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The first time it happens, Angel doesn’t expect it.
Because they’ve both been drinking, and Husk’s eyes are heavy with the weight of words they’ve both barely been able to confess at the church of regrets and top-shelf liquor when he looks at Angel over his glass, and he’s back, he’s been back for awhile now and if Angel has to tiptoe around this unnamed something between them for much longer, he’s gonna lose it.
Husk had cracked before he had.
Thank fuck.
“Missed ya, baby,” Husk had said, low and sweet and so achingly sincere about it that Angel couldn’t take it, hiding behind his drink. “Not the same around here.”
“Probably fewer dick jokes,” Angel had muttered, sipping at his scotch. This late and this many in, he’ll take whatever Husk’s drunk ass’ll serve him. And sometimes that’s just a pour off Husk’s personal bottle.
He couldn’t mind that if he tried.
But Husk had reached out for his hand, laced his fingers with Angel’s, and said, “I don’t know when ya did it, sweetheart, but you got yourself tangled up in my heart. Ya fuckin’ menace.”
Pretty eloquent for someone slurring at the edges.
And Angel can’t claim total innocence over the fact he’d invited Husk up to his room; to be honest he’d kinda thought Husk would turn him down. He always had before.
But Husk had looked at him, low light of the bar warm and soft above them both, their drinks empty and his fingers still holding Angel’s tightly, and reached out to cradle Angel’s jaw with the other hand.
“Not sayin’ that to get between your sheets, Angel,” Husk had said, and Angel had rolled every one of his eyes.
“Gonna be frank here, Whiskers,” he’d replied, fuzzy himself. “No fuckin’ shit.”
Husk had snorted in surprise, and Angel had leaned further into his palm, reaching up with another hand to hold him there. “I’da already sucked your soul back out through ya dick months ago if that’s what you were ever after, dumbass. You’re a fuckin’ menace, too, Husky. Got me catching feelings like some stupid teenager.”
And Husk had looked at him with those eyes of his, those eyes that’d haunted his cold nights left on Val’s couch to fend for himself, those eyes that had held him steady through detox shakes and relapse alike, those burning hellfire yellows Angel couldn’t shake if he wanted to, searing holes right into the meat of his soul like Husk could see into the dead center of him, and liked what he saw-
-and he’d laughed.
Deep and throaty and delighted, booze flush across his nose like usual but brighter, blushing right through his fur.
What an idea; Angel making him blush like that.
“If you like me even half as much as I like you, Angel,” Husk had said, laughter still in his voice. “Then we’re in some deep shit, baby.”
No kiddin’.
But Angel’s dead heart had soared, pounding in his chest as the alcohol made him brave.
He’d leaned across the bar that’d brought them together and kissed Husk over that polished wood, the lounge lights low and warm above them with how late it’d been. Husk’s clawed hand resting gently on his jaw to tip him into a better angle, Husk’s tongue pressing at the seam of his mouth, asking for permission nobody ever bothered to beg anymore, Husk’s chest under his palm rumbling with a pleased purr when Angel’d let him in without a second thought-
Even then, he still hadn’t expected Husk to follow him upstairs when he’d asked.
But he had.
And now, half of Angel’s pillows tossed to the floor when he’d thrown his arms over his head because he’d felt the need to grab something and picked the headboard, Husk’s merciless mouth pressing burning kisses to the inside of his thigh-
“Didn’t know you had freckles here, too,” Husk murmurs against his skin.
“What, ya keepin’ count?” Angel huffs, not even doing a half-decent job of sounding annoyed about it.
“Doin’ inventory,” Husk cracks back, wildfire eyes amused as they glance up at him. “You know I like to know what I’ve got to work with.”
Angel snorts. “Any of my movies woulda told ya that-christ on a stick-”
He doubts that Husk’s left teeth marks in his thigh, but the pinprick of them was enough to make him jump; he hadn’t expected that.
Much to Husk’s entertainment, if the way he presses a less than apologetic kiss to the place where he’d nipped him is anything to go by. It feels more like a promise than a sorry.
Angel wants to hold him to it.
“What’s with you and my freckles, anyway?” he can’t help but ask; Husk’d already traced the ones on his shoulders with his tongue before prowling down his chest to where he is now. Angel can’t wait for him to find the ones on his ass cheek, if he’s being honest. “This some weird kink? I never heard of it.”
Husk snorts, and while he pulls away from where he’s been sucking a hickey into Angel’s thigh, his palm rests there instead, thumb soothing over where his tongue’s been.
“I like ‘em,” he says, like it’s simple. “You got constellations on ya, and they’re pretty. ‘Scuse me for wantin’ to look at the stars.”
Oh, they’re definitely too drunk for this.
Angel’s can feel the blush spread from his ears all the way to his chest. He flings an arm over his eyes, unable to look at Husk after that shit. “Smooth-talker,” he grumbles, muffled by his elbow.
He should have expected that Husk’d be the type to take his time pulling him apart to see what makes him tick. He’d been doing it since that night in the gutter; sticking his claws into Angel’s soul and shuffling him like a deck of cards, curious to see what kinda guts and bones make up Angel’s very being.
He must’ve liked what he found, since he’s here in Angel’s bed.
The thought sets off warmth blossoming through his ribs; the place where he’d figured his heart had dry rotted and cracked to pieces decades ago gives such a clench whenever Husk looks at him like he approves.
He’d always thought that he wouldn’t need the love he’d craved in life and in death if everyone knew his name; fame could be love if he tried hard enough. And he’d done it.
They love him down here.
They love Angel Dust. Sexy and vivacious and simpering in equal measure, they love the razzle dazzle of him. The glitz of all the diamond dust that’s sanded off his edges so he can be anything Val wants him to be, anything the public wants him to be, anything any given john wants him to be-
And Husk just wants his freckles.
The imperfect little marks he dabs with concealer before a shoot, the ones he’d had in life above, dusted over his shoulders and his thighs and his ass, marring the pristine image of Angel Dust and leaving just Angel behind.
Goddamn the man twice, Angel doesn’t know what to do with that.
His shirt had hit the floor the second he’d managed to shut the door, peeling out of the sleeves while Husk stamped kisses to his ribcage, hands on Angel’s hips to keep him steady, and his skirt had followed shortly after.
Husk hadn’t even tried to go for his boots, pupils blown wide as he’d zeroed in on the freckles at his shoulders and tipped him back into his bedding to pounce for them.
And his boots are still on as Husk noses at his thigh affectionately. Legs hadn’t been just a nickname that’d stuck; Angel’s got a suspicion it might be Husk’s favorite of his features, right after the freckles.
He hikes Angel’s knee over his shoulder to get better access to his skin, and Angel’s going to lose his fucking mind if Husk keeps ignoring his dick to tease him like this, but first and foremost there’s no way Husk’s comfortable with Angel’s vinyl-clad leg digging into his wing like that.
He can feel the feathers catching under the material, and he taps at the mattress to get Husk’s attention. Husk pauses, eye contact steady like he’s checking to make sure Angel’s alright.
Angel can’t think about that too much; it’ll break his damn brain.
“As much as I like rufflin’ ya feathers, honey, I don’t actually wanna fuck ‘em up,” he says softly, and Husk raises an eyebrow at him. Angel rolls his eyes. “Just take the fuckin’ boots off. It’s fine.”
Husk hesitates.
Just for a second.
But Angel sees it. And it makes his stupid heart get all clogged up in his throat.
How much he hates his feet is outweighed by the very notion that something about him could be causing Husk discomfort; he cares more about that than the fact Husk can see his feet through his stockings as he peels the vinyl off Angel’s calf.
Charlie should be proud of him; that’s character growth…or some kinda shit like that.
His boots thunk to the floor at the foot of his bed, one right after the other, and Husk traces the lace at the top of his black stocking with a gentle claw.
It’s too sweet. Angel can’t look at him.
His ceiling isn’t nearly as nice to look at as Husk is, though.
A thought occurs to him, and Angel grimaces. “Hey, Husky. Quick question,”
Husk hums in acknowledgement, still apparently hypnotized by the two extra inches of Angel’s thigh that had been revealed by the loss of his boots. And that’d be incredibly flattering if Angel weren’t about to ask him something fucking awkward.
“Are you barbed?”
Husk snorts, eyebrows up incredulously. Angel puts his hands up in surrender, palms open.
“I’m just askin’!” he says, knowing by Husk’s eyes that he’s unbothered. “I’ve fucked cat sinners before, and it’s a roll ‘a the dice every time. A guy just likes to know what he’s hoppin’ onto, is all. Prep’s different for it.”
“No,” Husk answers shortly. But Angel can see that something about what he’s asked is stuck in his teeth, and Husk’s about to chew on it until he’s satisfied. “...doesn’t that hurt?”
Angel sucks his teeth, considering his answer. They’re both still tipsy, and he doesn’t want the weight of how heavy this can be to settle over Husk’s shoulders.
Still. It’s nice to have someone want to help him carry it.
“It does,” he confesses. “Kinda the point, really. An’ y’know, I like a little pain. When I want it, and nobody’s tryna snap me in half. Or getting their spiny fuckin’ dick stuck in my ass for an hour.”
He says it like a joke, but Husk doesn’t laugh.
He just.
Looks at Angel.
All he can do is hope that Husk likes whatever he sees, because Angel’s shit outta luck on any other front.
“Ain’t gotta do more than this tonight,” Husk offers quietly, thumb brushing over Angel’s knee. “Not if ya don’t want. We’ve both been drinkin’.”
“We’re always drinking,” Angel points out. “My mind’s clear as it ever is, baby. You wanna make a big deal of listenin’ to me, then listen when I say that I want this.”
Husk huffs a laugh, and Angel can feel it in his bones. He lets go of Angel’s leg, crawling back up over him to press a soft kiss to his mouth.
Angel sighs into it.
Husk’s wings are up, canopying them in like their own private world as he wraps his arms around Husk’s shoulders, tugging him closer, and his tail’s curled possessively around Angel’s calf. He can’t say he’s ever felt so surrounded before. Not while still feeling safe.
He barely registers that Husk pulls back, just enough to murmur cuore mio against Angel’s jaw.
He inhales sharply.
That’s one hell of a declaration; Husk calling Angel his heart.
“You fight dirty, bello,” Angel says softly, and he can feel Husk’s grin against his throat. “But I ‘spose I knew that.”
“Handsome, huh?” Husk asks, sounding a little too stunned to be pleased about it, and Angel can’t help that he cackles.
“I got eight eyes and they all work just fine, ya loser,” he says, tracing the place where Husk’s wings joint to his shoulders with the pad of a finger. Husk arches into his touch, and Angel’s grin creeps wider across his face as Husk buries his face into the crook of Angel’s neck.
He’s been careful up until now to keep most of his weight off Angel, but as he traces circles into Husk’s spine, Husk melts into him.
Angel can’t help that he arches up himself, trying to grind his neglected dick against Husk’s hip. Hell, he wouldn’t care if they both got off like this, lazy and slow and satisfying. Been awhile for him since he’d done anything like that.
Sounds kinda nice.
Husk doesn’t even reprimand him for it, returning his rhythm with a roll that makes it clear to Angel that even though his trousers haven’t been shucked yet, Husk’s clearly having just as good a time as he is.
He can’t lie, he’d been a little concerned about whiskey dick making an appearance.
Or lack thereof, as it were.
Give him a break, Husk’s older than him and an alcoholic; some things just factor in. He’s got a plethora of straps in the drawer and little blue pills himself he wouldn’t mind sharing if it’d come down to it. He’s no spring chicken, either.
No problem this go around though, and Angel’s not about to waste the opportunity.
They’ve wasted too many of them already, and if Angel hates anything, it’s things slipping through his fingers like curls of red red smoke.
He’s got six hands to hold onto Husk for as long as he can.
And by the way Husk’s all wrapped up in him, the feeling must be mutual.
He can believe that. He’s gotta, because Husk had offered up that heart of his, all cracked and repaired with gold, and this time, Angel’s ready to take it.
And as he pulls Husk back up for another kiss like he’s never gonna get enough of them, Angel makes a promise to himself.
No matter what happens, he’s not dropping Husk’s heart.
Not again.