Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

   He’d been doing so well. He’d gone cold turkey two days ago, which obviously wasn’t smart, but he’s already dead so what’s the worst that could happen. If he seemed a little more tired than usual, that’s nobody’s business but his. He’d nearly stabbed holes in his palms from clenching his fists to keep from taking anything people (Val) offered him. It was kinda awful, but he was doing it.

   But work had been shit today. Angel had bruises in places he didn’t know could bruise. He was starving and shaky and exhausted beyond anything he’d ever felt before. He needed… something. Not drugs, but something. And if something else didn’t work….. oh well.

   He shoved through the front doors at 11:42 pm, most of the hotel either already in bed or heading that way. Husk, of course, was still at the bar, and probably would be for the next 2 hours. Angel pushes himself onto a bar stool, and Husk barely glances at him before grabbing the ingredients for a “Star Struck”- the drink Angel had helped him invent a few weeks ago.

   “Tough day,” Husk asks, sensing Angel’s tense attitude.

   “You have no fucking idea,” he answers, sharper than he’d meant to. This thing also had him in an evil mood. Not that Husk wasn’t used to it after serving him every day post-studio-time, but it pissed Angel off a little that he couldn’t control it now. He violently drums all 16 of his fingers on the bar, staring blankly at the faint swirling pattern in the green of the counter top. He doesn’t look up until Husk waves a hand under his face. He looks up painfully slow, but he suddenly can’t move any faster.

   “You alright, Angel?” Shit. The other thing is that this was a decision Angel had made on his own.  Charlie had been encouraging some form of waning off the drugs for a while, but after a particularly bad high where he couldn’t remember anything from the past day three days, he’d said “fuck it” and chucked all his drugs out the window. Well, not all, but…. anyway. Why was he thinking about that? “Angel!” Oh, right.

   “Um… yeah, I’m fine,” he manages to say, finding Husk’s eyes. “Drink?”

   “Drink,” Husk repeats, clearly skeptical of that answer, as usual, “right… here it is.” He lifts the pink, sparkly cocktail up towards the counter. Angel goes to grab it, but his hand starts shaking before he can. He grabs his wrist with another, equally shaky hand, and tries again. This time he can’t grab it because suddenly its back on the counter behind Husk, who he soon realizes has that expression on his face again. Y’know, the one that’s like, “Shit, Angel. What is it this time?” Or is it the “Oh poor Angel. What happened to you?” Or maybe something in between…

   “I’m gonna ask again,” Husk starts cautiously, “Are you alright?”

   “Husk, I’m fine,” Angel groans. “Just tired alright? I need that drink.” He sort of flops over on the counter and stares… in the direction of the drink, but also not at anything in particular.

   “I don’t know, kid. You’ve got that stare going on.” He pauses before carefully asking the next part. “Are you high?” His caution doesn’t work.

   “No, I’m not fucking high, asshole,” Angel snaps, glaring up at the bartender. “That’s the fucking problem.” He lifts his shaking hands and digs them into his scalp, trying to still them. Husk watches, connecting pieces in his brain.

   “Angel, what did you do,” he asks, not accusatory, just asking. Well, he might as well say it, now.

   “I quit. Or at least I’m trying to quit. I’m trying real damn hard, and it’s kinda making me wanna kill or die or both,” he says, glaring at the space above Husk’s ears.

   “Quit? Drugs? What, you just dropped ‘em?” Angel nods with the whole top half of his body, not able to move his neck right now. “Angel, do you understand how dangerous that is?”

   “What am I gonna do, kill myself? Hate to break it to you, baby, but we’re already dead.” He brings his hands down from his hair, wrapping them tightly around shoulders. Probably too tight, but he’s already aching so it’s not that much worse.

   “Angel,” Husk says again, clearly trying to keep his attention, “look at me, please.” He tries to, he does, but he’s so tired his eyes don’t want to focus. He sees that wonderful gold in Husk’s eyes and tries to focus on that. He’s always loved Husk’s eyes, even if he’d never admit something like that out loud. “Dropping something like that isn’t safe, especially not by yourself. Who’s been helping you?”

   “Pfft, nobody. I’m an independent bitch,” he answers, truthfully. That’s what he’d been telling himself. He’s the one who chose to start doing drugs, so he’s the one who’s gonna get himself out of it.

   “Angel, that’s not- you can’t- jeez…” Husk sighs deeply and turns like he’s going to leave, but he appears a second later on the barstool next to Angel. He makes sure Angel notices him there before extending a paw/hand. Angel glances at it, then back up, confused. “Just take my hand. I’d rather that than watch you cut off your own circulation.”

   Angel suddenly feels the pain in his upper arms, and slowly starts to let go. His hands start to shake again and he tries to breathe. Husk notices and meets him halfway, gently taking both top hands. The contact is nice, but Angel can still feel the chills rushing through his entire body.

   “I’m guessing you’re pretty tired,” Husk says softly.

   “Fuck yes,” Angel sighs, folding in a little.

   “Can you get upstairs?” Angel glances over at the grand staircase that would take him to his lovely bed. The elevator is across the lobby, but there’s no way he’s getting up those steps alone.

   “Not really.”

   “Do you want me to help you,” Husk offers, already sliding off the stool. Angel starts to follow when the “Star Struck” on the counter catches his eye.

   “But what about the bar? You didn’t shut down,” he mumbles, the fatigue catching up and making him a little dizzy.

   “Niffty’s got it. Or I’ll get it in the morning,” Husk says, bringing Angel’s focus back by softly squeezing his hands. “Right now, you need your bed. So, how do you want to get there?” Angel barely has time to think before the delirium sets in.

   “Carry me.” That’s not exactly the answer Husk was expecting, and if Angel was awake and alert, he would’ve noticed the cat’s pupils do that cute little widened thing they do when he gets flustered. It’s a rare thing Angel has only seen a few times, and it definitely doesn’t make his own eyes go fuzzy.

   “Um… you sure,” Husk mumbles. Angel doesn’t vocalize a response, but he lets go of Husk’s hands in favor of draping them around his shoulders. He sort of slumps down, forcing Husk to swoop him up so he doesn’t collapse on the tile floor. “Hmph, alright, princess.”

Chapter Text

   So, this was supposed to be a pretty simple case. Done in less than a day. Or at least that's what Sherlock had said at the beginning. Now, they were in a predicament. A predicament they had technically been in before, but this time was somehow worse. Well, not worse, because last time someone got murdered, and this is definitely not that kind of case. It didn’t have to be an illegally-searching-this-flat-case, but the detective had insisted. So, here they are, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, folded together in what feels like a cabinet but is technically a hall closet. Definitely meant to hold no more than a broom and a mop, maybe a vacuum.

   It’s times like this (not that there are many) that John wishes he had kept up with at least a little bit of his military workout routine. He can barely breathe, and he doubts Sherlock is doing much better. The space is also shorter than normal, and Sherlock is taller than average, so he’s hunched over slightly, head hitting the ceiling. Looking up at him like this was…. something. John definitely wasn’t staring at his friend’s jaw and admiring how well it suits his face. No, he’s just looking up because there’s nowhere else to look… other than straight at Sherlock’s chest, which is equally weird. Not because it also brings up weird thoughts in John’s mind! Definitely not.

   “Ahem,” John coughs quietly. Sherlock keeps his focus on the door. “Um… this is new.” Can’t blame a guy for trying to joke about an awkward situation. Sherlock barely glances down before replying.

   “No it isn’t. We’ve been in a closet before,” he whispers back. John tries not to laugh at the double meaning. He’s not wrong, either way.

   “Well, yeah, but at least it was a full wardrobe last time, instead of a literal bloody broom closet.” Sherlock finally turns his head down, probably to make a snarky reply, but he stops as he seems to realize just how close they are to each other. He just stares for a minute, and John starts to feel like a germ on a petri dish. “You, uh, alright, Sherls?” The detective blinks, furrows his eyebrows, and turns his attention back to the door, listening intently.

   “They’ve left. We should be able to get out now.” John flips the door open. Sherlock slides out quickly, John follows behind, not as briskly. A quick look around the small apartment confirms that the tenant is not around anymore.

   “So, did you find what you’re looking for,” John asks, adjusting Tiny Mic where it got jostled in his front jacket pocket. Sherlock doesn’t respond, but John sees him start with the “piano fingers” (Mariana’s name for Sherlock’s silent substitute for snapping). “Or… maybe not?” Still just staring into space. “What happened? I thought this was a simple case. We just came here to double check something. Did that change?” At that, Sherlock turns, as if to respond. Again, though, he doesn’t. He just stares, looking more and more frustrated. Or… confused? “Hello? Earth to Sherlock.”

   “I- it’s- um… yes,” Sherlock finally…. answers. “Yes, I’ve got… what I came for.”

   “So… are we leaving?” John points to the door, but Sherlock doesn’t move. “If we’re done, I’m guessing ‘yes’-”

   “What are we?” John stops mid-step and pivot-turns to his friend.

   “Sorry… what?” Sherlock is just sort of staring at him, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something different about this look.

   “What are we? As the two of us,” he says, as if that clears up anything.

   “Um… best friends? Flatmates? Coworkers? We’ve got quite a few label options,” John answers, subconsciously trying to ignore the real implication of Sherlock’s question. 

   “Is that all,” Sherlock continues. “I mean, is that really all you wish it was?”

   “Wh- um-” suddenly John can’t speak words, “-I’m, uh… not sure what you mean, mate.”

   “So you don’t find me attractive?” Fuck.

   “No. I mean- No! Wait, not that I think you’re, like, revolting or something. I mean I can’t deny that you’re not too bad to look at. Quite the opposite, if anything. That’s not necessarily me saying that, though. Just to clarify.” Bloody hell, John. Get it together. Sherlock squints, almost suspicious. “Wha-whe-why? Why… do you ask?”

   “The closeness from just a few moments ago allowed me to feel your increased heart rate and somewhat strained breathing. I would’ve chalked it up to the tight space, but I also noticed you staring rather intently at my face, and it wasn’t the first time. I’ve caught you doing so countless times, over the past several months especially. I’m not sure what exactly the look in your eyes is, but I know I’ve seen it before, in plenty of people, usually shared between people who are romantically involved,” he states, trying to stay cool and analytical, but John can still see his fingers tapping against each other.

   “Well… it’s just… y’know.” No, he doesn’t know. That’s why he’s bloody asking. “I mean, maybe. Like I said, I can’t deny you’re rather nice to look at and… I do quite like you, I suppose.” Wow, how eloquent, Dr. Watson.

   “I… quite like you, too.” Oh… OH!

   “Well, what would you like to do about that,” John ponders, genuinely wondering what Sherlock expects to happen now. They just confessed… something.

   “I- um,” Sherlock looks around. “I think I would prefer to figure that out in the comfort of my own flat.” John laughs, somewhat relieved to know he’s not the only one who’s a little lost.

   “I can get behind that,” he agrees. Then, he steps a little closer. “In the meantime, can I at least hold your hand on the way there?” He might be pressing his luck, but it could be a step.

   “I’ll allow it,” Sherlock answers, smirking slightly. John slips a hand into Sherlock’s and leads him out the door. As they reach the street, Sherlock points to the mic in his pocket. “Not sure this ‘adventure’ will be podcast worthy.” John shrugs.

   “I think I’ll keep the last bit, just for myself.”

Chapter Text

   “Why am I doing this to myself?” Elle thunks her head hard on her desk. “Words don’t even look like words anymore!”

   It’s 3:47 AM. She’s been studying for almost 7 hours. No breaks. Which is stupid. She probably wouldn’t even remember half of this because she’s so exhausted, but it’s the thought that counts. She’ll take a break after this midterm. Maybe. She’s picking up her flashcards for the fifth time when a knock jolts her up. She spins her chair to face the door. Who the hell is up right now?

   “Hello?” The voice is muffled through the door, but Elle would recognize it anywhere. She slowly lifts herself up, achy from being seated at her desk for so long, and makes her way to the door. She can feel the small bolt of energy as she opens it to see-

   “Emmett!” She stands on her toes to kiss her boyfriend. “What are you doing here?”

   “I don’t need a reason to come see my girlfriend,” he says, mostly truthfully.

   “It’s four in the morning, Em,” she responds. He sighs.

   “I was up working and bored and I saw that you were awake through your activity on our study doc,” he admits. “So I figured I’d drop by.”

   “You have work in the morning,” she scolds softly, leading him into the room and closing the door. He sees her chaotic study set up and makes a face.

   “Yeah and you have class. An exam, actually. What is all of this?” He plops down in her desk chair and spins.

   “My exam, basically. Or hopefully. I don’t even know anymore,” she groans, coming to stand behind Emmett, leaning over his shoulders.

   “Well, I think you’ll be okay, probably better than okay, because you are so very smart,” he says, looking at her in the vanity mirror over the desk top. “But, if you keep doing this, and you don’t take care of yourself, that won’t matter.” Elle rolls her eyes, pushing away and flopping on her bed, accidentally waking Bruiser.

   “You can’t tell me anything, Mr. I-only-ate-like-half-a-meal-a-day-all-through-my-first-two -years-of-college,” she pouts, even though she knows he’s right. Bruiser stretches and comes over to lick her face.

     “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Speaking of eating, I did not come empty handed.” He grabs his backpack from where he dropped it at the foot of the bed. Elle sits up, with her dog in her arms, and watches as Emmett pulls out two delicious looking, pre-packaged slices of strawberry cheesecake, and plastic forks. “I present study sustenance. Even though you’re done studying.” Elle stops in her path of grabbing her snack.

   “No I’m not. I have to-”

   “Sleep,” Emmett interrupts, opening his slice. “You need to sleep. After you eat this, of course.” Elle grimaces, but Emmett continues before she can protest. “Elle, I know you know this stuff. Somewhere in that brain, you also know you know it. You’re going to ace this fucking midterm, and when you do, we’ll go out to dinner to celebrate.”

   “Fine,” Elle says, almost conceding. “But can we at least run my flashcards one more time while we eat?”

   “Oh my god!” Emmett hands her his cheesecake, then stands and dramatically walks around her and drops himself at the head of the bed, physically pulling Elle away from the desk by her ankles. “You’re not even allowed to think about the mess that is on your desk right now. Just look at me, or Bruiser, and eat the cheesecake I so graciously bought on the way over here.” He takes his slice back and actually (gently) shoves a fork full into Elle’s mouth before she can make any more arguments against making good choices.

   “Man, that’s really good,” she mumbles around the strawberry deliciousness. She almost glances back at her desk, but instead focuses on the cake in her hands. “Thanks.”

   They sit in a wonderfully comfortable silence, with Elle finishing her slice first. Of course, she hadn’t eaten since… 5:00-ish? So, she was hungry. She watches Emmett for a moment, when suddenly an aggressive yawn shudders through her. He lifts an eyebrow, then an arm. Her flashcards cross her mind one last time before she lays down in his arms. She feels him lean over to the nightstand, probably to put his cheesecake remains away. Then, he hugs her to his chest and they both drift off to sleep.

—

   And Emmett was right. She did ace her midterm, and they had a wonderful celebratory trip to the nearest Waffle House.

Chapter Text

   Angel had gotten so used to handling shit on his own, even the smallest things like nightmares and such. He’d learned the hard way that Val rarely ever cared about those kinds of things unless he needed Angel to do something specific. Sometimes all he needed was a hug or something, but it was never “just” anything with Valentino. One particular day at the studio taught Angel to not even bother asking.

----- 

   The moth had been in a pretty good mood, but Angel had been having a shit day outside of work, and was clearly upset. Val pulled him aside after a few failed attempts at a particular shot.

“Amorcito, what’s wrong,” he’d crooned with such convincing concern.

   “I just don’t feel too hot right now, Val. I don’t know.” Val had reached up and caressed his face so sweetly.

   “Well, what do you need, mi cariño?” Angel had thought for a moment, knowing this question was probably stupid, but deciding to try anyway.

   “Could you, maybe just… hold me for a minute,” he’d quietly asked, not looking up, which was a good idea. If he had looked at Val’s face he would’ve seen it crinkle in discomfort.

   “Angel, we have work to do,” he coldly responded, the mood switch evident in his voice. “Hugs are for babies. Now get back out there and get over whatever this is. It’s not a good look on you, mi precioso.”

----- 

   So, he’d gotten used to leaving all those feelings at the door before even entering the studio, then it became ignoring them all together. The only place that felt completely safe was his room at the hotel, where he could sit and cry and scream and hug his pig as much as he needed. Of course, Fat Nuggets couldn’t exactly hug him back, but the feeling of another heartbeat was usually enough.

   Here he was, on another one of those particularly bad days. He’d said as much as he deemed necessary at his nightly debrief with Husk at the bar, but he’d managed to keep it together until he closed his door. Then, it hit him.

   “Fuck,” he shouts, leaning against the door and sliding down to the floor. Fat Nuggets climbs out of his bed, coming over to nuzzle Angel’s knees. “Christ, Nuggs, I just wish it would stop. I can’t keep doin’ this.” He realizes he’s sobbing now. Then, the anger sets in. 

   He stands, the hell hog in his arms. He sets his baby on the bed, out of the way. He starts grabbing the pillows and chucking them at the wall. When he runs out of those, he starts punching the mattress. Fat Nuggets, no stranger to these fits, stands politely out of the way, concerned but basically helpless.

   “FUCK VALENTINO! FUCK HIM AND HIS STUPID EMOTIONAL BLINDNESS!! HE ACTS LIKE HE GIVES A SHIT BUT HE DOESN’T CARE! NOT ABOUT ME OR ANY OF THOSE ACTORS UP THERE! ALL HE WANTS IS PROFIT AND THE FREE SEX THAT COMES WITH IT!”

   He doesn’t even notice when he switches from the mattress to the floor, the pain in his hands barely registering. He grabs something- an empty perfume bottle, maybe- off the ground and chucks it, apparently at the door, because he hears the mirror hanging off the back of it shatter. He gets a few good final hits into the carpet before he crumples into a ball, sobbing violently. He faintly hears the door click open, but doesn’t move from his miserable position.

   “Angel? Are you- um. What happened?” It’s Husk. Of course it is. He’s the only other person who has a key to Angel’s room. Their situation is… complicated. They still haven’t claimed any label, but more often than not, they spend nights in each other’s rooms, for varying reasons.

   “I did,” Angel manages to say through his tears. The cat makes his way over the broken mirror shards, shutting the door behind him. He accidentally gets a huff of a laugh from Angel when most of his joints pop as he sits on the ground beside him. If his old man bones are gonna help him get Angel to calm down, then oh well.

   “Do you want to talk about it,” he asks, simultaneously asking about physical contact by reaching out a hand. Angel accepts it with one hand, laying Husk’s on his back. Husk rubs soothing circles there as the spider thinks about his answer to the first question.

   “I already screamed about it, so I think I’m alright,” he finally says with a sigh. The tears have stopped pouring, now just occasionally slipping down his face one at a time.

   “Okay. Just overall one of those days?” Angel nods softly. “Can you sit up for me, maybe?” Though with a heavy sigh, Angel complies. He still hugs his knees, but he is up. Husk must have gotten Fat Nuggets off the bed on his way in, because he is also on the floor with them. Husk nudges his boot. “How are you feelin’?”

   “Better,” he answers honestly. “I think I mostly just needed to get it out.” He looks around. “But now I gotta get a new mirror. Damn.”

   “Is there anything you need right now?” A hug, but hugs are for babies. Fuck, Angel, no. Husk is not Valentino. He doesn’t think like that. Just ask him.

   “Can you hold me,” he finally asks, feeling pitiful. Husk pauses for a moment and Angel almost panics, thinking he was wrong about all of it.

   “Can we move up there first,” Husk says, motioning to the bed. “My ass is going numb.” Phew.

   “Sure, old man,” Angel jabs, finally smiling a little. Husk rolls his eyes, but stands, reaching down to help his… friend… off the floor. Angel grabs the nearest pillow on his way up, since there’s none left on the bed. Husk grabs a few, too, before climbing on and situating himself and his wings so that Angel can lay on his chest. The spider gladly accepts the position, lodging his fingers in Husk’s fur and his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the soothing scent of whiskey and the smoky wood of the hotel bar. He can feel the last of his energy leaving him. “Grazie, tesoro.”

   “Ti ho preso, caro mio.”

Chapter Text

   Sometimes, being the daughter of the world’s only consulting detective and “his blogger” was awesome. Rosie could brag about it, threaten bullies on the playground with it, and so much more. However, it also came with some not so great stuff.

   Rosie had decided at the beginning of this year that she needed to be a ballerina. Shezza had wholeheartedly supported this decision, so they’d signed her up for lessons at the nearest dance studio. Most of the time, they would all walk there together since it's only a few blocks away, but sometimes, her dads would have to drop her off with Aunt Molly because they had a bad guy to chase. This was fine, until it came time for her first recital.

   As they were getting her ready, Shezza had gotten a call from Uncle G. Next thing she knew, Aunt Molly was driving her to and from the theater. Rosie had stayed awake almost all night, and when her parents finally came to get her from 221A with Mrs. Hudson, she pouted all the way up the stairs, and until she fell asleep. After that night she made both of them promise never to miss a recital ever again.

   Tonight was the next one. She’s been practicing so hard, and she even has a little solo in one of the songs. She hasn’t stopped talking about how excited she is, and the energy is not helping Shezza’s mission to create the perfect ballerina bun. The moment he finally puts the last hair band in, Daddy’s phone rings. He checks the caller id, grimaces, and steps into the hallway. Rosie senses a tension and strains to hear him as Shezza tries to finish her stage makeup..

   “Mycroft, what’s going on?” Uncle Mycroft? That can’t be good. “We’re a little busy tonight, can’t you get some of your government guard on it or something? …. Yeah, no, I hear you….. I’ll see what we can do.” He hangs up and comes back to the doorway. Shezza looks up and they share a look. Rosie knows that look, and it’s not a good one. She hates it when they do that. They have entire conversations in complete silence, as if she’s not even there. Eventually, Daddy sighs and comes to kneel beside her. Here it comes.

   “Hey, Rosie. Uncle Mycroft just called and I might have some bad news,” he says.

   “There’s a bad guy, so you can’t come to my recital? Again?” Rosie’s six, not stupid. Daddy sighs, and Shezza kneels down as well.

   “Rosie, remember, we love you very much, but somebody might get hurt if we don’t chase him down-” Rosie hops down from her chair, pushing past them to stand in full pout stance.

   “But you promised! You both did!” She’s not going to cry- she’s too tough for that- but she will certainly shout. Daddy reaches out to soothe her, but she pushes his hand away.

   “I know, darling,” Daddy sighs. “And we’ll try to make it. I can definitely promise that, but I can’t promise that we will. We have a job to do, and like we’ve said, that means making hard choices. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but there are dangerous people out there that very few people know how to handle. Shezza is one of those people, and I have to help him.” Rosie just glares, choosing silence as her form of protest. “Fine, don’t respond. Just get your shoes, please. We have to leave, so you’ll sit with Mrs. Hudson until Aunt Molly gets here.” She continues to glare, but snatches her dance bag off the hook by her door. She then leaves them behind and stomps all the way down the stairs to knock on the door of Mrs. Hudson’s apartment.

   “Well, hello, dearie,” the old woman croons as she opens the door. “Do you need something?”

   “Daddy and Shezza have to go be ‘heroes’ so I have to sit here until Aunt Molly comes to take me to my dance recital,” Rosie hisses, arms crossed.

   “She’s rightfully not very happy about it,” Shezza explains, having followed her down the stairs, costume bag in hand. Daddy is not far behind, a sorry expression on his face. As he should be.

   “Well, that’s alright,” Mrs. Hudson chirps. “We’ll hang out until then. Perhaps I’ll even come with you.” That makes Rosie feel a little better. Maybe Aunt Molly won’t be alone this time.

   “We’ve really got to run,” Shezza says, handing the costumes off to the landlady. “Rosie, love, we’ll see you later.” She allows him to kiss her on the cheek.

   “We love you. We know you’ll be wonderful up on stage,” Daddy says, followed by the same kiss. And with that, they’re gone. Rosie sits for the next thirty minutes, playing Go Fish with Mrs. Hudson, until Aunt Molly arrives. The older woman officially decides to tag along, and they all head over to the local secondary school, whose auditorium the dance studio uses for recitals. They find Rosie’s teacher and leave her to find seats. She goes backstage to get dressed with her friends, trying to put herself into a better mood. She still has a performance to give, after all.

   After about 45 minutes, it’s her class’s turn to perform. She stands offstage in her sparkly tutu, waiting with her friends for the music to start. Finally, they hear the piano notes and chasse on, into their formation. She’s in the front row, of course. She half-heartedly glances around the audience, looking for the women who brought her here. She finds them and smiles, but the next thing she sees almost throws her off the rhythm.

   They made it. Sitting beside Aunt Molly are Daddy and Shezza, beaming up at her on the stage. She smiles right back, as big as she can. They’re here, just like they promised. She continues the dance, which includes the best performance of her solo she’s ever done. She hears her family cheering as her class walks off the stage. She waits eagerly in the dressing room for final bows, and after, immediately runs off the stage to her parents.

   “You made it! You did!” She jumps into her father’s arms, and Shezza holds up a small bouquet of roses.

   “Of course we did. We had a promise to keep.”

Chapter Text

   Husk hasn’t been at the bar all day. Of course, the one day this week that Angel is off work, his boyfriend is missing. Alastor is out at an overlord meeting, which usually means Husk doesn’t have errands to run. Even if he did, he would've told Angel about that. If he would just stop being stubborn and get a cell phone, it wouldn’t be this frustrating. After lunch, Angel finds Charlie.

   “Hey, Char, have you seen Husk today? He hasn’t been at the bar,” he asks.

   “Oh! Right, I’m sorry, I was supposed to tell you. He called out… sick,” she says, pausing before the last part.

   “Why did that sound like a question? Is he sick or not?”

   “I’m not actually really sure? You can go check on him. He’s probably in his room." Oh, duh. Of course he’s holed up in his room. Luckily, Angel has a key.

   He takes the elevator up to Husk’s floor and skips down the hallway to Husk’s door. The bedazzled playing card decor on the front was Angel’s idea. He knows not to barge in, even with his own key, so he knocks.

   “Ugh, who is it?” Husk sounds severely disgruntled.

   “The love of your life,” Angel answers. There’s a long stretch of silence on the other side of the door.

   “Come in… I guess,” Husk sighs. Angel unlocks the door and slowly pushes it open. His eyes go wide at the sight of the room.

   “Um, this is… fun?” It’s a mess, is what it is. The entire floor along with several other surfaces are covered in red and black feathers. Husk is sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, wings splayed out behind him.

   “This is annoying,” he grumbles, lifting his head slightly, but not looking at Angel. He seems almost embarrassed. Angel shuffles through the feathers to sit beside him.

   “Wanna tell me what’s going on,” he asks, poking Husk playfully in the side. The cat lazily swats him away and sighs again.

   “I’m molting.” He says the word with such disgust, it makes Angel frown. “It’s this stupid seasonal thing that happens, because apparently these-” he looks at his wings, “- follow earth bird rules. At the beginning of every ‘fall’ they just start coming out, I guess to make room for fresh ones.”

   “Well, if they just fall out, what’s so distressing,” Angel ponders. “I mean, other than the mess.”

   “Because,” Husk says, getting up in irritation, pacing through his own feathers, “I already have to deal with enough of the stupid cat shit, and then once a year I have to take up to two days off to ‘preen.’ Why? Because some fucker thought it would be hilarious to give the guy who threw himself off a damn roof the ability to fucking fly!” He kicks at the pile of fluff at his feet for emphasis.

   “Is there any way I can help?” Angel doesn’t really understand since he doesn’t have any particular gripes with his demonic form, but he knows its particularly triggering topic for Husk. He’s not sure of the story behind the cat part, but the wings are definitely a cruel reminder.

   “Not unless you can stop it from happening.” Husk still isn’t looking at him, just staring at the wall, gripping the back of his desk chair. He turns to sit fully on the bed. Now having a full view of Husk’s tattered, shedding wings gives Angel an idea. He’d had a few bird-like costars over the years, and they have wing/feather care as part of hair-and-makeup. He remembered asking Blu about it one time.

   “Yeah, it’s just a bird thing, I guess,” he’d said. “It’s pretty hard to get them all by yourself, but here we’ve got the team, and at home I’ve got Jewel, so it’s not too bad.”

   “I could help you get them out,” Angel suggests softly. Husk half turns to finally look at him. “It might make it go a lot faster, and you could maybe relax a little.”

   “Um… are you sure? I don’t want you to have to-”

   “Don’t do that. I’m volunteering. I want to help you. Please?” Husk thinks for a minute, glancing over the piles on the floor. He finally sighs once more and trudges back to the bed, grabbing a fine tooth comb from his bedside table. He hands it to Angel and sits in front of him on the mattress.

   “I’d tell you to be careful, but I don’t really care anymore.” Angel is going to be careful, of course. He’s not going to hurt Husk. He would never.

   He starts gently combing through the patterned feathers, starting at the tips and moving in. As he reaches the point where the first wing connects to Husk’s shoulder, the bartender shudders and takes a deep breath.

   “You alright, whiskers,” Angel asks, pausing. Husk has his head back in his hands, so he can’t see his face.

   “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m great. You’re doing great,” he sighs, all in one breath. He definitely sounds more relaxed, so Angel starts on the other wing. Each run through of the comb is followed by a brush through with Angel’s finger. It’s not his fault his boyfriend’s wings are so soft. He reaches the other shoulder and Husk shudders again. Angel imagines it’s a similar- maybe more intense- feeling to the welcome numbness when somebody brushes/plays with your hair for an extended period of time. He finishes his brushing with a final run through each wing with his hands.

   “Is that it,” he asks, hooking his chin over Husk’s shoulder and wrapping all four arms around his torso. Husk takes one more full relaxed breath before answering.

   “Technically, yeah.”

   “The fuck you mean ‘technically’? What else is there?” Husk sits in comfort for another minute before leaning back over to his bedside table, reaching into a drawer. “Uh oh, is it something kinky?” Husk glares as he sits back up, holding a bottle.

   “No, it’s part of the process,” he scolds. “It’s feather oil. I’m supposed to rub it in, but I can do that later.”

   “Oh no, this is my job now. Your mini spa day. Gimme.” Angel snatches the bottle. “So just rub it all over?”

   “Uh… yeah,” Husk responds, a little shocked by Angel’s determination to take care of him. “And probably comb it in, if you want.”

   So Angel gets back to work, coating each feather in the solution from the bottle, massaging it in. He decides to go the extra mile as he reaches those clearly sensitive joints again, and rolls the palms of his hands into Husk’s shoulders. It’s clearly not unwelcome because Husk groans- well, it’s basically a moan.

   “You sure it’s not kinky, whiskers?” Husk rubs a hand over his face.

   “Not usually, but I’ve never had another person do it.” He turns slightly to look at Angel. “And it’s hard for it not to be a little kinky when you’re the one doing it.” Angel fake gasps and scoots away.

   “Are you sayin’ I’m a slut?” Husk chuckles and leans back so his head is in Angel’s lap.

   “No, I’m just saying that when it’s my gorgeous partner who’s voluntarily takin’ care of me like this, maybe I can’t help it,” he says with a smirk.

   “Well, if you’re enjoying it so much,” Angel teases, leaning over to look Husk directly in the eyes, “Maybe we should just stay here for the rest of the day and you can let me really take care of you.”

   “I would not be opposed to that.”

-------

   And Angel may have been particularly focused on the sensitive joints at the base of those gorgeous wings, but it’s not like Husk would never complain.

Chapter Text

   There are lots of things Angel loves about the new hotel; the pool, the fully functioning elevators, his new room. However, his favorite addition was personally requested during the rebuilding process. At the very back of the main floor, there is now a large dance studio, complete with a pole. Basically nobody else uses it, so it’s really just Angel’s space, and he takes advantage of that every chance he gets.

   Dancing used to be his favorite part of working for Val. The art of a live performance where he could see and interact with the audience was insanely addictive. After years of audience members outright harassing him with zero repercussions, it had become significantly less enjoyable. He knew he still loved to dance, though, so when Lucifer had started taking requests for the floor plan, Angel immediately knew exactly what he wanted.

   A lot of his days off from work are spent in this room. He’s usually by himself, but sometimes he invites Cherri over to join, or, when the bar is really slow, Husk will come sit and watch. That’s his favorite audience, even if it doesn’t shower him in cash, because Husk showers him with sappy compliments, silly jokes, and- if he’s lucky- kisses.

   Today happens to be one of those special days where it's just the two of them, Husk sitting in his little folding chair that they keep in the studio for this specific purpose, Angel working on a pole routine. It would be fun, if this move wasn’t giving Angel so much trouble. It should be a basic movement from a chair pose into a straddle V, but it feels like his extra arms keep getting in the way.

   “Dammit! What am I doing,” he snaps, pressing his forehead against the pole in frustration.

   “I thought you were supposed to be a professional,” Husk taunts from his chair. Angel side eyes him.

   “I’d like to see you try, old man.” Husk chuckles.

   “No, you wouldn’t,” he says. His denial gives Angel an idea.

   “Y’know, I think I actually would,” he states, hands on his hips. “Get up here.”

   “What?” Husk isn’t laughing anymore.

   “I would like to see you do it,” Angel clarifies, motioning to the pole. “I’m sure you’re capable enough.” Husk starts to protest, then pauses to think. After a moment, he stands up, throwing Angel off. “Wait, shit, really?”

   “Fuck it, I’ll try. No promises, though.” Angel pauses, fully not expecting to have gotten to this point.

   “Um, ok… what exactly do you want to try to do?” He’s never really taught pole dancing to somebody, especially not a complete beginner (unless Husk is hiding something from him).

   “Can you show me what you’re trying to do one more time,” he asks, so genuinely interested it makes Angel’s chest ache. Unholy Satan, he is so in love with this man!

   “Yeah, so-” he grabs the pole up high and pulls himself into the chair position, “- this is how I’m trying to start…” he steps down, turns, and repositions his hands, then flips himself upside down into the V, “... and this is how I’m trying to end it…” he flips back up and sighs, “... and I think I just need to keep working to figure out what to do with these,” he explains, raising his lower set of arms at the last bit. “But if you think you can figure it out for yourself, go right ahead, babe.” 

   Husk surveys the pole for a minute before stepping towards it. Angel steps back, but not too far, just in case this goes horribly wrong. It’s not that he has no faith. He knows Husk is strong, so he can probably hold himself up, but the movement is a pretty big part of it. Extra arms are one thing, but Husk has giant wings, and if he moves wrong, he could get hurt in so many places.

   “So…” Husk doesn’t even finish his question before grabbing the pole and hoisting himself up into the same sitting-in-the-air position Angel had been in. He glances at the spider for confirmation.

   “Yeah, um… just like that,” Angel sort of stammers, almost shocked by the sheer ease of Husk’s movement. Maybe he is hiding some secret past as a stripper. “Then, what the movement is supposed to be is… your left goes in front of your right but behind the pole, and you straighten your arms and bring them together. Combining it all, you kind of just swing into the upside down-ness of it.” Husk sits, thinking over the somewhat vague instructions. Angel is about to try to explain it better when suddenly, the space in front of him is a whirl of black, white, and red, and suddenly Husk is, in fact, upside down on the pole, wings fully open. “Holy shit.”

   “I can’t do the splits or whatever, so this is probably the best you’re gonna get.” Angel is so shocked that it doesn’t even matter that he’s technically posed more like Spiderman, with his knees bent out and his feet above him on the pole. “But I guess you’ll have to try harder than this to stump me.”

   “Yeah, no shit. That was insane,” Angel says, taking a step back to get the full picture. “You look so fucking cool and sexy right now.” Husk rolls his eyes, but smiles. Then, he sits there for another few seconds, looking slightly lost. “D’you know how to get down?”

   “... no.”

Chapter Text

   Husk had been a pretty well rounded guy in life. Running a casino in Las Vegas does that to a person. People from all over the country, all over the world, came in to gamble and drink their cares away. While Husk himself had never really left Nevada, he had picked up several tricks to help him run business with all of those people.

   Angel had told him about traveling quite a lot with his father for… work. Husk soon learned that “work” meant mafia business. They also learned that they had been extremely close to crossing paths in life when the Genovese family had come to Vegas for a business exchange, and had stayed in the hotel right next to Husk’s. Despite being well-traveled, Angel had been more limited in exploring cultures and people, though he did manage to escape for three years of law school after getting his bachelor’s degree in New York (all of which is another story).

   He is bilingual, and this is a pretty well known fact at the hotel, especially to Husk. Angel will say all sorts of things to him in Italian; dirty jokes, bitchy jokes, random things, romantic things. What he doesn’t realize is that Husk understands all of the things he says. Husk was going to keep it that way, but eventually he just couldn’t help it.

   “Angel, taste this for me,” he says, on another late night at the bar. He’s handing Angel a drink he just invented. “Tell me if that’s any good.” The spider sips it and thinks for a second.

   “Mm-hm, not bad,” he answers. Then, under his breath, “Merda. Ha il sapore della terra.”

   “Cazzo. Dimmi cosa pensi davvero,” Husk casually shoots back. Angel freezes, eyes wide.

   “P- parli italiano,” he stammers.

   “So che sembra impossibile, ma ho altre abilità oltre al gioco d'azzardo e alla preparazione di cocktail,” the cat smirks. Angel blinks hard several times, slowly coming out of his shock.

   “So… you… oh.” Husk suspects that this is the sound of Angel realizing that Husk has probably understood everything he thought he was being sneaky about. “Have you spoken Italian… this whole time?”

   “I’ve spoken Italian since before we met, princess,” he answers, amused at Angel’s mildly horrified expression.

   “Oh! Great. That’s… awesome,” the spider sighs, smiling ruefully. Husk laughs it off and turns to empty the experimental drink and continues cleaning the bar.

-----

   It’s about two days later when Angel discovers there’s more to Husk’s secret knowledge. Alastor has been lingering by the bar for nearly an hour when Angel finally approaches. He never hangs around for good reasons, it’s usually just to be an asshole. As soon as Angel slides onto the barstool next to him, though, he evaporates into shadow and slithers away. Angel is watching him go when he hears Husk mutter something to himself.

   “Cet enfoiré se croit tellement drôle.” Angel’s jaw drops.

   “Was that French? Are you fucking kidding me,” he exclaims.

   “What? You thought I only spoke Italian,” Husk teases smugly.

   “I only speak Italian! Speaking of which,” he switches topics in frustration, “the reason I came over here was to tell you that I thought about you speaking Italian and I am no longer confused that you didn’t tell me, just mad… and the French thing isn’t helping.”

   “What,” Husk laughs, “why are you mad?”

   “Because! Do you understand how hot you can be when you speak Italian,” Angel basically whines.

   “Not really. That’s never been my purpose for learning languages.” Husk continues his business of emptying the trash can under the counter.

   “Well, I need you to understand so that you do it more often,” Angel instructs. “But only for me. French is nice, too, I guess.” Husk smiles like he’s listening to an 8 year old who thinks they’re in charge.

   “Oh yeah? So Italian is all you care about? You don’t need to hear anything else?” He knows he holds the cards in this conversation. Angel is starting to realize.

   “Anything- what else do you speak?” He is clearly flustered.

   “Не хотелось бы тебе узнать, красавчик,” Husk throws over his shoulder as he leaves to take the trash out, clearly not planning on giving Angel an answer.

   “For the love of all things unholy!”

Chapter Text

   Gifts are one of Angel’s favorite things, both on the giving and receiving end. It just feels like the clearest way to tell somebody how you feel about them. So, as the Saturday marked in his calendar labeled as his and Husk’s “1st Time-aversary” approached, he just got more and more excited. For context, this anniversary and their official “One Year Anniversary” are separate because, even after the magic of that first night together, they were both too stupid and insecure to actually talk about it.

   He wraps his gift up in a lovely red box, the main object on top with a bonus in a picture frame underneath it, then practically skips down the stairs towards the lobby. Vaggie is sitting at the bar when he gets there. Husk clearly hears him approaching (he’s pretty good at that) because he smiles and immediately turns to grab the ingredients to make Angel a drink.

   “I’m not here for a drink… yet,” Angel says to pull his attention back over. Husk turns, confused, even more so when Angel places this gift box on the bar top.

   “Who is that for,” he asks.

   “You,” Angel answers, “for the special occasion.” Mild fear flashes in Husk’s eyes, like he’s forgotten something. To be fair, he doesn’t fully know about Angel’s mildly overzealous number of anniversaries. They’d had dinner on their sixth month anniversary of being officially together, but there were several little ones Angel had glossed over. This one, of course, was far too important to skip.

   “Um, what exactly is that occasion,” he carefully asks. Vaggie chuckles.

   “Jeez, Husk. You’ve been together, what, a year? And you can’t remember an important date already,” she mocks. Husk crosses his arms.

   “For your information, I do know that our first official anniversary is this Friday, which is why I’m confused because I’m just not sure what else there could be from before that,” he jabs back defensively. Then, sweetly, back to Angel, “So if you could just remind me that would be fantastic.”

   “Come on, you do know. The catalyst? A few days before we figured ourselves out,” he tries to hint. “Happened right where you're standing now?” Husk stares ahead of him intently, thinking all the way back. Angel doesn’t need to guess the moment the pieces click together.

   “Oh, yes. Right,” he says, awkwardly glancing at Vaggie, who is still confused. “I wasn’t, um, aware that there is an anniversary for that.”

   “There is with me.” Suddenly, Vaggie starts choking on her drink. She quickly clears her throat and looks back up at Angel in disgust. So, clearly, someone else has completed the puzzle.

   “Are you fucking kidding me?! Where he’s standing?! Do you realize how unsanitary- why would you- christ, nevermind!” She shoves her face into her hands in distress.

   “I’d apologize, but that certainly wasn’t the last time-” the look Husk is giving him means ‘don't finish this sentence’, “- and it probably won’t stop.” Husk mutters something under his breath, and Vaggie glares at him from behind her hands.

   “You’re awful.”

   “Welcome to Hell, toots,” he says with a shrug. “Now, open your gift, Whiskers.”

   “I hope you realize that I don’t have anything for you,” Husk sighs, taking the box and gently untying the bow.

   “Oh, I’m sure we can figure something out,” Angel flirts as Husk lifts the lid off the box. He reaches in and lifts out a set of four personalized whiskey glasses, each one embossed with a different card suit and an “H.” Angel watches Husk look down into the box as he lifts them, and he barely catches the moment he sees the picture at the bottom. To his credit, Husk barely reacts. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly, but he quickly turns to admire the glasses.

   “These are beautiful, Angel, thank you,” he says, simultaneously scooting the box away from the front of the bar.

   “There’s something else in there,” Angel prods.

   “Oh, I know.” The fuck? The whole point was to get a reaction. Flustered Husk is up there with gifts on Angel’s list of favorite things. Things like this usually work, at least a little. He’s doing this on purpose.

   “He didn’t even touch it!” Vaggie looks confused at Angel addressing her with this outburst.

   “Do I even want to know what ‘it’ is,” she asks, knowing the answer.

   “No, you do not,” Husk replies off-handedly as he starts unpacking the glassware from the packaging.

   “You’re such an ass,” Angel sneers, hardly meaning it. Husk smirks, not even looking up.

   “You talkin’ about me or that picture,” he asks, nodding toward the box, “because either way, I guess you’re not wrong.”

   “Fuck this,” Vaggie deadpans, quickly sliding off her barstool and disappearing around a corner. To her dismay, she’s doing great with these puzzles. Angel watches her go, then turns back to see Husk finally taking the framed picture out of the box, his whiskey glasses now proudly displayed on the shelf behind him.

   “I assume you like your gift,” Angel teases as Husk admires the image in his hands.

   “That depends,” Husk says, looking up at Angel with that hungry look in his eyes. “Do I get the real thing later?” Angel giggles.

   “Happy fucking anniversary… literally.”

Chapter Text

   It’s Mariana’s birthday. She’s turning 28. The three of them were supposed to go out to a nice dinner to celebrate…. at 6:30. It is now nearly 8:00 and Sherlock has still not arrived. They ate without him since he wasn’t answering them.  Now, they’re still sitting in the restaurant, bill paid, not sure if they should wait, go look for him, or just go home.

   “I’m really sorry, Mariana,” John says.

   “John, you don’t have to apologize,” she assures him. “He’s my friend, too. I knew this was a possibility. As much as I’d hoped it wouldn’t be the case, I’m not totally shocked.”
  “Yeah, but I live with him. I should’ve said more when he left this morning. I don’t even know where he went,” he adds.

   “It’s really okay-” Suddenly, they hear a slight commotion by the hostess stand, and then a certain detective is approaching their table.

   “Hello.” That’s all he says. He doesn’t sit, he just stands there over the table.

   “Where the bloody hell have you been?” John is calm. He is so calm. He is not about to punch his best friend.

   “I had to check on something... for the case,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly (as if he says things any other way).

   “We were all supposed to have dinner together,” John mutters through gritted teeth.

   “I’m here, aren’t I?”

   “You were supposed to be here at 6:30, Sherlock,” Mariana says before John can freak out.

   “And I was going to be, but I was busy-” John abruptly stands.

   “Let’s just go home.” He doesn’t wait for a response from either of them, just starts walking to the door. Mariana sees Sherlock’s vaguely confused but still sorry expression and puts a hand on his shoulder as they leave.

   The three of them walk back to 221 Baker Street in silence. Mariana goes upstairs with the boys, hoping to keep everything calm. Sherlock gets to the door first, glancing back at the other two before swinging it open. The state of the space inside the door stops John and Mariana in the doorway. A “Happy Birthday” banner hangs over the tv, with a balloon on either side. Archie comes running to the door wearing a frilly collar for the occasion.

   “Sherlock, did you do this,” Mariana asks. Sherlock just nods.

   “This is why you weren’t at dinner,” John realizes out loud.

   “Well, I couldn’t set up a surprise with the two of you in the building. I’m sneaky, but not quite like that,” the detective states.

   “Do I smell caramel,” Mariana wonders, leaning towards the kitchen.

   “Oh yes, I made flan.” Sherlock seems to think this a completely casual thing to do all by himself.

   “Is that why I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen today?” John had been so frustrated, thinking Sherlock was just going to hole up and ignore them both on Mariana’s special day.

   “I had to do something. She makes delicious treats for us sometimes, so I thought it only correct that I do so for her, at least-” he is interrupted by Mariana hugging him.

   “Thank you, Sherlock.”

  “Happy birthday,” he says, gingerly hugging her back. John smiles, feeling slightly guilty for his mini outburst in the restaurant. Mariana grabs him and pulls him into the hug.

   “I love you guys,” she says, squeezing them both. “Now, let’s go eat that flan.”

Chapter Text

   Going out in public with people, especially guys, was already dangerous enough for Angel. Vox (and by association, Val) has eyes literally everywhere except inside the hotel, so barely anywhere is safe. However, there are only so many date nights a guy can handle in one building, so sometimes they risk it. Usually, he and Husk make their way all the way over to cannibal town, since Rosie barely allows VoxTech in her domain, but sometimes even that gets boring.

   “Angel, are sure this is a good idea,” Husks whispers as they stroll into the movie theater, questionably sourced popcorn in hand.

   “We’ll be fine. It’s dark in there. Even if there are camera’s, Vox won’t be able to see or recognize us,” he responds confidently, motioning to their “disguises” (black hoodies pulled up over their heads). He squeezes Husk’s hand and leads him up the stairs along the wall to their seats in the top row. Angel isn’t even really sure what movie he bought tickets to, it’s not like he plans on watching it too intently.

   “We’re only like six blocks from Vee Tower, Angel,” Husks says as they sit, nervously glancing at around the walls of the large room.

   “Take a breath, Whiskers, we’ll be okay,” Angel tries to assure him… even though he himself has spotted one camera. It’s in a corner above the movie screen, on the other side of Husk, pointed mostly at the front few rows, so they should be fine, but he doesn’t need Husk to see it and get more anxious. He grabs the cat's face. “Hell, we don’t even have to watch the movie.”

   “Now that would be stupid,” Husk protests, seeing the mischievous look in Angel’s eyes.

   “Stupider people than us have done this,” Angel reasons, going to lean over the armrest between them before Husk grabs his shoulders.

   “Sure, but those people weren’t owned by two of Hell’s most powerful overlords with eyes and ears everywhere, who also happened to be arch rivals,” he says sternly. Angel pouts, but makes no move to sit all the way back down.

   “Husk, I just wanted to have a little fun,” he scoffs. “I never got to have that sappy stereotypical experience of making out in the back of a movie theater with a guy I like.”

   “Yeah, well usually the worst that can happen in those scenarios is getting banned from the theater. A lot worse could happen here, and you know that.” Angel finally plops back down into his chair with a sour expression. Date night officially ruined. He hears Husk sigh, then feels a hand on his arm. “If that’s the kind of night you want, we can go home. Hell, if it’s the thrill you want, we can make out behind the bar, but I won’t let you risk possibly your life for some high school cliche.” Angel is about to snap back when a bright blue light flashes from that corner. He might have brushed it off as part of the movie, but he knew that flash, from the tower, the studio, even his dressing room. Husk senses the vibe switch and follows Angel’s stare to the camera that has started to glow faintly.

   “Shit,” Angel swears in a harsh whisper. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Husk can hear a buzz, not too different from the sound the air makes when Alastor is approaching. Shit is right.

   “Angel, come on,” he says, shaking Angel out of his frozen position. They abandon their popcorn and bolt down the stairs, out the door, and out of the building. They pause to catch their breath, glancing around for any other signs of the TV demon and/or his associates. After a few seconds, they think they might be in the clear, until one of the advertisement screens on the outside wall of the theater switches from the Extermination Recap poster to that all too familiar face.

   “Hey, Angel Dust, what are you doing with… is- is that Husker?” The demon in question catches the meaning of the question and quickly drops Angel’s hand.

   “What’s it to ya, box face?” The one bonus of being owned by Alastor is that he can basically say anything to Vox, because deep down the overlord knows that Alastor would not be very happy if he tried to kill one his “best employees.”

   “Hm,” Vox grins, but Husk catches the slight glitch in his eye. “I may not have seen much of what you too were doing in there, but I don’t think the situation would make Val very happy.” He says the last part specifically to Angel.

   “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it?” Yes, he is hiding behind sarcasm. He knows Val won’t be happy. He can only imagine what that man is going to do to him for it, but he also knows that begging Vox not to tattle would probably only make it worse.

   “Might want to be more careful, boys. I mean, I doubt Alastor appreciates one of his most valuable souls prancing around with hell’s biggest slut-” whatever else he was going to say gets cut off when Husk delivers a solid kick to the ad screen, shattering the image and sending Vox away.

   “Fucking chump,” he mutters, starting to lead Angel away from the building, back toward the hotel.

   “Was that you defending my honor, whiskers,” Angel teases, taking his hand again.

   “Sure, princess,” Husk says with a grin. Angel glances back in the direction of the movie theater.

   “You were right. That was really stupid. I’m sorry,” he admits, looking down at the sidewalk.

   “It’s alright. We’re okay,” Husk reassures, nudging Angel with his elbow to look up “Just, y’know, never again.” Angel huffs a laugh in agreement, then smirks, remembering something.

   “Is that ‘behind the bar’ offer still available?” Husk sighs and rolls his eyes, no real annoyance behind the response.

   “If that’s what you really want,” he agrees.

   “Oh, it is.”

Chapter Text

   Throughout his childhood, Gomez had gone through all of the tests with several different mandated psychiatrists, all of them expecting to find some sort of psychosis or something. In the end, he came out with only two diagnoses: ADHD and autism. They tried to prescribe him medications, but he knew that all it was going to do was change him. He didn’t particularly want that, neither did his family, so he never actually took anything.

   The only thing about his “condition” that occasionally bugs him are the sensory problems. He’s a very social person, but every so often, he’ll go to an event that he planned on enjoying, or he’ll be going about a normal day at school, when suddenly his brain and body will decide that it’s all too much. Uncomfortable is a feeling Gomez is very used to, but this particular version of the feeling is unbearable.

   He’d nearly made it through his entire first year at Nevermore without an incident, and then his roommate had tried to kill him. Now, he has trauma on top of everything else, and no power to help him cope. His sparks had been his personal grounding method; the electric tingle jumping between his fingertips kept him present. He didn’t have that anymore. He’s handling it pretty well on his own, until today, when it started storming while he was practicing alone in the fencing hall. He’d faintly registered the initial sound of raindrops pattering on the windows, but he didn’t feel the tightness in his chest until the first flash of lightning and the boom! immediately after.

   Suddenly, his knees give out and he’s on the ground, hands pressed hard over his ears. Then, his uniform is too tight, but there’s not much he can do about that now. He crawls all the way to the corner of the room farthest from the window and squeezes his eyes shut. He sits like that for what feels like hours before the next disturbance.

   “Gomez!” That voice. It's muffled through his hands, but he knows that voice. Focus on that voice. “Gomez, can you hear me?” 

   He manages to open his eyes, and there she is. Morticia, looking as worried as she had when she’d dragged him out of the rubble in the tower that night. He goes to answer, but his mouth won’t open, so he nods. She kneels next to him.

   “What do you need? How can I help you?” Even if he had an answer, his mouth still refuses to move. He hopes his face conveys his thoughts enough.

   “Um… do you need space,” she asks, starting to lean back. He aggressively shakes his head. He needs her near him. “Okay….” she looks around, her eyes landing on an equipment closet door. “Do you want to try to get in there? There aren’t any windows.” He glances to check for lightning/thunder before uncovering his ears to push himself off the ground, grabbing Morticia’s hand on his way into the small room. He shuts the door and, before she can ask any more questions, wraps his arms around her and shoves his face into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her dark rose perfume. She gently hugs him back, but only for a moment. Eventually, she leans back, taking his face in her hands.

   “Are you alright,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond for a bit, distracted by her eyes. “Gomez.” He blinks, then nods, despite the still persisting itch in his bones. She smiles softly and runs a hand over his cheek. He leans in, then reaches up to guide specifically her finger tips back to his face. Her long, black nails felt so nice gently scraping his skin, scratching that itch deep in his mind. Morticia hums affectionately at his blissful expression, a lovely contrast to the panic she’d walked in on just a few minutes ago.

   “Does this help you,” she questions, running her other hand down his arm. He finally manages to open his mouth.

   “You have no idea,” he sighs. They just stand like that for another few minutes, Morticia softly caressing him with the tips of her fingers, the sounds of the thunder storm barely audible through the thick stone walls of Nevermore. Gomez quickly starts to look like he’s about to fall asleep, so Morticia guides him down to the floor, her back against the wall and his head in her lap. She runs her fingers through his hair, any styling he’d done this morning tussled away during his training. 

   While the circumstances to get to this point were not necessarily enjoyable, Gomez is eternally grateful that this is his life. That she loves him so much. That she allows him to love her as aggressively as he does. He could die like this, with her near, even by her hand, and he would be dying a happy man.

Chapter Text

   “Oh, wow!” Emmett jolts slightly at the sudden disturbance in the peaceful quiet he and Elle had been enjoying in his apartment; him working at his desk, Elle texting anyone and everyone on the couch behind him. “My mom was looking through some old stuff and she found the newspaper articles about my charity! I look so cute!” She gets up to come show him the pictures her mom had sent her.

   “UCLA Sophomore Elle Woods is Shopping for Change”

   “UCLA Fashion Major Starts Charity from Passion”

   “Malibu Sorority Girl, Founder of ‘Shop For A Cause’”

   Emmett remembers this being part of her introduction the first time they met.

   “That was real,” he asks before he can think about it.

   “What?” Luckily, Elle doesn’t seem genuinely offended. “Did you think I was lying?”

   “I don’t know, people say a lot of stuff to make others think they’re more interesting than they are-” she playfully punches his shoulder.

   “Are you saying my first impression wasn’t enough to tell you I was clearly as interesting as I said I was,” she accuses. Emmett chuckles, raising his hands in surrender.

   “Of course not, you just listed off a lot of things really fast, and half of it was words I’d never heard before, so I was a little lost,” he says, and it's the truth. He’d known close to nothing about Greek life before Elle, and he only kind of understands it now.
  “Well all of it was real. I was a busy bee,” she says proudly, plopping herself in his lap to properly show him the article pictures. There she is, a little younger, beaming with some other girls and some professional looking people, plus one with her parents. A question that’s always been in the back of Emmett’s mind comes forward.

   “How did you do all of this,” he asks. “I mean, you were in a sorority, founded a charity, competed in pageants, ran half of the night-life for all of UCLA, and maintained a 4.0 GPA. That’s insane.”

   “It’s a balance,” she says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Plus, I got lucky. My high school community was very similar to UCLA, so it wasn’t anything crazy to get used to. As you know, I’m great at making connections, so I knew all of the right people to get involved with as much as I could. Time management wasn’t too hard, especially since I was so passionate about everything. I just loved being in college, so it came to me pretty naturally.”

   “That’s part of the reason law school hit me so hard. As we know, I did not necessarily come here for the right reasons. I had that same passion, just not for school. It wasn’t until I got my priorities straight- with some help from this one pretty cool guy- that I figured myself out. I’m still figuring out the full balance, but I still have a little while, so I think I’ll be okay.”

   “Well, I think you’re doing pretty fantastic,” Emmett adds with a kiss. Elle giggles and cuddles into him and continues texting her mom, clearly not planning on going back to the couch. “Um… I do have papers to grade.”

   “Eh, just do it later.” She doesn’t have to tell him twice. He is perfectly content to sit here forever, with his insanely talented, intelligent, kind, dedicated girlfriend. Elle is aware of this fact, including all of the adjectives. He loves to remind her at every opportunity, and she loves to compliment him right back.

   They may not be the most similar in personality, but Emmett likes to think they have their own little ‘balance’ that works just fine. Better than fine, actually. It’s practically perfect.

Chapter Text

   Allowing acts to sign up without auditions of any kind may not have been Asmodeus’ best idea, but he was trying to be open and encouraging to new experiences for everyone. However, this can-do attitude has put them in the situation they’re in now. He and Fizz had checked in with all of the scheduled performers two hours before the show started to confirm that they all do in fact have an act to perform. One of them, a younger succubus acrobat with some clear self esteem issues or something, had described their act in a hesitant tone, but Ozzie had brushed it off as nerves, either about performance or speaking to a king of sin.

   The first full round of acts had gone off without a hitch. As they were getting ready to continue after intermission, Fizz noticed the same performer pacing very aggressively in a corner backstage. He had meant to give a casual mini pep talk, but all he got out was “Hey, are you-” before they completely broke down, sobbing and begging for Fizzarolli’s forgiveness. Ozzie saw this and came over, which only made the panic intensify.

   Now, they’re both desperately trying to calm them down, because they are supposed to be the finale, and they don’t necessarily want to end with the sloth demon’s stand-up comedy routine.

   “I’m gonna need you to breathe, kid,” Fizz says, taking hold of the demon’s hands. “Can you remind me of your name, maybe?”

   “C-C-Candy,” they stammer through their tears.

   “Okay, Candy. It’s nice to meet you. Can you maybe tell me what’s going on,” he asks, packing as much sweetness as he can in his voice. Ozzie stands off to the side as more of a privacy guard. He wishes he could actually help, but it's clear from earlier encounters that Candy is more than a little intimidated by his presence.

   “I-I thought I co-could do this. I practiced f-for weeks, but I d-don’t think I c-can. If I go out there, I th-th-think I’d just d-die,” they cry, finishing with an intense sniff. “I shouldn’t have even sh-shown up toda-a-a-ay.” They trail off into more sobbing. Fizz looks at Ozzie in distress.

   “I don’t think this is gonna get anywhere,” he mouths up at him. Ozzie frowns

   “I guess just… suggest that they go home? We’ll figure something out,” he mouths back. Fizz turns back to Candy.

   “Well, I’m proud of you for trying, okay? It takes guts to even sign up for stuff like this. Maybe next time, okay,” he encourages. Candy takes a shaky but deep breath and nods slightly.

   “Yeah, I guess… d-do you want me to go home?” This question is vaguely directed to Asmodeus.

   “If you need to, that’s fine, but we’d be happy to have you even as just a member of the audience. I’m sure we can find a seat out there if you want to stay,” he suggests, trying to seem as neutral as possible. No pressure should be implied either way. The last thing he wants is for Candy to stay scared of him.

   “Th-that would be nice, I guess,” they say, the tears finally subsiding. Ozzie calls over a member of the stage crew to get this sorted out as Fizz helps Candy up to their feet.

   “Glad to hear it,” he assures. “And hey, maybe we’ll see you again sometime. I’d love to see that act you told us about earlier.” The succubus gives a little wave and the smallest hint of a smile as the techie leads them towards the house. Fizz waves back, then turns to his boyfriend.

   “So… do we have a plan? Because I love Stephen, he’s funny, but he’s certainly no grand finale.” Ozzie sighs in agreement.

   “I mean, we could switch the order around, but it’s a little late for that, and I don’t want to throw anything off,” he thinks out loud. Then, he remembers a conversation from a day or two ago. “Or… we could try that thing.”

   “Which…” Fizzarolli starts to ask before catching the pointed expression on Ozzie’s face. “Oh! With no rehearsal? I mean, we could probably pull it off, but that's trapeze and shit. Are you sure?”

   “I mean, we don’t have to, but if we can pull it off, it’s definitely big finish material. I have faith in us, in you,” he answers. The imp thinks for a moment before deciding.

   “If we can use the next…seven acts to get in some backstage rehearsal for some pieces, then I don’t see why the hell not!” And with that he bounds over to the large empty area closer to the wall. Ozzie chuckles and follows him, muttering to himself.

   “Well, isn’t this show biz?”

Chapter Text

   Angel and Husk are… friends. Yes, that’s it. If anything, Husk is Angel’s therapist, the one he vents to after work every day. Sure, there was that one time he’d had to carry a very drunk Angel up to his room and the spider had begged him to stay, and that time Angel had somehow wormed his way into Husk’s room for a vent session and ended up staying the night, and- well, you get the point. They’ve never talked about it. Not that they need to, because there’s obviously not actually anything going on. On the other hand, Husk sometimes found himself wondering what it might be like if there was, especially on nights like this. Charlie made a mandate to close the bar at midnight, but Husk often finds himself there well past then, wiping down the bar, waiting for Angel to get home. Y’know, as totally casual friends do.

   No offense to Niffty, but the bar tops are hardly ever cleaner than they are on Angel’s late nights. There was one spot worn lighter than the rest from where Husk had gotten lost in thought for a solid hour a few weeks ago. What thoughts had occupied his mind so intensely? Definitely not the idea of being able to go out with Angel with no fear of some evil overlord attacking either of them… no, that would be weird.

   It’s another one of those nights as Husk overthinks his own thoughts about his friend when the air goes static. Husk's whole body tenses and he looks around, confirming that there’s nobody around to save him. He turns slowly to face Alastor, who is standing between two bar stools, pompously refusing to sit.

   “What do you want,” the bartender asks gruffly.

   “I thought you were supposed to close at midnight,” Alastor states. Husk continues wiping down the counter.

   “I did. I haven’t served a drink since 11:30.” Alastor watches him clean for a moment before questioning again.

   “It’s 2:18 am. Why are you still here?” Husk sighs and pauses in his movement to glare up at the radio demon.

   “I’m cleaning? Am I not allowed to clean? Are you gonna pull a Charlie and try to make me go to sleep,” he says, maybe a little too defensive. If he’d responded in a calmer tone, Alastor may not have taken note of the way he glances in the direction of the front door every few seconds.

   “I see,” he starts, “waiting for Angel Dust to return?” Shit. This is not a situation Husk wants Alastor involved in.

   “Just want to be sure he gets home,” he responds, hopefully casual enough.

   “Hmm.” Or maybe not. “It’s rather complicated, isn’t it?” Alastor’s inability to drop a topic is one of many things that make Husk want to throttle the guy.

   “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he brushes it off, turning back to the shelf of bottles. Alastor continues talking to the back of his head.

   “Caring so much for someone who clearly doesn’t care about anyone, except that pig,” he says like he knows anything about Angel.

   “You’re one to fucking talk. You don’t give a shit about anything unless you can use it for your own benefit,” Husk snarks back. “And Angel does care, just maybe not about you.” He knows he’s saying too much, but he’s not going to let an asshole like Alastor talk shit.

   “Does he now? For who? You?” Alastor laughs at the apparent absurdity of that, and Husk just wants to punch him. He fights the urge, but he places the next glass on the shelf with a little too much force. Alastor notices that, too. “Oh! You do think that! My, my, that is sad. For you, at least.”

   “I don’t,” Husk growls, turning on him sharply.

   “Oh, but you wish he did,” Alastor teases. “How sweet, but you can’t actually believe a renowned celebrity like Angel Dust to give a damn about a washed up ex-overlord.”

   “I. Don’t.” The amount of self control Husk is using should be studied. Alastor hums again, and looks him up and down in mock pity. Luckily, the lobby door opens before he can say any more stupid shit. Both men turn and watch Angel groggily round the corner, freezing when he notices Alastor.

   “Um… hey, Al,” he finally says. “What’s uh… what’s goin’ on?” He looks to Husk, who side-eyes Alastor.

   “Oh, I was just having a friendly chat with our dear Husker,” the overlord answers, the fake sweetness seeping out into the air. The way Husk bristles at the words confirms Angel’s suspicion of the lie.

   “Right, well I need a drink,” Angel says, mustering the energy to sensually sashay over to the bar stool right beside Alastor. The demon cringes and steps out of the way, several feet from the spider. Angel smirks and throws a little wave over his shoulder for good measure. Alastor hums once more in distaste before vanishing. Angel turns back to Husk, expecting to see some sort of proud smirk at the genius weaponization of his sexuality to get Alastor to piss off, but Husk isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring hard into the wood grain of the counter top. “You alright, Whiskers?”

   “What,” Husk startles back to the present, “Oh, yeah, I guess.” He still seems shaken.

   “Jeez, what did Smiles say to you?” Husk pauses, and Angel fears worse. “Or do to you? Did he hurt you?” The defensiveness in Angel’s voice almost gives Husk hope, but Alastor’s words still ring in his head. Even if these feelings were more than platonic, there’s no chance it goes both ways.

   “No, I’m fine, he was just bein’ an asshole,” Husk says, shrugging it off as best he can. Angel clearly isn’t convinced.

   “Well, what was he saying? You looked like you wanted to sock him in the face,” he prods. Husk sighs.

   “He was talking shit… about you… sort of,” he admits, once again not looking at Angel.

   “Sort of? What does that mean,” he asks. Angel is also not one to drop a topic, but at least Husk doesn’t loathe speaking to him.

   “Well, it was partly about you, then it was technically about me, then I got snappy, which made him bitchier… it’s complicated,” the cat sighs. Everything is complicated, apparently.

   “Do I get to know what he said about me? How angry should I be at him in the morning,” Angel tries to joke slightly, but it doesn’t have much of an effect.

   “He… he basically said you don’t care about anything or anyone but yourself… and Fat Nuggets,” Husk explains.

   “I mean, maybe a little, but I care about plenty of shit,” Angel protests, despite the fact that Alastor is no longer present. “How did that even come up in that conversation? I know Al doesn’t like me that much, but randomly talking shit?” Fuck it.

   “He was mocking me,” Husk states, taking a breath before finishing the sentence, “for caring about you.” Angel pauses, then lets out a soft “oh.” Husk decides to expand further. “And he started talking about how ridiculous it is for me to care for someone who ‘clearly’ doesn’t give a shit about me.” They sit in a tense silence for the next several moments, both completely still.

   “You know he’s wrong, right,” Angel eventually asks. Husk looks up in mild shock. “I do care. I care about a lot of things, and if we’re being honest here, I especially care about you.” Husk isn’t sure what to say, but it doesn’t matter because Angel goes on. “Basically nobody has made me feel as safe and comfortable as you have. I’m so grateful that you’ve knocked some kind of sense into me this past year. I have some sort of hope now, maybe not for redemption, but for at least a little bit of happiness. Sometimes the only thing that gets me through a rough day at work is the knowledge that you’ll be right here, behind this bar, waiting for me when I get back, no matter the hour. Yeah, sometimes you can be an asshole and I wanna punch you in the gut, but a lot of the time I just wanna grab your stupid face and kiss you senseless!”

   He stops there and seems to realize what he’s just admitted because his eyes go wide, but he doesn’t look away from Husk. The demon in question was already speechless, but now he feels like he might just pass out. The silence is different this time. The facts hang in the air between them, baiting one of them to do something. Eventually, Husk blurts out the first idiot thought that makes it from his brain to his mouth.

   “Would this happen to be one of those times?” Angel blinks, then bursts out laughing.

   “I mean, yeah kinda! If you’d let me.” Husk, still a little stunned, just nods dumbly. Angel shifts so that one knee is the barstool so he can lean farther over the counter. He grabs Husk’s face with two hands and finally pulls him into the kiss they’ve both been secretly dreaming of for months. Neither of them know how long it lasts, just that it’s absolutely incredible. When they do finally break apart, they just sit for another minute, inches from each other. Suddenly, Angel bursts into giggles again.

   “Damn, was it so bad you’ve gone crazy,” Husk laughs back.

   “N-no, it’s just-” Angel struggles through laughing, “-if anyone ever asks how we got together, we have to thank Alastor the Radio Demon!”

   “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kiddin’ me!”

Chapter Text

   Husk has plenty of talents. There are the obvious ones like bartending, slight-of-hand card tricks, and pulling out the occasional baritone harmony if he was feeling crazy. There are a few he doesn’t show off as much, especially here in hell. For instance, he can make a mean meatloaf, he can do more magic than just card tricks, he speaks six languages, and so much more. He’s feeling randomly reminiscent of all of his random hobbies when he walks past the music room Charlie had put in during the rebuilding process. He pauses at the door before entering, although he’s sure why.

   His internal question is answered when his gaze lands on the wall of instruments, available for anyone to play. In the bottom left corner is a bright, shiny saxophone. He hasn’t played since his overlord days, and even then it was a rare occurrence. He lifts the instrument of its hooks and just stares at it for a second. Then, he lifts it to his lips and blows. The noise is jarring at first, but he can feel the familiar groove coming back as he starts mindlessly playing some old tune from his speakeasy days. He’s suddenly so locked into the moment that he doesn’t hear the door open again. He doesn’t register anything in the world around him until he finishes what he remembers of the song and somebody starts applauding from the doorway.

   “What the shit?!” He jumps and whips around, only to find Angel. The spider finishes his ovation and giggles. “Jeez, when did you get here?”

   “I was headed to the dance studio when I heard somebody playing. I saw you through the window and invited myself in,” Angel says innocently, as if he didn’t just almost give Husk a heart attack. “How come you’ve never told me you play sax?”

   “I wasn’t aware that was an important thing for you to know,” he responded.

   “Well, it is. You coulda been serenadin’ me this whole time,” Angel whines. “That would’ve been so hot.”

   “So, I’m not hot enough for you without a saxophone,” Husk jabs, faking offence with a hand to his chest. Angel steps forward.

   “Trust me, you’re plenty hot,” he starts, looping his finger through Husk’s suspenders, “but saxophone? That's like hot times three.”

   “Three? Damn, I didn’t think I was capable of scoring that high under any circumstances.”

   “Oh, shut up,” Angel chides, shaking him slightly. “You’re gorgeous. Accept it.” Husk shrugs in acceptance, even if he didn’t fully believe it. “Can I make a song request?”

   “You can try, but ninety percent of the songs I know are from sleazy underground bar scenes in the twenties,” Husk answers.

   “I mean, me too, but I think you know this one. Everyone knows this one.” His expression spells mischief, but Husk asks anyway.

   “What is it?”

   “‘Careless Whisper’?” Husk immediately rolls his eyes and tries to step back, but Angel doesn’t let go. “Please! For me?!”

   “What are you,” Husk groans. “Fifteen?”

   “Come on! You’re a sexy sax player! Play the sexy sax song for your sexy celebrity boyfriend because you love him so much,” he groans, shaking Husk again, less gentle.

   “Eh, do I,” Husk teases, but gets Angel to let him step back to raise the instrument again. Angel grins as the notes fly. Husk only plays maybe a minute of it before stopping, but he regrets playing it at all when he turns back to Angel and sees him holding his phone up, filming. “Delete that.”

   “What? Why,” Angel protests, holding his phone to his chest. “I need to remember this forever. I don’t get this kind of performance every day.”

   “For good reason. I’ve got half a mind to tell you to forget it ever happened,” Husk says as he hangs the saxophone back on the wall.

   “Oh, I will never forget this,” Angel croons, scrolling through the several photos he now has of one of his new favorite things. “I might just tell Charlie. She’ll make you do it once a week, for everyone.” Husk sighs and guides Angel out the door with an arm around his waist.

   “I think I’d rather kill myself again,” he mutters, glancing around (not that he and Angel sneaking out of random rooms was something nobody was used to seeing).

   “Come on, you must’ve loved an audience once upon a time. A guy doesn’t learn to play an instrument like that without an appreciation for applause,” Angel whispers back, finally pocketing his phone.

   “Yeah, well, that was a long time ago,” Husk says. “Besides, if you told everyone, it wouldn’t be as special if I ever decide to play for you again.”

   “Mm, true. Oh, and how about, if you’ll play for me, I’ll play for you,” Angel proposes.

   “What do you play?”

   “Trumpet, kinda,” he answers. “And the accordion!” Husk stops in his tracks, perplexed.

   “Accordion? Who the fuck-” but Angel just giggles again and keeps walking, leaving him to catch up.

   “You’re not the only one with silly secrets, Whiskers!”

Chapter Text

   In theory, a speakeasy style dinner party is a great idea for getting people in. Angel knows firsthand how sinful the 1920s were. A considerable percent of sinners died somewhere around that time, or at least lived through it. However, with it being Alastor’s idea, Angel knew it was only a matter of time before something veered off the rails.

   Charlie suggested he do a “family friendly” dance routine as part of the entertainment for the event. When he’d hesitated, she gave him a specific song assignment, so now he has to choreograph a “normal” dance to “All That Jazz” from Chicago, which isn’t from the 20s but Charlie’s intention was there. He’s just made it to the dance studio to practice when he gets a text. He pulls his phone out of his bag to see a message from Husk, who had only recently agreed to let Angel get him a phone. He hardly uses it, but when he does it’s usually important.

   “Where are you?”

   “dance studio. y?” Husk doesn’t answer, but as soon as Angel puts his bag down in the corner, somebody knocks at the door. Ever the gentleman. “Come in.”

   Husk immediately throws the door open and slams it behind him, breathing heavily. Uh oh.

   “Whoa, Whiskers,” Angel starts, stepping towards him. “What’s wrong?”

   “He is! He acts like I’m his fucking puppet and he can just pull a string and I’ll do anything with no resistance,” he shouts, pacing furiously across the room. Angel doesn’t have to ask to know he’s talking about Alastor. He’s heard this rant before, but this is the most heated version he’s heard in a while. “And this?! There’s no fucking reason to need me! It’s just to prove a fucking point!”

   “What exactly is he trying to make you do,” the spider asks, politely standing out of the way of Husk’s path.

   “Literally perform like a fucking show pony at this damn party!! ‘You used to love the attention, Husker. You should be grateful for the opportunity.’ I don’t fucking want it! I don’t do that shit anymore! My job is to sit my alcoholic ass behind the bar and serve all the other alcoholic fucks their drinks. That’s it! The only time I’d want to leave the bar is to watch you, and he knows that! He probably won’t even let me!! Watch, it’ll be ‘Tonight you’re a performer. You can’t leave backstage or it ruins the magic.’ How about I ruin your night by swinging my foot into your FUCKING FACE?!” He punctuates the last sentence by kicking the wall, hard enough for Angel to worry about his foot. It does seem to have gotten the aggression mostly out of his system, because after that he stills, glaring at the spot he kicked, trying to breathe regularly again. Angel slowly comes up behind him, wrapping his top arms around his shoulders.

   “That Smiles impression was pretty spot on,” he says, trying to bring the humor, as usual. It works, at least a little, because Husk huffs a short laugh.

   “I’ve had a lotta practice,” he mutters, leaning into Angel’s embrace. “He’s a pretty mock-able guy.”

   “Are you better? Did you get most of it out on the wall,” the spider asks after a few seconds of comfortable silence. Husk sighs, but doesn’t give a response otherwise. Angel leans back and turns him around. “Talk to me, babe.”

   “I just… I’m so sick and tired of him, but I know I shouldn’t be complaining because you’ve got it so much worse-” Angel shushes him.

   “No, no. We’re not doing that,” he chides. “You don’t let me do it, so you have to follow your own rules and stop. You are totally valid in complaining about your shitty boss. After all the bitching you’ve had to sit through with me, you deserve the chance to air out your grievances, especially at times like this. He’s bein’ a bitch? So, you bitch about him! Circle of life, or some shit like that.”

   “I know, I just feel like an asshole whining about Al making me sing at some party when your guy makes you fuck thirty people in the span of six hours,” Husk says sadly, like its somehow his fault.

   “Listen, you may not view our situations as equal, but what matters is you knowing that you’re not alone, okay,” Angel says firmly. “You tell me that all the time, but I guess you need someone else to say it to get it into your dumbass head.”

   “Gee, thanks,” Husk grunts, but smiles a little none the less.

   “The point is, I’m right here. If you do get up and perform Friday night, I’ll be right there. Sing for me, not Alastor. Can you do that?” Husk just looks at him for a moment before confirming.

   “Of course, amore. Thank you.” Angel kisses his forehead as a “you’re welcome” then kisses him properly just because.

   “Now, do you want to go back out there with creepy strawberry man, or stay here and watch me rehearse,” he chirps, as if it's a real question.

   “You know I’ll pick you every time, princess. I don’t know why you even ask.”

- - - - -

   Alastor does make Husk sing some jazz song called “Old Devil Moon.” Luckily, its a love song, so the cat has no problem finding Angel in the crowd and crooning every lyric straight to him. He also manages to escape from backstage to see Angel’s number, and he’s dazzled despite having watched him rehearse it at least once a day all week. Maybe this party wasn’t the worst idea.

Chapter Text

   When Emmett had told Elle that he’d only seen like three rom-coms in his entire 27 years of life, he knew she’d be disappointed. The full schedule of bi-weekly movie nights for the next two months was not what he’d expected. It definitely isn’t going to help the ever-growing tensions between them that Emmett is somewhat convinced are just a hallucination or something. Well, he knows for sure that he’s got some kind of feelings for Elle, but she’s just barely gotten over Warner, so he’s not sure where she stands.

   Showing tonight on the TV in Elle’s dorm room is The Princess Diaries, one and two. Emmett knows it’s an Anne Hathaway movie, but that’s about it.

   “Mia is basically me, but the other way around,” Elle vaguely explains as she presses play on the remote. “I’m princess-to-nerd, she’s nerd-to-princess, but we’re also both at the same time. Ya know?”

   “Uh, sure,” Emmett mumbles, definitely lost. The movie starts and they fall into comfortable silence, sitting side by side on Elle’s bed in their pjs with their snacks. Elle pipes up a few times to comment about something, and Emmet finds himself internally relating to Michael a little too hard. It doesn’t help when he says something and Elle goes, “ha, he’s just like you.” Yeah, and not just with his sense of humor. By the kiss and the end, he’s about to be glad that “his character” gets his happily ever after when Elle speaks again.

   “Yeah, that doesn’t last,” she says bluntly. “But that’s okay, because if it did we wouldn’t have the Royal Engagement!” She switches the movies and presses play again, despite the fact that it's 11:00 pm and she has class in the morning. Emmett huffs a laugh and leans back against the headboard as Elle grabs another snack from her drawer, then literally leaps back onto the bed, nearly spilling what’s left of their popcorn. She doesn’t seem to notice, though, because her gaze is fixed on the opening scene of the movie. Emmett should be doing the same, since he’s the reason they’re watching, but he’s enjoying watching Elle. She’s so excited to share her love of cheesy movies with him. It’s adorable. By the time the actual story starts, he’s managed to focus back on the screen.

   As the movie plays through, they both make little comments back and forth, partly to keep themselves awake. Emmett particularly likes the side plot with Clarisse and Joe, it’s endearing. Elle makes several minor threats to Viscount Mabrey’s well being, rightfully so. It’s a calm, friendly evening. That is until about two thirds of the way through when Elle yawns hard and seemingly instinctually leans over to lay her head on Emmett’s shoulder. He’s so locked in on the story at this point that he doesn’t even realize his automatic response of lifting that arm and wrapping it around her until she’s nuzzled into his side and she sleepily sighs. He carefully glances down and immediately has to pray that Elle can’t hear his heart skip. She’s so beautiful, and she looks so naturally comfortable, with a content smile on her face and her golden hair falling over his shoulder. He doesn’t even try to look back to the screen, even when she comments on something again.

   “See that? That look on his face,” she whispers. “He’s realizing how great she is and is doubting his dad’s evil plan. Deep down, it’s because he’s in love with her, but I’m sure you figured that out already.”

   “Yeah, I think I see it,” he responds softly, despite not even knowing who she’s talking about. Once he calms his heartbeat and his mind (sort of), he manages to finish the movie attentively. The credits start to roll, he finally looks down at Elle again and he realizes why she had been so quiet during the big finale. She’s fallen asleep… in his arms. That’s cool. That’s totally cool. Emmett is not freaking out about this at all. That would be silly.

   Now what? Does he wake her up? She looks so peaceful, and she does have class. Not an early class, but still. Also, he’s not sure he wants to move. It’s not like he’s never slept over, but it’s usually on a pile of throw pillows and spare blankets on the floor, despite Elle’s protests. Is this what she’d really wanted all those times? Or was she just being nice? Either way, she seems perfectly happy with the situation now, so Emmett eventually decides to just move all of their snack remnants to the floor and lay down fully, very gently taking Elle with him. She’s still asleep, but as soon as she’s completely horizontal, she shifts slightly, curling into Emmett’s side. He takes a deep breath and focuses on pulling the fuzzy blanket she’d had in her lap up over their shoulders. He’s not sure he’ll be able to fall asleep tonight, but he’s certainly not upset at the circumstances.

…….

   It’s about 8:00 am when Emmett blinks awake, looking around at all the pink and remembering where he is. He feels a weight around him and remembers why he’s here. He looks over, expecting to see Elle in the same position as the last time he’d seen her. He freezes again when he realizes that the surrounding weight is from Elle’s new position, wrapped half around him like a koala bear, one leg intertwined with his, arms clasped securely around his waist and her head resting squarely on his chest. If she doesn’t wake up naturally, his heart pounding in her ear will probably do the trick. That was supposed to be a joke, but suddenly she stirs. She reflexively squeezes him a little tighter before her eyes flicker open.

   “Mmm, g’morning,” she mutters as she gets her bearings. She doesn’t make any move toward letting go of Emmett, which is totally fine. It’s not like he doesn’t like it, it's just…. well you know.

   “Hey there,” he responds as calmly as he can. She glances around, noting the snack stuff on the floor.

   “Did we fall asleep?”

   “Well, you did, and you were so comfortable I didn’t want to move, so I stayed. I hope that’s okay,” he says, adding the last part just to be sure. She squints up at him and smiles.

   “Of course it is, silly. Haven’t I always told you the bed is better than the floor? Remember this next time,” she teases, then sighs blissfully. “This is so nice. You’re like a human teddy bear.”

   “Aw, thanks,” he says. Hopefully, all of his responses seem calm and collected, because that is definitely not what he is feeling inside.

   “You’re never allowed to leave. Your job is now teddy bear,” Elle states, squeezing him again. It does not help him in his efforts at all.

   “I’m not necessarily opposed to that. It’s easier than being a lawyer,” he jokes. “Though, my very expensive degree would be going to waste.”

   “Ugh, fine, maybe not your job… but it’s definitely something that should happen more often,” she says, the mood shifting ever so slightly.

   “What? Sleepovers,” he asks nervously. Elle finally lets go in favor of propping herself up on her elbows to look him in the eye. Emmett recognizes the small, familiarly nervous look on her face. He probably looks the same.

   “I mean, yeah, but specifically like this,” she says softly, almost embarrassed, which is not an expression Emmett is used to seeing on her. “And not by accident, either. To be honest, I really liked the feeling of waking up next to you just now. Maybe that sounds weird, but I promise it’s not. At least, not to me. If you don’t feel the same, that’s totally fine, but… yeah, just so you know.”

   “Um, okay… and to be clear…” Ask the damn question, Forrest. “... are we just talking about falling asleep together or…?”

   “Well, what’s your answer if it is,” she asks carefully.

   “Like I said, I wouldn’t be opposed, but… people might talk,” he says, nodding towards the door, reminding both of them that this is a dorm building full of people, several of which know them personally.

   “They do little else,” Elle smirks, and that’s true. Emmett would run out of fingers trying to count the amount of times people had assumed they were together.

   “And if it’s not just about 'sleepovers',” he starts as he scoots back up to lean on the headboard, “I wouldn’t be opposed to that either. To be honest, I would be thrilled, but only if you would be, too.” He doesn’t even finish his sentence before Elle starts beaming, sitting all the way up on her knees, buzzing with excitement.

   “YES! Omigod yes, yes, yes,” she squeals, finally startling Bruiser awake from his resting spot under her desk. “I would be! I am! So thrilled! Beyond thrilled actually!” She throws her arms around his neck, and he hugs her back tightly. He can actually enjoy the embrace this time, instead of nearly having a conniption. She puts her hands on his shoulders and aggressively stares into his eyes. “So, officially, Emmett Forrest, will you be my boyfriend?”

   “Of course,” he replies brightly. “Elle Woods, my wonderful girlfriend, can I kiss you?” She giggles as she leans in.

   “Of course!”

Chapter Text

   Two weeks. Morticia hasn’t seen Gomez in two weeks. That’s about how long he’d been in prison. She’d tried to visit him, right at the beginning, but she couldn’t bear it. Seeing him, in that awful orange jumpsuit, locked away for the “crime” she had committed. In her distress, she’d come close to confessing right there to the prison guard. Instead, she’d painfully said goodbye to the love of her life, not sure she’d ever see him again.

   But he’s free. At least, he’s about to be. The court had decided to drop the case for some reason, most likely because Principal Morton and Sheriff Walker had come to some agreement as not to start conflict. He’s being released today. Specifically, some time in the next 5 minutes. She’s been sitting outside the police station for an hour now. Every time the front door opens, her breathing halts until she sees somebody she doesn’t know exiting the building. She’s about to lose hope (maybe they changed their mind) when the door opens and he calls to her.

   “Tish!” She bolts from her bench and throws herself into his waiting arms. “Cara mia, I missed you so much!”

   “Oh, Gomez, I missed you, too. It was unbearable,” she says into his shoulder, feeling tears of relief building. “The wrong kind of torture. I’ll never let you leave me again.” She doesn’t let go of him for the entire bus ride back to Nevermore, both hands holding his arm as she presses soft kisses to every inch of his face. She doesn’t let go as they re-enter the front gate of the school. They barely look away from each other, despite the several groups of students trying to speak to Gomez. They make it all the way to the door of Morticia’s dorm before she finally pauses.

   “Larissa probably won’t be very happy to see you. She’s not very happy with me right now, to be honest.” Gomez doesn’t have time to question why before she opens the door and pulls him inside. Larissa, who had been peacefully reading in her bed, looks up and immediately scrunches her face in disgust.

   “Why is he here,” she sneers. Morticia sighs. It hurts her that Larissa had no faith in Gomez, which had recently turned into having no faith in Morticia. They had been such good friends, going on three years as roommates. She had never approved of Gomez given his entire family’s history with the law, and just their general reputation. Morticia couldn’t understand how such prejudice could exist, even among outcasts.

   “Because he’s just been pronounced guilty and I’m happy to have him back,” she firmly replies. “If you don’t like that, I suggest you find somewhere else to study for the next few hours.” Larissa is shoving her books in her bag before Morticia even finishes her statement. She brushes past them with another dirty look and shoves the door open, disappearing down the stairs as it closes behind her. Morticia turns back to her lover, who looks very confused. “Sorry about that.”

   “I knew she wasn’t the biggest fan of my family, but that was certainly more aggressive than usual,” he says as she leads him over to sit beside her on her bed.

   “She’s not important right now, mon cher-” he melts into her hand on his face at the name, “- I’m the one who missed you.” She leans in to kiss him properly for the first time in two weeks. It’s just as magical as the first time it had ever happened, just about two years ago, but more relief this time than an explosion of built up tension. They sit there making out for what feels like forever when finally Gomez pulls back and sighs.

   “Mm, yes, I missed this,” he says softly, his adorable smile lighting up his entire face in that way Morticia loved. She keeps his face in her hands, gently running her thumbs over his freckled cheeks. She brings one hand up to his hair, not gelled back for once. She runs her fingers through those gorgeous curls, delighting in the way his eyes flutter closed as he tilts his head into the touch.

   “I missed you more than I can possibly say with words,” she whispers, the remnants of that loneliness clawing at her heart.

   “Who says you have to use words,” he whispers back, the look on his face clearly expecting another kiss. Instead, she returns to the embrace from their reunion, the one hand still lodged in his hair, the other gripping tightly around his shoulders. She squeezes and takes a deep breath, inhaling the slightly faded scent of cigar smoke. He hugs her back tightly, kissing her shoulder multiple times, the repeated sensation soothing.

   “I will never let anyone take you from me ever again,” she promises.

   “I wouldn’t dream of it, mi amore,” he responds, reassuring her further with another few kisses to the side of her neck.

   “Oh, Gomez, I love you so much. I think I would die if I had to go through that for even another hour, and I wouldn’t even get to enjoy it,” she pouts. He slowly leans back, hands on her shoulders, a sincere expression on his face.

   “Then don’t kill anybody else, unless they really deserve it and you can get away with it easily,” he teases. She scoffs and shoves him softly. He laughs and grabs her hand, kissing it apologetically. 

   Oh, she could never be mad at that face.

Chapter Text

   A gay bar is not where Dean had expected this hunt to take him, but apparently demons have their preferences. He’d never been in one before, despite the curiosity that began in his early twenties. His dad would’ve killed him if he’d known about that. Sam had made some suspicious sounding excuse for staying outside to keep watch or something, leaving Dean and Cas to find this werewolf twink in the bedazzled crowd.

   “How are we supposed to find anyone is this,” Cas shouts over the music, trying to look around.

   “We just have to act casual. He doesn’t know we’re after him yet, but if we walk around like hunters, he or somebody else will notice, and that will make this a lot harder,” he hollers back.

   “Casual? How am I supposed to be casual when I don’t know what’s happening.” It’s almost adorable how clueless he is sometimes. Well, not adorable, but- oh, who are we kidding? Dean has been trying to come to terms with the feelings the angel had brought up in his mind. It’s not that he’s never been attracted to a guy before. How else would he know how pissed his dad could get over something other than hunting? It’s just… of all people, Cas? The one who’s not even technically a person? An angel of the Lord? He probably wouldn’t even understand if Dean tried to tell him about it, not that he ever would. That would be weird. Dean and Cas are friends… with a “profound bond.”

   “Just follow me and try not to look stupid,” Dean jabs. Castiel sighs but follows closely as his friend squeezes through the crowd toward the bar. As they approach the counter, Dean spots the guy they’d seen on the hotel security footage, chatting with a guy who looks vaguely familiar, even from behind. Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder, and nods in the werewolf’s direction. “There he is.”

   “Now what? I’m guessing attacking him right here would be the wrong course of action,” the angel mutters, close enough to not have to shout anymore. Dean tries not to think about how easy it would be to close that small distance between them. He stares at the back of the other guy's head for a moment before it clicks.

   “Benny?” Its a quiet question to himself, but Cas hears it and looks at the guy, too.

   “Is it really?” Dean glances back at the werewolf before his master plan suddenly forms in his mind. He turns back to Cas, firmly grasping his shoulders.

   “Cas, I have a plan,” he says with a smirk. “Just follow my lead, and pretend you barely know Benny.”

   “Well, we didn’t actually get to know each other very well in purgatory, but- wait, Dean, what exactly are we doing,” Cas asks, squinting in that goofy way he does.

   “Trust me, this will work.” Dean doesn’t leave time for any more questions before he grabs Cas’ hand and strolls over to the monsters at the bar. As they get closer, they can hear their target aggressively coming on to Benny.

   “Come on, baby. I can’t let a smoky hot guy like you go home alone,” he flirts, a hand on Benny’s chest. Dean sees the vampire gently lean away from the touch, muttering something about “not tonight, darlin’.”

   “Benny! Is that you,” Dean calls once he’s right behind the man in question. He whips around and lights up at the sight of his friend.

   “Dean! What the hell are you doin’ here,” he asks, with a notable glance at Castiel and Dean’s intertwined hands.

   “Same as you. Enjoying the nightlife,” he casually responds, leaning into Cas’ side, “with my guy.” Cas opens his mouth to question that statement, but Dean nudges him inconspicuously, but hard enough to shut him up. Benny also looks confused, but a pointed glance at the werewolf from Dean gets him to fall into the act.

   “Right, yeah. Congrats, by the way, on finally getting together,” he says with a teasing look. Benny was the only person Dean had ever told about his complicated relationship with Castiel, and there is no way he’s ever going to let him forget this once it’s over. This is probably the closest Dean will ever be to having his dreams realized.

   “Who’s this you’ve got with you,” Dean says, turning the attention to the werewolf. Benny glances over awkwardly. Jeez, this guy hadn’t even introduced himself before trying to take Benny home?

   “Tyler. Nice to meetcha,” the guy answers. He gives Dean a sass-filled once over before speaking again. “You sure you’re supposed to be here honey? You look like you work at the Bass Pro shop down the road.”

   “What? A guy can’t be outdoorsy and queer,” Dean quips back with just as much sass.

   “Mmm, no it’s just… something’s off about you,” he says with a mischievous grin. Dean is about to snap at him (just for the character, of course) when Cas pipes up.

   “What do you want? Proof?” Dean glances questioningly back at the angel, but he’s locked in on Tyler.

   “Well, if you’re offering, I’d love some.” Cas turns back to Dean, answering his confused look with a glance ever so slightly down. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up ever so slightly at the implication, but they don’t really have time to discuss things. People could be in danger if Tyler gets too suspicious. Suddenly, Castiel is pulling him forward by the collar of his jacket and their lips connect. It doesn’t last nearly as long as Dean wished it could, but it gets the job done because Tyler drops the doubtful expression with a shrug.

   “We should get out of here,” Cas says, back to Tyler. “The three of us.” Christ, Cas is really getting into this. Where did he even learn to say things like that?

   “Damn, y’all are freaky. I can get behind that,” Tyler smirks, reaching out and charmingly adjusting Castiel’s tie. Dean wishes he could whip out his gun and put a bullet in his face right here and now. Cas, stoic as ever, starts leading them both away, and Dean starts to understand his plan. He’s headed toward the side-door, which leads to the alley, which is where Sam is hiding out, ready to fight. Dean throws one last look to Benny and waves dumbly as Cas pulls him by the hand.

   “Good luck! Have fun,” Benny calls after them with a chuckle. As soon as they emerge into the alleyway, Cas throws Tyler against the opposite wall and Sam jumps up from where he’d been sitting in wait a few feet away.

   “This is what happens when you start killing innocent people, dipshit!” He quickly plants two silver bullets in the werewolf’s chest. He holds for a second to make sure the bastard is dead before turning back to Cas and Dean. “Well, that wasn’t too difficult. I think-” he pauses when he notices that the other two are still holding hands, “- I think I’m gonna head back to the car. You two take your time.” And with that, he darts out of the alleyway and disappears around the corner.

   Dean finds himself staring down at where he and Cas are still connected. They stand there in the barely lit grimy space for a little while until Dean finds words.

   “That was interesting.” Nobody said they were brilliant words. He’s not sure what’s wrong. He’s usually so sure of himself in situations like these, even in the few times he’s tried it with dudes in the past. He supposes the whole immortal, unattainable angel thing complicates the feelings a little.

   “That was… not how I thought that would happen,” Castiel says eventually.

   “Well, yeah, you turned into quite the actor there in the end. It’s was a real plot twist-”

   “Not the situation, Dean,” he interrupts firmly. “The kiss.”

   “Um… I’m sorry? I thought I was a pretty good kisser, but if you don’t agree-”

   “Dean, I’m serious.” The frustrated look on his face makes Dean shut up. “I always thought it would be more than that. Special, even, like in those movies you and Sam pretend not to like.” It takes Dean almost a whole minute to compute what Cas had just said.

   “So… you’ve been, what, planning it? Our first kiss? Why?”

   “I care deeply about you, Dean. In a different way than I do about Sam,” he starts to explain. “It’s similar to the feeling I used to feel coming through from Jimmy Novak about his wife, and the feeling I can feel emanating from Sam on the rare occasion he reminisces about Jess. I’m not sure what to call it yet, but I know that I would like to kiss you properly, at least once.” Dean almost laughs at the absurdity of such a powerful creature being at a loss for words because of him.

   “Cas, this might sound crazy, but me too,” he admits. “And if this fits your criteria of ‘special’ I’d be happy to kiss you again right now, and we can call that the official first.”

   “I… I think I can accept that.” So Dean kisses him, properly, finally. It’s better than anything his imagination could ever conjure up, and he never wants to stop. Hopefully, he never will. They’ll live as long as they want, fighting monsters, celebrating victories (or getting over losses) with kisses. Dean has never been one for sappy romance, but like he’s said, Cas is different.

Chapter Text

   “Okay, Charlie. Of all of the sinners you have ever met, is there anybody that you think could never be redeemed?” Charlie’s eyes go wide, like she’s almost regretting this game of truth-or-dare. It’s this month’s fun thing for the OG’s to get together and do. The hotel-wide ones are daily, but sometimes the seven of them (including Cherri) just want to hang around with each other. Well, “want” is a strong word for Alastor. He’s here because Charlie got really sad when he didn’t show up to the first one.

   “Gosh, Vaggie, that’s- um… well-”

   “Come on, toots,” Angel pipes up from across the circle. “There’s gotta be at least one.”

   “Oh! Fuck, yeah. Valentino,” she decides, the nervous sweetness evaporating. “Even if he had any potential, I would personally not let him even try.”

   “Yeah, fuck that guy,” Angel agrees.

   “Okay, um…” Charlie looks around the circle, carefully contemplatin her decision, “Cherri! Truth or dare?”

   “Dare, of course,” Cherri hollers. Charlie thinks for another moment.

   “Give somebody other than Angel a hug,” she finally says. Cherri cringes and glances around, weighing her options.

   “Does Fat Nuggets count,” she asks, motioning to the pig in Angel’s lap.

   “Hmm, in this instance I would say he is an extension of Angel, so no,” Charlie clarifies. Cherri sighs and goes back to thinking when Niffty raises her hand.

   “Me! Me, me, me, me, me, me, me,” she shouts, waving her arm wildly around her head, nearly wacking Alastor several times.

   “Um, sure?” Before Cherri can move, Niffty launches herself across the circle and wraps all of her limbs around Cherri’s torso. Despite the initial shock, Cherri gently hugs her back, mostly because she’s just a little scared of whatever is happening. Niffty sits there without moving for a long moment before Cherri tries to pry her off. “Okay, I think that’s enough, tiny.” Niffty gleefully hops backwards and scurries back to her spot between Alastor and Husk. Cherri looks around again before smirking mischieviously. “Hey kitty cat, truth or dare?”

   “Mm, truth,” Husk grumbles. “And don’t fucking call me that.”

   “We all know you were on Earth the longest, but, and just be honest, how old were you,” she prods.

   “Really,” Husk asks, unimpressed. “You could’ve asked me anything, and you wanna know how old I was when I kicked it?”

   “You’re the one dating my young and sexy best friend,” she teases, nudging Angel. “Gotta make sure you’re not a predator.”

   “Sorry to interrupt,” Charlie says, “And I know this isn’t how the game works, but I’ve honestly been curious about that question for all of you. Is there any chance we could around the circle with it?” They mostly nod, but Niffty’s hand shoots up again.

   “I don’t remember that!” Alastor pats her head like she’s a toddler. Niffty doesn’t seem fazed.

   “Twenty something. She was twenty something,” he answers for her. “I was…thirty nine, I believe.” Charlie turns to her girlfriend, officially deciding the direction of the circle.

   “Oh, um… twenty three,” Vaggie says, mostly sure.

   “Twenty five,” Cherri says.

   “I was thirty four,” Angel says. He’s looking mostly at his hell hog so he doesn’t see Husk make a slightly worried face at his answer. He hears Cherri clearing her throat in Husk’s direction and the cat sighs.

   “I… I was sixty nine,” he mumbles. Almost everybody eyebrows shoot up. Angel, busy giving Fat Nuggets a belly run, giggles to himself.

   “Haha, 69. Like the-” then, suddenly it hits him and he bolts up turning to Husk, “Sixty nine?! That- that’s 35 years older than me!!” Husk puts his arms up in surrender.

   “Yeah, sure, but what year were you born,” he says quickly.

   “1913!”

   “See?! 1907,” Husk clarifies, motioning to himself. “That is only 6 years!” Vaggie near cackles from across the circle.

   “Y-you qualified for Medicare!” Cherri- the only other person to vaguely know what that is- also laughs at that point.

   “Yeah, yeah, you’re hilarious. At least-” he cuts himself to rethink his statement. “Well, I was gona say ‘at least I had a life’ but I really didn’t. It was shit.”

   “Did ya kill anyone, cause Smiles and I definitely did,” Angel says, trying to make a joke.

   “I mean, I was drafted into the second World War, so…”

   “Holy shit, where did all this lore come from,” Angel questions, as surprised as everyone else (except Alastor, of course).

   “I dunno, I guess this stuff has just never really come up anywhere,” Husk answers with a shrug.

   “And that is exactly why we do things like this,” Charlie points out excitedly. “To learn more about each other and how we can all be helpful to our friends.”

   “Exactly, can I ask my question now,” Husk says, suddenly very interested in this game. Charlie nods, and he immediately turns on his boss. “Alastor, truth or dare?”

   “Hm… dare,” the radio demon hums. Husk smirks like he’d been expecting that answer.

   “I dare you to give every single person in this circle one genuine compliment,” he says.

   “Ugh, if I must.”

Chapter Text

   In front of almost everybody, Husk is the most stoic, pissed off guy you could ever meet. Even when he’s just with Angel, he’s often still like that, just a little softer. Sometimes, though, on late nights or early mornings, when Angel has either dragged Husk into his room or convinced Husk to let him stay the night in his (not that either one of those feats are particularly difficult), he’ll randomly get really sappy.

   Angel had been off today, but Charlie had somehow managed to bring in a tour group from Satan-knows-where so Husk had been busier than he had ever been, and all of that was after running errands for Alastor in the early hours of the morning. Now, they’re cuddled up in Angel’s bed, the spider leaning against his headboard with Husk near passed out on the pillow of chest fluff below him.

    “And then this motherfucker looked me in the eye and asked for damn sparkling water. Where the fuck do you think are? Some of these fresher sinners piss me off.” Angel hums in agreement as he runs his fingers through Husk’s fur. “Are you even listenin’ to me?”

   “Uh, yeah. Sure,” the spider mumbles, because he was listening, vaguely. Did he retain much of what Husk had been ranting about? No.

   “Jeez, Angel,” Husk chides, any true malice negated by the soft chuckle that accompanies the words. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder why I try. You’re attention span is so shit sometimes.”

   “It’s not my fault,” Angel retorts with a dramatic pout. “You’re so soft, and I just zone out.”

   “I’m literally laying in your tits. You have it easy,” Husk teases. Angel flicks him on the top of his head, but he just laughs.

   “Fuck off, pervert,” he scolds. “I can’t believe I was the one chasing after you.”

   “You still are, I just occasionally let you catch me now,” Husk says, lifting his head to rest his chin on Angel’s chest, looking up at him.

   “See, but then you say cheesy shit like that and I wish we’d gotten together sooner,” Angels says, blushing.

   “I don’t think that would’ve been possible. I didn’t like you very much in the beginning, then you really didn’t like me for a minute,” Husk recalls with a smirk. “Of course, I was kind of being an ass on purpose to get you to leave me alone.”

   “Mm hm, and how did that work out for ya, Whiskers,” Angel croons, leaning down to kiss Husk’s little heart shaped nose, one of Angel’s favorite parts of his boyfriend’s face.

   “Luckily, not very well,” Husk says, leaning up to take advantage of Angel’s closeness, capturing his lips in a proper kiss.

Chapter Text

   “Dean, I think that maybe we may need help from a higher place. A more powerful place.”

   “Bullshit, Cas! I mean, come on, have a little faith!”

   It’s a rough night. Sam is lying severely injured in bed, Dean is despararetly trying to come up with a plan on his own for fighting an army of demons in middle-of-nowhere Ohio, and Cas is trying to convince him to pray to whatever God is out there for more help of some kind.

   “I do have faith,” Cas responds firmly. “That’s why I’m saying that you should at least try. Someone will hear you.”

   “Cas, I don’t pray to assholes who don’t listen,” Dean retorts, trying hard not to shout as he lays out their research documents on the hotel dining table. “I did enough of that type of shit trying to win my old man’s respect.”

   “I just don’t see this going well with just the three of us,” Castiel adds. “I’m not strong enough to properly help you. I can’t even heal Sam completely, which means he also won’t be much use. Just-”

   “Stop,” Dean whisper shouts, trying not to wake his brother across the room. “I just want to try, okay? Can we at least try to make some kind of plan? If we do need more help, I’ll call my people. Sorry to offend, but I doesn’t trust your people at all! You shouldn’t either! Why aren’t your powers at full capacity, huh? Who did that?” But the angel won’t quit.

   “Dean, I don’t understand why you can’t at least try to believe-”

   “I do believe,” Dean interrupts, just a little louder. “I believe in this fight that I’ve fought my whole damn life! I believe in all the people who have gotten me this far! I believe in Sam and his ability to fight through all of this shit! Dammit, Cas, I believe in us! In you! Why the hell else would I pray to you even when I barely believe in all this holy heavens above shit?”

   Castiel doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure what to say. He just watches Dean for a minute as he leans on a chair and glares into the table.

   “I… I believe in us, too, Dean,” he finally says. “In you.” Dean looks up at him. “I think I understand you’re inhibitions, and as skeptical as I am, I suppose I will look past my own concerns and help as much as I can.” Dean sighs and stands again.

   “Thanks, man,” he sighs. “And… if it’ll make you feel better, I guess I can call come people that are nearby, even if that means four hours away because we’re in the middle of butt-fuck-nowhere.” The slight joke seems to ease some of the tension. Castiel still seems to be thinking about something, though. “What’s wrong?”

   “Not wrong, just…” the angel pauses to gather his thoughts, “Thank you… for believing in me. That, um, feels… nice.” His awkward gratitude makes Dean laugh.

   “You’re so freakin’ weird, Cas.”

Chapter Text

   Quiet nights on the large couch in Asmodeus’ penthouse living room rae quite common for him and Fizzarolli. Usually, it’s sweet. Tonight, they’re snacking on leftovers from Fizz’s birthday party they’d hosted a few days ago. The imp has been staring blankly into his slice of cake for several minutes now. Ozzie is about to ask him about it when he pipes up.

   “Hey, Oz. Do you ever wish you weren’t immortal?” The question is sort of random for the moment, but Asmodeus can see where it came from.

   “Um… I’m not really sure. Not that I particularly remember, but I’ve probably thought about it at some point,” he responds. The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy the imp. “Why do you ask?”

   “I mean, obviously, I’m not,” Fizz sighs. “Do you ever think about what’ll happen when I age past you and eventually die? Will it even matter in the long run?”

   “Of course it’ll matter, Fizz,” Ozzie assures. “I love you too much for it not to matter. I’d give anything if there was a way to change the circumstances, but, to be honest, I try not to think about it. We still have time.”

   “But there’s not enough time,” Fizz says dejectedly. “Not enough time for me to fully express how much you, how much all of this, means to me. Even if I make any kind of impact on your life now, you’ll still be here in a billion years, and what will I be then? Nothing.”

   “Fizzie, I could never forget you. Babe, the biggest painting in my office has you as the centerpiece, and Luci knows I’m never getting rid of that.” Fizzarolli smiles a little at that.

   “I do look pretty hot in that painting,” he smirks.

   “You always look hot, babe, and you constantly show me how much you love me. As lovely as eternity would be, I am the happiest I have ever been in all my years of existence, and nothing could ever top this,” Ozzie says. “Unless, of course, you somehow reincarnate at some point and I get to do it all again.”

   “I mean, you do mass produce copies of me, so-”

   “Oh, fuck no,” Oz interrupts. “Those things probably won’t even be in production much longer, thank Satan. We just have to use up the rest of our materials.”

   “Really? Well, that’s kinda nice to know. I fucking hate those things,” Fizz states. “And I guess it’s nice to know that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.” Ozzie beams and leans across the couch to press his forehead to Fizzarolli’s.

   “You got that right.”