[Angel's in the same boat -- at some point the unruly pack of dumbasses in this Hotel have gone from annoyances to people he genuinely cares about. Fuck it, if Angel's being truly honest with himself, that caring is feeling a hell of a lot like love lately. Platonic and -- otherwise, in the case of certain deep-voiced bartenders. There's something akin to butterflies somewhere beneath Angel's bruised ribs, for fuck's sake, and that's bad. It's bad because it's dangerous, because if Valentino caught wind that Angel genuinely cares about the hotel residents, he wouldn't hesitate to use that knowledge against his favorite toy.
And it's bad because that kind of good thing, that flutter in Angel's chest every time he comes home late and Husk's waiting up for him, every time there's a perfectly chill drink and a few minutes of soft chatting, every time Angel sees that crooked little smile -- that doesn't last. Not for someone like Angel. He doesn't get to have something that good.
Still, that doesn't stop him from sitting down (gingerly, the action sending jolts of pain up his spine, even as his wobbly knees are beyond relieved to finally relax), from resting his elbows on the familiar scarred-up bartop, from letting out a soft, hissing wince as his muscles finally start to relax. There's even a shaky attempt at a half-smile, a teasing:] Nah, Husky, I usually think'a you in somethin' more classy -- French maid's costume, or maybe somethin' leather, if I'm feeling spicy~
[Then there's the ice pressing to Angel's throbbing shoulder, and he makes a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh, leaning over immediately so Husk can reach easier. The ice instantly starts to chill his aching muscles, numbing the sharp edge of pain, and Angel closes his eyes, grits his teeth a bit and lifts a hand to cover Husk's, pressing the ice more firmly against the wrenched shoulder.] Yeah, there. Right there's -- good.
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Date: 2024-04-01 02:56 am (UTC)And it's bad because that kind of good thing, that flutter in Angel's chest every time he comes home late and Husk's waiting up for him, every time there's a perfectly chill drink and a few minutes of soft chatting, every time Angel sees that crooked little smile -- that doesn't last. Not for someone like Angel. He doesn't get to have something that good.
Still, that doesn't stop him from sitting down (gingerly, the action sending jolts of pain up his spine, even as his wobbly knees are beyond relieved to finally relax), from resting his elbows on the familiar scarred-up bartop, from letting out a soft, hissing wince as his muscles finally start to relax. There's even a shaky attempt at a half-smile, a teasing:] Nah, Husky, I usually think'a you in somethin' more classy -- French maid's costume, or maybe somethin' leather, if I'm feeling spicy~
[Then there's the ice pressing to Angel's throbbing shoulder, and he makes a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh, leaning over immediately so Husk can reach easier. The ice instantly starts to chill his aching muscles, numbing the sharp edge of pain, and Angel closes his eyes, grits his teeth a bit and lifts a hand to cover Husk's, pressing the ice more firmly against the wrenched shoulder.] Yeah, there. Right there's -- good.