Chapter Text
1.
“What’s your number?” Husk asks clear out of the blue, like that’s a normal question to raise on a Thursday evening at the hotel bar when Angel’s only two drinks into the night.
It’s blunt, sure, and maybe a little uncomfortable to be asked so directly, but Angel hasn’t exactly displayed an abundance of boundaries regarding information about his sex life, so he can’t really blame Husk.
“C’mon, Whiskers, you think I managed to keep count? I lost track a little past a hundred, and that was ages ago.”
Angel takes a sip of his drink and throws Husk an exaggerated wink.
“What?” Husk asks, but it comes out so flat that it hardly sounds like a question.
“But you really shouldn’t pry when it comes to a guy’s personal life. I mean, I wouldn’t imagine you want to tell me yours, huh?”
Husk fixes Angel with a stare that is equal parts blank and withering.
“Your phone number, Angel. I’m asking for your phone number. To put in my phone.”
For a moment, Angel simply sits there, dumbfounded, before regaining his composure and scribbling his number on a nearby cocktail napkin, signing his name with a heart and a flourish.
Husks takes the napkin, glances at it briefly, and slips it into the pocket of his jacket.
“You gotta be the only person who would’ve taken that as me asking for your body count,” Husk grumbles. “You know I don’t give two shits about any of that.”
Angel’s halfway through his next drink before it hits him fully—Husk isn’t kidding.
He doesn’t give two shits about Angel’s sex life. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t gawk. Just plain doesn’t care.
Never has.
2.
As shoots go, today wasn’t bad.
Sure, no one watches porn for the script, and Angel has no doubt most viewers are fast forwarding through the ridiculous, contrived set-ups before the actual fucking starts, but personally, he likes filming those parts.
It’s actually fun. Not just in comparison to the sex scenes, which are boring at best and hellish at worst. But genuinely fun. Angel did always want to be an actor, and down here, filming a scene where he actually gets to keep his clothes on, at least for the first few minutes, is the closest he’s going to get.
So today’s shoot wasn’t bad, but it did have him on his feet, in heels, for just under fourteen hours.
His back is killing him. His legs are screaming. And his feet are in pure agony.
Half-blind with exhaustion, he stumbles into the hotel lobby and throws himself onto the couch, one arm tossed over his eyes and two others dangling towards the floor.
“You doing okay over there?”
It’s Husk’s voice, carrying over from the bar, soft with a note of genuine concern.
In response, Angel simply groans.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“‘M fine,” he mumbles. “Just tired.”
“Can someone give the kid an Oscar? This performance sure has me convinced.”
From the couch, Angel waves his middle finger in Husk’s approximate direction.
“Unless you’re offering me a drink, some ibuprofen, or a foot massage, I don’t wanna hear it.”
Fortunately, that shuts Husk up, and Angel quickly falls into a comfortable doze. By now, the sounds of the hotel are relaxing and familiar: the soft creaking from the ceiling, the clink of glasses at the bar, the occasional footsteps as someone passes by the lobby. It’s almost enough to put Angel into a real, deep sleep.
“Move over.”
It’s Husk’s voice, pulling Angel back to awareness. And just as he was starting to get really comfortable, too.
“You move over,” he mumbles in response. “I was here first.”
Husk merely sighs and lifts Angel's feet so he can sit on the far end of the couch, lowering his legs back on top of his lap.
Husks hands reach toward the zipper on Angel’s boots and Angel freezes. In an instant he’s fully awake, eyes open and mind alert.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
Husk shoots him a confused look.
“Your feet hurt, don’t they?”
For a moment, Angel weighs his options.
Because he’s starred in a scene just like this before. Dozens of them, in fact. He never would’ve guessed that Husk was a foot guy, but he supposes everyone is into a least a little freaky shit.
It always starts as a simple, ostensibly innocent offer, just like this one. Oh, your feet hurt? Here, let me help you. And next thing he knows, Husk’s pupils are blown wide, his breath is coming in sharp, shallow pants, and he’s asking to suck on Angel’s toes or something.
And sure, Angel can turn him down, and Husk’s the rare sort of guy who will take no for an answer. But Angel won’t pretend that the whole situation doesn’t sour his stomach a bit, Husk thinking he’s found some slick, subtle way of getting his hands on Angel. Like he hasn’t seen it all, starred in it all, endured it all before.
But the truth of the matter is that his feet really are killing him. And maybe he’s willing to set aside what little self-respect he has for a minute or two of relief before Husk tries to put the moves on him.
“Yeah, they do,” Angel says at last, flopping back onto the couch and closing his eyes again. “Go ahead, I guess.”
Husk slips off Angel’s boots so slowly and carefully that it borders on reverent, before taking one of his feet in both his hands and getting to work.
And suddenly it’s all Angel can do not to groan. Not in one of those breathy, exaggerated ways he plays up for the camera, but in genuine relief. Husk wastes no time in finding the sorest spots along the arches of his feet and applying just the right amount of pressure.
“That alright?” he asks
Angel cracks open an eye. Husk doesn’t look hungry and eager, but genuinely concerned.
“I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Angel shakes his head.
“Feels really nice,” he murmurs, almost ashamed of himself. Sure, he can playact at ecstasy in even the most compromising of positions, but admitting that he truly, genuinely likes the way someone is touching him, even something chaste and innocent like this, is too vulnerable. Too real.
And it stays that way—chaste and innocent. Husk’s hands never once stray. His brow remains furrowed in concentration, and his eyes never go wide and wanting. And when he’s finished, nearly half an hour later, he doesn’t even suggest that Angel try to pay back the favor.
He just mumbles something about how Angel should really set some better boundaries on set, because Husk doesn’t want to have to keep scraping what’s left of him off the lobby couch, and leaves. Simple as that.
If Angel weren’t floating in the bliss of relief and relaxation, he supposes he’d be perplexed by the whole thing. But instead, he’s asleep before Husk even turns off the lobby lights.
3.
Husk:
I need a favor. Can you come down to the kitchen?
The text comes in on Angel’s phone a little past five in the evening.
Giving Husk his phone number all those weeks back at the bar had been a risk that, for once, hadn’t blown up in Angel’s face. Husk didn’t leak his number online. He didn’t send unsolicited pictures or invite him over for a late-night hookup. Mostly, he texted Angel to complain about the latest nonsense at the hotel, send pictures of Nuggets while Angel was away at work, and occasionally ask him to pick up a few supplies for the bar when he was out on a grocery run.
He didn’t even mind when Angel left his texts unread for hours during a shoot. The first time he’d returned to his dressing room to find a few texts from Husk (Charlie wants us doing this art therapy shit now. I’m never gonna let Niffty get her hands on glitter again.), Angel hands had started shaking. He’d texted this long, rambling apology about how Val didn’t let him have his phone on set and he hadn’t had a chance to read Husk’s texts and he promised that he hadn’t been ignoring him on purpose. Husk’s response had been short, to the point, and completely revelatory.
I don’t expect you to reply right away, Angel. I know you’re working and you’ll get back to me when you can. Don’t sweat it.
Angel’s not proud of it, but he’d sunk to the floor then, clutching his phone tight to his chest, inexplicably close to tears. The first time Angel had missed a call from Val, Val had thrown his phone off the Vee Tower balcony (“Why do you have this fucking thing if you’re not even going to use it?”) and given him a black eye for good measure.
But Husk wasn’t like that. Now, instead of dread, Angel felt a rush of excitement when he noticed an unread text on his phone. He liked the idea that Husk thought of him when he wasn’t around. Sometimes, sneaking a glance at his phone during breaks on set was the only thing that got him through the work day.
But now, at a little past five in the evening, Angel’s end of the bargain is finally coming due.
Husk is kind and patient. He lets Angel leave his messages unread and massaged his aching feet after that impossibly long shoot. Angel’s not stupid; he knows those sorts of things don’t come for free. So now, at last, Husk is cashing in his favor. Angel is well acquainted with favors. He knows that word only ever means one thing.
And it won’t be awful; he knows that. Husk won’t slap or choke him. Not hard, at least. He isn’t the sort of guy who will get off on watching Angel cry. Beneath his gruff exterior, he’s actually pretty sweet.
He’s sweet, but he’s not an idiot. He knows what he’s owed, and he’s finally come to collect.
In the kitchen, Angel doesn’t waste any time—better to get this over with quickly. He saunters up to Husk, confident as anything, and snakes his arms around his waist from behind.
And Husk jumps about a foot in the air.
“Christ, Angel! You scared the shit out of me!”
He pushes out of Angel’s hold and turns around to face him.
“That wasn’t funny,” he scolds, “especially right near an open flame. You could’ve burned yourself, idiot.”
And only then does Angel stop and take in his surroundings. Husk doesn’t look excited and knowing, eager for Angel to come onto him. He looks frustrated, wearing a stained apron and gripping onto a wooden spatula. There’s a pot bubbling on the stove, over an open flame, just like Husk had said. The air smells rich and savory; it’s familiar, although Angel can’t quite place it.
“What?” Angel manages.
“What do you mean ‘what?’”
Angel frowns.
“I thought you wanted a favor.”
“I do. This pasta sauce ain’t coming out right and I don’t know how to fix it. Thought you might.”
Angel pauses for a moment, carefully scrutinizing Husk for any indication that this is some strange, contrived innuendo, and comes up empty.
“Your favor,” Angel says slowly, “is that you need help fixing a recipe?”
Husk’s ears flatten and his brow furrows.
“Either help me or don’t. You don’t gotta make me feel like an idiot about it.”
A strange, implacable weight lifts from Angel’s chest.
“Move over, Whiskers. Lemme see what I can do.”
“I’m not wasting good liquor on a pasta sauce,” Husk grumbles.
“It’s called penne alla vodka, dumbass,” Angel shoots back, but there’s no real venom in it. “Not penne alla fucking nothing.”
Husk crosses his arms and frowns, just this side of pouting.
“Vodka doesn’t taste like anything, and the alcohol cooks off. So explain to me how it’s gonna make any difference whether I put in the sauce or not.”
Angel bites back a grin. This is comfortable, bickering with Husk as they make dinner, familiar despite it being the first time. A small, weak part of Angel wishes he could freeze time and live suspended in this moment forever.
“You’ve got cream and you’ve got tomatoes. Functionally, oil and water. The vodka is your emulsifier, which means your sauce is just gonna keep separating until you bite the bullet and let me pour a shot in.”
Husk frowns, but concedes, handing the bottle of vodka over to Angel.
“Good. Now get out of the kitchen so I can cook in peace.”
“But I…”
“I’m not gonna be but ten minutes. This shit actually isn’t that hard when you follow the recipe.”
True to his word, Angel emerges from the kitchen ten minutes later with two steaming plates in hand. He places them down and joins Husk at the table, and watches, perhaps with a bit too much fascination, as Husk takes a bite.
Husk’s eyes go wide and the tension bleeds from his shoulders. There’s nothing like a good meal at the end of a long day, and Angel doesn’t want to think too much about the warm curl of satisfaction in his stomach at knowing that meal is his.
“That’s damn good, kid,” Husk says, voice suddenly softer and lower than usual.
Angel doesn’t even want to say “I told you so.” The moment is too quiet and fragile for that.
“I’ll make you something else next time.”
The words hang heavy in the air, holding a weight Angel can’t quite make sense of.
“Sure, but the dishes are on me. You cook, I clean. That’s only fair.”
For a brief, all-consuming moment, Angel wants to kiss Husk stupid.
And it’s not until late that night, when Angel’s half asleep, that the realization hits him in full.
He meant to make that goddamn pasta for me, didn’t he?