Chapter Text
Husk does not look forward to most days in hell. But today was not “most days”. His tail swished about as he flitted his way into the lobby, his eyes darting back and forth. He’s checking to make sure no one is around. He knows that he’s failing miserably at hiding the bounce in his step, because Husk, jaded grump extraordinaire, was undeniably giddy. When he’s made it to the front of the entrance of the hotel, Husk’s tail nails Nifty squarely on the face as he rushes to the bar top. He doesn’t even notice – even if she was brandishing a knife at him furiously. He fumbles through the plastic bag, and fishes it out: a heavy jar of ruby red maraschino cherries.
Husk can’t pinpoint why he is so fond of them. But Hell rarely had them on shelves in stores for long. Something about the oppressive heat in the pride ring made produce hard to stay consumable -- everyone had some variation of the jarred and canned fruits just to have fruit, and things sold out quickly. Husk, though, he's been wanting the cherries particularly. And now he has them. After a bit of contemplation, he turns to his bottles and prepares a drink to where they can be his star. He even eventually creates a tiny flyer at the edge of his bar, announcing a special drink for the day. It read,
Manhattans. Come get them while I still have the drink on the shelf.
Husk beamed. The poster was barely legible, and he’s misspelled Manhattan, but it gets the message across. Husk may not typically take the role of bartender for what it is. He thinks that person is someone who perfects the craft of alcoholic drinks. He's more of a listening ear for the patrons of the hotel. This drink though, he’s proud of. It doesn’t have the fancy labels, smoke, mirrors, and the artisanal fermented cherries that typically come with the drink, but hey, it’s his Manhattan.
If only it wasn’t sitting patiently on the counter. He waits expectantly at the bar top, but it suddenly dawns on him that it’s barely 3 pm, and everyone is still out and about. It doesn't matter. He’s sure everyone would be lining up when they got back. Thankfully, it looks like someone did have an early end to their day. Alastor waltzes into the hotel lobby around 5 pm, eyeing the bar in interest. He peers into the drink curiously. Husk isn’t sure what he thinks of it. The uncanny smile stretching up to more than half of his face wasn’t giving Husk any clues, so he looked away, indifferent to Alastor’s opinion. This is until Alastor abruptly claps, making Husk jump, tail end frazzled in shock.
“My my, my good man!” Alastor quips. “You’ve outdone yourself today. A special?” Alastor swiftly plucks the cherry out of his drink and eats the entire thing – stem included. Husk rolls his eyes. Leave it to Alastor to make any part of consuming this drink unappealing. Still, Husk is curious about its reception.
“Manhattan,” Husk says, shuffling to the other side of the bar to keep up the faux indifference. Alastor considers the drink, sipping it slowly. How he managed to keep a sip of whiskey like its tea was something Husk could silently appreciate. The key, Husk thought, was the silence in the appreciation.
“Husker, I did not take you for the kind of man who mixes hedonism into your Manhattan,” Alastor says. “A Manhattan. Are you sure that’s what you want to call it?”
Husk blinks. Hedonistic. Husk doesn’t think there’s anything quite hedonistic as cannibalism. But he supposes that’s just him. Alastor must have sensed his confusion, because he chuckles, setting the half-finished drink down.
“Not my particular cup of tea,” Alastor says. “But I know you were not making such a drink with me in mind.”
“This drink got nothing to do with no one,” Husk says gruffly.
Alastor chuckles, shaking his head.
“Now now, there isn’t much that can fool me with, my fine-feathered friend. Do you owe someone a favor? Or maybe you’ve gotten yourself another demon to impress,” he says. His tone is light and airy, but Alastor’s eyes shone with a red, cutting glare of barely hidden malice.
Husk truly has no clue what Alastor is musing about, but he’s already sort of desensitized to Alastor’s riddles. The sliding grin, with all its teeth and secrets though. That never fails to make him shiver, and he feels like he’s revealed a hand without knowing it. He looks up cautiously, genuinely bewildered. Somehow, the blatant confusion on his face seems to annoy and deflate Alastor both at the same time, and he doesn’t attempt to hide his clear disappointment.
“Well, this was a delightful experience,” he quips, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You’ll have to excuse me, old pal. I have a business to attend to.” Alastor straightens up and exits the bar top, leaving Husk annoyed and even more confused. There wasn’t anyone he had in mind particularly. He swore he was mentally paying tribute to maraschino cherries.
In the early evening, Husk starts to feel a gnawing tick in his jaw. He’s contemplating Alastor’s comments with mild irritation when he hears the door open again. He perks up instantly, ears twitching instinctually. The door whips open and Angel is stumbling raucously through the front door. Or at least, Angel’s legs have. Husk can’t make out Angel’s face, because from the upper half of his torso to the top of the door, boxes and bags were shakily balancing in a wobbly stack where Angel’s head should be. All of them were labeled with different brands, but they all had different variations of pet-related logos and art. Ah. For Fat Nuggets. For all of Angel’s gripes about the cost of living in the hell economy lately, he sure bought a lot of treats and trinkets for the pink little scamp. Husk chuckles softly, shaking his head as he goes flapping over to the top of the stack. He takes about half of it off wordlessly, and instantly, Angel’s knees stop wobbling. The gleam of a golden tooth flashes in Husk’s eyes and Husk is greeted with a grateful, crooked little smile on Angel’s face. From that smile, Husk is rooted in place, feeling all the veins in his body grow with heat as they warm him up pleasantly.
“Huskie!”, Angel exclaims. “Thanks for the help, buddy.”
“Where are we puttin’ these?”
“In my room. Thanks again.”
Husk turns around, still mildly amused with Angel’s clumsiness. He's aware he says nothing about Angel's appreciation though. For all that he adores about it, he’s not quite used to Angel thanking him so sincerely. He’s not sure how to respond to it.
“You got a bit of dirt on your nose.”
Angel gasps and frantically waves at the dust with the packages in hand, sighing defeatedly when it doesn’t budge. All four hands are filled with bags and packages, and even though he’s stopped wobbling, his hands still aren’t free. Husk wishes that Angel had called him for help sooner, the poor thing.
“These packages were a nightmare to bring on the way back. I fell flat on my ass.”
Husk snorts.
“Hey!” Angel exclaims. But there’s no real indignation, and he comes up by Husk’s side as they walk to his room. Even though the hotel is built with dazzling shiny opulence, now Angel’s room is a bit more of a jog to get around to. It’s not too much of a pity today though, because as the pair travel down the winding hall, Husk gets the privilege of hearing Angel chatting idly about his day. He’s all theatrics and he's incredibly entertaining, but the best part about it is how Angel slowly lights up as he storytells. When they get there, Angel drops all the packages on the ground immediately, turning to face Husk.
“Thanks again for the help, Huskie,” Angel says. His eyes are all wide and shiny, and the smile is still that same toothy little grin. Husk’s eyes dart to Fat Nuggets. He’s looking anywhere but Angel’s face, in case a dopey expression starts fighting its way out of him. His heart rate quickens as he scrambles to find a response, while mentally tattooing Angel's smile into his brain.
“Have a drink with me.” Husk blurts out.
Angel blinks.
Husk panics internally just a bit.
“I made a drink. It’s a special. Try it if you want to thank me.”
“I’m thanking you... by drinking a drink... you made?”
“Or don’t, doesn’t matter to me,” Husk says, looking away. He has no idea why he wants Angel to try the drink. “But I did make it.”
Angel looks like he wants to say that he knows Husk made it, but he can tell Husk might die from embarrassment right there if he says anything.
“Lead the way, Huskie,” he says, laughing fondly.
Back at the bar, Angel notices the poster first.
“A Manhattan!” Angel exclaims. “Haven’t had a good one in some time.”
Husk is fighting the monstrous urge to make a self-aggrandizing smirk, and from having his chin tilted up to the sky in pride. “Well, you’re about to have the best goddamn Manhattan in Hell.”
His tail swishes back and forth absently, and he has both arms confidently spread wide at the bar, watching Angel’s every expression.
Angel swipes the drink from the bar excitedly, staring curiously at the drink as it gets closer to his face. “Is that a maraschino?”
Husk nods. He looks at Angel expectantly and Angel gets the memo. Drink the damn drink. One thing about promising to be real with one another, Angel realizes, is that Husk is hilariously impatient. Angel has learned to read Husk. He knows his fellow loser enough to know that when his ears twitch back and forth, and the furrow in his brow is being fought off terribly, he’s fighting demons. Angel spares him and takes the drink down enthusiastically. When he’s finished, he looks from under the glass and frowns, disappointed there is none of it left in the glass. The heat of liquid amber blooms in his stomach pleasantly, a crackling warmth just like sitting by the fireplace. He fishes out the cherry in his cup, excitedly snapping the fruit off with his teeth and savoring the change in flavor. Some of the drink mixes with the sour of the cherry, and his eyes brighten instantly.
“Husk!” he exclaims. “You did not.”
Husk’s lips stretch into a satisfied housecat kind of grin.
“Is this bourbon? In a Manhattan?”
Husk’s smile falters a bit. He knows that’s not how it’s always made, but he’s always loved the different burn that bourbon gave to a Manhattan. Plus, in his honest opinion, it was the best kind of whiskey.
“A Brooklyn Manhattan! Not a soul in Hell’s gotta clue what I’m saying when I’m askin’ for this!” Angel exclaims. He’s excitedly plucking the cherry stem off his second cherry. (Husk gave him two, but it’s not because he’s special. Don’t let it get to your head, Angel, he thinks.)
The smile reappears on Husk’s face again.
“AND two cherries. Truly the drink made just for me,” Angel says.
And with that, Husk stills. He drops the towel he’s been using to scrub the bar top. He’s straightened his back completely, staring back at Angel with widened eyes. Oh my god, he thinks. He looks at Angel with his pupils blown out, inky black expanses of shock and affection. It feels like he’s taken the drink himself at some point, the way he’s dizzy, a warmth lighting his chest on fire. He’s made the drink for Angel. It’s laughable really. So damn corny, and he feels like a part of him should have known.
He remembers that when he was mixing in the afternoon, he was thinking about his human life again. His mind had wandered to the memory of some flouncy place in Manhattan. He’d travel up for a gig and was starting to regret it, as the bristle of discomfort took shape. Husk didn’t mean to, but he had sent a middle finger to the pretentious assholes there as he tried to adjust. He had ordered one of their overpriced Manhattans, only to plop his own Maraschino cherry into his drink. It brought out a swarm of offended gasps and scoffs. The horror in their faces only fueled him into a righteous satisfaction, though, ever more grateful to find that the cherry grounded him back to his home in Vegas. When he was mixing today, he thought back to those times, and how he’d vowed to always bring Vegas with him wherever he went. No matter how horrified the audience was.
In this brand-new hotel, in all its new terrifying grandiosity, Husk feels out of place all over again. But Angel, he feels at home to him. He's extraordinarily real and honest now, and that spreads the warmth of familiarity into Husk's heart when he needs it most. Husk is still getting used to the new faces at the hotel, and his bar feels too glamorous to him. But Angel is sweet, tart, imperfectly bright, zany, and downright magnetic. Husk wants to light a fire in Angel like Angel lights in him.
That's why Husk has had the passing thought that Angel was supposed to go down with bourbon. It was something dark, fiery, and warm. It would balance him, match him, and hold him when he fell so that he could get back up and shine. Bourbon and cherries. Husk and Angel. A drink made just like them. He realizes with great joy, that to him, what a maraschino cherry was in Manhattan, Angel was in Hell.
“Can I have anotha', Huskie?” Angel asks. His smile is toothy and wide, and there’s a glint in his eyes that shines with genuine excitement. Everything on Angel just shines impossibly bright.
The strongest surge of endearment he's ever felt travels through Husk's entire body and down to his tail. It energizes the end into little flicks, swishing happily.
“S’long as it don’t got you falling on your ass again,” he smirks.
Angel pouts, but he smiles into the drink happily when it’s handed to him.