Chapter Text
“Mimzy, for the last fucking time — no.” Husk slashes a paw through the air to punctuate.
Mimzy pouts, leaning heavily on his desk. “Listen, this kid — he's the real deal, Husker. It ain't just that he's sexy, he's got that — whaddya call it — je ne sais quoi, ya know? And charisma up the wahoo. Come on, when has ol’ Mimzy ever asked you for anything, huh?”
“Earlier today you asked me to spot you ten thousand dollars.”
“Like you can't afford it.”
“Fucking hell, Mimzy, what's this really about? You owe someone a payout?”
“Pish-posh, pussycat.” Husk bristles at the nickname. “I just think you need to loosen up, have a good time, experience a vice or two.”
“You're standing in the casino that I fucking own.” Husk slides a deck from his pocket and starts shuffling them idly.
Mimzy drops the charm that's been oozing from her like radioactive slime. “Okay, I'll level with ya. I promised this Valentino fella a one-on-one with ya. He's got me by the throat, you know what it's like —”
“Not really —”
“And you'd be doin’ me a huge favor, Husker. ‘Side's, I think you'll really like this dancer.”
“Why are you makin’ promises on my behalf? What's your plan if I say no?”
“Will I need one?” She bats her eyelashes.
“I do this for you, you never ask me to clean up a mess again.” He shifts the deck around like he's going to bridge it, but holds onto the cards for a moment, freezing them bent and halfway slotted together.
“I promise!”
It's definitely a lie, but…much as Mimzy annoys Husk, always bringing around trouble (more often than not in the form of the fucking Radio Demon, and it'll be a happy day in hell if Husk never hears from that slimy asshole again), he doesn't actually want to see her ripped apart by loan sharks or trapped in a deal with a Vee. “Fucking fine.” He lets the cards fall together with a reverberating smack.
Husk knocks on Mimzy's hotel room door at exactly eight o'clock, and she answers the door with giant curlers in her hair. “Have you ever been on time in your life?” he asks, ears twitching in annoyance.
“Nothing wrong with being fashionably late!” she chirps. “Just give me a few minutes and we'll be outta here.” She flounces into the bathroom.
Husk looks around her room idly — business cards strewn across the desk, jewelry all draped over a lampshade, not a single thing in the closet. A dime bag of coke on the dresser. A few crinkled singles on the nightstand. Nothing out of the ordinary for Mimzy, and she hasn't even burned cigarette holes into any of his upholstery yet.
She emerges in a mushroom cloud of talcum powder and pauses at the door, hand up like she's waiting for an arm to latch onto. He pushes past her and she rushes to keep pace on the way to the elevator.
The walk is nothing to write home about — the King of Hearts Hotel & Casino is in the same sector of the Pentagram as V Tower, just a few blocks away, and the Vees own most of the buildings on that block — the club they're going to is just a few doors down from the Tower proper. Unsettlingly misshapen heart motifs decorate a pink neon sign that tells them they're about to enter Roofie. “Classy,” Husk mutters as he shoulders the door open.
“Isn't it, though?”
“Alright, I'm not actually sitting through a fucking strip show,” Husk says, trying not to cough as they're engulfed in a cloud of pink smoke that's distinctly sourer than the tobacco that fills the gambling floor back at his place. “Where the fuck is Valentino?”
“Oh, quit your worryin’. He never comes out to the floor. We gotta go meet him at his box.” She gestures to a tiny balcony near the semicircle stage.
“Right.” Husk spreads his wings just a bit — he doesn't like to flap them around much, but they're good for clearing a path in a crowd. He's recognizable, but his height is a bit of a handicap; people have to be able to see him to give him respect in a crowded space. Mimzy's even smaller than he is, even on her kitten heels. The crowd parts easily enough when his feathers brush them, though, and they cut a straight line to the velvet-roped staircase spiraling off behind the wall of the club.
A fluorescent pink imp puts his hand out as the approach. “Private box,” he barks in a surprisingly deep voice. He's just about Husk's height.
“Your boss is expecting me,” Husk nearly growls.
“Nobody goes up,” the imp insists.
Husk hates to pull the don't you know who I am card, but he's considering it strongly — places like this skeeve him out far more in death than they ever did in life, largely because hell has a higher concentration of people who have done far more harm than the average businessman at a peep show — when a thick pink heart-shaped smoke ring floats through the thinner cloud of pink smoke that permeates the room. “I'll handle this, Glenn,” says the owner of the sharp fingers curling over the imp's shoulder, and then the smoke dissipates enough to reveal Valentino, simpering down at Husk and Mimzy. “Husker,” he says with a cloying affect. “And…Mitzy, right? So glad you could find time in your busy schedule to pay me a little visit. But I'm afraid I simply never talk business before a show.”
Husk's hackles are raised, and he takes a deep breath, willing his flipping tail to chill as well. “I'm a busy man, Valentino.”
“Oh come now, you wouldn't want to be rude, would you?” A tongue coated in some sort of disgusting pollen flits out from between Valentino's fangs. “Sit, enjoy the show, and we'll talk after. There's a table set aside right up front for you, and my star is performing tonight — you wouldn't pass up a seat that close to Angel Dust, now, would you?”
Husk groans internally. Is fucking Angel Dust the dancer Mimzy was trying to sell him on earlier? Husk has never sought out his movies or seen his live show, but the guy's face is on half the buses and billboards in the Pentagram, usually doing something lewd with his tongue or flashing his tits. Husk doesn't go in for that sort of tacky display — Mimzy knows that, but her track record for actually paying attention to other people beyond their use to her is abysmal. “Fine,” he grits out. “But we talk the second the show ends. I'm not hanging out here all night.”
“Of course not!” Valentino's smile gets more sickening by the second. “Now, go, take your seats, order a drink, enjoy the show and we'll speak the minute it's over.”
Husk hugs the wall as he and Mimzy make their way toward the stage until she points at a table just a little toward the house right of center, with a sign that reads “Reserved for Husker” in glittering letters. The second Husk's ass hits the seat, tail wrapped discreetly around one of the chair legs so nobody will step on it, a wasplike demon in a corset and tiny lace shorts appears at his elbow. “Anything to drink, sweetheart?”
“Scotch, neat, whatever your top shelf is,” Husk tells her, barely looking at her, and nods at Mimzy.
“Gin and tonic, thanks a bunch, hon.”
The waitress nods, looking bored, and traipses off.
The drinks have just been served — Husk pokes with disgust at the rocks in his drink, but then, he supposes the bar service isn't really why people come here — when the house lights dim and a club song starts bumping. One by one, a handful of androgynous insectoids in pastel lingerie and stilettos strut onto the stage and arrange themselves in V formation. Husk could injure himself with the force of his eye-roll. When the beat drops, so do the dancers, squatting low and spreading their knees to flash their lace-covered crotches, and the dance gets no less crude from there. When the dancers step down off the stage to work the crowd, Husk reaches into his pants pocket and slides a hundred to the first dancer who approaches him before she can touch him. She hums a low thanks and moves on, not before playfully tweaking his hat for show. He scowls as he readjusts it.
None of the other dancers bother him for the rest of the set — he watches them move in a clearly choreographed pattern, recognizes the way the same dancers hit the same tables every time. Patrons gesture to different dancers, and Husk watches the little signals they give each other — eye contact, head tilts, subtle hand signals that tell each other they're game to switch. It's not unlike the way Husk's staff moves about the gaming floor and bars at the casino, and he's far more interested in the logistics than in the sway of hips or bounce of tits. These dancers are talented, probably — a high roller like Valentino wouldn't waste good talent in a grunt job or let anything worse than his best in front of an audience — and Husk isn't entirely unaffected by their looks, but he hates how clinical and impersonal it all is, and especially that every single one of them is Valentino's property. It's plain distasteful — sure, Husk himself owns thousands of souls, but he doesn't exploit them like this. Frankly, he mostly leaves them to their own devices — he has staff and he calls in favors, but the real thrill is in the acquisition.
The dancers take back to the stage, lapdances and private flirtations delivered, egos sufficiently stroked. A few of the more flexible ones take to poles; Husk is by no means a pole dancing aficionado, but he's vaguely aware that they're all doing floorwork, just spinning around and lifting their knees and vogueing a bit, no one rising off the ground. It's certainly all very sexy, but there's nothing on display that makes Husk's blood thrum. He's a little bored and pretty anxious — being on someone else's turf for too long makes him antsy.
The set finally ends, and the house lights raise slightly for a few minutes. The waitress comes back and Husk tilts his head at her. “Just bring the whole bottle.”
“Oh, now he's havin’ fun!” Mimzy claps her hands.
No sooner than Husk has his drink do the lights go back down, and the lighting on the stage pares down to a single dramatic spotlight. The music grows impossibly loud and unbearably modern, synth-heavy and pop-ish, and an impossibly tall, thin figure suddenly drops down the center stage pole, pausing with his head inches from the surface. Angel Dust dangles upside down, legs and one hand wrapped firmly around the pole while his three remaining hands reach out towards the audience, flirtatious, tantalizing. From all around Husk, paper money is already landing on the stage. Angel Dust grins lasciviously, his sharp tongue darting out from a set of gleaming fangs. He makes brief eye contact with Husk and winks, then flips backwards off the pole, landing on the stage in a low squat.
Husk is used to staring people down. Used to intense eye contact with powerful people, to searching for tells while doing his level best to hide his own.
Angel Dust's split-second wink makes his cheeks warm.
Angel Dust backs up against the pole and gyrates his hips, all four hands gripping the pole above his head, running them up and down it in a suggestive motion. He's wearing leather hot pants and some sort of lacy bra contraption that pushes his tits up and out, the top of the pink heart in his fur visible above it and the bottom trailing suggestively from the hem down into his waistband, and his fluff sheds glitter with every movement like he's his own shimmering rainstorm. Husk tips his bottle back and chugs.
Angel Dust's set lasts longer than the openers’, one song after the next. When he hits the floor, he only approaches the audience members who wave him over, giving them teasingly brief personal dances and letting them grope him all over. It's barely vulgar by Hell standards, but when Angel Dust sashays back up to the stage, his bra thing gone and claw-holes through his shorts, Husk gets another look at his face, and his eyes are tight and stressed, despite his fluid movements not missing a beat. When Angel Dust turns back to the crowd, his gleaming smile is firmly in place, and Husk is barely sure he saw anything at all. He ends his set with a bit of truly impressive pole work, spinning and flipping — and then as the last song fades out with the bass still thumping, a glowing, pink chain wraps him up with cuffs around both wrists and his throat. He follows their tug backstage with slinking movements, still winking and waggling his tongue at the crowd.
Husk applauds politely and with significantly further restraint than the majority of the crowd, some of whom are loudly demanding an encore. Angel Dust doesn't reappear, however, and the house lights come up as the music shifts to something more ambient.
Husk drains his bottle, chasing the vision of Angel Dust's pained, pinched expression from his mind. “Alright, we're getting this done with now.” He rises from his chair, joints popping in his knees and wings, and Mimzy once again scurries to keep up as he strides back to the velvet rope.
This time, the imp lets Husk in, but stops Mimzy. “The boss was clear,” he informs her. “Please, continue to enjoy yourself.”
Mimzy shrugs. “I'm sure I can find a good time out there.”
Husk glares into her eyes. “Wait at our fucking table,” he tells her. “I ain't bailing you outta trouble twice in one day.”
Husk expects to be led up to Valentino's box, but instead they turn away from it and climb another staircase, going higher and deeper into the building. There's a hall at the top, and they pass several doorways through which standard operations are visible — a security officer watching the club on monitors, a dressing room packed with dancers changing into sweats and taking off their makeup. One door is mostly closed, and Husk catches a glimpse through the door of Angel Dust in the mirror, combing the glitter out of his fur. As Husk moves, he catches sight of Valentino in the mirror just behind his star, and then the imp ushers him further down the hall into a little office. “Valentino will be with you shortly,” he informs him in a clipped voice, and shuts the door behind him when he leaves.
Husk takes in his surroundings — bright pink walls, a sickly pink acrylic desk, chairs upholstered in fur that Husk only hopes is fake. Even though this is clearly an auxiliary space for Valentino, there's still an entire wall of shelves stacked with trophies and plaques. Husk squints at a silver-plated butt plug on a mount with a plaque that reads “Best Supporting Asshole: Angle Dust in Balls Deep” and shudders, settling back into his seat. He pulls a deck of cards from his pocket and shuffles them idly, pulling the top card occasionally. Jack of hearts. Ace of spades. Five of clubs.
The sound of voices carries through the walls, sharp but still too quiet to hear what they're saying — a thick New York accent mixed with Valentino's humming croon. “Val, don't,” the voice suddenly cries, rising frantically, and then there's a thump that shakes the walls. The voices continue quietly for a moment, and then a door slams. Husk slides his cards back into his pocket as Valentino glides through the office door.
“Husker,” he purrs, “so good of you to join me.”
“I'm here for Mimzy,” Husk tells him firmly. “Whatever her debt, my meeting with you pays it.”
“Of course, gato apostador.”
“Right. Why d'you want to meet with me?”
Valentino chuckles, taking a seat perched atop his desk and looking down at Husk through his heart-shaped glasses. “Right to business, hmm?”
“I'm not here to flirt with you. You clearly have something you want, so out with it.”
“Fine.” Valentino takes a long draw from his cigarette and blows a series of heart-shaped pink rings that settle around Husk. His fur is gonna reek for a week when he gets out of here. “You aren't known for selling away your souls, Husker, are you?”
“Not typically. My souls chose to gamble with me — they didn't offer themselves up to the highest bidder.”
“Mm, an Overlord with integrity. How novel.”
Husk shrugs. He doesn't consider himself particularly principled — he didn't land in hell for being a saint on earth, after all — but he doesn't get off on throwing his power around just because. He knows what he's capable of, and so do his souls. So do the other Overlords in the Pentagram.
Valentino regards Husk for a moment. He keeps still, keeps his chin up, keeps his fur flat and his tail still. Finally, Val says, “I propose a joint venture.”
“I'm listening,” Husk says politely. Flatly.
“You cut me into your contracts. A gambler loses their soul in your casino, they come to work for me. Not all of them, mind you. And I send you some of my live talent to your establishment nightly, class the joint up.”
Husk raises an eyebrow at him. “And what about this is meant to appeal to me?”
“You could use a boost in optics. Live nude demons get people in doors — I take on the training and handling, you get a boost that brings more high rollers in to lose their souls.”
“Which I would then…give to you?”
“Contractually. Yes.”
“No.”
Valentino bristles, clearly unused to hearing that word — or hearing it from someone whose hand he can't force, at any rate. “Pardon me?”
“It's not an attractive deal. Valentino.”
“We could supply your establishment with the latest premarket VoxTek —”
“If Vox wants to do business with me, he can talk to me. I don't like intermediaries. Leaves too much room for…interpretation.” Husk lets the implied insult land.
“You ought to take me seriously, gatito.”
“I heard you out.” Husk rises. “My friend's debt is paid, yes?” He holds his hand out to Valentino.
Dripping with disdain, Valentino nonetheless shakes. He can't seem to help trying one last appeal as Husk approaches the door. “You don't want to turn down my friendship.”
“So be friendly,” Husk says evenly. “Feel free to contact my office if you have any further offers for me. Goodnight, Valentino. I'll see myself out.” He lets himself out and shuts the door behind himself with a click.
The hall is mostly empty as he heads out, but when he reaches the landing outside of Valentino's box, Angel Dust is sitting against the wall in an oversized, bright pink sweater, knees pulled up to his chest and both sets of arms wrapped around his legs.
“Oh,” Angel Dust says, rising, “sorry! I didn't realize anyone was still here.” His is the voice that was arguing with Valentino before their meeting. His eyeliner is smeared, but Husk can't tell if he's been crying or if that stuff just…doesn't last forever. Not that it matters; he feels for the kid, but it's all kinds of a bad idea to get between an Overlord like Valentino and their property.
“Don't let me disturb ya, I'm on my way out.” Husk nods at him. “Hell of a show you put on out there. You've got real talent, kid.”
“Thanks, shnookums.” Angel Dust winks. “I saw you out there in the seat of honor. You good pals with the boss?”
Husk snorts. “Nah, I'd never met him. Doin’ a favor for a friend is all.” He holds out his hand. “I'm Husk.”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Angel Dust pushes his chest out and bats his eyelashes. “You're famous. Never seen you at the club before, though.”
“Not really my scene,” Husk admits easily. “No offense.”
“Well, glad you liked the show.” Angel Dust turns toward the hall, and runs his fingertips feather-light across Husk's chest. “See ya around, Husk.” And he disappears down the hall, narrow hips swaying.
Husk finds Mimzy at the bar, which is distinctly not where he told her to be, but she's behaving herself. “I'm leaving,” he tells her. “You wanna come now, I'll walk you to your room.”
Mimzy waves him on. “Go home, ya teetotaler. I'll see ya when I see ya. And — thanks, kitten.”
“You're welcome.”
The brisk air does Husk good. He knows — fucking hell, he knows that Angel Dust's affect is part of his job, that he flirts and winks and flashes his tits because that's the sex work territory and he's not even a free agent, he's got the most notorious pimp in the Pentagram at his back. But it's been…a long time since he's had such a visceral reaction to a stranger. It's purely physical attraction, and it's heady.
Husk isn't a fucking idiot. He won't be going back to the club if he has a choice, won't be seeking out Valentino or any of his souls. But it's a nice feeling, for the moment, and he selfishly allows himself to hold onto it.
♤♡◇♧
Husk doesn't tend to sit around waiting for other shoes to drop. For one thing, there is never a shortage of shoes dropping in Hell, and for another, he's got a business to run. So he's vaguely aware that Valentino isn't particularly pleased with him, and if he decides to pursue the grudge it's probably going to become an ordeal, but it's a back-burner thing to the day-to-day of casino operations.
Case in point, less than a week after his visit to Valentino's club, he's scheduled to meet with the crown princess.
Princess Charlotte had agreed readily to meet at Husk's casino — on the phone, on a call she rather charmingly made herself, she assured Husk that she didn't want to give him any trouble, just wanted to “check in” with him and other major players in the landscape of power across the city.
Frankly, Husk thinks it's about fucking time — there's a bit of a vacuum at the very top these days, with the Radio Demon having gone radio silent a couple years back, and Zestial retreating more and more from the public eye, and the royals have been all but a non-entity for so long that it's easy to forget they even have a tangible presence. A presence that's sorely needed if the likes of the Vees are to be kept from power.
“Hey, boss, the princess is here,” Husk's assistant informs him mid-afternoon, when the slots are starting to heat up but no one is really touching the tables much yet.
“Thanks, Scratch. Go ‘head and send her up.” Husk tucks in his shirt and straightens his tie, pulls out the tiny shaving mirror he keeps in his desk to make sure his whiskers are straight. There's a timid knock on the door after a few minutes. “Come in.”
A lanky young woman with a ponytail to her waist and spotted cheeks lets herself in, followed by a slightly shorter, slightly wider-set spear-wielding girl with a conspicuous X-shaped scar where one of her eyes should be. It's clear which one is the princess — she's the spitting image of her father, aside from the height — but she’s dressed in a simple pantsuit and has an openness to her face that doesn't speak to political experience.
Husk rises from his desk to extend a hand. “Princess Morningstar, it's good to meet you. What brings you to the King of Hearts?”
The princess shakes his hand with untamed enthusiasm. “Please, call me Charlie! It's Husker, right? So good to meet you!”
“Uh, Husk.” Husk carefully extricates his hand from her grip and comes back around his desk to sit. “Please, take a seat, both of you. Charlie and…”
“Vaggie,” says the other girl, unease in her one eye. “I'm Charlie's, ah, advisor.”
“She's my girlfriend,” Charlie stage-whispers to Husk, and Vaggie runs her hands over her face in what's clear exasperation.
“Charlie, you gotta stop telling people that. I am your advisor, that's all anyone needs to know.”
“It's fine,” Husk says, hiding a smile. “Please, take a seat. Would either of you like something to drink?”
“No, nono, that's okay, thank you, though,” Charlie chirps as her and Vaggie take seats in the shabby but comfortable chairs across from Husk's desk. “I'm not really here with an agenda, if I'm honest. I'm just starting to take over for my dad, and I want to meet my people — it's really important to me to foster productive, healthy relationships with the Overlords of the Pentagram. After all, you guys keep the city running!”
“Uh…huh.” Husk can barely hide his bemusement. Charlie is earnest and clearly completely for real, and she's adorable, but some of the other Overlords will absolutely chew her up and spit her back out. At least her girlfriend seems aware that she's inherently in danger — she hasn't loosened her grip on her spear one bit. “Well, then. I can certainly give you a personal tour of the facility, if you'd like to see how we operate?”
“I. Would. Love that!”
Husk leads the girls out of the office and down the hall. “You've seen the gaming floor, yeah? Let me show you the guts.” He calls the elevator to bring them up two floors. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, Vaggie looks uneasy, but Charlie looks excited. “So, you haven't been officially in office long?”
Charlie looks surprised to be addressed so frankly. “Well, my mom was supposed to…um, it was…a sudden appointment, for sure. I'm not really interested in exercising power, frankly —”
“Charlie,” Vaggie says sharply.
Husk chuckles as they step off the elevator. “I have to agree with your advisor — that's not something you wanna be advertising to people like me. Lot of Overlords in this city who will take advantage of the slightest vulnerability, Princess.” He keys them into a room locked with a control pad and gestures them in first. “Security. How are we doin’, Zoe?”
Zozo, his hellhound head of security, raises a middle finger before turning in her chair and flushing. “Boss, you usually announce company,” she says sheepishly.
“Yeah, yeah, lecture me about my manners later. This is Princess Charlie and her advisor Vaggie. Just showing them around the facility. You wanna tell them about our operations?”
Husk is happy to sit back while Zoe walks the girls through their security operation, pointing out guards on the monitors for their closes circuit AV system, walks them through the multiple types of wards around every door between the public and private spaces, and briefly explains the code system employees use. Vaggie shows genuine interest, while Charlie inserts personal small talk whenever she can. While Vaggie is asking question after question about concealed weapons and sorcery agencies, Charlie circles back and joins Husk where he's posted up by the door. “So you own every soul here?”
Husk hmms. “Some of them. Some I have under employment contracts, but their souls are their own. Not all of my souls are employees, and not all employees are my souls.”
“You don't make your souls work?”
“I don't make most of them do much of anything.” Husk raises an eyebrow at her. “What do you know about Overlords?”
“I know you buy souls — or seduce them. Traffic in them, some of you. Exploit them.” Her tone doesn't hold judgment; she seems almost sheepish, like she doesn't want Husk to feel judged.
“It's…not all like that,” he tells her. “It's politics, a lot of the time. Souls are capital, and for some, that means controlling them, killing them, what have you. There are others — the Cannibal leader, she takes care'a hers, keeps ‘em fed, keeps the town clean. And the Radio Demon —” Charlie shudders, just barely. “Yeah. Me, the contracts are leverage, and sometimes I contract a soul with something specific, if they have something to offer me, but mostly I just keep them in residence, and they can do as they like.”
“That's…unusual.”
Husk shrugs. Doesn't want to tell her it's about the thrill of the gamble, about watching someone's expression in the last second before the toss of the die when they don't know if they've won or lost, about the heady feeling of knowing someone is so addicted to what he's offering them that they'll sell themselves for one more hit.
Vaggie returns and they move onto the kitchen, the bar, the auditorium. Vaggie asks relevant, smart questions, and Charlie prods at Husk's own work all the while, with wide-eyed innocence that's going to see her fucked over by any number of Overlords sooner than later. It's a relief to finally shut the door behind them, with an invitation to return whenever, no appointment necessary. The princess doesn't seem to recognize her position, but Husk does, and for now it's prudent to build that relationship a little, but keep the backdoor open.
Husk has just slumped back into his seat and is reaching into his bottom desk drawer for the good scotch when Zoe's voice rings through the intercom. “Hey, Husk — there's a POI on the gaming floor, potential situation — you want me to check it out?”
“Ugh.” Husk wiggles his mouse to wake up his computer. “Send me the feed, I'll take a look.” A little red notification appears on his open VoxTeams tab — VoxTek being literally the only OS in the Pentagram is an unfortunate reality of Hell's monopolistic economy, but Husk's tech guy assures him they've fucking…spliced in their own firewall, or something, gotten it as secure as possible.
Husk opens the feed Zoe sent, expecting a loan shark or something, and blinks in surprise when Angel Dust fills up his screen. He jabs the intercom button. “Uh, Zo, let floor security know to be on standby, but I don't think we need to worry about escalation. I'll handle this.”
“Copy that, boss.”
Husk takes the elevator back down and finds Angel Dust standing at a table, watching a poker game with obvious confusion. “If you're gonna sit at a table, you gotta play,” he says as he approaches, and Angel Dust turns around. “House rules.”
“Oh, that ain't my game,” Angel Dust says, fussing with his fluffy bangs. He's wearing a too-small blazer and a miniskirt, an impractically tiny bag slung over an elbow, and the same boots he'd been wearing onstage. His mismatched eyes are bright under all the flashing neon in the casino.
“Not interested in gambling your soul away?”
Husk feels like a heel as soon as he says it, but Angel Dust laughs. “Ain't mine to gamble.” There's a frankness there that Husk didn't expect, for some reason. He expected Angel Dust to be haughty, or perhaps coy — to exude the same raw power and control he did onstage.
"So if you're not playin', what exactly are you doing here?" Husk…doesn't mind Angel Dust's presence, per se, but he's not interested in playing any games tonight, all his social graces worn thin on the princess. “‘S your boss here?”
“Val? Nah. This really ain't his scene.”
“Did he send you?”
“Nope. I'm on my own time, babydoll.” Angel Dust's voice snaps and pops like bubble gum. Husk examines him closely, but he's either honest or has a genuine hell of a poker face.
Husk raises an eyebrow at him. “So you…came here on your time off, with no intention of gambling…why?”
“Honestly? I saw you at my show the other day and I thought you were hotter'n sin.” Angel Dust winks. “Thought I'd pay you a visit, see if there's anything I could…offer you.” He leans forward as he speaks, getting close to Husk and offering him a good look at his tits.
“Uh…no thanks.”
Angel Dust's eyes widen in surprise, but he backs off. (Minutely.) “Damn, you must have iron willpower. I saw the way you watched my set, pussycat.”
“Hey,” Husk snaps, “you can be nice, or you can get off my property.”
Angel Dust's expression hardens for a second, before he takes a step back. “Alright, you're right. I'm not used t'hearing ‘no.’ More used to ‘now, bitch.’ I'll back off.”
Husk nods curtly and hopes his breathing hasn't visibly sped up; the very end of his tail is flicking wildly, but he can't focus enough to control it. “Good.”
“So.” Angel Dust arches his back until it audibly pops. “Where can a girl get a drink around here?”
Husk rolls his eyes. “Come on.” He should keep an eye on Angel Dust, since he's so close to Valentino. Not because he's gorgeous, not because his harassment doesn't rankle nearly half as much as it should. Husk leads the way to a bar — not the monster that dominates most of the south wall, but a tiny half-circle near the restrooms, one that only opens on high-capacity nights — and ducks behind it. “What do you drink, Angel Dust?”
“You can just call me Angel, y'know. You do your own bartendin’?”
Not as a matter of habit, but Husk has always liked mixing drinks. Liked tending bar in life, at jazz bars and grimy downtown casinos. “Call it a hobby. Drink?”
“Surprise me.”
Husk gambles on his impression of Angel and makes an old fashioned with orange syrup and mint, and Angel looks pleased when he sips it. “Man of hidden talents,” he purrs, creeping a hand across the bar. “What else are ya hiding?”
“Angel,” Husk says sharply.
“Sorry.” He doesn't look all that sorry, but he draws his hand back. “Most'a hell would kill for me to come onto them, you know.”
“Is that so.”
“Alright, fine, sourpuss, if you're gonna be such a fucking prude. What's your idea of a good time?”
Husk rolls his eyes. And then he smiles. “You really wanna know?”
“You're fucking kidding me,” Angel Dust says blankly, staring down at the table. “I ain't playing cards with the highest roller in this circle a' hell, are you insane?”
Husk chuckles. He's brought Angel into a private back room, and he wasn't expecting resistance to his offer to teach him poker, honestly. It seems harmless enough. “I don't expect you to gamble, just to play.”
“Like I said, this is not my game.”
“It's not that hard. C'mon, sit down.” Husk takes his own seat and Angel follows suit with a sigh, eyeing him warily. Husk pulls his deck from his pocket and starts to shuffle, showing off a little — Angel doesn't seem impressed, but that's fine. It's not like he cares about impressing the underling of a rival Overlord. “Okay, so five cards — we're gonna play stud for now, so —” he deals them out quickly. “You've got there the two of hearts and the jack of clubs, and I've got the ace of diamonds and the five of diamonds, and then we can't see each other's other three. Ideally you want five of the same suit, in sequential order…”
Angel is a surprisingly receptive student, but it's clear to Husk immediately that he'll never be any good at poker. He has a hell of a straight face — his only tell so far is a slight twitch of his eye that anyone less than a seasoned card shark might not pick up on — and Husk imagines that's a useful skill in an actor and definitely a useful one in a whore. But he's easily distracted, making jokes and telling stories and flashing his hand at Husk inadvertently with his wide, animated gestures. His best bet in a real game would be that his opponents be equally distracted by his gleaming smile, glittering eyes, and the tantalizing regular flash of cleavage.
They're several hands in, during which Husk has kept their glasses full as Angel has laughed his way through a series of workplace anecdotes that Husk will be drinking to forget (“and then he said, ‘oh don't worry, I brought my own barbecue fork’”), when Angel, despite not having won once, asks if they can make it harder. Husk looks at him skeptically. “Well, if y'want to play draw, I'm gonna strip —”
“Oh, yes please, daddy,” Angel Dust says in an exaggerated moan.
“— the deck,” Husk finishes sourly, and starts pulling cards. "Deuce through five out, simplifies the game. Good way for ya to learn. Ace is low." He deals.
Angel is slightly more attentive now, and wins his first hand with a straight flush to Husk's four of a kind. "Oh my God," he crows, "I beat the gambling king! How d'ya like that?" Husk is fighting back a smile at this glimpse of Angel with his guard dropped, his smile less guarded, his laugh bright, when Angel reigns it back in and leans across the table. "What do winners get around here?" He purrs, walking his fingers across the tabletop towards Husk's paw where it's resting there.
Husk snatches his hand away before Angel reaches it. "We weren't playin' for anything, Angel," he doesn't-quite-snap. Angel is cute and everything — okay, so sexy that he should've gotten into heaven on looks alone, split the difference — but his porn-star routine is vulgar and he doesn't seem capable of completely backing off when told. Husk isn't gonna hold it against him — he can only imagine the men that Angel is used to, as the biggest sex symbol in Pride — but that doesn't mean it doesn't fucking grate. “Y'know, I think it's getting late. Maybe we call it a night.”
“Oh, come on,” Angel whines, but places his cards in Husk's outstretched paw. "If you're gonna be all sensitive about it —"
"Angel Dust."
"Okay, okay, I get it. Don't gotta go home but I can't stay here."
“You can stay here. Have another drink at the bar, catch the burlesque show, go listen to our lounge singer — though, I gotta warn you, he's got severely limited range — I just ain't gonna hang around all night.”
“Your loss,” Angel says with a half-smile. “G'night, whiskers.”
“Fucking — good night, Angel Dust.”