Chapter Text
Angel drummed his heels against the spokes of his desk chair, bored. It’d been a slow night in the studio so far.
All the demons calling in to the radio station seemed to have the kind of stupid, petty questions that Angel always felt could be answered by a little common sense and maybe a smack upside the head.
The call-in line flashed, and Angel tailed the music out, steeling himself for another tedious question about some demon’s tedious affair.
He put the call through to the air.
“This is Ask Angie, what can I do you for?”
“Hey there, Angie.” The voice was a smoky, sensuous purr, and nearly two years of working under Alastor had Angel sitting up and taking notice of a voice like that. Whoever this was, they needed and deserved to have their voice on the radio. He itched all over with curiosity.
He leaned in a little, wrapping long fingers around the stem of the stand mic. “Lemme guess: long-time listener, first-time caller?”
“So you’ve heard it before.”
“Sure have, hon.” The bulb over the mic bathed Angel’s face in red light. He closed his eyes, leaning forearms on the desk. The light seeped through his eyelids, dark and bloody. When he laid down to sleep at night, he could see it burned into his corneas, a ghostly green afterimage. In the relative darkness behind his eyes, it was just him and that voice, vulnerable and intimate. “You’re live on the air, what d’you got for me?”
“Well, Angie, I’m starting a new job tomorrow, and I was sittin’ here wonderin’ how to spend my last night of freedom.”
“Freedom, huh? Well if you’re lookin’ for ideas on cuttin’ loose, you’ve come to the right guy.”
“Actually,” and there was a sweet, amused growl in the voice that sang down Angel’s spine, igniting him from within like a smoldering cigarette butt flicked into the dry brush. Eyes still shut, he was very aware of the length and lank of his own body, burning, cut in lighting profile. He was very, very close to the mic now. “Actually, I’ve been listenin’ to your show whenever I can’t sleep, which is often. And so I wondered—” and here that lovely bourbon and leather voice hesitated, and Angel was going to actually die without that voice filling up the hungry husk of his body—“I was wondering if you’d wanna meet me for a drink. Tonight.”
Angel’s eyes flew open. Well fuck, that was a new one.
“Sorry, listeners,” Angel purred, “I don’t mean to tease you, but this one I gotta take off-air.”
Objectively, Angel knew that meeting up with this guy could be a bad idea.
He was well aware of how easy it was for someone to hear his voice on the radio every night and think that they knew him.
This guy could be psychotic, or an axe-murderer, or, shudder, vanilla.
But hell, Angel had hooked up with his fair share of axe-murderers, and they were mostly just very boring in the sack.
Angel stepped back to the edge of the curb, glancing across the empty shop fronts and neon-lit bars. The guy had given him an address he didn’t recognize, which even Angel had to admit was not the best sign.
But that voice…
He’d done stupider things for lesser reasons.
He finally spotted the place, stairs leading to a club sunk below curb level.
He took the stairs and hesitated in front of the door, smoothing his hair, which made no appreciable difference. He hadn’t thought to do more than a quick change before he’d left the studio. Should he have dressed up more? What if, against all odds, the guy was hot?
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “What you see is what you get.”
He pushed his way inside.
It was a jazz club, dim and smoky, amber glow throwing sepia shadows. Angel stopped by the bar and looked around. How the hell was he supposed to find this guy anyway? He hadn’t thought to ask what he’d be wearing.
Up on the stage, a demon crooned into a microphone. She had the pipes, but Angel’s critical ear picked up the slight whine of the mic, likely only audible to hellhounds. He wondered if the rest of the band members were out back having a smoke. Always a good option if this blind date went sideways.
As the demon on stage finished her song, everyone applauded politely, a few even wolf-whistling.
Angel cast his eyes over the little round two-tops, and spotted a guy in a booth at the back, staring right at him. Hel-lo.
He made his way back there, very aware of the length of his stride, the swing in his hips, those unnerving black and gold eyes tracking his every move. His heart was beating a little faster than usual. Was he nervous?
The guy did not rise to meet him, for which Angel was grateful, sparing them both the awkward handshake-hug-kiss dilemma.
Angel slid into the booth across from the guy, who was seriously staring now. The other demon spoke first.
“Well damn, if I’d known you looked like that, I woulda called in months ago.” There was that voice, that fucking voice. It was even better in person. There was a subtle burr under the words that made Angel want to lean in.
“You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself, handsome,” Angel teased, and it was true. Angel liked a man with meat on his bones, and this guy filled out that faded spiked leather jacket in the most delicious way. He was definitely some kind of cat demon, but more of a battleax of a tomcat than these flimsy kittens Angel had met working the pole. He looked put-together: well-groomed in a well-worn way.
In the low light of the club, Angel hadn’t even noticed that his date had wings until the guy flexed them, shaking his pinfeathers into order and folding his wings neatly.
“So I know your name, but I should probably introduce myself.” The guy offered Angel his hand. “Husk.”
Angel took it. “Angel,” he said firmly. “Angie’s just for the show.”
“Nice to meet you, Angel. Can I buy you a drink?”
“You’re welcome to try, baby doll.”
Husk caught a server’s eye and she came over. “Whiskey,” Husk said, “And whatever the lady wants.”
“Vodka cranberry, hon.”
Husk was smiling at him as the server left to fetch their drinks. “I woulda taken you for a tequila man.”
“You'd be right, but I got a hot date I’m tryna impress.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty impressed.”
Angel smirked. “You a fan of the show or somethin’?”
“I’m a fan of you. I like your style, and you got a way with people.”
“It’s a blessing and a fuckin’ curse, man.”
The server dropped off their drinks and Husk accepted his with a nod. He sipped his drink and Angel followed suit.
Husk was studying him again. His tone was light, innocent. “Pretty face like yours, you should be on the big screen. What’re you doing working for the Radio Demon?”
It wasn’t much of a story, truth be told. “Before Al, I was stripping at this joint downtown.”
“And what, he had to have you?”
Angel snorted. “Not exactly. I was out back with a long-time client. He said he had—” drugs, ”—somethin’ for me, an he started gettin’ handsy.”
“Fuckin’ asshole.”
“I know, right? Some people. But it ain’t my first rodeo, so I pulled a gun on him.”
“Good girl.” The words were spoken with an approving growl, praising, teasing, a little condescending, and fuck, Angel was usually a lady in the streets and anything but a “good girl” in the sheets, but maybe this whole praise thing was worth checking out because God. Damn.
Angel took a sip of his drink and prayed that the blush wasn’t showing in his face. He cleared his throat. “A-anyway, I shot him up a little. Nothing fatal, but Al saw the guy fleeing the scene and offered me a job on the spot.”
Angel, blood staining his fur up to his elbow, looking up, tensed and wary as Alastor melted out of the shadows of the alley. Alastor twirling his staff, backlit by a floodlight, looking like a shadow himself. Offering Angel a contract with that fucking smile of his, and Angel, clothes torn, blood hot and wild, taking his outstretched hand.
“What’s it like working for him?”
Angel shrugged. “Not the worst gig I ever had. When he’s got a job, he sends me, an other than that I got the radio show. He can be iffy on boundaries, but he keeps to himself most of the time. Likes things how he likes ‘em, y’know.”
“I know the type.” Husk sipped his drink meditatively. “Why the radio show? Was it your idea or his?”
“His, but he doesn’t care what I do with it. Said he needed a guy he could count on, and that it’d teach me ‘discipline’ and ‘patience.’”
“And has it taught you discipline and patience?”
Angel grinned. “Not a bit.”
“Figured.”
“My turn to ask a couple questions, tough guy.” Angel leaned forward. “Why’d you call in and ask me out?”
Husk met his gaze levelly. “Why’d you say yes?”
“Fuck if I know.” It was uncomfortably close to the truth. “Don’t avoid the question, mister.”
Husk’s mouth twitched in a smile. “Sorry. Old habits. Like I said, I got a new job starting in the morning and I wanted to take advantage of my last night of freedom. I've been listening to your show when I can’t sleep, and I thought maybe you’d be just as good company in person.”
“Am I?”
“Even better.”
“What’s the new job?”
For the first time, Husk dropped his eyes, staring down into his glass. “I’d rather not say, if it’s all the same to you.” His voice was soft and strained, and Angel could tell by the set of his ears that if he pushed him, Husk would shut down, maybe even leave and take that lovely voice with him.
“Shit, sorry, you don’t gotta say.” And then because Angel couldn’t help himself, “It must be bad.”
Husk ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “It’s not all that bad, as far as these things go. I know there’re folks who have it worse than me. But the story of how I got here—“ Angel felt something brush up against his leg and startled. He glanced under the table to see a feathered tail lashing. Husk sighed and took a sip of his drink and, with some effort, pulled a smile across his face. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem. For now, you wanna dance?”
Angel could hear the scrapes and thumps of the rest of the band picking up their instruments. With a one, two, three, the music ground back into motion.
“Sure, hot stuff. You dance?”
“Badly, yes.” Husk drained the rest of his glass and slid out of the booth, offering Angel his hand. “C’mon, kid, let me sweep you off your feet.”
Angel hastily finished off his own drink and stood, taking Husk’s outstretched paw. He towered over him by a full head in his heeled boots.
“Damn, legs.” Husk’s tone was appreciative, and Angel, unaware that he’d been holding onto some small apprehension, relaxed. He let Husk lead him down to where couples swayed and two-stepped on the little dancefloor.
Husk pulled him close, sure and confident but not pushy, his paw at Angel’s hip where the hem of his shirt rode up a little. He was deliciously warm, and his claws carded ever so briefly through the fine white fur there as he settled his hand. Angel, feeling shy, wound one set of arms around Husk’s neck, and settled the other at his waist.
“Hey,” Angel said softly.
Husk looked up, meeting his eyes. Only a few inches separated their faces. “Hey yourself, gorgeous. This okay?” Angel could hear the purr modulating that voice, Husk’s words rolling over the hum and buzz in his chest, and Angel just had to feel it.
Without consciously deciding too, he laid a hand against Husk's chest. “More than okay.” He could feel a slight rumble, and when Husk smiled—a real smile, with teeth—he could just about hear it, the faint grating of stones smoothing in a tumbler. Angel wished he was bold enough to sneak a hand up the hem of Husk’s shirt, to sink his fingers into his fur.
“You happy, pretty kitty?” The nickname slipped from Angel’s lips before he could think about it, and fuck, his face was burning. Usually pet names were part and parcel of how he spoke, flirting his way through ordering coffee or paying the phone bill, but this one was just on the sweet side of flirty, just a little too familiar for someone he’d barely met.
“I’m happy, Angel.” In Husk’s soft, crushed velvet voice, Angel’s name was a sparkling, reverent jewel. Under those lamp yellow eyes, Angel was soft and pliant, shining with some inner glow that only his dance partner could see. He felt small enough to be cradled in Husk’s cupped hands and trapped in that feeling in the circle of his arms, being forced to experience it without turning away, without the safe distance of drugs and adrenaline. The nearness of Husk was almost scalding on his raw nerves, and his fingers itched, watching to unpick. He wanted to dig into this man, wanting to peel back his layers one by one, to see every color he’d ever been painted, every person he’d ever been.
He was leaning in to kiss him before he knew what he was doing, and Husk was sliding a hand up to cradle his face. Angel could feel the purring in Husk’s chest ratchet up a notch.
Husk parted his lips, and Angel opened up under him. Husk kissed Angel like he’d been doing it his whole life, soft and sweet and perfect, and Angel was so, so weak.
When they finally broke apart, Angel felt dizzy. Husk stretched up, and the sweet low rumble of his voice in Angel’s ear was more musical than any of the brassy, belling sounds happening on stage. “Wanna get some air?”
“You read my mind.”
Pausing only to settle up at the bar, Husk led Angel out to the little well of space just outside the club’s front door.
The cool night air scalded Angel’s skin and he shivered.
“You want my jacket, kid?”
Feeling shy again, Angel shook his head.
Husk placed a hand on Angel’s chest and guided him back a couple of steps until his shoulders met the warm brick of the club’s wall. Angel could still faintly make out the sounds of the band inside. He watched as pairs of shoes made their way by at eye-level on the street.
Protectively, Husk bent a wing around Angel, granting them relative privacy. Lit by the soft inner light of the club, his banded feathers were revealed to be a rusty red. Angel slid down the wall a few inches and his hands came up to grasp the front of Husk’s jacket.
He smelled good, like old leather and the chemical burn of whiskey. Like clean fur and feathers and warm skin.
He looked criminally good, too: tight, faded black jeans artfully shredded to strings across thick, muscled thighs.
Husk leaned in to kiss Angel again as if it were the easiest thing in the world, one hand planted against bricks by Angel’s head, the other hand trailing down Angel’s ribs, across his exposed hip, fingers searing a path across Angel’s skin in the cool night air. He smoothed the pad of his thumb across Angel’s hipbone, his claw pressing ever so slightly under the waistband of Angel’s jeans, and the line it drew sang out sweet and bright in tandem to the kiss.
Angel moaned, and Husk pressed closer, deepening the kiss, hot and hungry.
When they finally broke apart, Angel let his head fall back against the bricks, out of breath. “Fuck, whiskers.”
There was something pleased in Husk’s smile. “You said it.”
“You wanna get outta here?”
Husk hesitated, and Angel’s heart squeezed, his guts plummeting as if he’d missed a step walking down stairs.
Husk's voice was slow and regretful. “I want to. Believe me, I do. But you can’t miss what you’ve never had.”
The cold air was raising the hairs on Angel's forearms. He shivered again. “What d’you mean?”
Husk raised a finger and traced the line of Angel’s jaw. “I mean that I’m worried if I let you follow me home, I won’t be able to help falling in love with you.” Husk chucked Angel gently under the chin. “I know I won’t be able to say no to a face like that. But we barely know each other, and I don’t even know what my life’s gonna be by tomorrow. I don’t wanna start something I can’t finish.”
Angel was still clinging to the front of Husk’s jacket. “This could just be a hookup.” He sounded desperate, even to himself.
Husk gently disengaged Angel’s hands, kissing his knuckles as he did so. “I’d rather remember this night as it was and carry that with me, and let you forget.”
“Oh.”
Angel was pinned under that black and gold gaze, a butterfly spread under glass. “I’m glad I decided to call in tonight, and that you took a chance on me.”
“I am too. I had a nice time.” The words were hollow, inadequate. Angel wanted to say more, but there was an ache in him that he could neither put into words, nor truly justify to himself. “Good luck with your new job.”
“If I had luck, I wouldn’t be in this mess.” At the grimace on Angel’s face, however, Husk’s dark expression softened, and he turned Angel’s hand over and pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, kid. I always land on my feet.”
When Angel got back to the studio, he stuck his hand in his pocket to fish for his keys, and felt a smooth edge. Frowning, he drew out a playing card.
Two of Hearts.
He had no idea when he would have done it, but Husk must have slipped it into his pocket.
He turned the card over, hoping for a phone number, something, but there was nothing.
He let himself into the building and locked the door behind him.
Had Alastor had his way, Angel would be sleeping on the cot in the broadcasting booth, but Angel had still wanted to get laid, and so had insisted on a real setup if he was gonna live at the station.
He carefully closed and locked the door to his rooms. It never kept Alastor out, but it still made him feel better.
Pausing only to give Fat Nuggets’ belly a rub—the piglet stirred sleepily in the nest of blankets in his little bed—Angel made his way over to his bedside table. He set up the playing card, carefully propping it between an empty beer bottle and a scarf-draped lamp.
He stripped down, discarding his clothes in a heap on the floor and climbed into bed.
He jerked himself off on his knees, face pressed into the pillows, and came gasping to the memory of Husk’s scent, all leather and whiskey, to the thought of Husk’s weight on top of him, bearing him down, his voice in Angel’s ear, purring, calling him a pretty little thing.
Angel slept fitfully, waking a few times to the phantom sensation feathers brushing against his leg.
Even apart from Husk’s clear desire to part ways, Angel had no way of contacting him, had no idea where he could even be.
Maybe the new job he’d been dreading had taken him to a new city, or maybe he was somewhere Angel wouldn’t be able to reach him, or maybe…
For the most part, Angel tried to put the date from his mind, and day by day he thought less of it.
Just one guy in a city of seven and a half million souls.
One listener, in a sea of thousands.
As the weeks wore on, Angel stopped reaching eagerly for the studio’s call-in line every time it flashed, stopped picking up the receiver and cradling it to his ear, hoping and praying to hear that voice again.
The sick plummet of his stomach every time a caller answered, their voice thin and petty and wrong began to ease, flattening out into mundanity.
Locked in the studio every night, he slowly evened out until he finally hit cruising altitude, staring down that fucking red light and wanting nothing, wishing for nothing.
That was, until he opened his phone one morning nearly three months later, and was assaulted with a headline in all caps:
VALENTINO’S NEWEST FEATURE: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE GAMBLING DEMON?
Angel rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Valentino had another feature out? He must be burning through those fuckin’ twinks.
Angel scrolled idly and then sat bolt upright, the blanket sliding down to pool across his lap. Sensing his agitation, Fat Nuggets came trotting over to plant his front hooves against the side of the bed and squeal to be picked up.
Angel ignored the little pig, transfixed by the photo that accompanied the article.
It was a poster for the new film, titled King of Hearts.
In it, a sly, coquettish little minx of a twink sat on a red felt-topped table, playing cards scattered around him. He leaned back coyly on his hands, legs crossed at the knee, back arched, chest thrust forward and chin tilted.
A familiar demon leaned over him, his bulk dwarfing him. He was stripped to the waist in a ridiculous bowtie, top hat, suspenders, and shirt cuffs getup. He had a hand held out with the King of Hearts between his claws, as if to say: Is this your card? His half-spread wings were a half-shade darker than the red of the poker table, and his face was frozen in a smirk, his black and gold eyes fixed on his co-star’s.
The caption read: Former Overlord Husk, aka the Gambling Demon, stars in new adult feature film by Valentino.
Angel let his phone slip through numb fingers.