing that there’s only one real safe place that he can bring her.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Toots,” Angel says, under his breath. He knows that she can’t hear him, but he tells her anyway, because she needs to know. “I’m so, so fuckin’ sorry.”
This is his fault. He should have been there for her. He should have made sure she didn’t go down this bad. He was too busy with his new life to care, and now his friend is hurt because of him. He carries her out of the Slasher District and hails a cab, giving the driver the address for the address for the hotel.
He’s gonna fix this. He has to.
*.*.*.*.*
Angel bites his cheek as Charlie and Vaggie sit on either side of him and watch the horror show of an interview that Charlie did earlier today as it plays on a non-stop loop across several channels. Angel suspects that Vox finds it funny, and that’s why all of Hell is being subjected to the same humiliating moments of Angel and Charlie’s lives over and over again like some form of torture.
The glares from Vaggie are particularly harsh, and Angel tries not to let them get to him.
“What were you thinking?” Vaggie snaps, throwing her arms up in frustration. “You had one job, Angel, which was to be a role model for this hotel, and you blew it!”
Angel looks away and sinks lower into the couch. Maybe he bit off more than he could chew with this project. Maybe he’s not the person they need to be the spokesperson for the hotel. Maybe he isn’t cut-out for this type of thing, and he’s been kidding himself by thinking that he is.
“Vaggie, don’t be so hard on him,” Charlie chimes in, wincing as the camera pans to the audience of laughing faces once more. “I’m sure that Angel has a perfectly good explanation for why he was, uh, shooting loan sharks on live television?”
Angel looks at her, and she’s staring at him with those big, bright eyes like even in spite of everything he did today, she still believes in him. It’s enough to make the shame shift to something more like guilt, and that’s a little bit easier for him to stomach. He swallows, and then he sits forward a little bit and puts his elbows on his knees as the television program cuts out to show an advertisement for cereal.
“Look, I’m sorry but my friend needed me, okay?” Angel explains. “She’s — she’s usin’ again, and it’s bad, and she called me and asked me to come help her outta a shity situation, and I couldn’t just turn my back on her. I didn’t realize how bad of a situation it was, I didn’t know that there would be cameras there to document it all, I just — I just had to be there for my friend. She’s in a bad place, and she helped me out when I was in a similar place. I don’t expect you to understand, but I didn’t have a choice.”
The girls exchange a look, and then Charlie says, “You’re a good person, Angel.”
And that’s not what Angel was expecting to hear at all.
“Say what now?”
Charlie smirks and rolls her eyes. “You are,” she says. “You didn’t want to turn your back on a friend in need, so you went to help her. That shows real courage, and even though I wish you had chosen uh, less violent methods of helping her, I’m proud of you for doing what you thought was right. You did the selfless thing, and that’s exactly what the Happy Hotel stands for.”
Angel hadn’t thought about it like that. His whole existence, he’d been called selfish. By his father. His brother. Val. Every piece of shit that he let anywhere close to his heart had called him selfish, and Angel had believed them. Addicts are selfish by nature, Angel thinks, and when drugs and sex ruled his life, he was willing to do anything and everything it took to make sure he had easy access to his vices. Now that he’s clean, there are things that mean more to him. There are people who mean more to him.
“Is Cherri okay?” Vaggie asks, softening a little bit at her girlfriend’s praise of Angel.
Angel shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he tells them. He rubs his hands together in his lap anxiously. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her in such a bad way — she quit usin’ heroin almost a decade ago, and if she’s back on it then—” Angel’s voice cuts off as he struggles to get the words out. Cherri hasn’t ever been clean, but she only does Heroin when she’s in a really, really bad place. She only does heroin when she can’t get her hands on anything else. “We were talkin’ a little bit, I was tryin’ to figure out what’s goin’ on with her, but then one of the sharks we thought was dead snuck up and knocked her out, so I brought her back here and put her in one of the empty beds upstairs.”
“You what?” Vaggie asks, eyes looking at the ceiling as if that will somehow clarify things. It’s not like she has x-ray vision and can see through the fucking sheetrock, but Angel decides against pointing that out.
“What was I supposed to do? Leave her there in the street? Take her back to her apartment so she could take more heroin and get fucked up again?” Angel crosses his arms over his chest and glares at both girls. “I thought this place was all about givin’ people chances when they’ve fucked up. My friend ain’t good enough for your charity?”
Vaggie scoffs and goes to say something, but Charlie beats her to it.
“Of course she’s good enough!” Charlie says, earnest and heartfelt as always. “We just wish you had told us sooner, so we could work out a plan. Of course she’s welcome here, the Happy Hotel is open to everyone, right Vaggie?”
Vaggie looks like she wants to disagree, but she swallows that down and nods, sinking back into her seat. “Yeah,” she says. “You’re right. Sorry, Angel, today has just been a lot. I really, really wanted that interview to go well for Charlie’s sake and now we look stupid.”
Angel feels bad. He really couldn’t have picked a worse day to fly off the handle in public.
“Sorry,” Angel says again. “I really didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t tryin’ to ruin your interview, I was just—”
“It’s okay,” Charlie replies. “We get it. We do. We aren’t mad. We just… have to come up with a new way of promoting the hotel. But first, we should figure out how to help your friend.”
Charlie smiles at him, and he feels instantly better. How in the fuck the Princess of Hell managed to turn out as such a ray of fuckin’ hopeful sunshine is beyond him, but he’s not complaining. She wants to help Cherri, and that means more to Angel than he can even begin to say.
“Thank you,” Angel tells her. “I know she can get better. She just needs a little bit of help.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Vaggie says. “We’ll get her back on her feet, okay?”
Angel is starting to feel hopeful again when they’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Charlie looks up at it and then looks over at Vaggie who shrugs. She hesitates for a moment and the knock comes again, louder this time.
“Uh, I’ll be right back,” Charlie says to Angel. She stands and walks over to the door, and Angel puts his face into his hands.
He feels so torn up inside. He knew that things with Cherri were bad, but he didn’t realize that they were this bad. He didn’t realize that she was using again, that she was getting herself into trouble again. She barely seemed like she was in her right mind when he saw her, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do to help her.
The hotel is probably the best place for her right now, but Angel knows that it’s going to be a struggle to make her stay. If Cherri is going to get better, she needs to want it. Angel doesn’t know how to make her do that. He doesn’t know how to convince her that there’s a light at the end of the tunnel when he knows firsthand how much of her lived experience has been shrouded in immeasurable darkness.
“What do you want?” Angel hears Charlie say from the foyer. He looks up to where Vaggie has snapped to attention. She’s glaring in the direction of the door, but Angel can’t see past where the wall obstructs his view.
Slowly, Vaggie gets to her feet and grasps the staff of her spear.
“Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist Princess, I’m not here for you. A little birdy told me that you’re holding onto something that belongs to me and I’m here to get it back from you,” says a voice that makes Angel’s stomach feel like it’s going to hurl itself out of his mouth. He freezes, blood going cold, and feels himself start to tremble.
No.
Angel can’t breathe. What the fuck would he be doing here?
Then comes the distinct sound of stiletto heels clicking ominously against the hardwood floor before Valentino comes into view.
“Hello, Amorcito,” Val says. “Long time no see, baby.”
Angel doesn’t move. This is the first time he’s seen Val since that night in the billiards room, and he thought he was over it, he thought he was healed, but seeing him here again, seeing him in person, it’s too much, it’s overwhelming, he can’t breathe, he can’t—
“You can’t be here,” Vaggie growls, standing in between them with her spear raised. “Angel doesn’t belong to you anymore. You need to leave. Now.”
Val doesn’t flinch, even with angelic steel pointed at his jugular. He seems so cool and collected, so unintimidated that it makes Angel’s hair stand on end. Val isn’t usually this calm unless he already knows that he’s won.
Val rolls his eyes. “I’m not here for him,” Val says, disgust dripping from the final word, as if the thought of taking Angel anywhere makes him want to puke. It’s a fear tactic he loved using to hurt Angel back when they were together, and Angel hates that it still works to make him feel fucking worthless even now.
“Then why are you here?” Vaggie demands, and Charlie looks uneasy where she stands behind Val, like she doesn’t know what to do.
Val’s disinterested expression shifts into something different at Vaggie’s question, something sinister. He grins, all of his pointed teeth showing, and Angel knows what’s coming before he even says it.
Suddenly, it all makes sense. The heroin in Cherri’s apartment. The issues with his texts and calls going through. The way she had seemed so hopelessly lost and avoidant. The red smoke coming out of her cigarette like a warning sign.
“I’m here for Cherri Bomb,” Val practically sings, eyes glued to Angel. “She belongs to me.”
Chapter 29
“That’s impossible,” Angel says, but he can feel the truth in his bones. He knows that Val is a liar, but he wouldn’t lie about something like this, not when the truth would hurt so much more.
“Mm, baby, didn’t I ever tell you that nothing is impossible?” Val asks. He’s grinning, each yellow, pointed tooth on display in a horrifying show of power. He’s absolutely reveling in the pain that this situation is causing Angel, and he’s unafraid of letting that pleasure show on his face.
Angel feels like he’s going to pass out. Cherri was tricked into signing with Val because of Angel, there’s no other way of looking at it. Val did this to get revenge, to prove something, and Cherri got caught up in the crossfire. That’s the only explanation — this, all of this, is part of Val’s way of getting back at Angel for the hurt he caused when he walked away from their relationship.
“He’s never going to let you go,” Vox had said that day at V Tower, when Angel finally made the choice to leave. “You know that, right?”
Angel knew that Val wouldn’t rest until one of them ended up dead, but he never thought that Val would stoop this low. Though, maybe that’s just a testament to how fucking stupid Angel actually is. Of course Val would try to find ways to hurt Angel without violating Husk’s clear boundary to stay the fuck away from the casino. Of course Val would think to prey upon Angel’s only fucking friend in Hell in order to do that. Angel just doesn’t understand how the fuck this happened, when normally Cherri would gouge Val’s eyes out for even looking at her the wrong way.
Cherri has always hated Val. She’s the one who tried to warn Angel away from Val, the one who cried when he told her that he had sold himself in servitude to a monster who was incapable of loving him back.
Angel’s words get stuck in his throat, and he stutters, wide-eyed when he asks, “H-how—”
“It was easy, actually,” Val says, nonchalant. He saunters through the lobby and takes a seat on one of the dusty chaise lounges, where he kicks his heeled feet up. Vaggie makes an indignant noise and takes a step towards him with her spear raised, but Charlie puts out a hand to stop her from doing something she might regret. “You see, I had originally set the trap for you, Amorcito. I knew that I had pumped your system with enough venom to have you itching yourself out of your skin for more, and since there was no way that dickbag of an overlord was going to let you come to me on your own, I needed to cut off access to your supply. I paid off all of the crack and coke dealers I could find, thinking it would make you resort to heroin and then I would pay them off, and then once all of your connections had been picked clean of their stashes, you’d have no choice but to come crawling back to me and beg me to take you back.” He pulls his long cigarette holder out from where he keeps it stashed on the inside of his jacket and lights the end, pulling a drag of sweet, red poison in through the filter and savoring the taste before exhaling a crimson cloud in Angel’s direction.
Angel winces and holds his breath but the smell is still potent enough to make his fingers twitch. Val’s poison smells like roses and brown sugar, sickly sweet and overindulgent in a way that makes Angel’s teeth ache.
“I never suspected that you’d go and get clean on me,” Val says, expression darkening. “Where’s the fun in that? I mean, the Angel Dust that I know would have laughed in the face of anyone who even suggested something so fucking boring — this is Hell after all, and you’ve never had a problem sucking cock for a fix before. You’ve been my favorite down-to-clown party slut for nearly half a decade. How was I supposed to know that you’d give all of that up for some drunk asshole just because he owns you?”
Angel glares at Val, but tries to resist the urge to fight back with angry words. He doesn’t owe Val an explanation, and he doesn’t deserve to know any of the details of Angel’s life. Angel didn’t get clean for Husk; he got clean for himself. It’s true that the Angel who knew Val, the Angel who loved Val didn’t give a fuck about anything other than soaking in the sinful pleasures Hell had to offer so that he didn’t have to think about his own eternal suffering.
It makes sense that Val would think that a trap like that would work on him. A year ago, it probably would have.
“So, what? You couldn’t get me, so you went after Cherri? That’s low even for you,” Angel spits, fire burning deep in the pit of his stomach.
“Oh, sweet baby Angel,” Val coos, that awful smile still plastered on his ugly face. “I didn’t go after anybody, Cariño. Your little chiquita came to me. Turns out that the two of you have the same suppliers, so while I was trying to catch a rat, I ended up catching a little field mouse instead. She was so desperate, practically begged me to let her sign a contract if it meant making the withdrawal symptoms go away. How was I supposed to refuse her, especially when she’s so damn cute—”
“Shut up!” Angel snaps, eyes burning as he struggles to hold back tears. “Don’t — don’t talk about her like that! She ain’t some toy!”
“Isn’t she, though?” Val practically purrs, taking another drag from his cigarette. “It hasn’t been that long since you and I parted ways, baby, I know you haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be owned by me. She and I do lots of playing.”
Something about the way he says those words makes Angel’s skin crawl. Of course Angel hasn’t forgotten. He could live a thousand lifetimes and still never forget the misery that came with being a soul on Val’s chain. The thought that Cherri has been enduring anything like that is almost enough to make his knees give out from under him.
“Let her go, Val,” Angel growls through gritted teeth. “This ain’t about her, okay? If you’ve got an issue with me, we can talk about it—”
Val cuts him off with a chilling laugh. “The only person this ‘ain’t’ about, Angie, is you.”
Angel stares at him. “The fuck are you talkin’ about? Of course this is about me, you just fuckin’ said that you did this to trap me!”
“That was before I realized how useful your little friend could be to me,” Val says, but there’s still an air of humor to his tone. He’s taunting Angel. This is fun for him. “You’re old news, baby. I’ve moved on.”
“Bullshit.” Angel isn’t falling for Val’s act. This isn’t about Cherri and they both know that. Val’s obsession with Angel is the driving force for this entire fucking thing. “Just tell me what you want. I’m through playin’ these games with you, Val, just let her go!”
Val leans back in the chaise. “No,” he says, in his smug, almost singsong voice.
Angel takes a step towards him, rage burning like a fire inside of his chest. He doesn’t know where he finds the strength to overcome the fear that usually holds him back when he’s facing down Val like this, but the thought of Cherri being used and abused as a whore on Val’s chain makes Angel forget about all of his hangups and move without thinking. He crosses the room in seconds, and grabs Val by the collar of his shirt. Val’s eyes widen in surprise and then relax into something that Angel can only read as impressed, and then he makes a purring sound by rolling his tongue which only serves to piss Angel off even more. He tightens his grip and lifts Val from the chaise with strength he didn’t know he had. His voice is a growl when he says:
“Let her go, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
Val’s eyes flash and his lips curl into a sinister grin. Venom drips from the corners of his mouth and something about his expression makes Angel feel like he’s fallen into one of Val’s traps.
“I’d love to see you try, baby,” Val whispers, tongue darting hungrily out over his lips to lick the venom from his chin. “Sounds hot.”
Angel raises his fist and readies it to break Val’s fucking jaw, but he’s stopped by a hand wrapping around his wrist. He’s seething, vision red with anger and he turns to scream at the person stopping him only to fall short when he finds Cherri staring back at him. She looks worse than she did when he found her, her hair is a matted mess and her makeup is smeared down her face. There’s a black circle around her eye that reveals that she’s been crying, and Angel’s heart shatters at the way her expression looks defeated and empty.
He stands there, with Val in a vicegrip in one upper hand and Cherri’s hand wrapped around the other, and he wonders how the fuck things managed to get this bad. Because no matter how he looks at this, it isn’t entirely Val’s fault that Cherri got caught up in this mess.
It’s Angel’s.
Angel wasn’t there for her when she needed him. Angel is the reason why Cherri even knows Val in the first place, and — fuck, Angel’s fucking phone is probably how she managed to get in contact with him. Val is easy to blame, but the sick and twisted truth is that Angel is just as fucking guilty.
“Angie,” Cherri says, and her voice is strained and sad. “Stop. Please.”
Angel’s chest feels tight but he can’t refuse her plea, not when she looks so desperate. His breath catches and the tears he’s been holding back leak from his eyes. He feels himself start to shake, and he feels the grip he has on Val’s collar slacken and then Val is wrenching himself away and out of Angel’s grasp. Angel’s hand stays in midair, holding nothing as he’s frozen in place.
“Cherri,” Angel breathes, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, I—”
“It’s not your fault,” Cherri replies, her other hand coming up to cup the side of Angel’s face with a gentle touch. He leans into her palm and lets his eyes flutter shut against the feeling of her skin on his cheek, and exhales a broken sob. “It’s not your fault.”
Angel doesn’t know how to tell her that she’s wrong — that this is his fault, that all of this is his fucking fault. He let her down, and he doesn’t know how the fuck he’s supposed to live with himself now.
“I mean, it’s kind of his fault,” Val says, still close enough that Angel can smell the venom on his breath. Still near enough that Angel could reach out and rip his ugly bald head off with his bare hands.
“Val, please,” Cherri says, and Angel wants to vomit at the way she sounds like she’s trying to appease him.
“Don’t go with him,” Angel begs, eyes shooting open. He shakes his hand free of her grip and laces their fingers together instead, pulling her closer. “You can stay here, you can stay at the hotel. Charlie can put you up, and we can get you back on your feet. Don’t go with him.”
Cherri’s face falls and her eye darts over to Val before she looks away in shame.
“I have to go with him,” Cherri explains. She closes her eye and pulls her hand away, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to self-soothe. “It’s part of my contract.”
Angel’s eyes go wide again and he looks at Val in horror. “What are the terms?” Angel demands, voice hard.
Cherri goes to answer, but before she can get a word out, a red collar appears around her throat and tightens. She makes a choking sound and falls to her knees when Val pulls hard at the chain connected to it. Instinctively, Angel falls to her level and reaches out to dig his fingernails under the magic metal, but it won’t budge. The collar only grows tighter and his fingernails chip and start to bleed as he tries desperately to pull it off of her.
He knows that it won’t come off. He tried to do the same to his own collar countless times to no avail. There’s no use in prying at it and hurting them both, so he lets go.
Cherri falls back and gasps as the collar loosens itself, and she coughs and then shivers and Angel watches her suffer with a knife in his heart. This is the worst thing that could have possibly happened, and it’s all his fault. He reaches out to her, wanting to hold her, to hug her and tell her that it’s going to be alright, but when Val sees him start to reach out he tugs on the chain and pulls her away.
“Come, Cherri,” Val sneers, coming closer to yank Cherri up by the arm. She makes a pained noise that Angel feels in his stomach and then she bows her head in shame and nods, agreeing easily to her master’s command. “This dirty hotel is starting to make me feel itchy.”
He keeps his grip on her arm and lets the chain disappear in a puff of smoke as he leads Cherri through the lobby and towards the door. Angel’s chest feels tight and his legs are shaking, but he forces himself up, stumbling as he chases after them.
“Wait!” Angel cries, his voice betraying him with how desperate it sounds. “Don’t go! Don’t — don’t take her! Take me, instead! I’ll sign with you again, Val, you can have my soul, we can go back to how things were, just please don’t take her!”
Val stops walking and Cherri looks between the both of them with horror in her eye.
“Angie, no—”
Val cuts off whatever Cherri was going to say with a loud, bitter laugh. He drops his hold on Cherri and chooses instead to finally give Angel the attention he’s been holding back, red eyes narrowed and focused as he zeroes in on his prey. Angel doesn’t listen to the sirens going off in his head, warning him to back away, screaming at him to make himself smaller so that Val doesn’t hurt him.
“Take you?” Val says, lips curling over the vowels. “Have you forgotten that your soul doesn’t belong to you, Amorcito? You’re still someone’s bitch, even if you’re not my bitch. You can’t trade your soul for hers, even if you wanted to.”
Angel tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it won’t go down. He thinks he might vomit if he opens his mouth, so he just stands there, frozen in place once more.
“You might think that you’re better than me, that you don’t need me anymore, that you’re tough and high-and-mighty now that you have a new big daddy overlord to protect you,” Val snarls. “But at the end of the day, you and I both know that you’re nothing but a bag of holes that attaches itself to the highest bidder in order to get ahead. If you really want to save your friend, go cry to your master and have him talk to me. I don’t do business with children.”
Val’s words hit him like bullets to his chest. Everything he’s said makes Angel feel like all of the progress he thought the made is just a fucking fantasy. He had really allowed himself to believe that he had changed, that he had made a significant difference in his life by choosing a better path, when in reality, Val’s right. He’s still the same selfish addict he’s always been. He still couldn’t put his own needs aside to help his best friend.
Val raises his hand like he’s going to use it to hit Angel, and Angel doesn’t flinch away. He deserves this, after all, for what he’s done. He deserves to be punished.
Val’s arm swings downward, aimed at Angel’s face, but it’s stopped when Charlie interferes. Angel gasps, not just because he had honestly forgotten that she was here, but because the Charlie standing between him and Val is unlike the Charlie he’s come to know during their last few weeks together.
There’s a red, fiery energy radiating off of her that is so powerful, it makes Angel recoil. Horns grow from either side of her head and her eyes have changed shape and are glowing red. Her hair is wild and her nails are sharp and when she speaks, there’s a demonic echo from deep within her chest that commands the room around her.
“Do not put your hands on him in front of me,” Charlie growls. She squeezes Val’s wrist and Angel hears a snap as she breaks his bone with one hand. Val yelps and yanks himself free, stumbling backwards and almost falling as he scrambles to get away from her.
The Princess of Hell is full of surprises, it seems.
“You bitch!” Val shouts, cradling his wrist. “I’ll fucking kill you—”
“Val!” The sound of a new voice entering the picture seems to shatter the tension, and all four heads turn (wait, wasn’t Vaggie here? Angel looks around, but it looks like she left the room at some point during the altercation) in the direction of the door. Vox is standing there, glaring at the scene in front of him, but mostly focused on Val.
“It’s time to leave,” Vox demands, voice hard. “Grab your whore and let’s go. I’m tired of waiting.”
Val looks at him like he wants to argue, and then he looks back at Angel and Charlie like he wants to fight, but decides against it. Distantly, Angel wonders if he backs down because of Husk’s threat against both of them, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that thought. Val sighs, straightens up, and turns his back to them before he strides towards the front door where Vox is waiting with his arms crossed over his chest.
Cherri hesitates for a minute, looking at Angel like she’s trying hard to find the words to say to him, like she desperately wants to apologize. Before she can though, Val snaps his fingers and beckons for her to leave at his side.
“Cherri,” Val calls out, without turning around. “Come, my dear.”
She blinks once at Angel, unsaid words hanging between them, before she sighs sadly and follows him out.
When the door closes behind them, Angel falls to his knees and breaks down into tears.
*.*.*.*.*
Husk shows up sometime after Cherri leaves, but Angel can’t be sure how much time has passed because he’s barely aware of his own body as the tendrils of grief wrap themselves around his heart and pull him deeper and deeper into despair.
Apparently, Vaggie called him and explained the situation and Husk dropped everything to come to Angel’s side as fast as he could. Angel wishes he had any semblance of an ability to care about that — he wishes that he could see anything past the darkness that’s swallowed him whole, but he can’t. He is vaguely aware of Husk’s arms as they close around him, and he buries his face into the warm, spicy smell of Husk’s chest and lets himself cry there for a while before Husk mutters something about getting them both home safely and lifts Angel into his arms to carry him out.
Charlie says something that Angel thinks is probably reassuring, but he doesn’t comprehend a single word of it.
The car ride back to the casino happens in complete silence. Husk drove his own car, probably because he didn't want to rely on a driver to be available when Vaggie had called him stating an emergency, but it means that the most physical comfort that Husk can offer for the long drive across Pentagram City is a firm hand on Angel’s thigh. Though, Angel is a little bit thankful for the privacy of not being chauffeured because it means that he can sob openly against the window without worrying about being judged for it.
The glass is cool on his cheek and it fogs up with each watery breath that leaves Angel’s lips as he cries softly watching the lights of Pentagram City pass him by. He feels like someone has reached their claws into his chest and pried out his heart. He feels broken and empty inside and his fingers fucking itch for a fix and all that does is make him feel even worse about everything. He had been feeling so full of himself these last few weeks — he’d been feeling so good about his ability to “beat” addiction, and now he feels so fucking stupid because the moment one thing goes wrong in his life he’s already having to force cotton into his ears to block out the siren song of relapse as it calls out to him.
God, he’s so fucking pathetic.
Of course he’s not strong enough to stay clean. He isn’t somehow better than everyone else. He’s just like every other addict in Hell who lies to themselves about what it means to “start over” while knowing deep down in their bones that they’re doomed to keep repeating the fucking cycle. Angel would give anything to be high right now. He’d give anything for the ability to drown out all of the awful, miserable shit that he’d had to deal with today with a high that lets him slip away into someplace new. Redemption? Did Angel really think that he’d be able to help people overcome this shit? Did he really think he was going to be able to earn his way into Heaven?
Pfft, yeah fuckin’ right.
“You wanna talk about it?” Husk asks, eyes on the road. Angel doesn’t look at him.
“No,” he replies, miserably.
Husk doesn’t push, because of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t pressure Angel to “open up” about what happened, and he doesn’t try to tell Angel false niceties to make him feel less like shit about the whole situation. Angel appreciates it, but part of him wants Husk to give him a hard time. Part of him wants Husk to yell at him and tell him that this is all his fault. He wants confirmation that everyone else hates him just as much as he hates himself. Angel’s self-destructive tendencies have been dormant for the better part of the last few months, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t still there, waiting for him to fuck up so that he can blow up every good thing he has in the blink of an eye.
He doesn’t deserve Husk’s kindness. He doesn’t deserve their gorgeous apartment. He doesn’t deserve the freedom Husk gives him, or the love, or the fucking compassion. He’s an addict piece of shit that drags everyone else down with him. He’s a cancer that eats away at his relationships from the inside out.
“Shoulda just left me there,” Angel mumbles. His eyes feel swollen and heavy from all of the crying. “I’ll take you down with me next if you ain’t careful.”
Husk glances over at him.
“What’re you talking about? Do you think this is your fault?” Husk asks.
Angel closes his eyes and lets out a trembling breath. “It is my fault.”
Husk clicks his tongue. “Kid, it ain’t your fault that Valentino is a monster. That fucker was born evil. You didn’t do anything to make him that way.”
Angel thinks that’s true. There was a time when Angel convinced himself that Val had been born in Hell, that he had come into existence among the fire and the brimstone, because he was too fucked up to have ever been human. This — what he’s done to Angel, what he’s done to Cherri — really makes Angel’s theory feel more like reality.
Going after Angel’s best friend in order to cause Angel pain is new low, even for Val.
“He did this because of me, Husk,” Angel says miserably. They turn into the casino’s parking garage and Angel sniffles. He doesn’t even know if he has anything left in him to cry anymore. “He did this because I rejected him. He did this because I left. He did this to punish me.”
Husk makes a frustrated noise. He pulls into his reserved parking space and turns to face Angel. “You don’t fuckin’ belong to him, I don’t know who the fuck he thinks he is to punish one of my souls—”
“I do belong to him, Husk, don’t you fuckin’ see that?” Angel shouts, cutting Husk off, because really, that’s what this is about. Angel has belonged to Val from the moment Val laid eyes on him, contract or not. Val is the physical embodiment of every awful desire that Angel has ever had; he’s the most succulent high, the hottest fuck. He’s a goddamn carrot on a stick that Angel blindly followed into Hell’s deepest, darkest pits. He’s Angel’s perfect punishment, designed to keep him from ever knowing true happiness. “I’ve always belonged to him, and I always fuckin’ will. Val is obsessed with me and he ain’t givin’ up until one of us is double fuckin’ dead and now Cherri got dragged into my mess because I was too busy playin’ house to notice that she needed me! I was too caught up in my own life to realize that my best fuckin’ friend was struggling with a god damn heroin addiction. How the fuck can you sit there and look at me and tell me that this ain’t my fault? How is this anything other than the consequences of my own stupid actions comin’ back to bite me in the ass?”
Husk shrinks, cheeks turning red. He looks taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting Angel to blow up like this. His expression makes guilt bubble up in Angel’s gut — he shouldn’t be yelling at Husk. This isn’t Husk’s fault, but now that he’s started, Angel doesn’t think he’s going to be able to stop. He needs to get this out, he needs to yell, he needs to release all of the hatred he has inside somehow.
“And you wanna know the worst part?” Angel says, laughing a little at the question, even though none of this is funny. “You wanna know what makes me really pathetic? The only thing I’ve been thinkin’ about this entire fuckin’ drive is when and how I’m gonna be able to sneak away from you to go get high! I did all that work, I went through all of that shit, and I still don’t know how to process real emotions without wishin’ I were high. Is this what you want? Do you want some addict whore livin’ with you, makin’ you look bad?”
Husk blinks at him. “Angel, you’re not—”
“I am! Aren’t ya listenin’ to a word I’m sayin?” Angel is shaking. “I’m broken, Whiskers, and I have been since before you and me even met. My dad, my brother, Val — all of them ripped me open, dug around inside me for anything worth a damn, and ran off with the good stuff. Now you’re left with the worst of me. I’m not this ‘model sinner’ that Charlie can use to promote her hotel, I’m a fuckin’ corpse!”
The silence that follows Angel’s outburst is deafening. Angel is huffing as he struggles to breathe, emotions making it hard to focus on anything other than his own misery. He hates that he gets like this, he hates how hard it is for him to balance his emotions. It’s why he struggled so badly with addiction: the high was a way for Angel to indulge in feelings that were good even if it meant losing his inhibitions in the process. He’s so angry right now that he can’t think straight and everything feels like the end of the world. When he’s like this, it’s all extremes clouding his judgment and making it impossible to even imagine a reality where everything isn’t falling apart.
Yelling about it like that doesn’t make it any better, it just makes Angel feel worse.
Husk stares at him for a moment, like he’s trying to figure something out, and then because he’s perfect at knowing exactly what Angel needs before Angel does, he leans across the center console and pulls Angel in for a kiss.
Angel melts into the kiss like he’s been starving for it. Husk’s lips are warm and rough against his and it feels so good to let the endorphins in when Husk slips his tongue inside of Angel’s mouth. His mind goes blank, and all of the anxiety from today’s mess of a situation takes a pause while Angel’s instincts take over.
Angel moans into the kiss and deepens it, scrambling and writhing in his seat in an attempt to get closer to Husk. Angel whines and digs his fingers into the fur on Husk’s head so hard that he knows it must hurt, but Husk doesn’t complain. He pulls back and levels their gazes, eyes dark as he searches Angel’s face for some kind of sign.
“What do you need?” Husk asks, voice gruff. He didn’t try to argue with anything Angel said, because he knows Angel well enough to know that when he’s in a state like this, he isn’t going to listen to words. He needs action. “Baby, tell me what I can do to help.”
“I need you to fuck me,” Angel says, swallowing around the words. He sounds desperate and pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not now. Not when his brain is such a fucking mess. “I need — fuck, I need to disappear for a while. I need to not be here.”
He needs to clear his mind. He needs his fucking emotions to shut up for ten seconds so that he can think straight, and the only way that he can do that is by losing himself in the feeling of something physical.
“Okay,” Husk says, nodding. He takes one of Angel’s upper hands in his and presses his lips to the knuckles. “I can help you with that. Let’s take this inside, okay? And then I can help you get away from this for a little bit.”
For the hundredth time since their relationship started, Angel thinks that he does not fucking deserve Husk. Heaven made a mistake when it decided to cast this beautiful soul down to Hell, but Angel is thankful for it nonetheless because it means that he gets to love an angel.
It’s something he and Charlie have in common.
Angel follows Husk inside, feeling drunk from the kiss. The anxiety from today is still a storm waging war inside his mind, but he ignores it to concentrate on the way Husk’s palm feels against his as they walk down the empty corridor towards the elevator that will bring them to Husk’s apartment.
Husk presses the call button and as they wait Angel can’t keep his hands to himself. He presses Husk back against the wall and kisses his neck, hands wandering up the shape of him and under his dress shirt. Husk’s cock is hard against Angel’s thigh and Angel smirks into the next kiss he places on the sensitive flesh of Husk’s throat, moving to massage the shape through Husk’s pants with one of his lower hands.
The elevator dings in arrival, and Angel has half a mind to just ignore it and finish what he started here, but in a miraculous display of strength and control, Husk flips them around and pushes Angel inside. The golden accents of the elevator and the mirrored walls catch Angel off guard, and he gasps when Husk turns him so that he’s facing his own reflection and bends him over so that he can grind against the shape of Angel’s ass.
In the mirror, Angel gets a good look at just how much of a toll today’s events took on him. His white fur is blackened from the places where his tears smudged his makeup and caused it to run. He looks tired and defeated, but somehow looks more like himself than he ever has before. Angel can’t explain it, he can’t put into words why he suddenly feels like he’s regained a part of his humanity that he had long thought he had lost, but looking at himself like this with Husk biting his lip behind him in desire, Angel feels a sense of clarity wash over him.
Months ago, the Angel who first stepped foot in this elevator couldn’t look at himself. The Angel that stepped into this elevator was ashamed of himself and believed himself incapable of love. Today, Angel felt a little bit of that come back.
But the Angel staring back at him right now is not that Angel. The Angel staring back at him has been through Hell and back, but he got through it because he wasn’t fucking alone. The Angel staring back at him got clean and stayed clean and told Val no for the first time in his life.
Angel let himself feel like his progress was meaningless, because that’s what Val wanted him to think. Angel has a lifetime of suffering to blame for his awful self-image, but looking at himself now, he thinks that maybe he’s been ignoring the big picture.
The Angel staring back at him is so much fucking stronger than he gives himself credit for. The Angel staring back at him is going to find a fucking way to set Cherri free even if it kills him.
Husk tugs at the elastic band of Angel’s leggings and peels them down over his ass before he unzips his slacks and pulls his cock out. The elevator ride isn’t long enough for them to get very far and they run the risk of someone else getting in and catching them, but the thrill of that is hot enough to keep Angel from saying a damn word to stop him.
The physical distraction is doing its job of helping Angel sort through the muddy mess of emotions buzzing around in his brain. He feels less helpless and more in control and that grounds him. Husk presses the head of his cock against Angel’s entrance and Angel watches the whole thing through their reflections. It’s hotter than any porn he’s ever seen and he drinks in the expression of ecstasy on Husk’s face. He doesn’t usually get to see Husk’s facial expressions when they’re like this; the mirror gives Angel a new, gorgeous luxury that he hadn’t even realized he was missing out on.
Husk is so fucking handsome that Angel doesn’t know what to do with himself. He watches his own eyes flutter when Husk fucks into him with hard thrusts, and his mouth falls open to let a soft moan escape. Angel’s hands are propped up against the cool mirrored surface and they slide as he starts to sweat from the pleasure.
The elevator reaches the subterranean level and the doors ding open revealing the empty hallway that leads to Husk’s office. Angel glances in the direction of the door, but Husk grabs him by the back of the head and turns him so that he's looking at their reflections once again. Husk meets Angel’s eyes in the mirror and he grunts out a command that Angel does not hear before he slams himself into Angel once more. The doors start to close but Husk stops them by moving their positions so that he can shove his foot in the door while still fully seated inside of Angel. The doors hit his shoe and the bounce back open while Husk fucks Angel hard and fast.
The doors try to close two more times before the elevator starts to shake from their movement, and the mirror in front of Angel’s face becomes obstructed with fog and spit. Angel watches Husk cum at the same time that he feels it happen, and it pushes him over the edge. Angel cums untouched, dripping down his legs, and he feels his mind go blank for the first time all day.
Husk carries him down the hallway and into their apartment. He runs a bath and lets Angel soak, washing the makeup from Angel’s face away with a gentle cloth. They don’t talk much, but they don’t have to. They dry off and get into bed, and Angel is able to think a little bit more clearly now that he isn’t spiraling out of control. Husk delivered on his promise to help Angel get away from the emotional beast inside of him that was tempting him towards a relapse, and Angel makes a mental note to make this all up to him one day.
And that’s when it hits him.
Angel knows how they’re going to save Cherri’s soul. It seems so obvious now, so clear.
He has a favor to cash in.
END AN: If y’all thought I was gonna put that mirror elevator in this fic and NOT have them fuck in it as a metaphorical way of showing you that Angel has gone through a metamorphosis, you don’t know me at all.
Also, I don’t have time to explain the nuance of why this tense situation leads to a sexual one, but it’s in line with the Angel that I’ve built in this fic. Sex is a creative/literary tool that I use for Angel and a therapeutic one that he uses for himself.
Chapter 30
AN: I am so tired and I feel like death but here is the new chapter! Thank you for your patience.
There’s only one thing in all of Hell that Valentino wants, and that’s Angel’s soul on a silver platter. Angel knows Val well, too well, and he would have to be a fucking idiot to not see that Val is doing this with the intent to cause as much harm as possible to Angel’s heart before he makes another grab for Angel’s soul.
It’s psychological warfare that Angel is intimately familiar with, and unluckily for Val, after years of abuse, Angel knows how to combat it.
Their entire relationship was a game of cat and mouse. Val was the cat whose bloodlust made “playing” a deadly experience, and Angel was the mouse; the unwilling participant forced into razor sharp claws each and every time he tried to run away. So Angel learned to be docile, he learned to behave, and he learned how to understand Val’s movements and actions down to the very sound of his footsteps.
Now, Angel finds himself once again locked into a game he never agreed to be a part of, but this time, Cherri has been dragged in too. This whole thing is a way to torture Angel, to force him to relapse, to make him break up with Husk and beg for Val to take him back on bruised hands and bloody knees.
What Val doesn’t know is that this time really is different, because this time, Angel isn’t alone. This time, Angel has a support system that can help him fight back against Val’s awful, malicious bullshit.
This time, Angel has a plan.
If Angel tempts Val with a challenge, he’s sure that Val will accept. It’s going to be a little complicated because he’s stubborn and he likes to feel like he’s in control, so Angel needs to be strategic about how he goes about this. Val needs to feel confident in his ability to win, which means that Angel needs to play to both of their strengths.
Which is why Angel knows that asking Husk to be his partner in crime for this is going to give him the upper hand. Husk’s entire status is built around his ability to school his expressions and read others. He knows how to bluff without being caught, and he knows how to win.
Deciding that he’s going to enlist Husk’s help to free Cherri via the confines of the deal they made when they first got together is the easy part. Figuring out how to tell Husk about his idea — that’s the hard part.
Angel knows deep down that Husk expects him to use this favor to set his soul free. It makes the most sense, after all, and would allow Angel to be free while also keeping Husk’s reputation clean. Husk hasn’t said this outright, but Angel knows.
Husk and Angel have never seen eye to eye about Husk’s status as an overlord and as someone in possession of other souls. Angel hasn’t ever asked just how many souls Husk has on his chain, but he knows that it’s a lot. Angel is one of those souls, after all, and Husk made it clear to him when he ran away that he didn’t need Angel to stick around for his soul to be valuable to him. Husk has explained his position to Angel, he’s told Angel that it isn’t about ownership it’s about power, but Angel still doesn’t understand it.
Angel has wondered if he’d have become an overlord himself, if things had gone differently for him. If he had landed in Hell and used the opportunity to rise to power instead of assuming the same role he had in life. What would that version of Angel be like?
Angel pictures himself as a 1930’s gangster, with a pinstripe suit and a tommy gun in each hand. Would he smoke cigars? Would he have leaned into the old-fashioned New Yorker thing, and enlisted the help of his family to work under him? Would he have used and abused people, treated them like shit on his shoe, all so that he could have some sense of false control over his own damnation? The thought alone makes Angel’s stomach churn. He hates that version of himself.
He has done a lot of fucked up shit in his life and in his death, but owning someone’s soul is a low he just cannot imaging stooping to. Power? Who the fuck cares about that?
Maybe the reason why Angel can’t understand it is because he’s never really had power, at least not like that. There’s a certain power that comes with the feeling of a cock in your mouth, sure, there’s a power that comes with being wanted and desired, but that’s still rooted in being used by someone else. It’s not the same as preying on someone down on their luck and making them pledge themselves to you indefinitely.
It’s not the same as pretending to be a god when you’re still just a human.
The truth is, Angel doesn’t want to have to use his favor for Husk to set him free. He wants Husk to want to set him free on his own. The last time they talked about it, Angel asked him to keep his soul safe and he meant it, but he still dreams of the day where he’s able to have control of his own destiny again. Angel has made a lot of progress. This thing with Cherri made him want to relapse, but he didn’t, and that counts for something.
Angel wishes he could stop falling in love with overlords. Husk is perfect in so many ways, but it’s hard for Angel to work towards redemption when the man he loves is an overlord with a drinking and gambling problem. Angel doesn’t feel like it’s his place to tell Husk how to live his life, but he also can’t just keep pretending that it doesn’t bother him when it does. Husk hasn’t even agreed to endorse the Happy Hotel, when he knows how much it would mean to Charlie and to Angel if he did. If they aren’t careful, some other overlord might swoop in and take advantage of the opportunity, and Angel would fucking hate for that to happen. Being owned by one overlord, abused by another, and controlled by a third?
He might as well be double dead at that point.
Using his favor to get something out of Husk’s overlord position seems like the best option for everyone involved. He isn't going to ask to be set free. He’s going to ask that Husk step up and use his power for something good for once.
It’s just hard figuring out how to approach Husk with something like this.
Angel considers coming up with a plan. It would be a good idea to go into this with some idea of how he wants to play it, to try and sway Husk’s graces in his favor with as little conflict as possible. But then again, Angel has never been one for tact.
So, because he’s nothing if he isn’t consistent with his chaos, Angel blurts out his idea over breakfast the morning after his breakdown, because at the end of the day, that feels the most authentic to him. This is Cherri’s fuckin’ soul, after all, and Angel doesn’t have time to waste on overthinking and sparing Husk’s feelings.
“I want you to challenge Val to a game of cards,” Angel says, cutting into his pancakes. “And I want you to wager my soul for Cherri’s.”
Husk, who has just taken a bite of his own pancakes, looks up at him. Slowly, he puts his cutlery down, swallows, and then searches Angel’s face for any signs that he could be joking.
“No,” Husk says, flatly, once he realizes that Angel is being serious.
Angel suspected that he would respond like this. He knew that Husk wouldn’t be willingly open to the idea of putting Angel’s soul at risk of being owned by Valentino again, so he says, “Hear me out—”
“No!” Husk cuts him off, quickly rising to anger. “Absolutely not. How could you even suggest something like that? Angel, if that bastard gets your soul, he’ll kill you!”
“He ain’t gettin’ my soul!” Angel argues, standing his ground. “Because you won’t lose.”
Husk looks at Angel and mouths wordlessly. He looks hurt that Angel would propose something like this, betrayed like Angel has just punched him in the face. He scoots his chair back and closes his eyes pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“Cards don’t work like that, kid,” Husk says lowly. He shakes his head. “It ain’t somethin’ I can control, there’s too many factors—”
It’s Angel’s turn to interrupt, “But you got the skill! Whiskers, if there’s anyone who can do this, it’s you!”
“Angel!” Husk barks, using a tone that Angel has only ever heard him use with other people, never with him. “I’m not having this conversation! My answer is no and that’s final!”
Silence settles over them, and Angel swallows past the lump in his throat. He knew that the chances of Husk agreeing to the idea point-blank were low, but he wanted to try it before resorting to a method that Husk can’t say no to. Part of him hoped that Husk would trust him — that Husk would agree and listen to Angel’s plan before just outright refusing him, but part of him knew that Husk would never be okay with the idea of wagering Angel’s soul.
It’s part of why Angel loves him so much, but it also creates a point of major frustration. He loves that Husk has made good on his promise to keep Angel’s soul safe. He loves that he knows he can trust Husk to protect him and to keep him safe from himself. Angel knows that he doesn’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to making decisions, but this time, he knows that this is their only option and he needs Husk on board.
“Our deal, then,” Angel says, straightening up in his chair.
Husk is deadly still when he asks, “What?”
Angel meets his gaze, and there’s a challenge burning in Husk’s eyes.
Angel exhales slowly, but manages (for the most part) to keep his voice from shaking. “Months ago, we played Black Jack a-and you said that if I won the game, you would owe me a favor.”
Husk says nothing, he just keeps Angel under the heat of his stare.
Angel finds his strength and holds himself high when he says, “This is my favor.”
Husk finally pulls his eyes away. He closes them tight, like it pains him to speak. “Angel…”
Angel doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to argue about this, not when they have so little time to spare. Not when Cherri is with Val doing — god, he doesn’t even want to think about that.
“Demon contracts are binding, aren’t they?” Angel asks.
Husk opens his eyes again, and that fire has all but fizzled into smoke. He looks sad; heartbroken that Angel would play his cards like this. “That wasn’t—”
“It was! I made a deal with an overlord,” Angel says. “You gotta do this one thing for me. I’m cashin’ in.”
“You could use that favor for anything,” Husk tells him, and the weight of the ‘anything’ hits hard. What he means is, ‘you could use this to set your soul free.’ “This is what you wanna use it on?”
Angel is careful with his tone, so that Husk understands that Angel is true in his convictions. He is serious about this, and he needs Husk to know that.
“Yes,” Angel says.
Again, Husk is quiet. Angel knows that rushing him will only make this worse — he knows that his partner sometimes needs time to think things over. Their breakfast sits on the table between them, forgotten, and the glass shakes a little when Husk sighs and puts his elbows down on the surface in front of him.
“Okay,” Husk says, after a minute. He sounds tired, but not angry. “Ain’t no use in arguing with you, is there?”
Something new — something warm blossoms in Angel’s chest, and he thinks it might be hope. He didn’t expect Husk to come to his senses so quickly, he had been prepared for more of a fight. Husk looks like he isn’t happy about this choice, but he also looks like he trusts Angel’s ability to come up with a plan and that’s—
Well. That’s something incredible. Angel isn’t used to being trusted, he isn’t used to people having faith in his abilities. A lifetime of being the universe’s punching bag has forced Angel to diminish his own self-worth, so having Husk just sigh and push his chips to the center of the table on faith and faith alone that Angel knows what he’s doing makes Angel feel invincible.
“Thought you’d have learned by now that I’m stubborn,” Angel says, cracking a smile.
Husk reaches across the table and takes Angel’s hand in his. He turns it over and runs his thumb along the shape of Angel’s knuckles. “Yeah,” Husk says, softly, “but it’s one of the things I love most about you.”
“I love you too,” Angel says, feeling like he might cry. His heart feels swollen in his chest. “Does this mean you’ll do it?”
For the first time since Angel brought the topic up, Husk’s expression shifts into a sideways smile. “Don’t got a choice, do I?”
“Hm,” Angel says, standing to come over to Husk. He pushes Husk’s chair away from the table and climbs into his lap, draping his arms around Husk’s neck and nuzzling close. It’s still insane to him how warm and safe Husk makes him feel. “Nope.”
Husk’s hands come up to smooth the hair down on the back of Angel’s head in a way that feels soothing. He kisses Angel’s temple and Angel responds by tightening his grip around Husk, like maybe if he tries hard enough, he can fuse them into one, so that they never have to break apart again.
This next part of their journey is going to be the hardest yet. Angel still has a lot to figure out in regards to his plan, but it’s nice knowing that he has his boyfriend’s support. Deal or not, Husk is willing to stand by Angel’s side and help him save his friend’s life.
That means more to Angel than Husk will ever know.
“So what’s this plan of yours then, huh?” Husk asks, softly. “How do we get your bastard of an ex-boss to agree to something like this without knowing it’s a trap?”
Ah, and therein lies their next challenge.
Val may be dumb as a sack of bricks, but he’s not stupid. He’s anticipating some sort of response from Angel, that much they can be sure of. The pompous air that he had about him when he visited the hotel felt intentional, like he was daring Angel to come up with a way to beat him. This is a game for Val, and Angel needs to be sure that his next move is the right one so that he doesn’t accidentally put himself in check.
“I haven’t figured out all of the details yet,” Angel admits. “But I think we should talk to Charlie about this. She’s always goin’ on and on about helpin’ people, and Cherri is someone who needs our help. She’s the Princess of Hell, she’s gotta have some kinda secret powers we don’t know about or some shit.”
Using his support system is crucial to their success. Angel isn’t alone this time. He has people in his corner, and those people can help him formulate this idea into a genuine plan.
“Mm,” Husk hums. “Since I’m the one you’re gonna be usin’ to kick this fucker’s ass, guess I better start comin’ to the hotel with you then.”
Angel sighs in relief and presses a kiss to Husk’s neck.
“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.
*.*.*.*.*
They drive to the hotel together, hands woven together across the center console. Angel knows that Charlie is going to be as eager as he is to come up with a well-rounded plan to save Cherri, so he feels more excited than nervous as they make their way across the pride ring. Having Husk in their corner makes things easier, and being able to use Angel’s soul as leverage is a good way to get Val right where they want him.
Val won’t just outright agree to a game if Husk and Angel challenge him. It would seem too obvious. It would seem too easy.
Val wants to make Angel suffer, and he’s likely going to try to drag this out for as long as possible. The longer this lasts, the more time Val has to hurt Cherri, and the more he hurts Cherri, the more pain he causes to Angel as a result. Convincing Val to fall into their trap is going to be the hardest part, but Angel knows that with all four of them thinking of a way to make it happen, they will come up with a plan.
They pull up to the hotel, and Angel immediately notices that something is different. The big sign on top of the hotel that had previously read “THE HAPPY HOTEL” has been changed. The letters are the same, and the change is subtle, but it doesn’t sit right in the pit of Angel’s stomach. The sign now says, “THE HAZBIN HOTEL” and something else has been added to the hotel as well: a crude, crooked structure juts out from the side, with a neon sign that says “ON AIR.”
Something has happened in the time between Angel’s departure last night and his return this afternoon. Something big.
“Husk?” Angel says, as the car comes to a stop. “Do you see—”
“Yeah,” Husk says, and the sound of his voice makes Angel turn to face him. Husk is staring at the crooked addition to the hotel’s construction with a hard expression, his mouth pressed into a firm line and his brows furrowed in frustration. “Yeah, I see it.”
Angel’s heart sinks. Husk’s response all but confirms what Angel had already suspected, but he still has to ask, just to be sure, “You don’t think—”
“Oh, I think,” Husk replies darkly. “I definitely think. I think that the princess has a lot of explaining to do, because it looks to me like she made a really fucking stupid decision.”
Angel says nothing as he opens the door to the car and steps outside. He looks up at the hotel sign that somehow feels more ominous now that they’re up close. What kind of name is that? It feels slightly condescending, like it’s insinuating that the hotel’s patrons are washed up nobodies.
Angel glares at the letters.
Husk follows closely behind him as he marches up to the front doors. Angel doesn’t knock — he doesn’t need to knock, usually, and he gasps the moment he opens the door. The interior of the hotel is completely different from how it had been last night.
The dust that had previously caked all of the fixtures is gone, leaving the place looking pristine and clean. The broken chandelier that hangs in the lobby has been repaired and is alight with bright, warm-toned bulbs that make the space feel like it’s come to life. There is music playing from speakers that Angel either hadn’t noticed before or are brand new additions to the space – old, smooth jazz that reminds Angel of the stuff his father used to play on the radio.
A small demon that Angel has never seen before frantically bolts past them before skidding to a halt and staring at them with one large eye. She’s dressed in a maid’s outfit and is holding a feather duster in one hand and an aerosol can of roach killer in the other.
“Who are you?” the demon asks, blinking.
“Who are you?” Angel shoots back.
“I’m Niffty,” she tells him, running up so that she’s only inches away from him to stare hauntingly into his face from below him. “You’re tall. Are you a bad boy?”
“Uh,” Angel turns to Husk who shrugs. “What?”
Thankfully, before things can get any weirder, Charlie appears from one of the doorways. Her face lights up when she sees Angel, and she runs towards him with her heels clicking happily against the newly-cleaned floor.
“Angel!” Charlie calls out, grinning wildly. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here! You’re never going to believe what happened after you left last night!”
Angel and Husk take a few more steps into the hotel, and they look at each other and share an uneasy expression. Fuck, Angel thinks to himself, Please, please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did, Princess.
“Hey, Charlie,” Angel says, feeling like his stomach is lodged in his throat. “Things look, uh, different around here?”
Charlie comes to a stop in front of them and nods, gesturing around the room with her arms spread wide. “I know, isn’t it great?”
Before Angel can reply, he’s startled by the sound of the door slamming shut behind him. He turns with Husk at his side and his heart drops when he sees the person responsible for the noise.
Standing at the front door, wearing his same cheshire, yellow smile, is Alastor — The Radio Demon. The one that both Vox and Husk were distracted by the night that Val — the night that everything went to shit. The only creature in Hell that Angel has ever seen make Husk feel uneasy. Angel feels Husk tense at his side, and the air in the room grows cold.
“Hello,” Alastor says, his voice garbled and cracked by the static that rattles through his speech. “It sure has been a while, hasn’t it? It’s good to see you both again.”
“The fuck are you doin’ here?” Husk growls.
Alastor responds with a condescending tilt of his head, like Husk is nothing more than a scared little kitten hissing at him.
Charlie, oblivious yet again to the obvious tension in the room, moves to stand at Alastor’s side. She’s smiling and looks excited, and there’s genuine joy in her voice when she says, “Guys, this is Alastor! He’s going to be our new hotel manager! He showed up last night after you left, because he had seen our segment on 666 News! He offered to help us out with getting this hotel up and running — which, okay, maybe he was being a little sarcastic about some of the stuff he said, but what matters is that we finally have an overlord here to help us out! Isn’t that exciting?”
Angel feels frozen in place. This is exactly what he was afraid might happen. They waited too long, and now another overlord has claimed stock in Charlie’s idea. And not just any overlord — The Radio Demon.
This throws a wrench into Angel’s plans, that’s for sure.
“Oh, yeah,” Angel says flatly. “So exciting.”
Chapter 31
“I don’t buy it,” Husk mumbles to Angel, when they’re heading over to the couches in the hotel’s lounge area. He grabs Angel by the arm and holds him back for a moment, yellow eyes narrowed in caution and glued to Alastor’s back. “He’s up to something, and I don’t think we should have any part in it.”
Husk is on edge.
Really on edge. And when Husk is on edge, Angel is on edge. Angel still isn’t sure of all of the details surrounding Husk’s outward dislike of The Radio Demon, but he knows that he’s never seen Husk look so uneasy around anyone else before. It doesn’t help that Charlie seems oblivious to the fact that she’s decided to trust a supposedly well-known “monster,” and she keeps insisting that Alastor is there to “help” them.
Apparently, Charlie explained “everything” to Alastor last night in their absence, which only makes Angel feel more anxious. He’d have liked the opportunity to explain himself, to pick and choose which information was handed over to this stranger carefully, but Charlie took the liberty of doing that for him. He doesn’t really understand why Alastor is here or what he has to gain from this, but he’s here now and Angel just needs to roll with that as best he can.
With the addition of Alastor to the hotel’s resident cast, also comes a small demon named Niffty who Angel finds charming and hilarious. She’s been tasked with cleaning the hotel and ridding it of vermin, which she’s already managed to make significant progress on. The hotel is visibly cleaner, and brighter, somehow. It feels more alive than it did just twenty-four hours ago, which only helps to fan the flames of hope burning inside of Angel’s chest.
Angel doesn’t give a shit who this Alastor guy is. He’s never been one to care about Hell’s politics or overlords or stupid demon deals, but now that his friend is in trouble, he has to care. They’re planning to go up against one of Hell’s most powerful overlords after all, so maybe they could use all the help they can get. Sure, Alastor is a blood-thirsty demon whose motivations are shrouded in mystery, but who in Hell ain’t? There’s no denying that this fucker has power, and power is something worth putting aside differences for.
It’s just a matter of convincing Husk that trusting Alastor is a good idea.
Angel swallows and tries not to let the frustration show on his face. “He says he’s here to help,” Angel supplies, but he knows that Husk won’t fall for it.
“Bullshit,” Husk hisses, the caution turning quickly to disgust as his glare darkens. “I’ve known this fucker for a long time, kid, longer than I care to admit. He would never let himself be downgraded to a service role for some doe-eyed princess unless there was somethin’ he wanted. We’re stickin’ our heads into the lion’s mouth by moving forward with this plan. Maybe we should think on it some more, come back tomorrow.”
Angel yanks his arm out of Husk’s grasp. “Tomorrow?” Angel’s voice is an angry whisper. “We ain’t got time to sit around and wait for nothin’ right now! Cherri is with Val, doin’ — I don’t even wanna think about what they’re doin’! You think I give a shit about some stupid overlord bullshit? Whiskers, you said you trusted me. Are you really gonna let some old-timey prick get the best of you?”
Husk stares at Angel, eyes wide, and Angel remembers in that moment that Husk still owns his soul. He shouldn’t be talking to his master this way, but since when has that ever stopped Angel from speaking his mind? Husk had been hesitant about this plan from the start, but that doesn’t mean that he can just change his mind the moment something changes.
“Angel, you don’t know this guy,” Husk insists. “He’s up to something—”
“I need you to believe in me,” Angel begs, cutting him off. “I ain’t got time to argue with you about this, and I ain’t gonna sit here and let you put this off because of some dick-measuring contest you got goin’ with Fancy Talk Creepy Voice over there. If you ain’t here to support me, go back to the casino and I’ll see you later.”
He doesn’t have time to play this game with Husk, not now. There’s a sense of urgency boiling in his belly that’s driving him forward, and he doesn’t want to lose sight of what’s important. He’s determined to try and make the most of this situation, Alastor or not. Angel’s spent his entire life and most of his afterlife making the most of shit situations, why should this be any different? Cherri’s soul is on the line and Angel can’t risk wasting time to avoid hurting peoples’ feelings. If Husk doesn’t want to help him, then maybe Alastor will.
Angel walks away from Husk, and heads over to the others who have thankfully been oblivious to their argument.
Angel sticks to his original gameplan of explaining his idea to Charlie. Nifty brings them a tray of tea and cookies to share while they talk, which feels a little bit like overkill, but Angel is more than happy to have something to do with one set of hands while his other two wring themselves together anxiously.
Alastor sits across from Angel and Husk and sips his tea with a smile on his face and his legs crossed in front of him. He’s just as impossible to read now as he had been that night at the casino, and Husk is practically vibrating with anger at Angel’s side. It’s a little bit funny, honestly, because the way Husk is acting with his ears flattened to his head and his hair standing on end makes him look like a pissed off kitten but Angel would never tell him that. He’s quietly seething, glaring daggers across the coffee table with his arms crossed and his shoulders slumped.
But he’s here, and that means something. He didn’t turn and leave when Angel gave him the choice to go; he stayed to support Angel, because he loves him. It’s a testament to how much they’ve overcome together, Angel thinks, and he feels something like pride well up in his chest. When he met Husk all those months ago, he was closed-off and hardened against the very idea of intimacy. He’d been all business — telling Angel that he had a job to do, acting like it didn’t matter to him if Angel did what he was told or not. He’d treated Angel like he was just another dollar in his bank account, something easily replaceable and expendable. Now, Husk is different. He sees Angel’s value and he supports him, he sees him as a person and not just a soul on his chain.
“How are you holding up?” Charlie asks, pulling her legs up onto the couch to sit a bit more comfortably. She holds her mug of tea with both of her hands, like she’s hugging it for warmth. Absently, Angel wonders if the hybrid daughter of an archangel and the first demon of Hell bleeds hot or cold. He supposes that only time will tell.
“Better today,” Angel admits. He looks down into his own cup of tea and wishes that it held all of the answers. The dark liquid ripples with the slight shake of Angel’s hand, and he closes his eyes against the rush of anxiety he feels.
He’s taking a big risk with his plan. He knows that he is. But it’s Cherri they’re talking about here, the only friend that had ever stuck by him, the only soul who had ever cared enough about him to fight for him, and he owes her this.
Angel stops wringing his hands together to reach one over to place reassuringly on Husk’s thigh. Husk startles at the contact, eyes going wide, and he looks at Angel who smiles at him in quiet thanks. He knows that this can’t be easy, and he’s grateful that Husk is sticking it out for him anyway.
“Good!” Charlie says, smiling. “That’s good! Keeping a positive attitude will help us come up with a plan faster.”
Angel looks over at Husk, and Husk nods at him. He takes a deep breath. He can do this.
“Actually,” Angel starts, sitting up a little bit straighter. “We kinda came up with somethin’ already, and we were hopin’ that you’d be willin’ to hear us out.”
It’s Charlie’s turn to look surprised. Her eyes go wide and she looks over at Vaggie, who is sitting alone in one of the armchairs.
“We’re all ears,” Vaggie says, shrugging.
Angel bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. “I want Husk to bet my soul against Cherri’s in a game of poker,” Angel blurts out, to the predictable gasp of shock from Charlie. “I know, I know that it’s risky, but I think that it’s the only way to set her free. Val doesn’t want Cherri, he’s after me, and we all know it. This whole thing, it’s all just…” Angel takes another steadying breath. “It’s just another one of Val’s mind games. He’s tryin’ to hurt me, and he’s doin’ a damn good job, but we can outsmart him.”
Val may seem dumb on the surface, and in a lot of ways, he is, but beneath it all is a calculated overlord who managed to use the dried-up corpses of sex workers to climb his way to the top of the overlord ladder. Angel learned a long time ago not to underestimate Val’s cunning.
“Angel, no,” Charlie argues, like Angel knew she would. She’s earnest like that, predictable in how she cares for others. She wants to do good, she wants to be good, she doesn’t want to sacrifice others to achieve that. It’s one of the things that Angel likes about her. “That’s way too dangerous. We can come up with another way—”
“There ain’t no other way, Toots,” Angel says, cutting her off. “And we ain’t got time to think of anything else. I don’t want to imagine what kind of shit Val is putting Cherri through right now. You guys saw her last night, you saw how bad she’s doin’ — if we wait, there ain’t gonna be nothin’ left of her to save. Trust me. If anyone knows how cruel Val can be, it’s me. I was his favorite toy for thirty years.”
Beside him, Husk growls in anger. Angel tightens his grip on Husk’s thigh.
“Which is exactly why you can’t do this!” Charlie shifts her position, no longer comfortable with the direction of the conversation and therefore no longer comfortable sitting so relaxed. She throws her legs over the side of the couch and sets her mug down on the table, brows furrowed in frustration. “Angel, if he wins your soul back, there’s nothing I can do to save you.”
“He ain’t gonna win,” Angel assures her. “Husk is the best of the best, and he’s gonna keep me safe.”
“That’s not how card games work,” Charlie says, eyes wide as she looks around at the group of them. “You can’t seriously be thinking about—”
“I am serious.” Angel knows that he needs to stand his ground. It’s the same thing that Husk had said earlier, but Angel isn’t going to let them talk him out of this. “It’s the only way, Charlie. You said it yourself: there ain’t nothin’ you can do to interfere with demon contracts. The only way to help Cherri is by fightin’ fire with fire.”
“And you’re just fine with this?” Charlie asks Husk, point-blank. Beside him, Husk shifts, yellow eyes glancing up from his hunched over position to look at Charlie. Husk holds her gaze for a moment before he sighs and shrugs.
“Ain’t no sense in tryin’ to talk him out of it,” Husk says, sounding tired. “If Angel thinks this is the only way, then I wanna hear him out.”
Charlie opens her mouth to speak, but she’s cut off by the sound of Alastor snorting.
“You know,” Alastor chimes in, setting his teacup on the ceramic saucer with a scrape. His smile is ever-present, but his eyes are dark and sinister. “If you had asked me what I thought would change in Hell during my seven year sabbatical, I’d never have guessed that Husker, The Gambling Demon, would have gone so soft.”
Husk growls and sinks lower into the couch, his claw tapping angrily against the upholstery. He doesn’t fire back the way that Angel knows he wants to, and Angel feels a pang of appreciation at the fact that Husk is working hard to keep his cool on Angel’s behalf. He has to make sure to thank him later.
“I ain’t gone soft,” Husk says, his voice low but steady. “I just got other priorities now.”
“Mmm,” Alastor hums. His brows shoot up and his gaze stays trained on Husk, like he thinks Husk is something amusing. He tilts his head to the side in a condescending way, the way someone might do when they’re talking to a child. “Of course, my mistake. I guess I foolishly thought that you cared more about your reputation than you did about silly fantasies like ‘redemption.’ After all, you certainly cared more about your reputation when you were willing to bet your own soul for the chance to save it.”
Alastor is knowingly provoking Husk to get a rise out of him, and it’s glaringly clear to everyone in the room. Angel doesn’t understand what this bastard’s game is, why he’s so set on making Husk’s experience in this conversation so fucking miserable, but he’s done sitting here and letting it happen.
“Hey, Alastor?” Angel says, before Husk can reply.
Alastor’s eyes flash before they flick over to look at Angel. “Hm?”
“Do me a favor, will ya? Shut the fuck up,” Angel says, much to Charlie’s audible dismay. From her chair, she makes an uncomfortable squeaking noise while Vaggie does nothing to hide her impressed snort.
“Oooooohkay,” Charlie chimes in, getting to her feet. “I’m sensing some tension among the group, and I don’t entirely think that it has much to do with the task at hand so maybe we should—”
“Oh, my deepest apologies, Princess,” says Alastor, letting his eyes close as he lifts his cup of tea to his lips again. “I just wanted to make sure that everyone was as invested in the hotel as you and I are.”
Husk says nothing. He broods beside Angel with his arms crossed and glares at Alastor, which is better than Angel would have been able to do if their positions were reversed. Angel stops scrubbing his hands together so that he can rest one of them reassuringly on Husk’s thigh in a silent thank you for keeping his cool.
“Husk’s priority isn’t the hotel,” Vaggie says, contributing to the conversation for the first time. Angel shoots her a look because what the fuck, Toots, I thought you was supposed to be our side!? But then she says, “His priority is Angel, and that’s more than enough for me to be convinced of his loyalty and investment.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Charlie agrees, beaming at her girlfriend. “We all have the same goal in mind, and that’s to find a way to help Cherri Bomb out of her deal with Valentino. She’s going to be the hotel’s very first project. The first soul we save. This is important.”
Angel feels like he might cry. He’s so lucky to have found an opportunity in Charlie and the hotel. He’s so lucky that he’s managed to change his life for the better, that he’s actually able to make steps forward instead of being paralyzed in fear like Val wants him to be.
Charlie wants to help save Cherri. Angel has an exorcist and the literal Princess of Hell on his side. There’s no way they can lose.
“We just gotta find a way to get Val to agree to play Husk in a game of cards,” Angel explains. “Val may be an idiot, but he ain’t as stupid as people think he is. He ain’t just gonna agree to something like this when it’s obvious what we’re planning. We gotta be smart about this.”
Charlie sits down in her chair again, and places her hand on her chin thoughtfully. “I think you’re right about that. We can’t force him to bet Cherri’s soul, either. We need to make it feel worth it to him. We need—”
“What you need,” Alastor says, smug, like he knows better than everyone in the room, “Is a show.”
All heads turn in Alastor’s direction. He finishes his tea and sets the cup and saucer down on the table in front of him before slowly and dramatically giving all of his attention to Angel.
“Let me interview you on my radio show,” Alastor suggests. “You can call out that lanky, pathetic excuse for an overlord on air and humiliate him in front of all of Hell’s denizens. Then I’m sure he won’t be able to turn down your challenge. He might even challenge you himself. Reverse psychology.”
“What’s in it for you?” Husk asks, before Angel can react to the suggestion.
Alastor’s eyes narrow, but his smile doesn’t waver.
“Whatever do you mean?” Alastor asks, feigning innocence. “Can’t I do this out of the kindness of my heart?”
Husk snorts. “No.”
“Husk, come on,” Charlie butts in, looking anxiously between them. “If Alastor wants to help out, I think we should let him. He’s a part of this hotel, too, and he wants to see it succeed.”
“Yeah, and I’m still tryin’ to figure out why he agreed to be part of this hotel,” Husk replies gruffly. He moves and sits up a little straighter, eyes glued to Alastor’s face. His distrust of The Radio Demon is palpable with the darkness in his expression, and Angel can practically feel the hatred radiating off of him.
“Fine,” Alastor says, his tone shifting a bit to something more curt and less playful. “If my original answer isn’t enough to satisfy you, I’ll rephrase. I’m doing this for the fun of it, Husker. For the entertainment of it all. You want to know why I’m so eager to participate in your silly little antics that normally I’d consider myself far too busy for? It’s because the time I spent away from this dreadful city was frightfully boring, and I’m in need of something fun. And frankly, I find this whole ordeal to be absolutely hilarious.”
Husk growls again and Charlie makes a face, but Angel only feels relief at Alastor’s honesty. He seems like he’s being truthful about “entertainment” being his motivation, at least on the surface. Husk doesn’t seem to believe him, but it’s good enough for Angel. If Alastor has some ulterior motive for wanting to help, it’s none of Angel’s business and he doesn’t care. “I’m doing it for the laughs” is as good a reason as any, and Angel is willing to accept that.
“Let’s do it,” Angel says, cutting through the bullshit.
“Angel,” Husk argues, but Angel just puts his hand up to stop him.
“Let’s do the interview.” Angel doesn’t have time to waste on diplomacy or stupid overlord drama. His best friend is in danger and it’s his fucking fault, the least he can do is jumpstart the process of saving her instead of sitting around to listen to old men bickering about the politics of Hell. “What do I gotta do?”
Alastor’s eyes glow for a moment and his expression darkens, but once again, that smile never wavers. Angel feels a sudden chill in the air that makes him shiver, and his stomach sinks as he starts to wonder if maybe he’s making a mistake by trusting this guy.
Alastor’s energy is odd, and unlike anything else Angel has ever experienced. There’s something ancient about him, even though from what Angel can tell, they were very likely alive at the same time. Everyone in Hell is a piece of shit, but Alastor? Alastor feels —
Evil.
Real evil. Evil in a way that makes Angel feel like they’re not even living in the same universe.
“Excellent,” Alastor sneers, and his eyes flash green. “I have a radio tower attached to this hotel—”
“You what?” Charlie interrupts.
Alastor ignores her. “—We can conduct our interview there. I’ll set the broadcast to reach the entirety of the Pride Ring, this way we’re sure it’ll reach our target audience.”
“You can do that?” Vaggie asks, unable to keep the awe from her expression or tone.
Alastor laughs, and the sound makes Angel’s stomach churn. “Oh, my dear, I can do much more than that.”
That same chill creeps through the air once more, and this time Angel is sure that he’s not the only one who feels it. The others all look uneasy, like they’re doubting this plan, like they’re unsure if this is the right way to move forward.
“Interview me,” Husk says, addressing Alastor. Angel turns to stare at him, confused.
“Whiskers, what—”
“It should be me,” Husk says, still looking at Alastor and not at Angel. “He’s not gonna give a shit if Angel tries to taunt him, that’s what he wants. If it’s me, he’ll bite. Bein’ an overlord is just a dick-measuring contest anyway. If he feels like his reputation is challenged, he won’t have a choice. Put me on your stupid radio show, and we’ll watch the bastard squirm.”
Angel blinks, stunned to silence because — yeah, actually, that’s a great idea. Husk doesn’t trust Alastor, that much he’s made very clear, which makes Angel think that he’s probably suggesting this as a way to keep Angel safe.
Angel takes a deep breath and looks around the room. Everyone here wants to help him. Everyone here believes in him. It makes him feel like maybe, just maybe, they’ll be able to pull this off.
“Oh, I love a plot twist,” Alastor sneers, nostrils flarings. He stands and his expression darkens in a giddy way as green light pulses through the room, that same, ancient chill from before giggling like distant laughter deep inside of Angel’s bones. “It’s been a while since I’ve had the honor of hosting an overlord on my radio show with their soul still intact. This will be fun.”
Chapter 32
“So, what’s your problem with Alastor?” Angel asks, trailing behind the group as they follow Alastor to the radio tower. “What did he do to you to make you so on edge around him?”
“He’s a scavenger,” Husk replies lowly, under his breath. “He hunts for souls like a hyena; he lies in wait, watching as overlords start to crumble under the weight of their own vices — because lord fuckin’ knows all overlords got em — and when they’re weak and stop for a breather, he dives in and rips their limbs off with his teeth.”
Angel knows that there’s truth to the part about all overlords having their own vices. Val had them. At first, Angel thought that drugs were Val’s vice, like him. It was something the thought that they shared, another thing that bonded them together and made it feel like their relationship was something more predestined than it actually was. It took Angel too long to realize that he was Val’s greatest vice, that people were Val’s vice. Sins of the flesh were his drug of choice, and he overindulged on torturing the people around him that were stupid enough to love him. Val drowned himself in liquor and drugs, but those were just lighter fluid that he swallowed down to fuel the fire of hatred for everyone and everything burning inside of him.
“A few years back, I was…” Husk hesitates, not looking Angel in the eye. “I was in a bad way. I’d gambled myself into a corner, bein’ dumb, chasin’ a feeling that couldn’t satisfy me enough to make all of the shit in my head go away. I started bitin’ off more than I could chew and losin’ more than I could afford.”
Husk’s voice is hard, and he glares at Alastor’s back in the dark hallway. “See, the thing is, when you’re dealin’ in souls while also bein’ a gambler, the stakes are pretty high. Losin’ a few hands could be more than a little dangerous. So when you’re down on your luck, you turn to anything to… keep you afloat, even makin’ deals yourself.”
Angel gasps, “You didn’t—”
“No,” Husk says, darkly. “I didn’t. But I almost did. I put it all on the line, I bet my own soul in a game of cards, against him: The Radio Demon. I hadn’t realized that this is what he does — that he waits for people to be at their lowest point before comin’ in to make an offer that they can’t refuse. I’m lucky that I won that game. I’m lucky that my soul ain’t owed to a monster like him. Who knows where I’d be if I’d lost, what that fucker’d have had me do against my will.” Husk shudders. “It’s why I don’t trust him now. Alastor ain’t interested in helpin’ anyone unless there’s somethin’ in it for him. There’s gotta be a reason why he’s doing this, I just… I can’t figure it out.”
Angel swallows down the lump in his throat. Ahead of them, Alastor walks with a pep in his step and hums to a song that no one can hear. He seems to exist in a world all his own, and Angel… doesn’t know what to make of him.
Lying in wait, biding time, observing from afar before striking… these are all things that Val did as well. Val’s whole MO was to wait until someone had hit rock bottom before swooping in like a prince on a steed to save the day with a contract. It’s what most overlords do, and Angel knows that Husk knows that, so why does it make Husk so angry that Alastor also benefits from that very same system?
It’s personal, obviously, but it still feels like there’s something more to it.
Angel doesn’t have time to dwell on that thought before they arrive at a door that feels out of place in the hotel. It’s a metal door with a crooked sign that says “RADIO TOWER” in sloppy red paint.
Charlie seems just as confused by this door as Angel does, and she says “When did this door get here?”
Vaggie’s brows pinch together. “Where does it go? That wall doesn’t lead to anything, it’s the side of the building, and we’re on the third floor.”
Alastor’s grin grows and he laughs. “Things aren’t always what they seem, my friends.” He lifts his staff and taps on the door which glows a sinister shade of green before opening up to reveal the inside of the radio tower that Angel had noticed had been added to the side of the hotel.
Vaggie stammers, “When did you—”
“Do you want to waste time with questions, or do you want to get started on our plan to save Cheery—”
“Cherri,” Angel corrects.
“—Cherri from that dastardly overlord?”
“I want to ask questions,” Vaggie says, flatly. “When the hell did you have time to do this? How does this door lead to this tower? This doesn’t make any sense—”
“Vaggie, maybe we can worry about all of that later,” Charlie says, gently. “Right now, we need to worry about helping Angel out with his plan.”
Vaggie stares at her girlfriend like she’s just said something crazy. “Charlie, aren’t you even a little concerned that this fucking guy just added a door to your hotel? With magic?”
Charlie shrugs. “It’s not that strange. Some humans know magic.”
Angel can’t help but snort at the nonchalance with which Charlie says that, because she’s right. Angel’s time in Hell has shown him that anything is possible, especially when it comes to the limits of human souls.
“Yeah, but—”
“We’ll figure it out later,” Charlie says, with a little more firmness. She puts her hand on Vaggie’s shoulder and squeezes. “Let’s focus on helping Angel, okay?”
Vaggie stares into Charlie’s eyes and she looks like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sighs and then nods, saying, “Yeah, okay. Let’s do this.”
Alastor enters into the room and explains the plan: he is going to interview Husk, and Vaggie and Charlie will wait outside of the broadcasting room to monitor any potential response from the Vees. Alastor’s magic allows his broadcast to be heard all throughout Pentagram City, so there’s no way that Val won’t hear it.
Angel will join Husk and Alastor in the broadcast room, but he isn’t to interfere with the interview. His role in this part of the plan is to observe and let the others take the lead, which makes him feel a little uneasy. Angel doesn’t like being in charge, but he prefers to have some agency over what happens. He understands why he can’t be involved with this part of the plan, but it doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Husk gives Angel a reassuring hand squeeze and a nod before he follows Alastor over to a table, where a microphone awaits him. He looks so small compared to Alastor, who sits across from him, but he holds himself up high.
“Ready?” Husk asks Alastor, but he’s looking at Angel.
Angel takes a deep breath and nods. Ready as I’ll ever be.
“And we’re on in three, two, one.” Alastor’s eyes glow green and the [ON AIR] sign lights up
“Hello wayward sinners, it’s good to be back on the air,” Alastor begins, his voice rich with static that buzzes over each word. He has a way about him that makes him seem otherworldly; somehow more demonic than other human souls in Hell. Maybe it's the way he slips so easily from monster to person, or maybe it’s something else. Angel isn’t sure, but watching Alastor host his radio show is both incredible and terrifying. He’s a natural, melting into the role he chose for himself with ease. “The Radio Demon is back in town and coming at you with a very special broadcast this evening. I’m joined today by a distinguished guest. You all may know him as Hell’s most voracious villain, a greedy goon of a Gambling Demon, The Jackpot Casino’s very own Husker is here to tell us about a riveting request. Why don’t you introduce yourself to our faithful listeners, Husker?”
Husk’s jaw is clenched tight and Angel can tell that he’s grinding his teeth in an attempt to keep himself from saying something he might regret. His hands are balled into fights against his thigh and he glares at Alastor across the table with hatred in his eyes that makes a lump form in Angel’s throat.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
But then, unexpectedly, Husk seems to relax. He closes his eyes and leans into the mic and when he speaks, it's with the same air of confidence he breathes when he’s running one of his special game nights at the casino. This is his poker face, Angel realizes — this confidence, this coy allure, this is what Husk does best. This is what sets him apart from other demons, this is what solidifies his position as The Gambling Overlord.
“Thanks for having me, Alastor,” Husk says, his voice silky smooth. “You know, I ain’t usually one for public affairs. I’ve kept to myself for the last several decades, and I think everyone was happy with that.”
A laugh track sounds from somewhere beyond and Angel startles at the sound. Alastor’s eyes glow and he tilts his head as the laughter crackles and fades away. What else can this fucker do?
“Yes, you have always been a private fellow,” Alastor agrees (more distant laughter follows his quip.) “The most respectable among us tend to keep to ourselves until necessary. There’s nothing elegant about tacky showboating.”
Angel thinks that’s rich, coming from him. He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone more in line with the theatrics of ‘tacky showboating’ before in his life.
“Demons who rely on bells and whistles to prove that they’ve got power ain’t worth a damn, in my opinion,” Husk says, carrying the conversation easily. “I had a job to do and I did it. Any souls who wanted to test their luck against mine were welcome to it.”
“So why the change then, hm?” Alastor asks. “Why are you here with us tonight, talking not just to me, but to Hell’s most depraved denizens?”
Husk glances over at Angel for a moment and then turns his attention back to Alastor. “Someone tried to take somethin’ of mine,” Husk says simply, “And I ain’t one for sittin’ by and lettin’ that happen.”
Alastor’s eyes glow once more, which Angel realizes is an indication of the Radio Demon’s excitement bubbling to the surface. The static in his voice becomes thicker, too, and Angel watches his entire body glitch and flicker when he says: “Interesting. Tell us more.”
Husk notices Alastor’s strange excitement and his brows lift in concern, but he does not let it show in his voice when he answers.
“A few months back, one of the Vees — Valentino, bet one of his souls against mine and lost,” Husk explains. “Fair and square. Nothin’ dirty about it. He knew the risk, but didn’t wanna pay up when the time came.”
“Could this precious prize of a soul be the illustrious Angel Dust?” Alastor asks, leaning in like he’s sharing a secret for the whole world to hear. “Rumor has it that he’s been spotted schmoozing guests around the floor of your casino.”
“It is Angel Dust,” Husk replies, with another little glance in Angel’s direction. “Don’t know what kind of overlord bets his best money-maker in a game of cards, but his loss was my gain. Angel’s been one hell of an asset to The Jackpot, and I ain’t lookin’ to let him go just because some dickless pissant of an overlord wants me to.”
The ethereal chorus of dismembered voices responds with a well-timed “oooo” at Husk’s insult, and Angel can’t help the smirk that forms on his lips. Hearing someone call Val a “dickless pissant” is objectively hilarious on its own, but hearing Husk say it is its own kind of satisfaction. This is going better than Angel could have ever hoped it would. Husk is saying all of the right things to lure Val out of his hiding place, they just need to fire a kill shot to really drive this thing home.
The thing about being in Hell that makes all of this so complicated is that, yes, pretty much everyone down here is here for a reason. They’re here because they fucked up badly enough to piss The Big Man off and ended up damned to an eternity of suffering because of it. You’d think that by the time people got here, morals would go out the door and that no one would give a shit about something like someone else playing “dirty,” but in his time here Angel has learned a thing or two about human nature.
Namely, Angel has learned that there are certain values that supersede others, and that human souls love a good show. Accusing Val of being “dirty” in the way that Husk is shouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s Hell, afterall, so since when do people give a shit about good vs bad behavior? But Val is an overlord with a reputation to uphold, and part of that reputation involves having souls that want to sign to him. Publicly admitting that Val carelessly bet his best soul in a game of cards and lost him, only to try and get him back using unfair methods, paints him as someone that no one would want to involve themselves with. Husk is intentionally coming for the throat of Val’s reputation, and he’s doing it through entertainment, which only makes Val look worse.
“Those are some colorful words,” Alastor says, sounding mildly impressed. “Who knew Hell’s Porn Overlord could be so sloppy?”
“No surprise to me,” Husk says, smugly. “The Vees walk and talk like they’re hot shit, but anyone willing to sign their souls over to one of those idiots is just asking to be killed in an extermination. Good overlords take care of their souls; we make good on the deals we make and keep ourselves in line. Overlords like Valentino — like all of The Vees, are what’s going to destroy the order that’s kept Hell from collapsing in on itself for centuries.”
Angel stares at Husk, unable to keep the awe from his face. Husk is saying all of the right things, hitting every note that would make the public agree with him. It’s this very song and dance that’s kept Hell’s hierarchy in power, it’s this fear of chaos and destruction that keeps souls signing deals and doing jobs. In many ways, these are the very worst parts of Hell: capitast idealism fueled by what is essentially slave-labor in exchange for faux protections. The bread and butter of Pentagram City is churned from the bones of lost souls who signed contracts with nothing else to hold onto.
It makes Angel angry as much as it impresses him.
He wishes it were different. He wishes that they didn’t have to participate in this awful fucking routine of pretending that the “old ways” are somehow keeping things from falling apart. He wishes that his boyfriend didn’t own souls, didn’t own his soul, but he knows that it’s the only reason why they’re able to have the things that they do. It makes Angel’s stomach feel sick to think about the ways in which Hell is at times no different from life on Earth — they are all still part of a system designed to keep them in line while the wealthy profit from it. And the worst part of all of it is that the indentured souls thank their overlords for allowing them to exist as cogs in a machine.
Husk is doing structural damage not just to Valentino’s reputation, but to The Vees as a whole. It’s a smart strategy, because a pissed off Val is one thing, but a pissed off Vox means that there’s no one to keep him in line. Angel feels excitement rush through him like an electric current at the thought that they’ve done it: they’ve set the trap, and all they have to do is wait for their prey to take the bait.
“I can’t help but agree with you there, my hoggish high-roller,” Alastor says, smirking. “I don’t know much about that whiny crybaby Valentino, but not long ago Vox asked me to join his team of inexperienced, messy overlords. I declined, of course, I would never want to tarnish my reputation by attaching my name to such a messy group, but Vox got pissy and threw a temper tantrum. He’s still not over it, from what I can tell. So insecure and immature.”
And — oof, what Angel wouldn’t give to see Vox’s face at that comment.
Just then, there’s a soft knock at the studio door. Alastor looks up and his eyes flash green again before he says, “Just a moment, faithful listeners, there seems to be a bit of a commotion on our end here that I suspect has something to do with this broadcast. Enjoy a word from our sponsors while we investigate. We’ll be back posthaste.” He hits a button and then turns his attention fully towards the door.
“What is it?” Alastor barks, firmly. The door opens and Vaggie comes in, wearing a hard expression.
“They’ve responded,” she says. “The Vees went live on one of Vox’s channels a few minutes ago, we have the feed pulled up on Charlie’s laptop—”
“Bring it in,” Alastor commands. His voice crackles again and his smile does not waver, but his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly when Charlie enters the room with her laptop. His eyes, Angel has realized, are where the truth about his feelings and intentions lie.
On the laptop is a stream of one of Vox’s talk shows. Vox is seated at a desk, wearing what would likely appear to most people as a neutral expression, but Angel has known him long enough to see the rage glitching in the corners of his screen. Val is seated beside him in a chair, and he’s doing a much poorer job of hiding the emotion on his face. His mouth is turned comically downward in a cartoonish scowl, and his fingers are digging into the arms of the velvet chair. Between the two overlords is a table with a radio on it, and the echo of the advertisement for Wally Wackford that Alastor has playing comes through the speakers.
Angel’s breath catches in his throat and he looks up at Husk for some kind of comfort, some kind of assurance that they’re doing the right thing, and he finds Husk already looking at him with a fire burning in his yellow eyes.
This is what they wanted, isn’t it? They were trying to get the attention of the Vees, to lure them out, to get them to agree to their terms. Angel just hadn’t anticipated that it would happen this quickly. He didn’t think that Val would be so quick to bite, but he also hadn’t anticipated that Alastor would be so willing to taunt Vox as well. Pissing Val off is easy. Getting Val to embarrass himself publicly doesn’t take a lot of work.
Vox was the real challenge. Vox was the barrier keeping Val away; just like he always did. Vox kept Val in line. In order to get to Val, they had to get to Vox. Angel hadn’t even’t thought of that as an obstacle.
But Alastor had.
Angel swallows and then carefully shifts his gaze to Alastor who is watching the laptop screen with those same narrowed eyes and sinister smile, but now he realizes that there’s something else hiding there. Smug satisfaction and pleasure lurks beneath the surface of Alastor’s amusement, and Angel has a moment of startling clarity where he realizes that there is a personal aspect to this whole fucking thing that he hadn’t even considered.
That night at the casino, the night when Val — the night where everything got so unbelievably fucked, Vox had a reaction to seeing Alastor that Angel had forgotten all about. He had been so preoccupied with Husk’s reaction and with Val’s greedy hunger that he didn’t even think about how Vox had been distracted by Alastor’s presence as well. There’s a history there that Angel doesn’t give a shit about, but may prove useful in their plan to get Cherri back.
“That was fast,” Husk says, sounding suspicious.
“Vox hates being fucked with,” Alastor replies, confirming what Angel had already suspected. “We’ve got them right where we want them.”
“Wow, Alastor,” Charlie says, barely containing her excited squeal. “You’re really amazing!”
Husk shoots Charlie a glare for that comment, but Angel can’t blame her for being impressed. He won’t say it out loud, but he’s starting to think that maybe Alastor is a little bit amazing too. He thought that this would take much longer — that they’d have to play the waiting game, that Val would try to retaliate in some other way first, that he’d hurt them before taking the bait. Alastor joining the team changed things; it gave them a different angle, a secret weapon.
“—big dick move, thinking he can just waltz back into Hell’s overlord scene like he wasn’t gone for seven fucking years,” Vox is saying on the stream. He’s trying to act like he’s too smug to give a shit, but he’s barely holding it together. Anger causes his screen to flash blue and red intermittently and his fingers drum anxiously against the hardwood of the desk he’s sitting at.
Across the bottom of the stream, words move almost too fast to read:
RADIO DEMON BACK IN TOWN AFTER SEVEN YEAR ABSENCE WHO DOES THIS PUSSY THINK HE IS? DOING A SHITTY RADIO SHOW WITH PIECE OF SHIT GAMBLING OVERLORD WHO SWINDLES HUNDREDS OUT OF THEIR HARD-EARNED MONEY EACH YEAR BECAUSE HE’S ALSO A FUCKING PUSSY, GET IT, BECAUSE HE’S A CAT? WHERE HAS THE RADIO DEMON BEEN ALL THIS TIME ANYWAY? HELL WANTS ANSWERS! NO ONE IS GOING TO FOLLOW THIS SHITTY OLD-TIMEY FUCKER—
“And since when does he partner with other overlords?!” Val shouts, doing a much worse job at trying to hide his obvious anger at the situation. “The Radio Demon is working with The Gambling Demon? What kind of bullshit is that? I bet they’re fucking each other, those fucking assholes—”
“Val!” Vox snaps, screen glitching around the sound of the name.
Val’s eyes go wide and he looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to strike Vox for silencing him, but he doesn’t. He just seethes and sinks down into his chair with an angry glare at the camera. Angel has never felt so thankful to not be a part of the studio’s team. The energy in that place right now has got to be absolutely vile.
“Hey, assfuck,” Vox says, directly to the radio. “Are you done hiding behind or ‘sponsor’? You got our attention. Are you gonna talk to us or are you too much of a pussy?”
Alastor is unbothered by Vox’s jab. He turns his attention to Angel and lifts a brow, smile still yellow and sinister where it remains on his face like a rubber mask.
“Your move, my friend,” Alastor says. “This is your plan, afterall.”
“I’m not your friend,” Angel reminds him, firmly. Though, perhaps they’ve become allies at the very least by this point. “But we should answer them. We gotta goad Val into agreeing to a challenge, and he’s nice and pissed off right now so there ain’t any better time than now to do it.”
“I can handle this,” Husk says. He’s looking at Angel with a hard expression, and Angel smiles at him.
“I know you can,” Angel tells him, reaching out to squeeze Husk’s hand. He hopes that his touch is enough to communicate how he feels — that it’s enough to say I love you, without saying it.
“Alrighty then,” Alastor sneers. “Let’s goad these goons into putting on a show.”
Alastor puts up his fingers to count down from three, two, one—
“And we’re back,” Alastor says, slipping once more into his radio host voice. “I believe we have been joined by two others who are tuning into our broadcast via video. Princess Morningstar of The Hazbin Hotel has brought us a silly little contraption with some sort of glitchy video podcast.” He snickers at his own jab and Charlie gives a thumbs up of thanks for the hotel plug. “Vox and Valentino, can you hear us?”
Val is visibly boiling with rage. “Can we hear you? Of course we can you fucking—”
“Oh, so you’re done hiding?” Vox says, cutting Val off. “Finally decided to face us like men?”
“Hello there, old friend,” Alastor replies, coyly. “I really hoped we’d be meeting again under better circumstances, but it seems fate had other plans for us.”
“‘Fate’ is a funny fucking way of calling yourself a coward.” Vox glares into the camera.
“We may have been able to do this some other way if you hadn’t been intentionally goading my guest,” Alastor explains. “I am simply the messenger here to relay his message.”
“Your guest is fucking thief!” Val shouts. “Taking shit that doesn’t belong to him!”
Husk laughs, and leans into the mic. “A thief, huh? Is that what you call someone who kicks your ass at poker?”
“You cheated!” Val accuses, just as Angel thought he would. “I was up all night! I was winning! You went all in because you wanted to fuck with me!”
“I went all in on a winning hand, asshole,” Husk says, smoothly. “It ain’t my fault you lost. It ain’t like I asked you to put your best soul on the table. That was all your own raw stupidity.”
Val seethes, eyes glowing red. His voice is a low hiss when he says, “You tricked me.”
Husk snorts, loudly into the microphone. He’s got on his gorgeous, cocky smile — the one he wears during games when he knows he’s going to win. Angel wishes that Val could see him, that Val knew how hot Angel’s boyfriend is. “I won, fair and square.”
Val doesn’t need to see Husk’s face to read the smugness in his tone.
“If you’re so fucking confident, how about a rematch?” Val challenges, and Angel feels something warm uncurl in his stomach.
Is this what it feels like to win? Is this what it feels like to not have everything in your life go horribly wrong? He couldn’t have planned this any better if he’d tried to; Val has fallen for their trap hook, line, and sinker.
It almost feels too perfect.
“Name the time and fucking place,” Husk practically purrs into the mic, feigning an arrogance that Angel finds so incredibly sexy. “I’ll wipe the floor with you.”
Val’s nails dig into the arm of the chair that he’s sitting in. His wings twitch and he bares his teeth, his demon form barely contained beneath his anger. “A week from today,” Val growls. “And I want it public. I want everyone to see me crush you.”
“Fine by me,” Husk replies, and his own demon form ripples in amber waves beneath his fur. Husk is enjoying this, Angel realizes. He’s having fun fucking with Valentino.
Which Angel thinks might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
“I’ll broadcast it,” Vox interjects, also clearly fired-up at the idea of getting to do something so public, so sure to boost his ratings and make souls flock to him looking for a contract. “Denizens of Hell, would you tune in to watch Val obliterate this old fuck in a game of cards?”
A visual pops up on the bottom of the screen with a QR code that says: VOTE NOW!! DO YOU WANT TO WATCH THE GAMBLING DEMON GET HIS SORRY ASS KICKED?!
An additional visual reveals the results of the survey as they come pouring in, with an overwhelming majority of voters voting “FUCK YEAH” and only a few voting “NO BECAUSE I’M A BORING PIECE OF SHIT!”
“Let’s sweeten the pot, Husker,” Val sneers, his gold tooth glittering under the studio lights. “One soul for one soul, where’s the fun in that? I’ll play your little game, but only if you wager all of the souls on your chain against all of mine.”
Angel stands up and slams the mute button before Husk can respond to that, thankful now that they chose radio over video, so that no one can see the panic in his eyes. Alastor glares at Angel for touching his things without permission, but Angel doesn’t give a shit about how Alastor feels.
“Husk,” Angel whispers, even though no one outside of the room can hear him. “You can’t do that. If he wins, you’ll lose your overlordship.”
Husk looks at Angel with a hard expression. “But if I win, he loses his,” Husk says, and there’s a strange determination in his voice that makes Angel feel queasy, like he’s already made up his mind, like he’s already decided. “Think about it Angel — if I win, we can crush that fucker like the bug he is. We can ruin him. He won’t ever do to another soul what he did to you.”
It’s a good pitch, but a risky one. Angel doesn’t think it’s worth the risk — not if it means Husk losing all of his power. Husk’s power has been a point of contention between them, but Angel cannot deny that both of them need Husk to have power. Especially now, especially when there’s so much on the line. Angel needs Husk to be able to survive this, even if they lose. If Husk bets it all and they lose, it’s over for them completely. Angel can’t have that happen.
“Husk,” Angel says, carefully. “No.”
Husk stares into Angel’s eyes and there’s a fire there, burning hard and hot behind those yellow irises. Angel’s heart is in his throat because he knows that there’s nothing he can say or do right now that will stop Husk from doing what he wants.
It is the first time in their relationship that Husk’s gambling addiction has reared its hideously ugly head, and Angel’s whole body freezes. Angel had forgotten who they were dealing with; he’d forgotten that if Valentino is good at anything, it’s manipulation. It’s poetic, in a sick way, how much this interview feels like it’s foreshadowing the game they are about to play. Just moments ago Angel had been riding a high, feeling like there was no way that they could lose, and now the tables have turned and Val has managed to pull Husk into his clutches without Angel even realizing it.
Val has put an offer on the table that Husk will never be able to refuse. He has pushed his entire pile of chips into the center of the table pre-flop, and Husk’s hunger for gambling, his hunger for the thrill of the game, has taken over his ability to think rationally. The fear in the pit of Angel’s stomach is almost too much to handle.
Is this what gambling feels like? Is it a rollercoaster of high-highs and low-lows? Angel can’t — fuck, he can’t imagine why anyone would want to feel like this. He hasn’t ever really thought about how different their struggles with their own vices are, at their core. Not like this. For Angel, addiction riddled his body with a desire to escape, a desire to feel as good as possible so that he didn’t have to think about the shitty fucking situation he had always found himself in. His addiction had ruined his life and his death, it had put pleasure as the top priority and pushed every other feeling to the side in pursuit of it. Angel hadn’t realized that for Husk, it isn’t like that.
For Husk, addiction is a thrill that pushes and pulls in a horrifying game of tug-of-war. It’s a ride with a headrush that could kill him — that probably did kill him, once upon a time. It’s a feeling Angel would never chase, but one that Husk has built his life around.
Val is the one who realized this, and Val has used it as the ultimate weapon against them.
It is this very striking difference between them that moves Husk’s hand towards the mute button, and drives him to lean into the mic before Angel can stop him to say, “You’ve got yourself a deal, asshole.”
Angel stands there, mouth open in shock, feeling like the floor has been ripped out from under him. Husk has just put it all on the line, literally, and suddenly Angel thinks that maybe this plan was a huge fucking mistake.
How had he been so stupid? Of course this had always been a risk! Of course there was a chance that Husk would crumble, that he’d give in to temptation if it were offered up so easily. Angel had been so worried about himself, that he hadn’t stopped to think about the risk Husk posed to this plan going south.
Angel thinks he might cry, but won’t dare do it in front of Alastor. The interview is still happening, there are voices still talking, but Angel can’t hear any of them. His ears are ringing, and his mind is heavy with the gravity of what Husk has just done. This isn’t just about Angel anymore — it’s about all of the souls on Husk’s chain, it’s about the lives of hundreds if not thousands of souls and their fates for the rest of their eternal damnation. If Val wins and Husk loses, everyone who works at The Jackpot Casino will be owed to the Vees, specifically Valentino and the porn industry. The horror of that reality is almost enough to force Angel to his knees; it’s almost enough to make him sick. It’s one thing to sign to Val of your own volition, but it’s another thing entirely to be forced into a contract with one of the most volatile demons in Hell. On the other hand, there’s the chance that Husk wins, and that’s…
Angel doesn’t even know where to start when it comes to unpacking that.
Husk has power now, sure. It’s something Angel is aware of, and it’s something he’s struggled with for the entirety of their relationship. But if Husk were to win this game, if he were to absorb the souls on Val’s chain into his own pool of sinners, the power he’d have would be insurmountable. Husk would be the most powerful overlord in Hell, and Angel…
Angel doesn’t want that.
The overlord hierarchy is fucked and corrupt and awful. It’s designed to make the punishment of Hell worse for most of the population, and all it does is perpetuate the inequalities already present in the living world. Angel’s entire life had been bookended by unfairness — he had been born into miserable circumstances, into a family that never understood him, into a world that shamed him and hated him for being queer, into a body that could not deny that same queerness. Angel had been raised under the guise that in death, everyone was equal. In death, it didn’t matter if you were rich or poor or gay or straight, it just mattered that you were fucking dead.
Death was, at the very least, supposed to be the closest thing Angel ever had to a fresh start.
But then he got here, and he found out that none of that was true — he found out that dying is just as bad as living, but it’s forever. He got to Hell and had rules that he had to follow, and temptations he had to resist, all the while those born into privilege in life got to maintain it in death and those that clawed their way to the top had an air of superiority that they had somehow “earned” a death more deserving of happiness than others. Angel hated it. He hated every single fucking overlord that he ever encountered, and he hated what they represented, and he hated the contract system.
Husk had been the sole exception to that, but if he were to become powerful by means of this game… Angel wouldn’t be able to stand it. Husk would become the representation of everything that shaped Angel’s life into the shitshow it is now, and Angel would hate that.
But at the same time, it is absolutely imperative for Husk to win this game. Under no circumstances can Val be allowed to become the most powerful overlord in Hell. Angel’s emotions are at war inside of him.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Angel storms out of the room, unwilling and unable to look back.
Chapter 33
Angel leaves the hotel without saying goodbye. He doesn’t even remember making the decision to leave, he just knows that one moment he’s fuming in the hotel’s lobby and the next he’s back home at The Jackpot Casino, laying on the bed he shares with Husk, staring at the ceiling. He’s vaguely aware that his phone is ringing where it’s resting on the nightstand beside him, but he doesn’t answer it. Shutting out the world around him like this is a skill he picked up long ago, and a habit he hasn’t been able to break.
Angel’s body feels numb, like he’s floating on top of a sea of freezing cold water. There’s a buzzing feeling in his fingertips that spreads up his arms like a million tiny pinpricks in his flesh, but he can’t be bothered to move, to get the blood flowing, to make it stop.
Husk put it all on the line. He risked it all, everything, for the thrill of the bet. Angel hadn’t anticipated this, and he feels so fucking stupid for having overlooked it. To him, Husk had been his anchor. Husk had been the one thing that kept him grounded in times of struggle, so he’d forgotten all about the risks involved with Husk’s own vices. How could he have been so careless?
Anger is not the right word to describe what Angel is feeling. Instead, there is a foreboding sense of dread that pulls at his gut; a cinderblock tied tight around his stomach that’s weighing him down deeper and deeper into his worst fears.
When Husk arrives home, he comes into the bedroom and stands in the doorway.
“I didn’t know where you went,” Husk says. He’s annoyed; Angel can tell by the tone of his voice, but Angel doesn’t even bother looking at him. “I was worried.”
He must know what it was that upset Angel, because he doesn’t try to sound like he’s interested in defending himself. He sits on the edge of the bed and a silence settles between them that makes Angel’s stomach churn.
“Why did you do it?” Angel finally asks, after far too long has passed. His throat is dry and his voice strains to a croak when he speaks and he thinks that he must sound pathetic. Just poor little Angel, subservient to yet another overlord; voiceless and helpless.
Husk is quiet for a moment longer and then he says, “I know what you might be thinking, but—”
“But nothing!” Angel cuts him off, sitting up in bed. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? If Val gets that kinda power, it’s over for me, it’s over for all of us!”
Husk is stone-faced and calm. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“You can’t know that!” Angel picks up one of the pillows and throws it, hard, at Husk who doesn’t flinch. “You put this whole fuckin’ thing in jeopardy, I can’t—”
“Oh, so it was fine when it was just your life that was on the line?” Husk asks, nostrils flaring. “I shouldn’t have to be the one to remind you that this whole thing was your idea, kid, you don’t get to be mad at me for raisin’ the stakes!”
“Ya didn’t just ‘raise the stakes,’ Whiskers, ya put the entire balance on Hell on the line for the thrill of it!” Angel’s heart feels like it’s going to burst from his chest from how hard it's pounding.
“Is that really what you think?” Husk asks, after a moment. “That I did this for some kind of high?”
Of course he does. “Why else does anyone do anything?”
Husk stares at him again for another miserably long moment of tense silence, and then he pinches the space between his eyes and makes a frustrated noise. “When are we gonna stop doin’ this, kid?”
Angel swallows the lump in his throat. “Doin’ what?”
Husk opens his eyes again and this time he steadies Angel with a hard look. In the dark of their shared bedroom, Husk’s eyes seem to glow. He places one hand down in front of him, onto the bed between the two of them, and moves closer.
“When are we gonna stop misunderstandin’ each other?” Husk’s voice is a low, sultry purr. Angel’s words fail him; his anger melts away into something that feels like desire as Husk’s heavy form begins to close in on him. His mouth is inches away from Angel’s when he speaks again, “When are we gonna stop runnin’ in circles, bein’ afraid that the other one is gonna up and leave?”
Husk’s breath is hot and Angel’s mouth feels dry and it hits him, then, what Husk is trying to say. What he’s really been afraid of this whole time. Before now, Angel had never loved and been loved in return, not by someone who cared about him. He’s never had to suffer like this before, never felt suffocated by the mere thought of someone — by the threat of being without them. Angel had been so caught up in his own feelings, in his own experiences, that he hadn’t stopped to think about what Husk must be going through in all of this.
For Angel, putting his soul up for bargain was a no-brainer because to him, his soul is meaningless. He hadn’t thought about what it would feel like for Husk to have to do something like that, for him to risk the loss. Angel forgets sometimes that Husk isn’t in his head, that he can’t read Angel’s thoughts the way that it sometimes feels like he can.
“You think I’m doin’ this to run away?” Angel breathes, his fingers twitching at his side. His pulse is racing, making him feel dizzy. “That I wanna leave you?”
Husk doesn’t respond, an action which is an answer all of its own. Both of them have been plagued by loneliness over their several decades in Hell, but Husk has dealt with his in isolation while Angel has tried to fill in the emptiness with meaningless attempts at connection. What must it feel like for Husk, to finally have something worth holding onto after all this time?
“Why wouldn’t you?” Husk looks away. “You’re with me because you’re forced to be. You went from one asshole’s chain to another. Maybe I should just set you free, give you a runnin’ start, let you get away from all of this overlord shit, let the princess help you try an’ get to Heaven.”
“But then what happens to Cherri, if I do that? She’ll just become another one of Val’s victims, ripped to pieces again and again, forced to do shit she doesn’t want to do in front of a camera for all of Hell to gawk at,” Angel says. “I’m tired of running, Husk. I’ve been running since I could walk, and if I keep goin’, my legs might fall off. I ain’t… I ain’t goin’ anywhere, freedom or not. I’m here because I want to be, okay? I’m here because you make me feel like I could actually fuckin’ for once in my life. I’m here because I love you, and I love bein’ with you. I thought you knew that, I thought you knew better than to put everything on the line like this—”
“I put in on the line because if we lose, there ain’t no point in me stickin’ around.” Husk’s voice is gruff and low, and it breaks a little bit, which splits Angel’s heart in half. “If I lose, if I put you up for bet and that fucker takes you… There ain’t nothin’ left for me anymore.”
The gravity of what Husk is implying is too much. It’s complicated in the way it clouds Angel’s senses and makes him feel insane, the thought of a Hell without Husk is too much for him to bear. Angel is at the same time furious and captivated; every muscle in his body screams out in desire, but Angel doesn’t know what for. He wants to strangle Husk; wants to knock some sense into him for even speaking such a thing out loud, for even thinking about it, but at the same time, he feels a strange warmth at the thought that this man would die for him. It’s that same toxic decadence that exhilarated his desire once before, in his relationship with Valentino, but in that relationship he had been the one willing to die if it meant being alone again. The difference this time is that it is not fear that motivates desire, it’s love, and Angel has no fucking idea what to do with that.
His body moves on its own. He reaches out and slams his mouth into Husk’s, teeth clashing, tongues hot and frantic as they claw at one another in a desperate attempt to become one. Today has been overwhelming in so many ways, and all Angel wants to do is disappear into the feeling of feeling.
Angel moves fast, climbing onto Husk’s lap and straddling him against the mattress. Like this, Angel almost feels like he’s the one in control, like Husk doesn’t hold all of the cards when it comes to possession of Angel’s heart and soul. With his upper hands, Angel cups Husk’s face. He digs his fingers into Husk’s jaw and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss, running his tongue along Husk’s bottom lip and then sucking it into his mouth and sinking his teeth in. Husk winces at the pain and then moans, rocking his hips so that Angel can feel how hard he is.
With his lower hands, Angel pulls Husk’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants and slips beneath the delicate fabric, finding purchase in the soft expanse of Husk’s chest. Husk does the same, rough, clawed fingers tickle their way up Angel’s sides and then stop to circle the space around Angel’s nipples, not quite touching him where he wants but teasing in a way that goes straight to Angel’s cock.
“Fuck,” Angel breathes, rocking his hips again, harder this time. Husk groans but keeps up the teasing, moving his thumb in little circles that make Angel’s ears ring with desire. “Touch me,” Angel begs, feeling weightless.
Husk chuckles but does not oblige, choosing instead to move his thumb close enough that Angel can almost feel the pleasure. It’s a deliciously sexy form of playful torture that makes Angel’s head spin and he grabs Husk’s wrist and tries to move his hand where he wants it but Husk resists, holding himself still.
“Husk,” Angel groans, cock twitching. “What’re ya doin—”
“You didn’t say the magic word, baby,” Husk practically purrs when he leans in, his breath hot against Angel’s ear. “Not very nice of you.”
Oh, so that’s the kind of mood Husk is in. Angel can play along.
“Ain’t tryin’ to be nice.” Angel pushes on Husk’s wrist insistently, but Husk is stronger than him. “Tryin’ to get you to make me feel good.”
“Mmm.” Husk shifts, moving his mouth to lick Angel’s ear before trailing his tongue down Angel’s neck and making him shiver. “If you want it, you gotta say ‘please.’”
Angel would glare if he were capable of doing anything other than clinging to Husk and shaking with want. The lack of stimulation is overwhelmingly hot, and he feels high from it. To emphasize to Husk just how badly he needs it, Angel rocks his hips back and forth, pressing his cock against Husk’s belly. Angel is still wearing his underwear and the friction is not nearly enough so he whines, desperate for more.
“Husk.” Angel barely registers the sound of his own voice. “Please.”
Husk’s hand goes still. “Please what, baby?”
“Please,” Angel moans, “touch me.”
Husk presses a kiss to Angel’s neck. “Since you asked so nicely.”
When Husk’s thumb finally brushes the hard pebble of Angel’s nipple it sends a jolt of electricity through Angel’s entire body and he almost cums on the spot. His back arches and he cries out, cock aching and hard where it’s trapped between a layer of fabric. Husk works Angel’s nipple like a pro, circling it without pressing too hard, stimulating every nerve with the callused pad of his finger.
Angel can feel Husk’s cock through his clothes; it’s hard and big against his thigh, and Angel feels like a feral animal with how much he wants it inside of him. Being teased and then touched has him all wound up and ready to burst. The added stress and anxiety of the day only makes the ecstasy that much more intoxicating, and Angel knows that he won’t be able to last long. With his upper hands, Angel steadies himself on Husk’s shoulder and lifts his hips, thankful to have so much arm and core strength from years of pole dancing. With his lower hands, he reaches down and tears off his underwear, the lace rips and his cock is freed and he wastes no time in grabbing it to stroke himself in time with Husk’s maddening touches.
“You’re so beautiful,” Husk whispers and Angel preens from the praise. In this position, grinding himself against Husk’s cock while seated in his lap, Angel feels beautiful. “I love you.”
“Love you too,” Angel tells him. He kisses Husk again, drinking in the taste of him. Beneath him, he feels Husk start to work his belt off, feels him yank his button free and pull his cock out. It doesn’t take any effort for them to line up properly, they don’t need words to know what they want.
When Angel sits on Husk’s cock, his vision whites for just a moment and he swears he sees stars — galaxies, behind his closed eyes. He cries out, fingernails digging so deep into Husk’s shoulder that he thinks he may have drawn blood, and takes a moment to appreciate how full he feels with Husk inside of him. Sex with Husk is good, so good that Angel thinks he may never be able to enjoy it again with anyone else. When he’s with Husk he feels whole in a way he didn’t know was possible, like Husk was hand-molded to fit perfectly with Angel. It makes his heart feel swollen; a heavy, burdensome thing in his chest.
I love you, Angel doesn’t say again, not when he can show Husk with his body. He fucks himself on Husk’s cock, letting himself lose control. He lifts himself up and slams himself back down, moving the two of them so that Husk’s cock hits all of the right places. It’s a desperate, frantic dance, and they move in sync with one another. Husk’s fingers circle the sensitive pucker of Angel’s nipples and Angel’s breath catches, his back arching as pleasure cascades through his body.
Angel knows when Husk is close because Husk’s hips start moving in little jerks, like he’s trying to stop himself. It makes Angel feel insane knowing that Husk wants this moment to last but he can feel his own climax starting to build so he locks in; he pushes Husk down onto his back and rides him, hips like ocean waves, cock bouncing off of Husk’s belly until the stars are back again, until he’s cumming around the shape of Husk’s name in his mouth. He splatters Husk’s chest with his satisfaction and watches Husk’s face twist as he lets himself go inside of Angel, and he rides him through the pulsing aftershocks.
It’s a high like nothing else. Fucking Husk makes every muscle in Angel’s body relax and he pulls himself off and wastes no time in snuggling up to Husk’s side, not caring about how sticky they are. They’ll just take another bath later and get lost in each others’ eyes like they always do. Angel could stay like this forever, in their tiny piece of Heaven nestled away in the fiery pits of Hell.
But forever might not be an option for them anymore. Angel’s stomach tightens and he clings to Husk’s side and the bliss of what they’ve just done turns to something sour. His mood shifts so suddenly that it’s almost scary, and before he can even assess what’s happening inside of him, he bursts into tears. It is not the first time that he’s broken down like this. He’s cried into Husk’s arms countless times since they got together, but this time it’s different because Husk is crying too.
Husk turns and the two of them embrace, holding each other chest-to-chest, tangled up in messy sheets. Husk’s hand smooths the hair on the back of Angel’s head, a welcome comfort as they both allow the fear to take hold for just a few awful moments. Angel lets it consume him; safe in the comfort of his love’s arms, Angel lets himself be truly afraid for the first time since he died. He lets himself be afraid of Val and the wrathful punishment he surely has in store for Angel if they lose, he lets himself be afraid for Cherri, for Charlie, for Vaggie, for Husk. He lets himself fear the unknown, loses himself in the infinite pit of the possibility that they could fail and that the lives they’ve built would be over. He sobs and chokes on the heaviness in his chest and Husk squeezes him tight, tight, tight until he thinks his bones might snap.
Then, after a few minutes, it all starts to feel better. It’s weird how that happens, how the strong, solid form of Husk makes Angel feel like things will be okay — how crying about it, letting those feelings consume him and then releasing them, makes his head feel clear. Angel sniffles as Husk’s sobs slow and even though Angel isn’t happy about any of this, he thinks that at the very least, he understands.
This game is all or nothing and Husk understood that from the start. It may have been Angel’s idea to go up against Val, but Husk knew that this was bigger than that. Val wouldn’t take the bait unless there was more on the line, he’d never settle for just Angel’s soul, not when he feels that his reputation has been brought into question with Angel’s willingness to stay at Husk’s side through all of this. Val had it in his head that Angel wanted him, that Angel had been forced to be prisoner to Husk after he had consented to being prisoner to Val. In his own sick way, Val probably thought that he was rescuing Angel. To Val, Husk is his enemy and the chance to dethrone another overlord while also regaining control of Angel’s soul was an offer he couldn’t refuse.
Husk did this for him.
“There’s somethin’ else that’s botherin’ me,” Angel says. He’s feeling better about talking about this now, feeling that rare vulnerability that comes with this kind of sex.
“You’re afraid of what will happen if Val gets that kinda power,” Husk replies, matter-of-fact, like he already knows.
Angel shakes his head. “Nah, I ain’t afraid of Val,” Angel says. “I’m afraid of you.”
The heaviness of Angel’s words hangs in the air for a moment, and then Husk sighs and tightens his hold on Angel.
“Me too.”
“I’ve seen what power can do, Husk,” Angel says. “It ain’t… it’s evil stuff. You already know that, though, seein’ as you’re an overlord already but… if you win this game, havin’ that kinda power… would you even be you anymore?”
Angel pulls back from the embrace to look at Husk's face, to search it for some sign of that innate evil that Angel once believed existed in all overlords, but all he finds is the pained, compassionate face of the man he loves staring back at him. Angel wants to kiss him.
“I don’t know,” Husk admits, eyes closing. “I wanna say that I would be exactly who I’ve always been, that havin’ that kinda power wouldn’t make me any more corrupt than I already am, but I don’t know. Ain’t no way of knowin’ until it happens.”
“And what if it does?” Angel asks. “What if it turns you into a monster?”
Husk’s mouth presses into a thin line and he untangles himself from Angel’s arms. Angel whines at the loss of heat, at the loss of stability, but Husk doesn’t go far. He rolls over and opens his nightstand and pulls out a lockbox that Angel’s never seen. With a heavy sigh, Husk punches in the digital code and the box beeps loudly before it clicks and he opens it. Inside is a golden revolver and five silver bullets perfectly set in black foam; just the sight of it makes a shiver run down Angel’s spine.
Angel’s voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “Is that…?”
Husk nods. “I’ve been holdin’ onto this for years, as a precaution. Figured one of these days, some bastard I swindled would come after me and I’d have to shoot him. Or the demons in my head would finally convince me that this punishment wasn’t enough, and I’d hafta—”
Husk stops himself short and swallows before looking away. He clears his throat before he continues, “Anyway, I think you should take this. Bring it with you to the game, and when I win, when I get those souls… If I can’t control myself, I want you to put one of those angelic bullets into my skull.”
Angel thinks he might vomit. “No,” he says before he can even think, “No, Husk, I ain’t doin’ that—”
“Only if I can’t handle the power,” Husk assures him. “Only if it makes me into somethin’ that I’m not.”
Angel shakes his head and scrambles away, wanting to put as much distance between himself and that awful thing as possible.
“If you had that this whole time, why didn’t you just use it to kill Val?” Angel asks, looking away. “Why are we goin’ through all of this trouble when we could just put an end to this?”
“Because we don’t play dirty like that,” Husk says. “Because killin’ Val like that would only cause us more problems. I only got five bullets, and if we killed Val, Vox would come after us next — and he’d bring an army, and if we somehow managed to kill him too, we’d have Velvette to deal with next and I don’t even wanna think about what kinda power that girl has. Killin’ Val isn’t the answer. Shamin’ him, takin’ away his throne in front of all of Hell… that’s the way to go.”
He’s right and Angel knows it, but — “That don’t mean I should use that thing on you.”
Husk looks at Angel, and his eyes are desperate in a way that breaks Angel’s heart in two. “It has to be you, baby. There ain’t no one else I’d trust to know that I’ve changed. I can’t… I can’t let this turn me into a monster, not when I’ve spent so much time with you changin’ that about myself. Before that game of cards brought you into my life, I was lost. I was spendin’ night after night lookin’ for answers at the bottom of the bottle, wishin’ that I had the balls to have done shit right when I was alive, feelin’ like all I ever did was waste every opportunity that came my way but now… now I’ve got somethin’ worth fightin’ for. Now I’ve got a bet I ain’t willin’ to lose, and I’m puttin’ it all on the line to keep you safe.”
“Husk—”
“If that bastard’s power corrupts me, you gotta put an end to me.” Husk takes out the gun and loads the bullets one at a time. He spins it and clicks it shut before holding it out for Angel to take. “It has to be you.”
Angel looks at it and it seems to taunt him. He tries to swallow the lump that’s growing in his throat but it won’t go down.
“I can’t—”
“You can,” Husk says. He grabs Angel’s hand and places the gun into it, closing Angel’s fingers around it with his own.
Angel is crying again. The thought of having to do something so horrible makes his entire body ache in grief, but he knows that Husk is right. He thought about this very possibility at the radio tower, it’s why he ran in the first place. But now, here in this bed with a gun loaded with angelic bullets in his hand, Angel can’t run anymore.
Slowly, he nods.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’ll — I’ll do it. If things get bad, I’ll… I’ll be the one to stop you.”
Husk’s entire body relaxes with relief. He comes closer and presses a kiss to Angel’s temple. “Thank you, baby,” Husk says, but it only makes Angel feel worse.
Angel shoves the gun back towards Husk. “We still got time before the game,” he says, wiping his eyes. “Put it away until then. I — I don’t like holdin’ it.”
Husk nods and obeys, locking the gun away and putting it back in the bedside table. “I’m gonna change the lock code, alright? Change it to your birthday, so you’ll be able to open it. Shoulda done that a long time ago.”
The implication that Husk has always feared that there may come a day when Angel would need to use that weapon makes Angel’s skin crawl, but he doesn’t say anything. Right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, they have time together, they are on the verge of a victory that will change their lives, one way or another. They can’t think about “what if,” not with so much to do. He can worry about this later.
Angel scrubs a hand over his face and takes a deep breath. “So,” he says, getting down to business. “How’s about you teach me and the others how to play this fuckin’ game so we can win this thing?”
Husk’s solemn expression transforms into a grin. “Oh, the princess and I already wrote up a schedule,” he says, “Bootcamp starts tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 34
So it turns out, poker is hard. Like, really, really hard. There’s a lot of memorization and paying attention to not only your cards, but the expressions and mannerisms of others. Charlie printed out a few helpful “cheat sheets” for everyone, but they feel more like bandaids than anything else since they won’t be allowed to use them during the actual game.
They’ve been practicing for hours and Angel still has no fucking clue what a royal straight is or a flush or what makes a house full, but he’s at least starting to make progress on pairs and four-of-a-kinds. He had no idea that there were so many card combinations, that cards had value, that there was some kind of fucking monarchy system that everyone else in the room seemed to be aware of but him.
“So you’re tellin’ me that in this game, kings are worth more than queens?” Angel asks as Husk reshuffles the cards for another round. “What kind of sexist bullshit is this?”
Husk sighs. “It ain’t sexist, it’s just how cards work.”
“Well who decided that?” Angel picks up one of the chips in front of him and flips it over between his fingers. “I bet it was some smelly, shitty straight man.”
Beside him, Vaggie snorts a laugh and tries to cover it with a cough. Angel smirks at her, happy to not be the only one who feels out of place playing such an unfamiliar game. Vaggie gets him, and he fucking loves her for that. She may try and pass herself off for a cold-hearted bitch of an ex-angel, but Angel knows that she’s a softie at heart who traded her wings for a demon girlfriend.
“Probably,” Husk says, if only to humor him. “But that ain’t the point here, Legs. The point is to know the value of each card and how they work together with other cards of the same kind.”
Angel bites his lip and watches as Husk rifles the cards together, each one cascading together like dollar bills in a counting machine, making a satisfying sound. “Wait,” Angel says, “Then why did I lose that last round? I had two tens—”
“But I had two jacks,” Charlie says.
“Who the fuck is Jack?” Angel is starting to feel like maybe this game isn’t for him.
“It’s a type of card, it goes jacks, queens, kings, aces—”
“Okay, and who is Ace? Why is he worth more than Jack?”
“They’re not people, Angel,” Vaggie says, still smirking. “It’s just how many points they’re worth.”
Husk sets the cards down. “It ain’t about points, it’s about value. It’s about knowin’ what’s worth stickin’ the game out for, and what’s worth foldin’ over.”
Angel groans and places his face down on the table. “What psycho invented this game, huh? When I agreed to do this, I didn’t realized I’d have to do math.”
“You’re not doing that badly, Angel,” Charlie tries to reassure him, but it falls short. Since they’ve been practicing, Charlie has won a handful of games alongside Vaggie and Husk, but Angel hasn’t won squat.
“We’re fucked, okay? You guys gotta count me out, I can’t play this stupid game.” Angel lightly starts to bang his head on the edge of the table.
Charlie sounds a little desperate when she says, “You just have to remember the card rankings—”
“I am,” Angel complains. “I’m tryin’ but there’s too much to remember!”
Husk sighs and gently pushes at Angel’s shoulder, making him sit up.
“Let’s go again,” Husk says, and his tone leaves little room for argument.
“Husk—”
“Let me watch you, alright?” Husk deals the cards out. “We’re just gonna do a practice round this time, no bets. Our team is only as strong as our weakest link, and right now—”
“Right now that’s me,” Angel says miserably.
Husk nods. “So we need to figure out what you’re not getting. So let’s play another round.”
Angel rolls his eyes. He wants to give up. He’s never been very good at overcoming these kinds of hurtles — school was always a struggle for him and anything involving numbers and memorization just turned to mush in his head. The decades worth of drug use hasn’t helped that problem.
But he knows how important this is, and he knows that Husk is trying to help him not hurt him, so he sighs and leans back, picking up his cards.
“Thank you,” Husk says, and the game begins.
Just like every other time, Angel gets flustered right away. The cards stress him out and he tries to arrange them in an order that makes sense for a winning hand but then Charlie is knocking on the table which means something, and then Vaggie knocks so Angel knocks too and then Husk gives him another card, and it’s a five of hearts and Angel doesn’t know what that means but he’s pretty sure it’s useless so he sets his cards down and says, “I’m out,” after the first round.
Charlie gives him a pitying look, “Angel—”
“I suck,” Angel says.
“You don’t suck,” Husk tells him. “But your problem is that you’re playin’ the cards, and not the table.”
Angel glares at him. “Well excuse me for playing the cards in a fuckin’ card game.”
Husk sighs and collects the cards from the table to shuffle them again. “You’re not hearin’ me. This ain’t a game of luck, like people think it is. And it ain’t really about math either. It’s about perception.”
“That’s what I thought. Isn’t poker all about bluffing?” Vaggie asks. “Doesn’t it not matter if you’ve got a good hand, as long as you can convince everyone else that you do?”
“That’s right,” Husk says, nodding. “In poker, you gotta make everyone think you’ve got the winnin’ hand, even if you don’t.”
Angel blinks. “So you’re sayin’ I don’t gotta actually have a winnin’ hand? I can lie?”
“That’s the whole point of the game.” Husk finishes shuffling again.
“Angel, I think you’re looking at this the wrong way,” Charlie interrupts, hand perched thoughtfully on her chin. “Don’t think of this as a game, think of it as a performance.”
That… actually makes a lot of sense, when she puts it like that.
“A performance,” Angel repeats, turning the thought over in his head.
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “A lot of the skill in the game lies in players’ abilities to fool other people, and isn’t that what you’ve built your whole career on? The point of this game is to have a poker face, one that can trick those stinking overlords!”
“But to do that, you gotta know who you’re up against,” Husk adds, a little gravely. “We’ve got an advantage here seein’ as I’ve played with Valentino before and Angel… Angel knows the bastard pretty well, I’d say.”
Angel shudders. “Yeah, I know him. But he’s also a fantastic liar. That’s how he got to where he is, it’s how he got Cherri. It’s — it’s how he got me. This ain’t gonna be easy. He’s great at foolin’ people, it’s what he does best.”
“Especially considering the fact that he knows you as well,” Vaggie adds, and Angel’s stomach sinks because he hadn’t even thought about that aspect. “He has the upper hand when it comes to reading your moves.”
“Mm, I don’t know about that, Vaggie,” Charlie chimes in. “Val might think he knows Angel, but Angel is an actor, right? I think he’s capable of more than we’re giving him credit for.”
Angel feels a warmth bloom in his chest at Charlie’s compliment, and it boosts his confidence. He doesn’t know if he’s skilled enough to fool the man who taught him all he knows, but he’s willing to try. It’s true that he and Val know eachother better than either of them know themselves, but it’s also true that Angel is no longer the same person he was when he and Val were together. Angel has changed. He’s different now than he was; stronger, more confident, able to stand up for himself. The person Val thinks he knows is just an idea now, a ghost of a person who no longer exists. He may be able to use that to his advantage.
“I agree,” Husk says, with a soft smile towards Angel. “Now, let’s go another round.”
Husk deals out the cards, and they play another round. With the confidence boost and new perspective on the game, Angel feels himself starting to get it. He’s still going to struggle to remember the order of which hand wins over which, but he’s becoming better at bluffing and for the first time since they started, Angel begins to have fun.
He is an actor, and approaching the game as a performance makes everything easier for him. He’s so thankful to have friends who know him well enough to point that out, rather than letting him spiral into his own self-loathing at the feeling of failure.
They have a strong team, with Angel, Charlie, Vaggie and Husk going against what he assumes will be Cherri, Val, Vox and Velvette. Angel is confident that Val will use Cherri to hurt Angel, that he’ll make sure to have her in the game as an intimidation tactic. Sitting across the table from her as they gamble for each others’ souls isn’t going to be easy, so Angel needs to do what he can to prepare himself for it now.
The next few days of poker boot camp pass by in flashes as they practice for hours on end. With Husk as their leader, they each take turns practicing dealing cards as well as playing the table. Niffty and Alastor even sit in for a few rounds just to add more people and practice their bluffing skills.
There are highs — Vaggie catches a bluff from Husk and smirks across the table, “Nice try, baby.” Angel laughs so hard that his stomach hurts. Alastor plays dumb for a few rounds before revealing himself as a master at fooling people, which shouldn’t feel like much of a shock but somehow still does. Charlie wins a hand and squeals in delight, clapping her hands and earning a loving look from Vaggie. Angel feels their friendship start to solidify itself. And of course, there are lows — Angel folds on a full house, “Wait, that’s good?” Niffty loses a round and erupts into a rage, crawling around the room with a letter opener and trying to stab everyone.
But slowly, they developed a system. A rhythm that played, steady like a heartbeat. They stopped stumbling over turns, they stopped letting their anxiety about the stakes get in their way, and somewhere along the line, the game started to make sense. Of course, there were still a few speed bumps. There were still losses and bad hands and mistakes, but fewer of them than when they started. There was progress, and as a team, they moved with momentum now. They played the game with purpose. They weren’t just practicing anymore; they were preparing.
The night before the big game, they all gather for one last practice session. By the end of it, Angel can’t help but feel good about their chances. He’s never wanted something so badly before, so bad that he can taste it. It’s a feeling like a rumbling in his gut, and he lets that feeling overtake the nervousness. It’s no easy task to do what they’re doing, to learn how to play such a challenging game in just a few short sessions, but they’ve made incredible progress.
He doesn’t know if they’re going to win, but he feels ready, which has to count for something, right?
“The game is tomorrow,” Husk says, addressing the table with his hands laid flat on the surface. He’s intimidating in a way that Angel can’t help but find deliciously sexy, and he bites his lip while Husk gives them their final pep talk. “It’s time for us to talk strategy.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Charlie asks.
Vaggie shakes her head. “We’ve been training,” she explains, “but not strategizing. We’ve learned how to play poker, but we haven’t discussed what our formation is going to be like on the day of reckoning. This isn’t individual poker, it’s a team game. We move as a unit — as a squadron, and we show no mercy.”
Angel gives her an impressed look, and resists the urge to comment on the fact that her exorcist training is showing. There’s still so much Angel doesn’t know about her time as a soldier of Heaven, and so much he wants to ask, but now isn’t the time.
“Exactly,” Husk agrees. “Tomorrow, we go to war. You’re not just lookin’ out for yourselves, you’re lookin’ out for each other. This ain’t every man for himself, it’s a team. The others, they’re gonna try and isolate us. They not only want us to turn on each other, they need us to. I have no doubt that their strategy is going to be to try and scare us off of lookin’ out for one another, but we won’t let ‘em.”
“Right,” Charlie says, nodding. “We’re in this together.”
“When you place a bet, you don’t just place it for the win in front of you, you bet to set up better odds for your teammate if you think they’ve got a chance of winning. You take hits to your own chip pile to throw off their rhythm, to make ‘em think they’re winnin’ when they ain’t. When you bluff, you do it to pull pressure off of someone else. You watch the table, not just your hand.”
“How do we signal each other without giving ourselves away to the others?” Angel asks, frowning. “If the Princess wants to tell me that she needs me to raise the bet, won’t the others see that and know?”
“That’s what we’ve been practicin’ for,” Husk tells them. “We gotta be able to know each other, pick up on our habits. We’ve been playin’ cards for days, hours for days. Princess, you’re great at recognizing patterns and tellin’ when someone is lettin’ their feelings into the game. Your job is to keep an eye on that, don’t worry so much about winnin’. You’re gonna be our eyes for the other team, and see if you can figure out their tells. There was a time a few months ago when Angel was able to pick up on the tell of one of my best private clients, and it won me the pot. Tomorrow, that’s you.”
Charlie beams at the praise, happy for the responsibility. “Got it. I can do that.”
“I know you can.” Husk turns to Vaggie. “Your job is to be our shark. If you smell blood in the water, you strike.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means that there will be weaknesses, and when we identify them, you use that stone cold poker face of yours to scare ‘em away from the win.”
Vaggie’s cheeks turn pink and she nods. “It’s the resting bitch face, isn’t it?”
Husk smirks. “It’s a gift, that’s what it is,” he says.
“What about me?” Angel asks, feeling antsy. He can’t believe that the game is tomorrow, and the pressure and fear is starting to set in. “What’s my job?”
Husk looks at him, yellow eyes hard and piercing. “Your job is the same as it’s been since the first day you started working for me: to sit there and look pretty.”
Angel stares at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Husk says, and Angel swallows the anger that bubbles up inside of him.
Angel scoffs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Fuck you,” he says, fighting off the urge to say something worse. Sit there and look pretty? After all that they’ve been through together, is that really what Husk thinks of him?
“I’m serious.” Husk’s eyes are still glued to him. “You’re our wildcard, baby. They’re gonna underestimate you, think you’re too stupid to play a game like this. Let ‘em. Your job is to play into that, to play the role of the clueless bimbo who can’t even keep track of card values. Be loud. Be obnoxious. Be sloppy. Let them think that you’re not a threat.”
Angel fidgets in his seat and hugs himself a little tighter. “You want me to put on a show?”
What was it that Husk had said, all that time ago? Memories of a smoke-filled room and the taste of bourbon on his tongue swirl in Angel’s head. Something about Angel putting on an act for the world, something about “the whole porn star thing” being too much, too loud, too sloppy.
So much of Angel’s work has been undoing the damage that Val had done on his heart and his psyche, and now he’s being asked to step back into the skin of his former self. Can he even do that? Is he capable of accessing that part of himself without becoming him again?
Angel swallows. “This performance better win me that Sex-x-xi award that that bitch Tiffany Titfucker robbed me of six years ago,” he says, smirking. The truth is, he doesn’t know if he can handle this. But what choice does he have but to try? Husk believes in him. Everyone believes in him.
It’s time for Angel to start believing in himself.
“Oh, it so will,” Charlie says, grinning. “If there’s anyone who can pull off an act, it’s you Angel.”
He doesn’t say “I hope so,” like he wants to. Instead, he says, “Course I can. It’s me.”
Smiles spread around the table as the taste of victory teases itself at their lips. They’re so close, and Angel actually feels like they have a chance of winning.
“How do we finish this?” Vaggie asks. “How do we take this home?”
“That’s simple.” Husk pulls the shuffled deck of cards towards him. Without looking, he flips the top card over and onto the table: it’s the black ace of spades. “We get ourselves low, and then we get them to overcommit. We let them get cocky, let them think they’re winning, and then we hit ‘em where it hurts.”
“We play the long game,” Vaggie says, grinning.
“As a team,” Charlie adds, taking her girlfriend’s hand.
“We kick those sorry assholes in the nuts and win Cherri’s soul back.” Angel’s heart swells, so full of hope that he thinks it might burst.
“We’re ready for this,” Husk says, meeting Angel’s eyes. The craziest part of all of this is that Angel actually believes him.
Chapter 35
Angel can’t sleep.
He’s never been very good at clearing his mind when things are stressful, and the night before a game of poker that will literally decide the fate of both Cherri and himself might just be the most stressful thing he can think of. He feels good about where they left off tonight in terms of their skill level with playing the game, but there’s still so much of it that’s being left up to chance and that makes Angel feel uneasy.
See, luck hasn’t exactly been in Angel’s corner. So much of what he can remember from when he was alive was the result of some pretty rotten luck, and that same energy followed him down into the afterlife like a curse. Knowing that his fate, and the fate of Hell’s hierarchy for that matter, is reliant on Angel’s ability to fight that curse isn’t helping him fall asleep.
He sighs and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He doesn’t want to think about the very real possibility that this might be his last night sleeping in this bed, hearing Husk breathing beside him. He doesn’t want to think about what Val winning would mean for him, how awful it would be to have to sleep in his old prison cell of a room in V Tower again. A sour churning feeling bubbles up in Angel’s stomach at the thought and he groans, sitting up to put his head into his hands. He wishes that there was some kind tangible thing he could cling to, something that could anchor him into a sense of confidence that things are going to be okay, but there’s nothing. There’s only words and promises and Angel knows better than to count either of those things as blessings.
He presses his palms into his eye-sockets until little balls of light start to appear and then he feels a gentle hand rest against his thigh. He picks his head up and watches as Huks’s hand squeezes the soft flesh of the only fatty part of his body and his rabbiting pulse slows a little at the comforting contact.
“Can’t sleep either?” Angel asks the darkness. He hears Husk huff and then the lamp beside Husk’s pillow clicks on, filling the room with warm light.
Husk sits up beside him and doesn’t take his hand off of Angel. He yawns and scoots closer, and Angel makes a relieved sound as he melts into the man he loves. Sometimes Angel’s brain feels like it’s filled with a thousand tiny voices all talking at once; an awful, overstimulating noise that makes it feel like he’s going to suffocate from the sound. It reverberates and sends unpleasant shivers down Angel’s spine. When this happens, he wants to curl up into a ball and slam his hands over his ears until the noise stops, but when Husk touches him, he doesn’t need to. When Husk touches him, his mind quiets; everything slows down and he can breathe again. He wonders not for the first time if this is what everyone was always talking about when they talked about true love. He wonders if this sense of safety is part of the deal, if maybe having your soulmate by your side is the secret to making all of the scary thoughts go away.
Because really, that’s what Husk is. He’s Angel’s soulmate — and no, the irony of Husk literally owning his soul is not lost on him. It’s just that he never once felt this way when his soul was tied to Val. Even at their best, even when Angel was the most in love with Val that he had ever been, it never felt like this. The panic and the sound of everything all at once never went away, it only got louder every time Val touched him. Angel hadn’t known then what he knows now about how love isn’t supposed to feel like that. It isn’t supposed to be this loud, awful thing that screams like a siren in his head — it’s supposed to be soft, and good, and quiet.
Husk is all of those things and more, wrapped up in a perfect package. Angel can’t think of anyone else in Heaven or Hell that he’d want at his side.
“I just keep thinking about what it might feel like to lose you,” Angel admits, nuzzling his head into the crook of Husk’s neck. “Feels like my bones wanna break outta my skin, I’m so fuckin’ terrified.”
Husk threads their fingers together and places a kiss on Angel’s head. “We ain’t gonna lose.”
“You can’t know that,” Angel says again, the same argument he’s had since day one.
“I can if I know that I can at least save you,” Husk says, squeezing Angel’s hand tight. “It’s been a long time comin’ anyway, and I shoulda done it sooner, I think I was just scared of you leavin’—”
Angel pulls away and stares at Husk. “Whoa, whoa, what’re you talkin’ about? It better not be what I think you’re talkin’ about—”
“It’s your soul,” Husk says, eyes hard, confirming Angel’s worst fear. “I wanna let you out of your contract. It’s well past time.”
“You can’t.” Angel looks away, feeling that uneasiness bubbling in his gut once more. “The whole point of this is that Val is after me—”
“He wouldn’t know.”
“Yes he would.” Angel bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “He would know right away, and it would blow our whole plan up in our faces because you’da violated the terms of the challenge. You know that just as well as I do. There ain’t no way outta this.”
“But if I could let you out now, before the game—”
“Husk!” Angel snaps, desperate. “He would know, okay? This ain’t one of those things that we can get out of, and you know it. You’re an overlord too, you know how this shit goes. I ain’t just part of this deal, I’m the entire fuckin’ sellin’ point. If my head ain’t on the table, Val won’t play. If Val won’t play, Cherri’s screwed, and you’re under a promise to me to make sure that she gets outta this alive, remember? Don’t try to wiggle out of our deal.” Angel forces a smile as the memory of that first night when something shifted between them in a real way aches in his chest. “I won fair and square.”
Husk looks miserable, but he snorts in spite of himself. “I wouldn’t call that a fair win.”
Angel’s eyes sting with tears threatening to fall. “Too late to take it back now.”
“Guess that’s true,” Husk says.
Angel lets a moment of silence pass between them, and then he asks, “Would you?”
Husk raises his brows in silent question.
“Would you take it back?” Angel clarifies, his heart in his throat. “If you could? Would you go back and stop us from ever meetin’ just to keep the pain of losin’ me away?”
Husk doesn’t even pause to think of his answer: “No,” he says, with certainty. “Ain’t nothin’ in Heaven or Hell that could keep me from holdin’ onto the memory of you. These last few months have been the best of my life, alive or dead. You made me feel human again, somethin’ I never thought I’d get back.”
“Me too,” Angel chokes out, the tears breaking free and falling down his face. “You showed me what love was supposed to feel like.”
Then, they both move. The kiss is salty and wet from both of their tears, but Angel drinks in the taste of it. Husk’s arms are a cage around him; sturdy and strong, protecting him. He feels Husk’s devotion in the swipe of his tongue across his lips and Angel groans as he melts into him. If this is their last night together, then they’d sure as hell better make it count for something, right?
Angel moves, climbing onto Husk’s lap to get a better angle. They’re both in pajamas, with only a thin layer of fabric separating their cocks as they grind, soft and slow. It’s crazy to think about how far they’ve come in their comparatively short time together. Angel’s been dead for over half a century, but nothing in his existence has felt anything like this. He’s never been so sure of anything in his life and he wants to do everything he can to hold onto that feeling as tight as he can.
“I love you,” Angel breathes, when he pulls away to press a kiss to that sensitive spot on Husk’s neck. Husk digs his fingers into Angel’s flesh in reply, arching his back in pleasure. Angel bites down, harder than he should, and revels in the small noise that escapes Husk’s lips in response.
In the time that he’s been in Hell, Angel has had his fair share of sinful urges and fulfillments. So many nights in this dark, desolate pit have been made bearable by the company of those seven succulent temptations. He lost track of how many times he’d languished in the arms of Lust; been goaded by Gluttony, wrangled by Wrath. The sins call this realm their home and their influence never failed to coerce Angel into giving into their call, losing himself in the hypnotising pull of their power. But tonight? Tonight, the sin that’s guiding his every movement is greed.
Tomorrow’s poker game looms like a doomsday clock over their bed and Angel feels only greedy desire as he watches the minutes tick down. His body buzzes with want as Husk’s hands find purchase on his thighs and he yearns for satisfaction that will never be enough. Forever won’t be long enough for Angel to have his fill of the man beneath his hips, and he knows that, but he still he wants.
He wants Husk to be his, forever and always. He wants Husk injected like a drug into his bloodstream, a high he’ll never come down from. He wants to know what it’s like to be whole with the person he loves. Something takes over in that moment, and Angel pulls back to look at Husk with desperation.
“Baby,” Angel says, his voice shaking. He knows what he wants. “I wanna feel you.”
Husk nods and moves to change their position but Angel pushes him down against the mattress and shakes his head.
“No,” Angel says. He swallows. “I want to feel you. I want… I want to fuck you.”
Husk still isn’t getting it. “I know, baby,” Husk says, “I’m tryin, but you gotta—”
“Husk,” Angel insists, reaching down to grab a fistful of Husk’s hair to hold it tight. “I want to fuck you.”
Husk stares at him for a moment and Angel watches as understanding passes over his face. “Oh,” he says.
“Good ‘oh’ or bad ‘oh’?” Angel asks.
Husk lets out a shuddering breath. “Neither,” he says. “Just — uh… oh. You sure?”
Angel nods, “Yeah. I’m sure.”
It’s a line they’ve never crossed. It’s something that Angel has never wanted with anyone else, ever in his life or death, until now. He knows with perfect clarity that this is something that he needs to do before tomorrow’s game, that he needs to feel connected with Husk in this way at least once before it’s all over. He laughs at himself for the drama of it all, feeling a little crazy, because for so long this was something that he never imagined himself wanting — something he never knew he needed.
Being in the porn industry for so long and using sex to define himself let him slip comfortably into a label that he had always believed was right for him. Angel knew he was a bottom; a power bottom, a sub, a brat, all of the things that came with the crown that always seemed to fit perfectly on his head, a safe way that he could tell people who he was and what he wanted without ever having to let them in. Sex was the only thing in his life that ever made sense, that was easy, because he knew what felt good and he knew how to ask for it.
Husk changed all of that, the way he changed everything else in Angel’s life. With Husk, sex isn’t just some means to an end. It isn’t a routine, or an act, or something he’s doing for the sake of getting off or getting Husk off. It’s a connection, a thing that they do together that lets them exist in a space that’s all their own. When he’s with Husk, he feels safe, he feels loved and cherished and special in a way that he never knew was possible before this. With Husk, sex isn’t just about reaching climax or chasing some high — it’s about feeling one another and reveling in the pleasure of making the one he loves feel good and feeling good in return. It’s about two halves of a whole becoming one again, if only for a short moment of time.
Angel knows how it feels to be connected with Husk from the bottom. He knows how full he feels when Husk’s cock is pulsing inside of him, how his vision blurs and everything that’s loud dulls and he leaves his body to savor the bliss of being fucked. He knows that there’s safety in that, a promise unspoken between them, a feeling that transcends everything else. But now, Angel thinks that he wants Husk to feel that way too. He wants to share that experience with him and only him. He wants to know what it’s like to be whole from another perspective.
Husk swallows. Angel wonders what he must be thinking in this moment, if this is something he even wants, and then Husk says, “Fuck, yeah baby. Let’s do it.”
And just like that, something shifts between them. Husk takes the lube from the bedside table and puts it on the bed beside them. There’s an awkward repositioning of their bodies as they try to figure out just how this is going to work, and they both laugh at the absurdity. Angel’s chest is warm when he realizes that laughter during sex is never a luxury he had been afforded before Husk. Smiling during sex, playfulness during sex, is something he never knew he’d get to experience.
Decades of doing porn means that Angel has topped a few times before, but he’s never enjoyed it. Val liked to make him do it to punish him when he was being defiant, so there’s an extra layer of trauma that makes his nerves feel like they’re on fire as he gets into position. Val loved to do that shit — he loved to use sex as a way to punish Angel, to make him think that he knew things about himself, to condition him into liking and disliking things like a trained animal. Val prided himself on being this sex god who knew all there was to know, who liked every kink, who understood sex on a scientific level, but now Angel knows that it was all bullshit. Part of him feels bad in reflection, because Val will never know how good sex can really be, how healing. Val will never know what it feels like to truly connect with another soul, to feel them completely, to want them in all possible ways that you can have them.
But then, Angel remembers that this is Val he’s talking about, the man who took everything from him and laughed in his face while he suffered, and then he doesn’t feel so bad anymore. This — this moment with Husk — this is something he can never take from him.
Angel warms up the lube on his fingers and gently applies it to Husk’s hole, biting his lip when Husk shudders in response. Husk twitches, thighs reacting in surprise, but then he relaxes into the feeling and closes his eyes as he leans back against the pillows. Angel doesn’t know if Husk has ever bottomed before, and frankly, it isn’t any of his business, but he gets the feeling that this is uncharted territory for the both of them. Angel’s experience with topping isn’t pleasant, but if tonight is his last night alive, he’s going to do everything he can to reclaim that. Val doesn’t get to have authority over him, not anymore.
This way, even if the worst happens and Val wins tomorrow, there is a part of Angel that will always belong to Husk.
Angel moans in sync with Husk when he presses his fingers inside. Husk is warm and tight and perfect and Angel feels dizzy from the high that comes with the feeling of being inside of him. He’s on his knees between Husk’s open thighs and he watches as Husk’s face tightens and relaxes, his mouth open. He looks beautiful from this angle and Angel wishes he could take a picture with his mind, save this moment forever to take back out in times of struggle. If he could somehow package this feeling, make it last, he thinks that there’s nothing in the world that would be able to bring him down.
“You’re beautiful,” Angel whispers, his heart swollen.
Husk’s eyes peak open and he huffs a laugh. “I’m the one who should be tellin’ you that,” he says, his voice rough.
Angel fucks his fingers in and out and is amazed at how well Husk takes him. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised — of course this would be just another way in which they’re compatible. Everything has always been so hard for both of them, in their lives and their deaths, they deserve to have something come easy for once.
Husk is quiet, but his body language does the talking for him. His fists grip the sheets and he bites his lip and his hips buck with every thrust of Angel’s wrist, wanting more. When Angel pulls out, Husk makes a desperate sound that goes straight to Angel’s cock. Angel uses his slicked-up hand to stroke Husk a few times and feeling Husk’s length in his grasp is almost enough to make him change his course. Husk is big and thick and perfect, and Angel’s mouth waters thinking about putting his cock in his mouth.
He almost does, but then he hears Husk beg, “Please, baby…” in the softest voice, and everything else flies out the window.
Husk wants Angel to fuck him.
He wants Angel to fuck him.
How can he say no to that?
Angel releases Husk’s cock and squeezes more lube onto his hands, sloppily applying some to his own. His heart is pounding in his chest and he feels like he can’t breathe, but it’s now or never and since this could be their last night together, there’s no time for hesitation. Angel lines himself up and pushes inside of Husk and everything—
Stops.
The moment of connection between them is unlike anything Angel has ever felt. It’s weird, and different from what he’s used to, but it’s so, so good. Feeling Husk all around him like this is unreal in the way that it sucks the breath from his lungs, in the way it blurs his vision and makes him feel like maybe there’s some truth to the redemption shit Charlie is always spouting because this — this — feels like Heaven.
It’s not the act of topping that feels good, it’s the way that they’ve both left behind all of their preconceived ideas of what sex should be in favor of loving one another as completely as they can. Angel is inside of Husk, feeling him, and he thinks that maybe they really can do the impossible afterall.
Angel moves his hips on instinct as desire takes over. He reads Husk’s body language and fucks him both fast and slow, giving into what Husk wants and chasing the high of his own orgasm at the same time. They’re so perfectly in sync that Angel thinks that they really have become one, that their brains and bodies are cosmicly connected in a way that makes both of their moans come out together, soft breaths and stuttered words fall from their lips as they kiss, hands clawing desperately at one another.
It feels so good, fucking like this, loving like this. Husk reaches down between them and starts jerking his cock in desperate motions and Angel feels his mind break at the sight of it. He’s had more sex than he can quantify, but he’s never seen something so hot in his life.
Husk is perfect. He’s gorgeous, and sweet, and sexy. He takes Angel like he was made for him, like they were designed to fit together. Angel can’t believe how fast he feels his orgasm build and he pulls away, looking at Husk in shock when he realizes that he doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to stop himself.
He’s a goddamn professional, he should be able to stop himself from coming too early, but—
Angel makes a noise he’s never heard himself make, a guttural, desperate sound, as he releases all of his built-up tension inside of Husk. His arms and legs both shake with the intensity of his orgasm and he collapses, embarrassingly, on top of Husk. Beneath him he feels Husk stroking himself, faster, faster and then Husk lets out a small gasp as warmth splashes on Angel’s belly. They lay there for a while, both catching their breath, and then Angel feels the soft press of Husk’s lips on his forehead and he sighs in happiness.
He rolls over, sticky and wet and spent, and pulls Husk into his arms.
“That was…different,” Husk says, after a minute.
Angel laughs. “You can say that again.”
“Been a while since I’ve let anyone get that close to me,” Husk admits, tracing a messy pattern along Angel’s arm with his claw. “As in, I don’t think I’ve ever let anyone get that close to me.”
Angel bites his lower lip. “Me neither.”
The gravity of tomorrow’s inevitability feels somehow lighter. Angel knows that there’s nothing he can do to control the situation, but he feels like at the very least, he can go in with his head held high tomorrow.
“Don’t know if I can make a habit outta that, though, if I’m bein’ honest,” Angel says, smirking. “Kinda missed havin’ you plow me into the mattress.” He leans over the presses, his mouth to Husk’s ear. “Daddy.”
Husk instinctively jolts away, swatting playfully at Angel with a look of disgust on his face. “Don’t call me that,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.
“Oh come on,” Angel teases, “Can’t you let me do it, just this once?”
Husk glares at him. “No. I ain’t lettin’ you call me that, especially not after we just…” His cheeks turn red and he looks away.
Oh.
Oh, wow, is Husk embarrassed?
“After we just what?” Angel asks, feigning innocence.
“After… you know. After you fucked me.” Husk barely gets the words out, and Angel has to hold back laughter.
“Oooooooh,” Angel says. “Does that make me the Daddy this time?”
Husk shoves him away fully this time and rolls to the other side of the bed. “We’re done here.”
Angel bursts into laughter and reaches out for Husk but Husk scoots away from him, out of his grasp. “Come on, baby, give Daddy a kiss—”
“You’re ridiculous,” Husk scoffs, rolling his eyes. He’s trying to seem annoyed but Angel sees the smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “I ain’t callin’ you that.”
Angel loves this. He loves that they can joke around after having sex that was… intense, like that was. He loves that Husk trusts him, that they trust each other. He feels lucky to have found a love like this in Hell of all places — and hey, maybe that luck will score him a win at tomorrow’s game, who knows?
After that, Angel follows Husk into the shower so that they can clean themselves off, and they take their time in the heat of the shared space to admire one another’s bodies. Husk trails kisses down Angel’s chest and stomach, hands finding purchase on the swell of Angel’s ass as they rub their tired cocks together under the spray. Neither of them are up for another round of sex, but there’s something intimate about being able to exist like this, to escape from the world for just a little while.
Angel can’t let Husk set his soul free. Not yet. He still needs Husk to keep it safe, for a little while longer. And though it’s not quite the same, Angel thinks that Husk needs him to keep his soul safe too, just in a different way.
It’s this unspoken promise to protect one another, come way may, that carries Angel through the rest of the night and into the battle of the next day.
Chapter 36
Cameras flash in bursts as the group steps out of Charlie's limo and onto the cobbled pavement outside of V Tower. Charlie had been against using the Vee’s homebase as the location for the game, but Husk and Angel had insisted that the Vee’s comfort level was crucial to the success of their plan. Vox agreed to do a live feed of the game for all of Hell to watch, and if Angel’s team pulls off their win, it’ll be impossible for the Vees to recover their reputation.
All of Hell’s press is here, and Angel feels like he’s back on the red carpet again as they walk through the red sea of reporters that part for their entrance into the game. Angel hears someone in the crowd direct a wolf whistle at him and he winks at them before blowing a kiss, working the crowd the way he knows how to with little waves and acknowledgements, smiles and make-believe adoration for the strangers around him. He looks good tonight — he knows that he looks good, and he owns it. He’s wearing the gold dress that Cherri bought him back when this all started, the dress that Val tried to harm him in, the dress that took Husk’s breath away.
It feels like a full circle moment. A lifetime ago, he went with Cherri to the mall and tried this dress on in front of a full-length mirror. He remembers how suffocating it had felt back then, how he didn’t feel like he was the kind of person who should be allowed to wear clothes that made him look like he was worth something, how lost he had been in his own understanding of who he was and what he deserved.
But Cherri knew, even then, that Angel was worth more than he ever could have believed.
She saw the best in him, always, even at his worst. Cherri has been in his corner through it all, she’s fought for him, she’s screamed her lungs out trying to get him to hear her when she says that he’s better than all of the other cunts in Hell put together, and now it’s time for him to finally pay her back. It took him too long to hear what she was saying, too long to believe her, and now she needs him to come through for her and he’s determined not to let her down.
The evening’s festivities are taking place in one of Vox’s mega arenas; a large space that he reserves for big events like sports or public humiliations. The stands are filled with sinners, just as Angel hoped they’d be, an audience waiting to watch the showdown of the century between two of Hell’s most powerful overlords. There are bright stage lights shining down on them as they take the stage, and Angel holds his head high and waves at the crowd.
When Angel catches his image projected on the jumbotron above them, he thinks that he finally understands what Cherri sees in him. The dress fits him now, better than it ever did before. It’s tight on his body and hugs his curves in all of the right ways. Beneath the spotlights of the tournament space, Angel’s dress glitters in golden flecks that burn like a stolen sunbeam.
Standing there, tall and confident, drenched in gold, Angel does not look like a sinner. He looks like the dawn; radiant and warm, he stands out against the grim grit of Hell’s backdrop, a sliver of daylight that he hasn’t seen in almost a century of being six feet under. Angel’s throat feels tight but he doesn’t let the emotion show on his face as he takes the stage to the applause of the sinners that Vox got to fill the stands.
Beside him, Husk looks just as good. His pointed shoes click against the stage floor with steady confidence, the kind that makes him sound powerful. He’s all clean lines and quiet strength, his tailored suit is trimmed in gold that mirrors Angel's dress without stealing any of its fire. His hair is slicked back, the silver streak that Angel loves peeks out like a slash of moonlight beside Angel’s sun. Their matching gold rings glint as they move, two halves of the same whole — dazzling, dangerous, and an unspoken promise that they are a team.
Charlie and Vaggie are with them as well, dressed to impress in matching outfits of red, black and silver. The Princess of Hell spares no expense when it comes to making public appearances count, Angel observes, and just as Angel has been trained in how to interact with the public, Charlie’s diplomatic background shines through. The two girls are hand-in-hand as they take the stage and Charlie smiles warmly in spite of the negative energy being thrown in her direction from the people who view Hell’s hierarchy as just another means of keeping them stuck in their low stature.
Before the hotel, Angel had felt that way. He didn’t care about Lucifer, or Lilith, or their stupid daughter. He didn’t care about politics or change or any of that shit, because never in his entire existence had anyone in a position of power actually done him any good. Charlie changed that. She showed him that there can be good in this fucked up realm of pain and suffering. He still doesn’t know if there’s any merit to this whole redemption thing, but he’s willing to stand by her side when this is all over and support her dream in trying to achieve it.
It’s the least he can do, all things considered.
The event’s host for the evening is an overlord that Angel has never met named Rosie. Alastor brought her in as a neutral presence who would be able to serve as the events referee without bias. She greets them when they take the stage, showing her mouth filled with razor sharp teeth in a wicked smile that makes Angel’s hair stand on end. Her eyes are black holes, the same black holes sported by all residents of Cannibal Town, and Angel realizes that she must be the overlord in charge of that sector of Hell.
Internally, he can’t help but marvel at Alastor’s ability to pull something like this off. Husk still feels a lot of hesitation around trusting him, but Angel will award credit where it’s due. Alastor befriending the overlord of one of Hell’s most powerful and populous sectors is no small feat.
Rosie is dressed in a black and red vintage gown that puffs out onto the floor. Her snow-white hair is pinned to her head in tight curls and her face is powdered with artificial red blush dusting her cheeks. She has the same air about her that Alastor does; the same powerful sort of presence that feels ancient and evil in a way that Angel doesn’t fully comprehend. Like Alastor, Rosie seems to always be smiling — a gentle kindness that feels manufactured, a porcelain mask covering up something rotten beneath.
“Welcome to the stage, the famous porn star Angel Dust, The Gambling Overlord Husker, The Princess of Hell and her lady in waiting: Vaggie!” Rosie’s voice is powerful and charming. Angel can see how someone like her manages to run an entire city sector; her energy is unmatched.
“I am not her lady in waiting, I’m her fucking girlfriend,” Vaggie says, but no one hears her over the applause. Charlie pats her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“It’s so nice to see you all here tonight,” Rosie says, opening her arms wide to the crowd and ignoring Vaggie’s protest. “If I know one thing about Hell, it’s that they sure do love a show, don’t you?”
The crowd thunders in reply. Rosie turns her attention to Husk, her black, empty sockets are wide and impossible to read. She smiles, showing all of her razor-sharp teeth. “Do you have anything you want to say to the crowd before we bring out your competition?”
Husk clears his throat. “The Vees are power-hungry, dirty-playing, pathetic excuses for Hell’s overlords. They take things that don’t belong to them and they play you all for fuckin’ fools.” He pauses, gives the crowd time to cheer and boo, unbothered by either response. He holds himself up with pride and integrity, and Angel thinks he’s never looked more handsome. “I’m done lettin’ them have that kind of power, and you should be too.”
“Oh, is that so?” Vox’s voice booms around the room. The screens all glitch and then his face appears on them, watching them from every angle, grinning wildly. Angel’s blood boils at the sight of that smile, all-too familiar with the awful things that tend to follow it. “I guess we’ll see about that, won’t we?”
“Looks like our other honored guests have arrived,” Rosie says, stepping away from Husk and back towards center stage. “Ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between, please give your applause to The Vees!”
The lights explode to life overhead, flooding the area with white-hot brilliance. The crowd’s cheers become a wall — shrieks, boos, camera shutters, all blending into one overwhelming sound. Angel bites his cheek and avoids clapping his hands over his ears, schooling his expression to appear as unbothered by it as he can.
The Vees appear from below on some kind of rigged mechanism that rises from the floor. Angel rolls his eyes, knowing that Val is probably the one who insisted on such a flamboyant and gaudy display. They appear like a single shadow that splits into three. Vox, Velvette, and Valentino ascend in matching black-and-blue sequined suits that glimmer under the lights like gemstones. Their steps are perfectly in sync — hungry, confident, deliberate.
Angel swallows hard as the Vees approach the poker table in the center of the room. He can feel Val’s eyes on him, watching for a sign of weakness that Angel refuses to give him. Instead, Angel meets his expression with a glare of his own, locking eyes and holding Val’s gaze in a silent challenge, daring him to try and cross a line. It’s not like Val has ever shied away from abusing Angel in public, Angel knows that Vox probably has some sort of sick gag-reel compilation of all of the times Val’s hit him or spit on him or called him a whore in front of people, but doing something like that today — when Angel is here as an accessory to Husk, would be a stupid move.
He still doesn’t feel great about being considered “property” by any means, but being Husk’s means that Val has no authority to touch him. For now, his contract still protects him from harm.
“Hello, denizens of Hell,” Vox announces, his voice booming around the stadium without the need for a microphone. He opens his arms wide, loving the spotlight. “I hope you’re all ready to watch the Vees CRUSH the Gambling Overlord!”
The crowd cheers and Vox laughs. Beside Angel, Husk is a brick wall of composure.
“I think we’re all looking forward to seeing how this game plays out,” Rosie says, with a wink. “Though, I can’t help but notice that your numbers are a little uneven. There are four players on Team Husker and only three on Team Vee.”
Angel tries not to roll his eyes at how scripted this feels. He’d bet money that Val is the one who wrote these lines for Rosie, they have his uninspired banality all over them.
“Good observation, Rosie my dear,” Vox says, all fake charisma and charm. Angel doesn’t miss the way Rosie’s lips twitch in annoyance at the pet name. “Before we can get started, we need to make sure that Hell understands the risks at stake here. Bring out the girl.”
Angel’s stomach sinks as he realizes what’s about to happen. On the far right side of the area, on a platform, smoke erupts from yet another hidden door. Angel watches in horror as a cage ascends from below, with Cherri inside of it, her wrists, ankles, and throat bound in blood-red chains. It’s garish and degrading and it makes Angel sick — of course Vox would take this opportunity to humiliate them as much as he can.
“This is the soul that The Gambling Demon is risking it all to save,” Vox tells the audience. “This junkie is somehow worth betting every soul on his chain for.”
The crowd laughs and boos. Angel shifts uncomfortably, but Husk’s expression remains unchanged. The screen above the platform where Cherri’s cage sits flashes to life, displaying two glaring numbers:
VALENTINO: 3,502 SOULS
HUSKER: 4,788 SOULS
A lump forms in Angel’s throat as the weight of Husk’s true power stares him in the face. 4,788 souls. 4,788 human beings whose lives no longer belong to them, who are indentured to Husk for the remainder of their eternity, trapped with no way out. Angel knows that his soul is one among that number, a single digit in a matrix of faceless figures. He wants to feel angry about it, he wants to let the disgust he feels bubble to the surface but he can’t. Not right now. Not when there’s so much on the line.
Not when that number could soon be added to Valentino’s in a sum that would tilt the scales of Hell forever.
“My, the Gambling Demon sure has been busy, hasn’t he?” Vox booms. “All those souls and because his favorite little whore likes this one, he’s betting it all. That’s not very responsible, is it? If I were a sinner down on their luck, I’d never want to sign with someone as careless as Husker. This blatant show of favoritism is an embarrassment to the very infrastructure that holds Hell’s hierarchy together.”
Angel’s fury is blinding. “That fuckin’ asshole—”
Husk grabs Angel’s arm to stop him before he can make a scene. Vox’s gaze flickers over to Angel, goading him to get involved, but Angel swallows his anger and clenches his jaw shut.
“When we win this game and Val wins Husk’s souls, the Vees promise to take good care of every new number added to our ranks,” Vox says. “Trust us, with your future.”
Once more, the crowd erupts in applause. Vox’s stupid tagline never fails to get a reaction like this from Hell’s denizens, and even if Angel knows that nothing good has ever come from trusting any of the Vees, he can’t do anything but stand there while everyone worships Vox from the audience like some kind of false god.
Then, something changes.
The lights flicker and the screens buzz and Vox’s face falls as he looks around in confusion. A chill blows through the air and from the shadows, Alastor forms on stage, his sinister, always present smile glowing. Husk startles at Angel’s side and Vox’s demeanor visibly shifts as the audiences’ cheers melt into sounds of awe and surprise.
Vox takes a defensive stance. “Alastor? The fuck are you doing here? You aren’t part of—”
Alastor puts his hand out and Vox’s words die in his mouth. “As if I would miss out on such a thrilling event,” Alastor says, standing tall and menacing, right in the center of the stage and commanding everyone’s attention effortlessly. “I am the one who orchestrated this, after all. I do hope you’ll pardon my tardy, Rosie.”
“Alastor!” Rosie says, her voice dripping in adoration. “Don’t worry, I knew you’d be waiting for the perfect moment to make your entrance. Things were just starting to heat up out here, weren’t they folks?”
More applause. The energy in the room is electric.
“Yes, I do believe that Vox was about to introduce their fourth player,” Alastor says, turning to face Vox with an expectant look. Angel tries not to gawk at how easily Alastor seems to snuff out Vox’s flames, how small he makes Vox seem in comparison to himself. “Weren’t you, Vox?”
Vox visibly boils with rage, but manages to keep his composure. “Yes,” he says through gritted teeth. “I was.”
“Lovely,” Alastor says, giddy with Vox’s displeasure. “Bring him out. We don’t have all day.”
Vox’s eye twitches and yet another trap door opens up (okay, this is gettin’ ridiculous) and someone that Angel recognizes joins them on stage. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’s a rival of Cherri’s — a mad scientist of some kind, he thinks, whose made it his entire personality to fuck with her whenever he can. Penward? Pengolin? Pen—
“Hello! I am the great and powerful Sir Pentious!” he says, and right, that’s his name. A snake pun. Funny. “I am here to best you in battle, Gambling Demon, and win Cherri’s soul—”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, tune it down Pentious,” Vox says, cutting him off. Pentious stands there, mid-declaration, and looks uncomfortable. He’s dressed in the same blue and black theme as the other three, though clearly dressed as an afterthought. “Alastor fucked up your entrace. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter anymore.”
“B-but Cherri—”
“There you have it folks,” Rosie says, speaking over Pentious again who makes a noise in protest that gets drowned out. “The Vees fourth and final player for tonight’s game!”
“The stakes have never been higher,” Alastor adds, showboating. He spins his staff and points it towards the screen with the soul-count numbers. “Tonight’s winner will undoubtedly be declared the most powerful sinner in Hell, and you are all here to witness—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Rosie interrupts. “Now I know those numbers are pretty and all that, but maybe we shouldn’t be making such big declarations. I’m sure there are quite a few overlords who wouldn’t be too happy with a game of cards deciding such an important title.”
The crowd hums in agreement.
Alastor’s smile doesn’t waver. “Mmm, perhaps you’re right!” His head snaps in Angel’s direction without his body moving, and his eyes lock onto Charlie. “Princess, wouldn’t you agree that any overlord with a soul-count of this victory’s caliber would be considered quite powerful?”
Charlie stares at him. “I-I mean — yeah, I guess, but I don’t know what I have to do with—”
“And wouldn’t you, the princess of Hell, want whoever that victor is to pledge their support of your hotel and all that you stand for?” Alastor asks. “Would you be willing to — say, crown the victor of tonight’s game with that title in exchange for their loyalty to you? In exchange for helping you out with your little business venture?”
Husk makes a noise next to Angel and Angel looks over to see that his eyes are narrowed in suspicion.
“What is this fucker up to?” Husk mumbles.
“Uh,” Charlie says, and then when she catches her stupidified face on the jumbotron, she clears her throat and stands up a little taller. “Y-yes! Yes, I, the Princess of Hell, will award tonight’s victor with the title of ‘Most Powerful Sinner’ if and only if they agree to help support my cause over at the Hazbin Hotel!”
The crowd goes nuts. People jump from their seats in hoots and hollers of excitement, because even though a title is nothing more than empty words, such a declaration would be huge in terms of overlord politics. Angel swallows the sour taste in his mouth. This is the last thing he needs right now.
Val’s ego can’t take the boost that the title of “Most Powerful Sinner” would give him, and Angel doesn’t think his relationship with Husk would survive something like that. Angel didn’t go through Hell — literal Hell — with his rehabilitation just to wind up the arm-candy of the most despicable demon in the afterlife. Just when he thought that the stakes couldn’t get any fucking higher…
“Wonderful!” Alastor says, his voice distorting on the vowels. Angel thinks he sees Rosie’s expression flicker, but he’s not really paying attention to her. Not when the game is about to start. “Let’s play a game, shall we? This will be fun.”
Not when everything he has ever cared about is about to be put on the line. Alastor dissolves away in a cloud of shadow and reappears on the platform near Cherri, where a few empty chairs for eliminated players are lined up.
Rosie takes her seat in the dealer’s chair, and props her microphone up in a stand. The others follow slowly, taking their seats one by one.
“Alright,” Rosie says, conjuring a deck of cards out of thin air. “I want a clean, fair game. Any cheaters will be disqualified immediately, and I’ve got my top cannibals watchin’ these cameras like vultures around a rotting corpse, you got that?”
When the players nod, Rosie smiles. “Good,” she says, brightly. “Let the game begin.”
*.*.*.*.*
The cards snap, crisp and clean as Rosie shuffles. There’s an electric sort of energy in the air and Angel feels it like a current running through the table beneath him. Rosie’s long, lacy sleeves swish as she deals, and she cracks jokes that make the audience laugh. Angel barely hears her over the rush of his own pulse in his ears, too anxious to laugh at them himself. The stakes are too high for Angel to think about anything other than the cards in front of him and his palms are sweaty as he picks up the first four of the night and takes their value in.
The numbers and symbols look foreign to him. They’d spent so much time practicing, learning the cards and the hands that they’re supposed to look for, and Angel can’t remember a single thing about how this game is supposed to work. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat but it won’t go down.
Great. They’ve barely even started and Angel is already having a panic attack. This is what happens when bastards like Alastor raise the stakes at the last fucking minute.
Angel looks up, looking for Husk, looking for reassurance that he’s going to be okay, but instead he finds the sinister red eyes of Valentino staring back at him from across the table. He freezes, feeling like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to, and Val immediately recognizes Angel’s anxiety as a sign of weakness.
“You’re mine.” Val doesn’t need to talk for Angel to know exactly what he’s thinking. It makes his skin crawl.
This is exactly what Angel was afraid of. Val knows him. He knows Angel better than anyone — better than Husk, and he knows when Angel is lying and when he’s scared. Val’s mouth curls into a knowing grin and his tongue comes out to swipe venom across his lips. Nausea bubbles up in Angel’s gut at the thought of that venom, that awful, terrible substance, being back in his system again.
There’s so much riding on this game.
Angel forces himself to look back down at his cards. Focus, Angel, he tells himself. Focus. You’ve got this.
The cards in his hand are a king of hearts, a two of spades, a three of hearts, and a four of diamonds. He can’t remember for sure, but he’s pretty sure that this is a garbage hand. That means that he can either fold right away, or he can try and bluff. Husk had called him their team’s “wild card” but Angel still isn’t sure that he understands what that means — if it’s a compliment, an insult, or something in between.
Rosie deals the flop.
Three cards slide onto the felt in a neat, practiced sweep: seven of clubs, queen of diamonds, five of spades. None of them help him. Not even a little.
Charlie is the first to fold, a soft sigh slipping from her lips as she sets the cards on the table face down. Pentious follows her lead, hissing and cursing under his breath. Husk taps two fingers against his chip stack and raises, pushing in a modest but confident line of chips. His expression doesn’t change, but Angel has seen him play poker enough times that he knows that look — Husk is testing the water.
Across from them, Vox meets the raise without hesitation, his neon grin lighting up his face. Val follows, sliding his chips into the center of the table. Vaggie stiffens beside Angel, and Charlie glances around nervously. Angel stares down at his hand and the useless king stares back at him. What the fuck is he supposed to do?
There’s no way he’s winning this, but maybe he can bluff. At the very least, bluffing can help raise the stakes for everyone else. He can help Husk by bluffing. Angel slides his chips across the felt, his heart in his throat.
The turn card hits the table. Ace of clubs. Another monumentally useless card for Angel’s hand.
Husk raises again — bigger this time. Vox raises. Val tops both bets with a laugh and a wink in Angel’s direction. Fuck, he can see right through him. He knows Angel is faking having a good hand.
Angel swallows. His cards suddenly feel heavy in his hand.
“I fold,” he mutters, looking away as he sets his card down.
“Good boy,” Val taunts, leaning back in his chair with a smug look on his face. “Let the grown-ups play.”
Angel doesn’t look up to meet his gaze, but he can feel Val’s eyes on him. Husk growls in anger.
The rest of the round is a blur. Husk stays in until the end, expression stoic and carved from stone. When the time comes for everyone to show their hand, Val takes the pot with three of a kind and Vaggie comes up second with two low pairs.
Husk has nothing. He’d been bluffing.
Angel watches as Val rakes the chips inward, the plastic clicking together like applause in his favor. Val laughs and sticks his tongue out, enjoying this more than he should.
Angel hates this. He doesn’t know how far he’s going to be able to make it with Val reading him so well across the table. He had underestimated just how much of an issue Val was going to be, how much Val would be able to hurt him without even touching him.
He looks up and over at Husk, who is watching him with a pointed expression. He’s trying to keep his face unreadable, but he flicks his gaze for a millisecond downwards to where he’s spinning his ring on his finger. Angel looks at him in question, but Husk looks away again. He must be trying to tell Angel something, but what?
Angel looks down at his own ring. He forgets that he’s wearing it most of the time. It’s a symbol of his relationship with Husk, a tangible link that ties their souls together. Evidence of their deal. It isn’t anything special, just a solid gold band with Angel’s chicken-scratch signature on it. An engraving, barely legible. A reminder of the man he once was, a relic of a life that he left behind. Why would Husk want him to look at it? To remind him who he belongs to? To make him think about all of the shitty mistakes that Anthony made that—
That’s when he sees it. On one side of the gold band is his original signature, and on the opposite side engraved in neat, unfamiliar handwriting, is Angel Dust. Husk must have added it after Angel re-signed with him all that time ago. An addendum to remind him which name Angel prefers, a footnote on the contract that made it onto the chain that connects them. Angel stares at it for a solid minute, and then he understands.
In order to win this, Angel needs to remember who he is and who he left behind. In order to win this, he needs to be Angel Dust — the actor, not Anthony the coward. He needs to remember the plan: to act clueless, to play up not just the Vees’ expectations of him but the audiences’. He needs to push aside that scared person inside of him and remember who he is and who he wants to be.
“Damn, I lost,” Angel pouts, shoving his cards to the center of the table for Rosie to collect and reshuffle. He leans back in his chair and kicks his legs up so that they’re crossed and on full display. They are one of his best qualities after all. “You’re tellin’ me we have to play this until only one of us has chips left? We’re gonna be here all night.”
The audience laughs and Vox rolls his eyes.
“If you didn’t want to play, you could have had Alastor take your place,” Vox snaps. He glances up at where Alastor is watching the game unfold. “Thought for sure he’d be on your team. I was looking forward to embarrassing him in front of all of Hell. Didn’t think he was too much of a pussy to play cards.”
“Aw, what’s wrong Vox? Ya miss ya little boyfriend?” Angel smirks.
Vox’s screen glitches and Angel feels a surge of satisfaction. “Don’t be disgusting,” Vox says. “I would never fuck Alastor, not even in his dreams–”
“Oh, yeah,” Angel says, moving to lean in closer over the ledge of the table. “I totally believe you. It’s completely normal to go this all out for a fuckin’ game of poker.” Angel gestures around the room, to the arena filled with people, to the cameras, to the showboating of it all. “Overcompensatin’ for somethin’?”
The audience erupts in cheers of laughter. Of course, what Vox doesn’t know is that his obsession with Alastor was essential to their plan. They wanted something this big, this showy, and the only way to goad Vox into doing something like this was to bait him with a dick measuring contest.
Vox glares. “You’re not going to think you’re so funny when Val owns your soul again,” he says, his voice low. “It’s not going to be like last time, not after the shit you’ve pulled. No more special treatment – I’ll have you in back-to-back shoots, pumping out content, selling yourself like the toy you are.”
Angel hears Husk exhale angrily but when he looks over, Husk’s face is still unreadable. Hearing Vox talk to him like this must be infuriating, but Angel and Husk both know that Angel has to keep riling Vox up if they want to pull this off. Vox’s words no longer hurt Angel the way that they once did.
“Ooooh,” Angel coos, biting his lower lip. “Kinky. Is that a promise, Daddy?”
Vox opens his mouth to respond, but before he can get another word out, Rosie deals the next set of cards and the next flop. Vox’s screen glitches but he doesn’t say anything else as they continue on with the evening’s festivities. Angel has an easier time with this round of the game, and the next one, and the one after that. He knows what his role is now and he plays it up, acting dumb and carefree with each round as it plays out.
He wins some and he loses some, all while making it seem like he doesn’t understand how the game works. His gloved hands fumble with the cards, he drops them, pretends to accidentally show them off, talks about the cards he has out loud and covers his mouth dramatically. He plays it up that he’s clueless, bets too much on a bad hand, pretends to forget the rules, so that the other players can’t help but underestimate him.
During one round, Val raises the bet by a significant margin and Angel whistles loudly. “Mmm, what a big bet,” he says, licking his lips.
Val blinks at him, and then melts into character, elbows on the table as he replies, “That’s not the only thing that’s big over here baby.”
Angel purrs, flirting overtly, drawing Val’s attention away from the game by leaning forward and showing off his chest. He doesn’t even know what cards he has in his hand, it doesn’t matter. He grabs a handful of his chips without checking the value and pushes them forward. “Think you can make it bigger?”
Val, eyes on Angel, raises the bet again. “Oh, you know I can, Kitten.”
“Valentino you idiot, stop wasting your chips!” Velvette says, just before folding her own hand. “He’s messing with you!”
Val pays her no mind. “Big enough for you now, baby?”
“Shit,” Pentious mutters, looking down at the cards in his hand and the chips on the table. He’s already spent more than he should have, already wasted his chips on too many bad hands. In order to match Val’s raise, he’d have to go all in. If he doesn’t go all in, he won’t be left with enough chips to buy into the next round’s betting once it starts.
Val has accidentally sabotaged his own teammate, too distracted by Angel’s flirting to realize what he’s doing. Pentious looks around, anxious, and then slides the remainder of his chips into the center.
Husk wins the pot on an excellent hand, knocking Pentious out of the game, and Angel practically glows with satisfaction. Vox picks up on Angel’s strategy — or, that is, what he thinks Angel’s strategy is, and he clenches his fist in anger.
“Aw, c’mon Vox,” Angel says, fluttering his lashes. “It’s just a game.”
“You aren’t even fucking playing it right,” Vox growls.
“What, is it like, hard or something?” Angel asks, picking up his next set of cards as Rosie deals them. “Seems like my side is doing pretty good considerin’ I have no idea what any of these cards mean.”
“Classic Angel,” Vox says, “relying on his team to carry him. Doesn’t it get embarrassing after a while to not be able to do anything on your own? You can’t win a poker tournament on just dumb luck alone.”
“I don’t need to win the game,” Angel says, winking. “I just need you to lose.”
It’s true. Angel doesn’t need to win. He has three other teammates who actually understand this game to carry him through, his job is just to cause as much of a distraction as he can. He’d be lying if he said that it wasn’t at least a little satisfying to let Vox in on that part of the plan, to taunt him knowing that there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
Vox has always seen Angel as useless. As a tool, a toy. He’s always called Angel stupid and looked down on him and now Angel can use that perception of him as a weapon.
Vox gives Angel a look, eyes narrowed, anger flickering in the twitch of his mouth, and then he turns his attention back to the game.
Rosie deals the next hand, and the rhythm of the table shifts.
At first, Angel doesn’t notice it; he’s too busy preening over their success, too busy reveling in the way Vox’s anger colors his blue in pulses of red, to realize that something has changed. The energy is sharper, the bets start climbing faster, raises come harder and with more pressure behind them.
Angel doesn’t notice it until the first casualty drops. Charlie unexpectedly finds herself out of chips, after betting everything on a losing hand. The defeat is so fast that she doesn’t even have time to react before she’s standing in shock to join Pentious on the sidelines.
“I’ll… be cheering you guys on,” she says softly.
Angel doesn’t know how this happened. He hadn’t realized that Charlie was running low on chips, he’d been too busy flirting with Val. Angel shoots a worried glance towards Husk who shrugs and says, “Poker ain’t kind. One minute you’re on top and the next you’re comin’ up empty. It’s still anyone’s game.”
Husk doesn’t seem bothered by Charlie’s loss, so Angel tries not to let it get to him. They’re still evenly matched, three against three, so maybe there’s nothing to worry about.
Angel tries to stay calm, but the intensity of the game picks up from there. It draws tighter, players bleeding out one by one. Velvette is the next one out in a reckless triple-raise — she’s too cocky and Husk crushes her effortlessly. She rolls her eyes and throws her cards on the table like she’s too bored to care, like she’s above this, and stomps over to join the others on the sidelines, clipped heels skittering across the floor and eyes glued to her phone screen.
The victory is short-lived, however, because Vaggie follows her loss almost immediately after, pushed into folding again and again by Vox’s over-bloated raises. Vox laughs when Vaggie leaves the table and Angel’s stomach sinks. Now it’s down to just Angel and Husk, and only one of them actually knows how to play poker. Angel hasn’t even bothered to check his own stack of chips. How far behind has he fallen? If he makes a stupid move, their numbers fall from three to two.
Angel’s blood runs cold when he looks at his stack of chips. It’s bigger than almost everyone else’s at the table. He doesn’t understand how this happened. Sure, he’s won his fair share of rounds, but this is insane. There’s no way that he managed to get this many accumulated all on his own—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Angel looks across the table at where Vox is watching him with a satisfied smirk, and the whole game flashes before his eyes. Velvette’s over-confident triple-raise. Vaggie getting squeezed out by bloated bets that she couldn’t match. Vox raising and raising in spite of having bad hands and folding on his good ones.
Angel’s throat goes dry.
Vox hadn’t been playing aggressively out of arrogance. He’d been playing strategically. He’d been manipulating the game, making moves that were deliberate and intentional. He sees it all clearly now.
Vox let him win. Over and over. Vox inflated him like a balloon, building his stack higher and higher and sucking others dry until Angel, of all people, had a stack of chips towering over the table that he didn’t earn and doesn’t know how to use. And now, who should be standing there holding a pin, ready to pop that very same balloon and let it fly until it runs out of air.
Angel’s stomach twists and he forces himself to swallow so that he doesn’t vomit his humiliation all over the table. Of course Vox pulled one over on him. Of course he managed to turn Angel’s plan on its head. Of course he called Angel’s bluff and saw through the ruse and took Angel for the idiot that he really is. And the worst part of all of it is that it worked.
Angel stares at his massive pile of chips and becomes violently aware of how little he actually knows about poker. How easily Vox could back him into a corner. How fast he could lose everything. He meets Vox’s eyes again and understands exactly what Vox intended.
Vox didn’t need to beat Husk, or Vaggie, or Charlie — not if he knew that he could beat Angel. Because Angel, standing alone with a mountain of chips and no idea how to play this game properly is the easiest win Vox could ever ask for.
Rosie deals the next round.
The cards glide across the felt, but Angel can’t focus on them. Panic sets in as the reality of the situation takes hold of him. Everyone had been counting on him, had been counting on his plan to succeed and he’d been outsmarted by the same fucker who had already taken so much from him time and time again. He’s going to lose, and he’s going to let everyone down. Charlie. Vaggie. Husk.
Cherri.
Fuck, how could he have been so stupid?
He looks around the table, not caring or understanding the cards in his hand, and realizes that something is wrong with Husk. Somehow, in all of the confusion, Husk’s own pile of chips has dwindled alarmingly. If he loses, it’s over.
Angel doesn’t need to see Husk’s hand to know that something’s wrong. Husk, who usually has a stone-cold poker face, is beginning to come undone. His jaw is clenched and his right pointer finger keeps tapping the edge of the table. He must not have a very good hand. Vox raises the bet again, casually, politely, and Husk calls anyway in spite of his distress.
Angel wants to stop him. He wants to warn him, to tell him to stop bluffing because it doesn’t matter, not when Vox is already three steps ahead of them, but he can’t.
Val raises next. Vox matches it. Another trap that Husk has stumbled into. He sucks in a breath and folds, but it's too late. That round cleaned him out. Unless he pulls a miracle hand in the next round, Husk is finished.
Angel is numb as he watches the rest of it unfold. Rosie sets the flop. Husk is forced to bet it all for any chance of a comeback. He reveals his cards, and it’s close — so close, but not enough. Val beats his straight with a flush and it’s over. Just like that. .
“Oh, it’s so fucking over now!” Vox jumps from his chair in victorious laughter. “I hope you’re ready to let everyone that you’ve ever loved down in front of all of Hell!”
“Can’t wait to have you back in my arms, baby,” Val says, leaning back to look Angel up and down with hungry eyes.
Vox keeps laughing. “This is so fucking stupid — it’s hilarious! You challenged Val to this stupid fucking game and you didn’t even bother to learn how to play it? You made this too easy, I’m almost insulted!” He slams both hands down on the table, eyes glowing red. “But really, why should I be surprised that Angel Dust fucked up his own shitty escape plan? What did you think was going to happen? Did you think you’d win, and your new master would become some sort of all powerful god of Hell and you’d be his little purse dog?”
Angel’s pulse rushes in his ears. This can’t be happening. His vision starts to blur and he feels like he’s going to be sick.
“Someone like you could never pull off something like that. You’re a bottom-feeder! A useless, pathetic excuse for a soul—”
Angel’s jaw drops when Husk’s fist collides with Vox’s face, and the audience absolutely loses it. Some people are cheering, some are shouting, and the jumbotrons replay it on a slow motion loop that would make Angel laugh if the situation weren’t so dire.
Vox stumbles and falls from the impact and his screen goes full blue and then glitches out before rebooting itself. When he stands again, there’s a crack along the edge.
“Oh, you’ve done it now, fucker,” Vox says, wires coming from his back and lifting him from the ground. “I’m going to tear your soul apart—”
“Uh uh,” Rosie says, getting to her feet. “If you get into a fight right now, I’ll consider it a forfeit, and then you two can take this outside and fight until your hearts’ content.”
Vox gapes at her. “But he hit me first!”
“What are you, a toddler? He’s already out.” Rosie says. “Up to you, Mr. Television Head. What’s it gonna be?”
“C’mon baby, don’t quit on me,” Val whines from his chair. He’s leaning back, watching the whole thing with a bored look on his face. “It’s no fun unless you’re with me.”
Vox looks like he wants to argue, like he’d like nothing more than to punch Husk right back, but he exhales loudly and returns his feet to the floor, glaring.
“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. His gaze is glued to Husk. “We have this game in the bag, anyway. When he’s ours again, we’ll make him pay for that punch you just threw. Tenfold.”
Husk cracks his knuckles. “It’s not over until it’s over,” he says, then he turns to Angel. “It’s up to you, kid. You’ve got this. Give ‘em hell.”
What? Got this?! He most certainly does not got this!
Husk leaves to join the others in the waiting line, and Angel is left alone at the table as the sole remaining player from his team. Val and Vox eye him hungrily from across the table, twin sharks with razor-sharp teeth, circling for the kill. Angel’s pulse picks up and his nostrils flare because he can smell it just as well as they can: there’s blood in the water.
Chapter 37
The thing about fear is that it feels kind of like a high. It doesn’t just rush through your bloodstream; it detonates there, a shockwave that makes your heart hammer against your ribs like it's trying to break free. Your breathing comes in sharp, fast bursts and your vision blurs as the world around you shifts from something that is safe to something that is dangerous.
Fear makes adrenaline feel electric, like a current searing through your veins. It makes your fingertips tingle and your muscles coil tight, ready for a fight. Fear pulls instincts out from deep within you; weapons you didn’t know you were carrying. It shoves your body into a single directive: fight.
Fight to survive.
Fear is a funny thing, Angel knows, because in spite of its teeth and claws, it fuels him. It sharpens him. It makes him feel alive even as it threatens to tear him apart.
Sitting across the table from Vox and Valentino, Angel lets that fear consume him. He lets it take hold, just for a minute, because he knows that he needs it if he’s going to make it through this. He needs that survival instinct, that electric urgency that only fear can give him. He needs to be afraid of an outcome where he loses; of Valentino owning his soul again, of being dragged back into that cafe with no door, no voice, no agency over his own body. He needs to taste that terror, let it burn a hole into his tongue until it’s all he can do not to spit it out.
He needs to be afraid of what this would mean for the rest of Hell, too. He needs to be afraid of the repercussions of Val being crowned “the most powerful sinner in Hell,” of what that title would do to a man whose ego already devours the energy of any room he walks into. Angel forces himself to confront the ripple effect of what a victory like that would look like; he imagines all of the souls who’d suffer because of this. Because of his plan to free his friend.
But most of all, Angel needs to let himself be afraid of losing Husk.
Through all of this, Husk has been his biggest supporter. He helped Angel get clean; helped him piece himself back together when he didn’t believe there were pieces worth saving. Husl taught him how to stand on his own two feet and how to lean on someone else without fear of them letting him fall. Husk taught him what it meant to be loved — not bought, not claimed, not owned — but loved.
Everything that he has now, his strength, his courage, all of it is because of Husk.
So Angel lets that fear bloom inside of him. He lets it sting behind his eyes and tighten in his throat as he imagines a world without that gruff, grounding presence beside him. He lets himself fear what it would be like to lose the person who means the world to him. Because fear — all-consuming fear — is the only thing that’s going to be strong enough to get him through this.
Right now, here at this table, there are three things that Angel knows for certain. First, he knows that he really does not know how to play poker — he’s been flying by the seat of his pants for the better part of this game and that’s how his opponents managed to take advantage of him. Second, he knows that the two people sitting across from him look down on him and think that he’s stupid; they’re banking on his patterns from past failures to ensure their victory. And third, he knows that there is absolutely no acceptable scenario in which he loses. He has to win this. No matter what.
Across the table, Vox leans back in his chair and smirks. “Ya know,” he says, “I’ve tried to get rid of you so many times, but you really are like a cockroach; disgusting little thing that just won’t fucking die.”
The words burrow under Angel’s skin but he doesn’t let it show on his face.
“I thought I’d be rid of you once and for all after I convinced Val to bet your soul in that game of poker and then let him lose,” Vox continues, eyes on Angel, “but no — you still came crawling back.”
Angel freezes.
What?
The room seems to tilt and the edges of everything blur as Angel’s brain tries to catch up with what Vox is saying. Vox is the one who convinced Val to bet his soul? This whole time, Angel had thought it was just luck that landed him in this situation. He thought it was just the universe fucking with him, the way it always does, but this? This was by design.
Angel doesn’t know whether he wants to launch himself across the table and tear Vox apart or laugh at the thought that Vox’s manipulation is the very thing that got him out from under Val’s claws. His chest tightens, breath catching painfully.
Vox isn’t done.
“Then, I thought that leaving you out in the street on Extermination Day would finish the job,” he says, sitting up straighter now, interest sharpening as he prepares the killing blow. “But you survived that too, persistent little pest.”
Angel’s fingers curl against the edge of the table.
“This time, though,” Vox says, leaning in, “I think I’ve finally got you cornered with nowhere to run.”
Angel swallows and feels a bead of sweat drip down his back. The weight of it all crashes down on him at once — every near miss, every trap disguised as an unfortunate coincidence. How much of his time in Hell had been Vox controlling things from the shadows/ How long has he been dancing on strings he didn’t even know were there?
Even now, stuck in this game as the sole remaining member of his team, it had all been part of Vox’s elaborate plan to humiliate him — to use him as a spectacle.
Angel forces himself to breathe. He will not give Vox the satisfaction of watching him break.
“Um, hijo de puta what did you just say?” Val snaps, slamming his hands down onto the felt. “You didn’t convince me to do anything, I bet Angel’s soul on my fucking own.”
Vox rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah,” he says, in that awful condescending tone that he usually reserves for Angel. “Because you’re the one who decided to bet your most valuable soul in a stacked game against Hell’s greatest poker player.” He laughs again. “Come on Val, even you’re not that stupid.”
“It’s not like you could have known I’d lose,” Val argues, but Angel knows him well enough that he can tell he’s starting to doubt himself. Vox has a way of doing that — he knows how to make you question every choice you’ve ever made and if it had been your decision or one you were pushed into.
“Right,” Vox says, stretching out the word. He folds his hands behind his head, like this is all deeply uninteresting to him. His screen flickers, static rippling across it. “There would have been no possible way for me to know if you were going to lose or not.”
The sarcasm is thick and indulgent, and the smirk on his face makes Angel think he wants them to choke on it.
Val realizes that truth at the same moment that Angel does. Vox didn’t get as far as he has today by chance. He didn’t gamble. He watched.
Vox knew that Val would lose because he knew that Husk’s hand was better, because he was watching the whole thing go down. He knew the right time to goad Val into betting Angel’s soul because the odds were stacked not in Val’s favor, but in favor of the outcome that Vox wanted. He’s right that Val never would have wanted to be rid of Angel on his own — god, Angel can still see that look in Val’s eyes the night that it all went down, when he told Angel that he had to move out and move in with Husk at the casino. Val had looked beyond angry, he looked like he knew that losing Angel meant losing a lot more than his most profitable employee.
Angel feels a pang of — something that he can’t quite name. Certainly not sympathy, and certainly not wistfulness, but something else. Something like a confused sort of grief, anger maybe, that their relationship, toxic as it was, wasn’t something that either of them got to make the decision to end on their own. This whole time, Angel had thought that this was karma, that Val had been so stupid to wager Angel’s soul as something he thought was worth losing, and to learn that Val had been manipulated into doing it and tricked — Angel’s stomach churns in disgust.
His relationship with Val is not some fucking soap opera for Vox to take pleasure in watching.
Val’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open as the realization hits him. He’s looking at Vox like he barely knows him, betrayal visible in the tremble of his lower lip.
“You said you couldn’t see — you said there was interference—”
“Pfft, yeah,” Vox sneers, uninterested in the hurt he’s caused Val. “Interference with my patience for dealing with your mood swings and messiness when it came to your favorite whore. I had to do something, Val, I couldn’t keep making Velvette clean up your PR nightmares every time you two got into a fight. It was better this way, trust me.”
The look on Val’s face is anything but trusting.
“¡Me hiciste apostar su alma, puñeta! ¿ Sabes lo que eso significa? ¡Me usaste, carajo! ¡Me miraste a la cara y me mentiste!” Val snaps, surging to his feet, chair scraping across the floor.
Vox rolls his eyes in disgust. “What have I told you about speaking that island language, Val, I can’t understand you when you—”
Val grabs Vox by his collar, his demonic form pulsing beneath his skin like a heartbeat. Venom drips from his lips and his eyes burn red, and there’s a monstrous growl in his voice when he says, “¡Nadie me hace quedar como un cabrón en fente de todos y se sale con la suya! ¡NADIE!”
“Val!” Vox yells back, wires coming out from behind him to wrap like tendrils around Val and pull him off. “English!”
“You — how dare you? Who do you think you are? Angel is my property to do what I want with! You had no fucking right to take him from me!” Val struggles against the wires.
Vox sighs, dusting off the lapels of his jacket that Val had creased. “I thought we just established that you bet Angel’s soul on your own? Which is it, Val? We’re kind of in the middle of something so can we maybe save your ‘I’m confused’ act for after we win?” He mocks Val’s accent in his impression of him and Val’s nostrils flare in fury.
Angel turns away from watching their fight to look around the room. Corners. Ceilings. Reflections in the metal – cameras. Everywhere. All around them. Watching.
Vox told him once that there was nowhere Angel could run where Vox couldn’t find him. Angel hadn’t understood then how literal the threat was. How much of Pentagram City does Vox have eyes on? How many steps ahead of them has Vox been, without them even realizing it?
Angel bites down on his cheek. Pain flares sharp and grounding as the metallic tang of blood mingles with saliva. He welcomes the taste because it gives him something to focus on — something to keep his face smooth and unbothered, even if inside of him something feral with rage claws at his ribs.
There was no way that they were ever going to win this. It had been rigged against them from the very start. They never had a chance.
This wasn’t a game, it was a performance. A rigged spectacle where every card, every bet, every mistake had already been accounted for. Vox has eyes everywhere, he’s been watching their every move from the moment they sat down. He’s been carefully biding his time, waiting for the right time to tilt the odds against Angel’s teammates and in his favor, to get them to exactly where they are now. This whole thing was fun for him; fucking with them to get Angel in a prime position to defeat him in the most humiliating way possible. Vox always gets the final say. At no point had any of this been fair.
Angel’s lower hands curl into fists under the table but he forces them to relax. He lifts his gaze to Vox, and this time he really looks at him. He looks at the ugly, smug grin and the insecurity that he knows must be buried beneath it. He looks at the cocky confidence, that know-it-all attitude like he’s superior, like he thinks he’s a god.
But he isn’t a god. He’s a cheater, and cheaters can be beaten.
“Boys, as much as I’m enjoyin’ the show,” Rosie interrupts, floating the deck of cards into the middle of the table with her magic. “We’re gonna need to wrap this up because I’ve got a freshly dead pool boy waitin’ at my dinner table. Are you ready for the next round or are you gonna keep pretendin’ to almost fight?”
Val is still seething, but Vox ignores him. “We’re ready,” Vox says, scooting his chair closer to the table. “Val, sit down.”
Val’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to argue, the anger burning in his face — but Vox shoots him a look, sharp and commanding, and Val’s jaw snaps shut. The silence that follows is heavy and humiliating, and Angel knows Val well enough to recognize the fact that Val is pissed.
Val’s jaw tightens as he grinds his teeth. He mutters something under his breath in Spanish, something scathing, Angel’s sure, before dropping back into his chair.
Something inside of Angel stirs; a flicker of realization that quickly sharpens into understanding. Val isn’t just angry. He’s livid, and when Val gets like this, he becomes unhinged and uncontrolled. Angel has been on the receiving end of that fury many times before and he knows what it looks like — but more importantly, he knows how to handle it. For the first time since this game began, Angel feels confident that there’s something he understands more than anyone else in the room, something that he can use.
Angel understands Valentino.
Right now, Val and Angel hold the majority of the chips. That was Vox’s plan — to flood Angel with an abundance to make the others easier to knock out, and in doing so he also let Val win more times that he should have. Vox had been targeting Angel from the beginning, but in doing so he had underestimated his own teammate. Val has never been known for his patience or his ability to follow directions, especially when he’s angry.
Angel keeps his face smooth and composed, but inside, the pieces begin to fall into place.
Rosie deals the flop.
Angel doesn’t look at Val right away, careful not to let Vox in on his plan. He keeps his attention on the felt, on the rhythm of the game and his own breathing. Out of the corner of his eye, though, Angel sees the way that Val’s posture has changed. He can see the anger in the way that Val throws his chips into the center, sees the way his gaze keeps drifting back to Angel and lingering there the way it always does when he needs something else to soothe his bruised ego.
Angel knows this song and dance.
When Vox disappoints him, Val seeks attention elsewhere. When Vox makes him feel small, Val reaches for something that will make him feel powerful, and Angel has always been good at that.
Angel waits for the right moment to meet Val’s eyes, making it look like a coincidence that their gazes met. Val startles for a moment but Angel just gives him a cute little smirk and a shrug, like ‘can you fuckin’ believe this shit?’ and Val relaxes right into Angel’s trap, taking the bait. He smiles back and rolls his eyes in annoyance and then makes a gagging motion in Vox’s direction and Angel giggles.
Vox, who had been focused on his cards, looks up at the sound.
“The fuck are you laughing at?” Vox demands, eyes narrowed.
“Oh, nothin’,” Angel says, breezily. He grabs a significant chunk of chips and throws them into the center, raising the bet. “Don’t worry about it.”
Vox’s screen glitches in frustration, but other than that, he does not lose his composure. When the round ends and Val wins, Angel whistles appreciatively and leans in a little closer to Val.
“Ya know, I never knew you were this good at poker.” He uses the voice that Val always loved him using, a little high-pitched, a little ditsy. He purrs a little at the end, for extra emphasis.
“Oh, you flatter me Amorcito,” Val replies, scooping the chips towards him. “It helps that I’ve got my good luck charm sitting across from me.”
Vox scoffs and looks between them. “Val, he’s on the other team.”
Val’s demonic form hisses in anger when his head snaps in Vox’s direction to glare. “Don’t fucking talk to me, punta.”
“Val—”
“I said,” Val puts a hand up in Vox’s face. “Do not FUCKING talk to me, asshole.”
Val’s next bet in the next round is reckless. Huge. Way more than he should be betting. Vox’s screen flickers, irritation bleeding through the polished calm. If Vox really is watching, if he really can see which cards they all have, then his reactions to Val’s bets are a dead giveaway. Angel raises the bet, knowing that Val’s hand must be damning, and Vox is forced to do the same to keep Angel from winning.
But the thing is — there’s a flaw in Vox’s plan. He’s managed to control everything within his power to the best of his ability: he can see the hands of his opponents, can anticipate their moves, and make decisions based on those things. What he can’t do, however, is foresee the results of the flop or turn cards. Rosie is not a soul under Vox’s command, she is an impartial third party with nothing to gain or lose from either victory. There is nothing he can do to rig the odds of the cards in his favor, which means that there is still a part of this game left up to chance.
Plus, there’s the Val of it all. Husk had told Angel that he was the wildcard, but now Angel realizes that Val was the true wildcard from the start. In all of the years that Angel has known the Vees, no one has ever been able to control Valentino. Not even Vox.
With those two cracks in Vox’s plan visible, Angel thinks there might be a path to victory.
Angel wins the round when the turn card turns his pair into three of a kind, beating out Vox’s pair and Val’s high card. Vox loses a significant amount of chips in that victory and curses loudly. Angel meets Vox’s gaze, calm and steady, and for the first time all night Vox looks unsettled — not because Angel is winning, but because Val isn’t listening. His plan is unraveling. Val is angry and unpredictable and Vox doesn’t have the time or care it’s going to take to calm him back down.
Val is the true wildcard in this game, and Angel has finally learned how to play him.
The next few rounds blur together, but the shift in the balance of the table is impossible to ignore. Val keeps intentionally defying Vox out of sheer spite, and Angel does his best not to revel in the satisfaction that watching it gives him. Val raises when Vox tells him not to, calls when he should fold. He laughs too loudly, bets too big, and indulges every reckless instinct he has in what can only be described as a temper tantrum.
It’s absolutely hilarious, but Angel can’t laugh. Not yet, at least.
Angel plays carefully. He’s patient, knowing that he needs to wait for the right moment before striking. Angel’s stack of chips grows and grows; towering columns of color that cast shadows across the felt. Every time Angel drags another pot towards himself, Vox’s resolve cracks little by little.
Eventually, after too many failed attempts to sway Val in favor of his plan, Vox’s stack of chips dwindles dangerously low. Angel takes notice and starts to lay it on thick with Val, acting like they’re old friends — which, in a way, they sort of are. They’re exes. Two people who at one time knew each other better than anyone else in the entire universe. There was a time that Val may have known Angel better than he knew himself, and Angel has a feeling that it was mutual. He knows Val, knows what makes him feel safe and loved and he’d be lying if he said that there wasn’t some strange satisfaction in finally getting to be the one between the two of them to use that knowledge to his advantage.
Angel’s moment comes in the form of a near-perfect hand. Rosie turns the flop to reveal the queen of hearts, the jack of hearts, and the three of spades. Two powerful juggernauts and a useless card that doesn’t matter at all. Angel’s heart stutters in his chest because he has both the ace and the king in his hand. With the queen and jack on the table, there are four pieces of what Angel is pretty sure is a royal flush. He’s one card short.
Across from him, Vox goes still. He must be watching from one of his cameras, he can see Angel’s hand and he knows that beating him would be impossible. If the Ten of Hearts hits, Angel will win this round.
“Shit,” Angel says, biting his lower lip. Val looks up from his own hand to give attention back to Angel. He’s been tuned into Angel for the better half of the last hour, and thinks that they’re in sync. Angel notices that Val is looking at him, and lets his eyes go wide, pretending to have been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.
If he pulls this off, he’s going to pry that Sex-x-x-y award from Tiffany Tit-Fucker’s cold, dead hands. He’s the best fucking actor in Hell and he’s never doubting that again.
Angel puts his poker face back on, pretending to bluff. “I’ll raise,” he says, throwing in a considerable amount of chips.
Val grins. “Sure about that, cariño?”
Angel looks away for a moment, feigning weakness, showing an artificial crack in his disposition, and then nods. “‘Course I am, daddy.” Angel purrs, batting his eyes the way Val likes. “I got a great hand.”
Val takes the bait hook, line, and sinker.
“Mmm,” he hums, slow and pleased, lips curling over his yellow teeth like he’s savoring the moment. “In that case, why don’t we make it more interesting?” He pushes a heavy stack of chips forward, sending them clacking into the center of the table. His eyes never leave Angel, hungry and blood-red.
Across the table, Vox jolts to attention. His voice is laced with static when he says, “Val, what are you doing?”
Val doesn’t even glance his way. “None of your business,” he bites back, jaw tight, shoulders squared in defiance.
“Val, he’s not bluffing,” Vox tells him, all but confirming what Angel suspected. Vox has been able to see Angel’s hand this entire time. Angel’s heart in his throat but he manages to keep the anxiety off of his face.
Vox is right; Angel isn’t bluffing. Not this time. But Val thinks that he’s the one in control, and thinks that his read on Angel is better than Vox’s read on the game. And the anger — the raw, simmering anger — has burned away whatever instinct might have saved him.
Vox matches Val’s bet, just to stay alive, just to stay in the game, fingers tight as he slides his own chips forward. When the next card hits the table, Angel has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing.
The ten of hearts stands out beautifully against the felt, red and perfect.
It’s over.
No matter what happens, Angel will win this round. He lights his gaze slowly and meets Vox’s eyes. He watches it happen — the moment Vox sees the whole shape of Angel’s place, the moment it all clicks into place. Angel’s lips curl into a smirk.
“Val,” Vox warns. “I’m serious! He’s going to win this—”
Val clicks his tongue, sharp and dismissive. “I know him better than you do, babe. He’s fucking lying through his teeth and we can end this game now and I can go home and take a bath.” It isn’t even Val’s turn to raise, but he takes the remainder of his chips and pushes them to the center of the table. “I’m all in.”
“Val, no!” Vox shouts, jumping to his feet. “Fuck, what have you done?”
Angel doesn’t look away from Vox as he gathers his own chips, calm and collected, and slides them forward to meet Val’s bet.
“I’ll take your bet,” he says, smiling. “Baby.”
“FUCK!” Vox’s wires erupt once more from his back, lifting him off the stage. Angel can feel the heat of his anger radiating off of him.
Angel sets his cards down on the table, positively grinning. “Royal flush,” he says, laying the cards out.
“Wait, what?” Val says, stupidly. He squints down at the table. “He won?”
“I told you he wasn’t bluffing!”
Angel winks at Val and bites down on his lower lip, slow and deliberate, playing it up. “Guess my actin’ is better than you thought, eh Val?”
Val’s face darkens, color draining as fury curdles into something hideous. There used to be a time where that look would've made Angel’s stomach sink in fear. It would’ve sent him scrambling to his knees, apologizing, shrinking himself down to nothing just to make it stop.
But now?
Now, Angel just sees Val for what he truly is: pathetic.
“Why you little—” Val snarls, surging halfway out of his chair, fists clenched.
“Valentino is out of the game,” Rosie announces coolly, voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Only two players with chips remain.”
Val freezes. Across the table, Vox snaps.
His face glitches violently, pixels distorting and reforming as static screeches through the room. He stomps his foot hard enough to rattle the table and yanks at the cables trailing from his back like a toddler having a temper tantrum.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Rosie clicks her tongue, unimpressed. “Vox, dear, lookin’ at the number of chips you’ve got left, Angel Dust’ll automatically win the next round by bettin’ anything at all.” She tilts her head. “Would you like to forfeit now and hand over the victory?”
Vox’s eyes are wild with anger. “I will never forfeit to this ten-dollar whore.”
Angel throws his head back and laughs. “Well, this ten-dollar whore just beat your ass in poker.”
“This game isn’t over yet,” Vox snaps, slamming himself back into his chair. His eyes bore into Rosie, hungry and unhinged. “Deal.”
Rosie stares at him.
“Let it go, Vox,” Val mutters from where he’s still seated in his chair, voice low and bitter. “He won. Let’s just be done with this.”
Vox’s hands curl into fists against the table. Static crawls along his arms as he leans forward. “Keep,” he says, teeth bared. “Playing.”
Rosie sighs, exhausted by Vox’s insistence, but deals the next round anyway as Val goes to join the others in the waiting line. Angel sits easy in his chair now, legs crossed, fingers drumming idly against a towering stack of chips. The first hand comes out clean. Vox peeks at his cards and freezes. For a fraction of a second, hope flickers across his face. Like he thinks he can come back from this somehow.
But Angel snuffs that hope out with the push of his chips into the center of the table. Vox stiffens, looking at the pile, doing the math. To stay in, he’d have to shove everything he has left forward. One wrong read and he’s finished. There’s no safety net, no leverage. Angel holds every ounce of the power. This early in the round is too soon to take a risk like that, no matter how good the hand is.
Vox’s voice is clipped. “I fold.”
Angel watches him squirm with a smug look on his face.
Rosie keeps dealing. Round after round, Vox gets handed possibility — pairs, straights, the kind of luck that would normally turn a game around, but every time Angel buys him out before that hand can breathe.
“I — fuck. I fucking fold.”
Vox’s shoulders hunch. His hands start shaking. He stops swearing, stops yelling as each fold lands heavier than the last while Angel smiles.
“You think this is funny?” Vox asks, after Angel buys him out of another round.
“It don’t matter how good of a hand you got, Voxxy,” Angel says sweetly, “I’ll buy you out every time.”
They’re at a stalemate. Angel knows that Vox will go at this forever if he doesn’t come up with a way to end this, once and for all. Vox is watching him — watching his cards, watching his face — always watching.
Angel decides to give him something to look at.
He waits for a round where Vox feels confident. He needs Vox to go all in, to be sure of a win so that he can be tricked. Eventually, the time comes — Vox, ever the cheater, doesn’t bother with pleasantries like poker faces. When he’s happy about a hand, it’s obvious, and years of watching him, of knowing him, has shown Angel how to read him like a script.
While Vox is distracted by his hand, Angel drags a finger beneath his lower lip slowly, smearing his black lipstick onto his chin. The lipstick is bright and glossy — Val’s favorite shade. Angel doesn’t wipe it clean when he reaches for his cards.
He’s careful as he picks them up, knowing what he has to do. Just a touch.
The corner of the card he needs brushes his finger, and when he pulls back there’s a faint smear across the ink — darkening the curve of the heart, softening its edges until it looks like something else. He doesn’t need it to be perfect, he just needs it to be enough. He just needs it to fool Vox’s cameras.
Angel looks up across the table as Vox assesses both of their hands. Vox does not yet know that Angel has realized that he can see the cards, and Angel uses this to his advantage. Angel exhales loudly and slouches back in his chair, all loose limbs and practiced defeat.
“Guess this is it,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. “How much longer is this fucker gonna drag this out?”
Across the table, Vox’s eyes narrow. Angel can feel him calculating, running the numbers, making sure he’s going to win. Vox sees the card — sees what he thinks is a spade where a heart should be — and his mouth curls into a grin.
“Well,” he says, folding his hands together, voice smooth with certainty, “if you’re done pretending—” He pushes his remaining chips forward in one decisive motion. Everything he has left. “I’ll make this easy for you.”
All in.
Angel only has to match his meager pile — pathetic, compared to the mountain of chips that Angel has in front of him — but even that would be enough. It would double Vox’s wealth and put him back into the game. The possibility hangs between them, heavy and electric.
Angel’s pulse roars in his ears, but he keeps his expression soft. Empty. Unreadable. He glances down at his own cards, looking bored.
“Ain’t gonna chicken out this time?” Angel teases, counting out enough chips to match the bet and throwing them into the center with a clatter.
Vox’s eyes lock on the pile. His voice is tight when he says, “Just show your cards, asshole.”
Angel yawns and stretches, putting his cards down on the table.
Vox doesn’t even look at them. He’s already grinning, already halfway out of his chair as he slams his own cards down. “I’m fuckin’ back in, baby!” he shouts, laughter bursting out of him, sharp and triumphant. “You hear me? I’m back—”
Angel lifts his brow, smirking. “Sure about that?”
Vox’s laughter stutters. He looks down, his breath coming faster. “I have a straight, you have nothing—”
Rosie rises from her chair.
“Angel Dust wins,” she announces. Time seems to slow. Vox’s face glitches as disbelief tears through him. “WHAT? HOW?!”
Angel licks his finger seductively and reaches out to wipe the lipstick away, revealing that what Vox had thought was a spade was actually a heart, and that with the cards on the table and the cards in his hand, Angel wins the game with a flush of hearts.
Vox stares at the felt, chest heaving, the trust settling in too late. Angel leans back in his chair, lipstick-stained finger still raised.
“Read ‘em and weep,” Angel says lightly. And just like that, the game is over.
For a heartbeat, all of Hell holds its breath.
“Would’ya look at that,” Rosie says, smiling, showing off all of her pointed teeth. “The game is over! Team Husk wins!”
Applause thunders through the arena and Angel has a fraction of a second to revel in the glory of the win before the reality of the situation takes hold. They won, which means Husk won, which means—
“As per the agreed-upon terms, all souls wagered by the overlord Valentino are now hereby transferred to Hell’s Gambling Overlord." Rosie’s gaze settles on Husk.
No. Fuck, no this can’t—
Vox explodes. “That’s not how this works!” he shouts, static tearing across his face. “You can’t just give him those contracts — those souls belong to the Vees, they belong to me—”
Angel feels it before he sees it. A pressure building, deep inside of him. A weight settling over his lungs. The lights all around the arena flicker and the floor hums like something huge is stirring beneath it. Val yells in pain and staggers where he’s standing, clutching his chest.
“No!” Vox chokes, reaching out towards Val from across the stadium. “No, no, no—”
The contracts tear loose. Souls rips free from Valentino’s hold in swirls of red smoke that unravel into chains. They surge into the air, pulled towards a single gravitational point. Towards Husk.
Husk barely has time to brace before the wave hits him, square in the chest. He screams, raw and unfiltered, pain ripping straight through him as the force of the transfer hits him all at once. Angel watches in horror, feeling helpless.
This — this wasn’t what winning was supposed to look like.
As the souls of the damned flood Husk, he stumbles, gripping his chest and clawing at it. Angel tries to run towards him but Rosie grabs him and holds him tightly.
“Careful sweetie, he’s dangerous,” she says, but Angel barely hears her over the scream of agony Husk lets out.
The impact of the transfusion lifts Husk from the ground, hauling him into the air as something ancient and feral tears at his corporeal form. The demon inside of him, the demon that Angel has seen glimpses of before, breaks free. Golden wings erupt from his back in a violent burst of light, the force of it shaking the air around him. Husk’s body swells — arms, legs, and chest expanding with newfound power as hundreds of souls flood into him all at once. Nothing could have prepared Angel for the terror and awe of seeing Husk’s true form, alive with so much power.
The wings are enormous, blazing with molten orange light, each one patterned with the symbols of a deck of cards — hearts, diamonds, clubs, spades — etched into the feathers. They unfurl slowly, glowing and eclipsing everything else around him.
Husk bares his fangs, sharp and merciless as he cries out in pain, and when he lifts his head his eyes burn like smoldering embers pulled straight from the fires of Hell. Power rolls off of him in waves, heavy enough to make the air feel thick in Angel’s lungs. The shape of him is terrifying and beautiful, all at once.
It drags something half-remembered out of Angel’s childhood — those old drawings in his Nonna’s aged prayer books, the imposing figures etched into the stained glass of the old Catholic church she used to take him to when he was a child — angels of the Lord rendered with too many wings, too much light, beings so holy that they appear monstrous — too beautiful, too terrible, incomprehensible to the human eye. Angel feels something tug in his gut, a voice begging him to look away, but he can’t.
This is the true terror — the true form — of Hell’s most powerful overlord.
“My, this sure is interesting,” Alastor says, materializing beside Angel as he struggles against Rosie’s grasp. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that kind of power before. Have you, Rosie?”
Rosie’s mouth falls open but her grip doesn’t let up. She narrows her empty sockets at Alastor, teeth bared as she growls, “Is now really the time for this? Don’t you see how worried this poor little soul is? Have you no heart?”
Alastor’s smile doesn’t falter but his eyes twitch in annoyance and his hands curl into furious fists.
“Do any of us, really? This is Hell afterall, my dear,” Alastor replies. “And it looks like our beloved Gambling Overlord just rose to the top of the ranks, making him the most powerful demon in Hell.”
Rosie’s grip on Angel tightens, strangling him. “Why you—”
Alastor’s smile darkens, the corners of it stretching just a little too wide as something old and poisonous stirs beneath his skin. Green light buzzes to life around him, ancient power humming in the air like a live wire, prickling against Angel’s nerves.
“Princess Morningstar,” Alastor says, but his voice is no longer confined to his body. The words roll through the stadium, amplified, shaking the stands. Across the arena, hunched beneath the terrible shadow of Husk, Charlie flinches and looks over at him.
“I believe,” Alastor continues smoothly, “that the time has come for you to crown our victor, as promised.”
Rosie releases Angel and goes to swing at Alastor, to grab him, but he vanishes in a crackle of static. He reappears beside Charlie in a flash of red and green. His blood-red eyes lock onto Rosie’s from across the stadium, daring her to interfere. Angel wonders what the story is there — what their connection is, but doesn’t dare think too hard about it.
“Go on, Princess,” Alastor says, holding the microphone of his staff to Charlie’s face. “Tell them.”
His smile sharpens.
“Who is the most powerful sinner in Hell?”
Charlie stares at him, stunned. Her jaw hangs open and her brows pinch together in annoyed frustration.
“Alastor,” she says, incredulous,” is now really the time for this?”
She gestures helplessly, arms sweeping toward the chaos unfolding behind them — towards Husk, towards Angel.
“Seriously?”
Alastory doesn’t so much as glance away. Instead, he pushes the staff closer, the microphone hovering inches from her lips, unyielding.
“Now,” he says, “is the perfect time.”.
Charlie swallows hard and glares at him. “Fine. The most powerful sinner is—”
“No!”
The word doesn’t come from her. It booms through the area, cutting her off, heavy enough to press against Angel’s chest. Every head turns in the direction of the sound.
Husk strains against the force of his own power, chains of light and souls swirling violently around him. When he speaks again, his voice is distorted. It echoes with demonic energy, barely recognizable as the man Angel loves.
“Don’t say it.”
Charlie’s hands fly to her mouth. Tears spill freely now as she stares up at him, small beneath the enormity of what he’s become. “Husk—”
The golden ring on Angel’s finger burns white-hot. He barely has time to gasp before it dissolves into light, slipping off his hand like molten metal — and then it reappears, reforming around his neck with a sharp, painful click. A collar, heavy and unbreakable tightens around his throat. A chain snaps into existence at its center, yanking him forward so his knees slam to the floor.
Link after link forges itself out of nothing, the chain growing longer and heavier by the second until it stretches upward, connecting him directly to Husk’s clenched fist. Angel looks up, breath hitching as he takes in the sight before him.
Around Husk’s arms, more chains erupt into being. Hundreds of them. They coil and wrap and rattle, dragging at his wings, pulling him down, anchoring him to the ground with their weight. The glow of his power flickers under the strain. Husk’s jaw tightens; his teeth grind as pain flashes across his face.
But he refuses to fall under the weight of it all. He refuses to kneel.
“No single soul in Hell should hold this much power,” Husk says, his voice gruff and warbled. “What gives anyone the right to own anyone else?”
The chains creak as he shifts, ancient magic fighting back against his resistance.
“These souls ain’t mine,” Husk growls. “They ain’t Val’s. They ain’t anyone’s but themselves!” His wings shudder, flaring despite the weight. “I’m done lettin’ greed and fear control how I spend my afterlife.”
Angel stares at him in awe. Is he really—?
“I’m done bein’ an overlord,” Husk shouts, throwing his arms wide in defiance. The chains strain, glowing ever brighter, and lift with him as he rises once more into the air. “I’m burnin’ these contracts, givin’ back every soul I ever stole—”
The metal ignites, blazing as golden flames engulf the chains.
“—includin’ my own.”
The chains glow brighter, brighter, brighter — and then vanish in a flash of blinding light. Angel feels the collar around his neck jerk tight, a final pull that tugs straight through his chest and then it’s gone. Vanished. No weight holding him down. No leash tethering him to anyone. Nothing.
Warmth crashes through him like a wave, knocking the breath from his lungs. He clutches at his chest, fingers digging into sequined fabric of his gold dress as something that he lost long ago snaps back into place — his soul.
Whole. Intact. His.
For the first time in nearly half a century, there is no chain tying him to anyone else. There is no obligation to obey, no contract holding him down. He gasps, laughter and sobs tangling in his throat as the realization hits him all at once.
He’s free.
Chapter 38
AN: Big, sappy AN at the end of this chapter. We’re finally here. I gave a lot of thought to how I wanted the ending to go, and decided that just this one scene was enough to encapsulate everything that I wanted to say. Goodbyes are hard, but they open the door for new possibilities.
Thank you all for your support. Goodbye. <3
It’s a strange sound, the space between silences. The feeling that something’s missing — no laughter spilling across the floor, no clatter of chips, no cheers of victory or drunken squabbles. Just silence, thick and stale, settling into the stained carpets and rows of unplugged slot machines staring darkly back at him. The air smells faintly of old smoke and sour liquor, familiar and nostalgic in a way that pulls at Angel’s heart. He walks slowly through the empty showfloor of the Jackpot Casino, heels clicking too-loudly against the floor as every step echoes eerily through the emptiness.
What had once been a playground for reckless thrill-seekers and desperate sinners looking to try their luck at improving their afterlives is now nothing more than an empty room, hollowed out and stripped of purpose. The felt tables are bare, the bar is shuttered, and the mood lighting has dimmed to a tired, orange glow.
Surreal doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling.
Husk isn’t the Gambling Overlord anymore. With no more contracted souls to work at the casino, it was time for Husk to close the doors once and for all.
“Long overdue,” Husk had said, and while Angel knows that he’s right, he still feels a strange sadness at the fact that it’s really over. Endings are sort of funny like that, he thinks, how the bittersweetness of goodbye always feels like a lump in your throat that won’t go down, even when it's a goodbye you’d bruised your knees praying for.
The thought of Husk finally free, no longer carrying the weight of other people’s damnation, fills Angel with happiness and relief. He never saw Husk’s decision to free the souls on his chain coming, and watching Husk make the choice to walk away from power like that had shown Angel that maybe Charlie had the right idea when it came to redemption for souls sentenced to damnation.
The weeks that followed the game went by in a blur. No one had ever done something like that before — no one had ever given up their overlordship willingly for the sole purpose of “doing the right thing” and all of Hell was buzzing with controversy over it.
Valentino had been ruined; his souls had been released from his grasp and welcomed their new-found freedom with tears of joy and length Sinsta posts exposing the dirty underside of Val’s industry. He and Vox fought loudly and violently on live TV, and Velvette is still trying to gain back the public’s respect for their alliance with very little progress. Discussions about overlords, about the hierarchy in general, have been happening in places that they never had before, and Angel can’t help but hope that change — that real change — is on the horizon.
Alastor had a meltdown that Angel still doesn’t understand, but from what he can tell, things are back to normal now. He’s working at the hotel like he was before, though there’s a little less pep in his step. Something about Husk releasing the souls on his chain broke something inside of Alastor, foiled some sort of plan that no one else was in on, but Angel doesn’t give a shit what that guy’s got going on. As far as he’s concerned it’s none of his damn business what that strawberry pimp does with his time and power.
When the chains had been broken, Cherri wrapped Angel in her arms and dripped hot, wet tears onto his shoulder as she apologized over and over, though Angel assured her that he was the person who should be saying sorry. They sank to their knees, embracing one another and embracing their freedom with heavy hearts and a mess of complicated feelings.
Angel still isn’t quite used to feeling like his soul is his own. He hasn’t known how to be his own person in decades, and while the freedom is nice it’s also… overwhelming.
He trusts himself now, though, more than he ever has before. He trusts himself to protect his own heart, to make his own choices, and he doesn’t need to rely on anyone for anything anymore. He knows that he’s going to be okay from this moment on.
Husk letting go of his overlordship had been the right move — necessary if the two of them were ever going to make their relationship work. Angel knows that.
Still… the thought that things are really over fills him with a feeling that he can’t quite name.
He drags his fingers along the edge of a felt tabletop as he passes. This place had embodied everything that Angel hated about Hell’s hierarchy — souls so desperate that they gambled away what little freedom they had left. He’d watched it happen night after night, smiled through it, and played along. He should be glad that it’s done now, that no more souls will be conned out of their own agency from something as silly as a bad hand of cards… But the Jackpot Casino had also been the first place that he ever really truly felt that he belonged.
Before this, there had only ever been chaos. There had been the streets of Hell and then Valentino’s leash — there had been Vee Tower and rules, scripts, expectations. His survival had been measured in how well he could endure it, how capable he was of behaving. When his contract had been transferred to Husk against his will, everything changed.
The casino was far from perfect, but it had been different. A cage with an open lock. The place where he met the love of his life.
His mind drifts back without permission to that night — the drink pressed into his hand by a man will bad intentions, spiked with a drug, hungry eyes waiting for Angel to take a sip. And then —
Husk.
Wings unfurled and wide enough to swallow the whole room, demonic form pulled at the edges as his rage threatened to tear loose from him entirely. The glass knocked from Angel’s hand, shattering on the ground. That low, dangerous growl vibrating through the air as Husk’s intentions were made clear: Angel was off-limits.
Angel doesn’t know what shocked him more that night — Husk’s careful supervision of his actions and the subsequent protective interference, or his reason for it.
Someone had cared about him. His boss had seen him more than just a soul working for him to bring in a profit. Husk had seen that Angel was in danger and he did everything in his power to keep Angel from coming to harm. It was so, so different from what he had been used to with Val. He didn’t know that overlords had any humanity left inside of them until that moment, and thinking back on it now, Angel can’t help but smile.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Husk’s voice startles him, and Angel gasps, pressing a hand over his chest as he turns to find Husk leaning against one of the slot machines, watching him. His hair is slicked back, more silver than black now that his power is gone, but Angel thinks he looks better than ever. His amber eyes are soft and filled with something that can only be love as he looks at Angel, arms crossed over his chest. He’s smiling.
“Not funny, exactly,” Angel says, sauntering closer. The fact that Husk can still make the butterflies in his stomach flutter even after all this time is unreal, but Angel would never dare complain about something like that. “Just reminiscin’ about old times. Bout you. Bout us.”
Husk’s tail flicks and his ears twitch, but his smirk doesn’t falter. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Angel joins Husk at the machines, and leans back against the cool metal alongside him. He looks up at the ceiling, at the elaborate chandeliers that had once been ablaze with light and have now been shut off, and is once again all-too-aware of that insistent lump in his throat at the thought of goodbye. “We fell in love in this place. Kinda sad to see it go.”
Husk is quiet beside him for a little bit, and then his hand finds Angel’s and threads their fingers together. “Ain’t no point in crying over goodbyes, kid. Goodbyes are a good thing. Goodbyes are healthy.”
Angel looks over at him, but Husk’s eyes are focused ahead, on nothing in particular.
“Whaddya mean?” Angel asks, squeezing Husk’s hand.
Husk sighs, and his eyes fall closed. “I mean… everything’s changin’, yeah, but that’s how it should always be. I spent too damn long standin’ still, the dust on this place is an inch thick and would have just gotten thicker if you hadn’t come along and made me see it. I know it seems sad that we’re walkin’ away from somethin’ that brought us together, but everything is supposed to end eventually. That’s what bein’ alive is all about.”
Angel snorts. “But we’re dead.”
“Depends who you ask,” Husk says with a shrug. “I feel more alive right now than I ever did when I was livin’ up top. Feels like I finally know what I’m supposed to be doin’.”
Angel considers this. He tries to think about his life before, about Anthony, about New York and a world that had been so cruel to him before he had even had the chance to open his eyes. He thinks about how maybe, in a way, he’d been born already dead. He thinks about how tiny he must have been, how frail, how sickly. He thinks about the odds never being in his favor, about his father, about the opportunities he’d never gotten to have. Up until now, his entire existence had felt like Hell.
It’s interesting to think about the concepts of Heaven and Hell not as places but as feelings – to think about existence as actions and consequences, as happiness as a state of mind that’s in constant flux rather than a goal to chase.
Husk feels like Heaven.
“Oh yeah? And what exactly is it that you’re supposed to be doin’, huh?” Angel asks.
Husk’s eyes open and he turns to face Angel. He holds him there under his gaze for a moment, and then his eyes flick down to Angel’s mouth.
“Lovin’ you, baby,” he says and then, standing on his tip toes, catches Angel in a kiss.
It’s one of those kisses that feels like it’s made of magic; one that lifts Angel off of the ground and transports them somewhere else, somewhere all their own. One that sends trickles of electricity though Angel’s body, from his heart to his fingertips.
Loving Husk and being loved by him has been the greatest adventure of Angel’s entire existence. He barely recognizes the person he is now; he no longer hates the person he sees when he looks in the mirror, and he owes it all to the man in his arms. Husk helped Angel break free of the chains within himself that had been holding him back — his addiction, his self-loathing, his guilt. Husk had given Angel his heart back when Angel thought it had turned to ash a long time ago.
When they finally break apart for air, Angel feels like he’s floating.
“Damn, Husky,” Angel breathes. “Warn a girl first.”
One of Husk’s hands is still holding Angel’s and the other is cupping his face. He caresses Angel’s cheek, looking at him like he’s like the whole world exists in Angel’s eyes.
“Sorry,” he says. “Can’t help it. You’re just too beautiful to resist.”
Angel laughs, easy and unguarded. The reaction surprises him more than the compliment itself, because words like that would have once tightened something sharp and painful in his chest. Praise like that had always come with an expectation. With a price tag.
With Husk, that’s never been the case. Husk loves him, and he knows that with certainty. He never has to doubt it ever again.
“Oh — while we’re here, I should give you this.”
Husk pulls back just enough to reach into his pocket. The movement is casual and relaxed. His shoulders are loose, his expression calm. Nothing about his demeanour suggests that this moment is any different from the hundreds of moments they’ve shared before.
Which is why Angel nearly shouts in surprise when he sees what it is that Husk pulls out.
A small, black, velvet ring box sits in the palm of Husk’s outstretched hand.
Angel’s breath catches. This can’t be real, can it?
Husk doesn’t drop to one knee. He doesn’t make a speech. He doesn’t do anything dramatic at all — but Angel knows what he’s asking.
“Husk—”
“Figured I should replace the one you lost,” Husk explains with a shrug. “Y’know, after your contract got dissolved. Your hand’s looked pretty naked.”
Angel stares at him.
The world seems to tilt, ever-so-slightly, on its axis. Everything goes quiet, the sound draining away until all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears.
“Go on,” Husk says gently. “Take it.”
Angel swallows and reaches out to take the box out of Husk’s hand. It’s small and light, and makes a satisfying sound when he pops it open. Inside of it are two gold rings, one inlaid with glittering pink rubies and one with black diamonds. A matching set. They’re beautiful, and Angel knows without asking that the pink one is his.
Suddenly, his mouth is dry.
“Oh,” he says, “Wow. These are — Husk, you didn’t have’ta—”
“I wanted to,” Husk says simply. Husk lifts the pink ring from the box, his movements careful in a way that Angel has rarely ever seen from him. He takes Angel’s hand — gently, like it’s something precious — and slides the ring onto his finger.
The metal is warm against his skin. For a second, Angel can only stare at it. The last time Husk had given Angel a ring, it had been against his will. It had existed as a reminder that his soul did not belong to him, that he was owned and under contract.
This time, the ring represents something else: a choice.
“I was lost before I found you, Angel,” Husk says, lifting Angel’s newly bejeweled hand to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. “I didn’t know how badly I needed you until you were there, pink and covered in glitter and loud and in my face.”
Angel laughs and a few tears fall from his eyes.
“You helped me find my way again. You helped me be someone that my daughter would be proud of.” Husk’s voice is tight, like he’s also trying his best not to cry. “I want you with me for the rest of my afterlife and after that, if you’ll have me. I want you by my side, not as a soul on my chain, but as my partner.”
Angel doesn’t have to think about his answer. “Yes,” he says. “Of course I’ll be yours, Husky, but only if you’ll also be mine. I ain’t doin’ these one-way contracts no more, got it?”
Husk shakes his head. “Not a contract,” he says. “A promise.”
Angel leans in and kisses him again. “I like the sound of that.”
Angel slips the matching ring from the box and takes Husk’s hand. The black diamonds catch the dim light of the shuttered casino, glittering darkly as he slides the band onto Husk’s finger. It fits perfectly.
Angel lingers for a second, thumb brushing over Husk’s knuckle. The sight of the ring there does something strange to him — his heart swells, soft and warm. Husk has always been handsome, but right now, wearing this ring, Angel thinks that he’s never looked better.
“So,” Angel says after a moment, looking around at the empty casino one more time. “What’s next?”
It’s a question that’s a little bit funny, in retrospect — one that he’s never been excited to ask before. He feels excitement about what’s to come. Excitement for the life that they’re going to build together.
Husk follows Angel’s gaze across the empty showroom, taking one last look at the place where they met and fell in love. He exhales slowly. From the inside of his suit pocket, he pulls out his cigarette case. The metal snaps open with a familiar click, He taps one loose, lights it, and takes a long drag.
For a while, he doesn’t answer. Smoke curls upward in thin, gray ribbons, the glow of the cigarette tip pulsing faintly as he thinks. When he finally exhales, the cloud drifts between them.
“Dunno,” Husk says at last.
He studies the room again.
“Been thinkin’ about the hotel a lot,” he continues. “Wonderin’ if there’s any merit to this whole ‘redemption’ thing.”
He takes another drag before offering the cigarette to Angel.
“Last time we were there, the bartender they had fucked up my old fashioned,” Husk adds with a quiet snort. “Figured I could show him the ropes, if Charlie’ll have me.” He shrugs. “Figured it’d do her some good to have a former overlord in her corner, backin’ her plays.”
Angel takes the cigarette, fingers brushing Husk’s as he does. The smoke fills his chest before he lets it drift back out in a slow breath.
“You actually believe in what she’s sayin?” Angel asks, tilting his head toward him. “That sinners in Hell could really earn their way up to Heaven if they try hard enough?”
Husk shrugs again, unbothered. “If I’m bein’ honest?” he says. “I’ve got no idea.”
He watches the smoke curl towards the ceiling.
“But if I learned anything from this whole mess with you,” he continues, voice softer now, “it’s that nothin’ is impossible.” A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Could be worth a try, investin’ in someone else’s dream for once.”
Angel looks down at his ring. The pink rubies glimmer against his skin. Warmth blossoms in his chest — deeper than the heat from the cigarette smoke, deeper than the lingering adrenaline of everything they’ve survived. It spread slowly outward, steady and bright.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t say that if anyone deserves redemption, it’s Husk.
He doesn’t say that Husk already made someone’s dream come true — that he took a broken, frightened sinner and believed in him hard enough that he finally started believing in himself.
He doesn’t say that he already has all of the Heaven he could ever want, right here.
Here, in the quiet brush of their fingers.
Here, in the taste of Husk on the cigarette passed between them.
Here, in the way Husk looks at him like he’s something worth holding onto.
Angel grins. “Yeah,” he says.
His fingers curl loosely around Husl’s. “Let’s do it.”
He glances once more around the darkened casino, around the place where everything started, before looking at the man he loves.
“Let’s get into Heaven together.”
Final AN:
Beloved Readers,
When I started writing this story back in February of 2024, I had no idea what it was going to mean to me. I saw a post on X where someone had drawn Huskerdust in an AU where Husk won Angel’s soul in a game of cards, and I thought to myself “man, I think I could write a really compelling story set in that universe” and with the artist’s encouragement for people to take the concept and run with it, I did just that. Over the course of writing this fic, so much has happened to me. I’ve made some incredible friends who reached out to me and connected with me because of this story. I’ve gotten to travel to new places to meet people, I’ve gotten to help people with their writing, I’ve gotten to meet Viv and attend the Broadway show and do so many cool things all because of this fandom and this fanfic (the person who was able to get me a ticket to the show was someone that I met because of this story!) It still feels unreal when I look at the numbers on this fic — that I’ve somehow managed to reach this many people with this silly little story.
As I’ve said on X and through the ANs on this story, I’ve also been putting myself through grad school while I’ve written this. I completed my MFA in Creative Writing through the course of this fic and I’ve seen my writing grow so much. For my thesis (the first ten chapters of an original novel I’m working on) I told my advisor that I wanted it to be a reflection of my growth from the start of the program to the end. I wanted to see my progress, to see the work I’ve put in and feel proud of what I’ve accomplished. After submitting it, I can fully say that I feel that I did exactly that. I feel the same way about this fic. This fic is a reflection of my growth and my progress and my love for this ship, and I will always be proud of it.
Right now, this fic is over and there’s only two seasons of Hazbin out with four confirmed for release. I know that this fic will not stay at the top of the kudos count forever, or the hit count, or whatever. As the show grows, many things in this story will become outdated (some already have!) I know that eventually this fic will fade in time just like everything else, and something else will take its place, and this ship will evolve with the canon and we will all keep telling stories about them just as the universe intended. But if you’re reading this, be it in the present while I am posting this or the future, just know that I am so appreciative of you for getting this far and for taking the time to read what I’ve created. I am a stranger out there in the world to you, but while you were reading this story, we were connected. You understood me and you listened to me, and you trusted me to bring you to what I hope is a satisfying ending. I love each and every one of you. I read each and every comment you leave me. Thank you for taking the time to connect with me. I hope that you keep fighting for your own personal redemption, and that you learn to find the value in your place on this planet. You matter. I matter. We all matter. It’s never too late to start being better. Maybe we will meet again one day; be it through fanfic or maybe even one of my original works if I am ever so lucky.
Love forever and always,
Razz