Work Text:
The worst thing by far about all the fuckin' fur was how hot it was when he'd get properly nervous. It was mostly annoying, Husk thought, because he never used to get this fuckin' nervous, but these days he feels like he sweats through his fur at least every other day.
It's a byproduct of exposure to Angel Dust, he thinks (and fuck is the spider aptly named). Initially, it was anger that got him heated, being subjected to the spider trampling on his painstakingly constructed boundaries, then it was the realization that under the performance, Anthony was a spitfire with a vulnerable streak a mile wide and legs even longer. In other words, Husk's fuckin type, both topside and in Hell.
Which brings him to now; sweating through his fuckin bowtie as he paces outside Angel's room, hands so damp that the fuckin' paper wrapped around the stupid bouquet that he couldn't not buy for a certain leggy demon was getting damp and who the fuck wanted to open their door to see a sweaty, anxious, drunk failure of an overlord handing them damp shitty flowers?
Probably not the prettiest guy Husk has ever laid eyes on. His best guy, even if only in his own head.
But he'd heard Angel and Vaggie talking about her plans for her anniversary with Charlie and how much Charlie loves getting flowers. Angel's eyes had sparked up a bit, mentioning that he used to bring those home for his mother and sister, back when he'd been alive, but hadn't ever received any.
Husk knew how to spot a weak spot, and Angel was projecting to anyone paying attention, "I'm a hopeless romantic that would burst into heart shaped confetti if someone gave me flowers" and the thought hadn't left Husk's mind since.
So on his way back to the hotel, when he'd spotted a white and blush bouquet that reminded him of fur he wanted to dig his claws into and-
Well.
So he bought the stupid fuckin' flowers and now he's being a big fuckin' coward again as he's still pacing and sweating and definitely not knocking on the door and saying, "You deserve only the best, baby", and handing the (sweaty, damp, probably embarrassing) bouquet to the guy he spends every waking moment thinking about.
It's not that he even expects anything to come of it. He has nothing to offer besides a well mixed drink and an ear to bend, so he hasn't got any expectations, he just thinks that maybe someone should make Angel feel a bit less like he exists only in service to others. And sure, maybe in his drunkest flights of fancy lately he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could be the kind of guy to get a gift like Angel and care for it. Care for him.
Stupid.
He should just leave the flowers against the door.
Yeah.
But as he drops them against the door, cringing at the sweaty paw stain against the soft pink paper, the door moves inward and there he is.
Nine feet of the most gorgeous man Husk's ever been so close to, ever been lucky enough to be close to, staring at him with wide eyes and fuck, he's gotta get out of here.
"I-" he starts, but his coward voices fucks off to parts unknown, leaving only his rapid breathing and the distant sounds of the Pride ring to fill the space.
"Heya Husky," Angel says, sounded a little breathless himself.
Don't think about that.
"What's all this?" he finishes and is staring right at Husk as he tries to figure out an explanation that doesn't turn him into a pathetic creep with a hopeless crush. Fuck he's too old for this.
"Saw 'em, thought you might like' em," he settles on. True, but vague.
Coward.
"Ya got me flowers, Whiskers?" Angel says, voice a bit high, tight. His eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is open a little, like he can't get enough air in and Husk understands because he stopped breathing himself the moment the door opened.
He doesn't respond right away. Husk's been a gambling man since before Hell. Maybe this is worth gambling in, because Angel looks about a second from collapsing in his own doorway and there are only so many things that could mean.
He stands, pressing the bouquet into Angel's second set of hands, damn the fuckin' sweat and anxiety. The only way forward is though and it's the only honest way to go.
"You deserve beautiful things, sweetheart." he says, channeling a man he once was, that had the right words and tone to make someone look his way, to make them feel seen.
Those mismatched eyes go huge and glassy, and Husk is about a quarter of the way to a panic attack before he's pulled into the tightest hug he's ever experienced.
"Ya can't say things like that and expect me not ta squeeze ya, Husky," Angel murmurs into his neck, sets of arms wrapping Husk up entirely, fingers dug into his fur (he hopes he isn't too sweaty, hopes he's nice to touch).
"You deserve to hear nice things too," he whispers, and his voice is low and strained, fuckin' obviously besotted.
He feels all those lanky limbs tremble a bit (oh fuckin', Christ his knees are weak, I did that, fuck), before he decides to give into his impulse to drag his claws through that fluffy hair that's always falling into Angel's (gorgeous, incomparable, hypnotizing) eyes.
"Husk," Angel nearly whines, breathing going a bit funny at that and Husk decides to roll the dice one last time.
"Fuck it. Can I kiss you, Legs?" he says, aiming for sexy and ending up closer to desperate.
There's a shit starting grin creeping across that beautiful face when he pulls back to wait for Angel's response.
"I dunno Husky, can you?" Angel snarks and oh fuck him (literally, figuratively, any fuckin' way).
"Brat," he breathes before he pulls down to align their mouths and oh fuckin' fuck that's good.
Angel's lips are syrupy soft and sweet, tasting of vanilla and peaches and all of the good things pieces of shit like Husk shouldn't get to taste. He makes a perfect huffing whine right into Husk's mouth and he has to pull back before he loses his composure entirely.
He wants Angel, wants to show him what it's like to have someone only aim to please him, and he will, he thinks. Just not yet.
He cups the side of Angel's face, giving him one last kiss before pulling back.
Angel's eyes are half lidded and he looks like every wet dream Husk's ever had. This isn't Angel Dust, the porn star. This is Anthony, and he's fuckin' perfect.
He reaches down and tangles his claws with one of Angel's hands, rubbing a thumb along a soft cheek bone.
"Have dinner with me," he says.
"Ya wanna have dinner," Angel says, "after a kiss like that?"
"I want to do a whole lot more," he replies because he knows Angel wants to hear it and, fuck it, he wants Angel to know it. "But I want to do this right. So, dinner tomorrow?"
Angel is looking at him like he's trying to solve a very difficult riddle. It goes on long enough that he wonders if he should apologize for overstepping. Fuck knows he's not in his right mind (how could he be, standing so close to Angel like this).
But then it's like the sun breaks through and he gets one of those rare, fuckin' stunning, smiles.
"Yeah, I'll have dinner with ya, kitten," he says, breathless and playful.
"Alright then, it's a date," he says, just so that Angel knows what he's offering (so he knows it's being accepted), "Wear something nice. I ain't takin' you to any kinda dive." Because he wants that to be clear too.
He can be a gentleman, when he's fucked to be.
"Oh," Angel says and he's blushing high up on his cheeks and Husk can fucking feel the heat of it.
He raises up onto his toes to kiss one of those honeyed blushes, before bestowing another kiss to the back of the hand he's still holding.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," he says before forcing himself to walk away (lest he never leave at all).
He only looks back once he's ready to turn the corner down the hallway, and sees Angel brushing his cheek where Husk's lips had been and cradling the flowers to his chest as gently as he does with Fat Nuggets.
Maybe Husk's onto something here. Maybe caring for (loving, because that's what it is whether he's ready to name it or not) Angel is something he'll be good at. Fuck knows the spider makes it easy.
If he weren't a very jaded, former overlord he'd be skipping back to his room on a fuckin' cloud.
As it is, there's just a little pep in his step, like some of the weight of the world's been lifted from his shoulders.