It's dark when Angel's dragged out of the hotel room, half-dressed and delirious. Val's grip on his bicep is harsh and sure to bruise, but Angel wisely keeps his mouth shut. Better to have a bruised arm than a broken one.
"Jesus, Val, ease up," Vox complains once they reach the rental. It's a nondescript SUV that's nothing like Val's cherry red Ferrari back in California, picked to blend in. Anyone looking out their windows at night would probably think their neighbors had family visiting rather than two strangers hellbent on murdering them. "We can't exactly sell damaged goods, remember?"
"A couple bruises ain't gonna keep people from wanting Angie." Val shoves him the last foot to the car, Angel's shoulder slamming against the back door. "Get in and buckle up."
"Yes, Val," Angel murmurs. He's too used to this, running away in the middle of the night whenever the Vees feel like the cops are a little too close. He gets in the back and fastens his seatbelt before holding out an arm without having to be asked, letting Valentino cuff his wrist to the oh shit handle.
"Gonna be a good boy tonight?" Angel's eyes flash up to Val's face, taking in the manic smile. He hasn't been taking his meds again, that much is obvious, and that means any resistance from Angel will lead to violence.
"I'll be the best boy, Mistah Valentino," Angel purrs. Val's chuckle rolls over Angel like thunder, rumbling and vibrating low in his chest. He presses a kiss to the crown of Angel's head and then he slams the door closed.
Val sits shotgun tonight, letting Vox drive them to whatever suburban hell they'd decided on that afternoon. They'd been gone since early morning, which means they'd been out hunting all day. Angel knows it'll be a quick job, one last hit before they leave Louisiana behind them. Maybe they'll go home after this one? Drop by Stanford to see how Velvette's doing, play the happy family if only for a few months.
The drive takes a good two hours, filled with Val butchering some old rock song about porn stars and commitment issues. He makes Angel dance to that song sometimes when they're laying low and Angel's developed a seething hatred for it.
"Almost there, babe," Val says, leaning forward with a hand against the dash. He looks like a kid about to be set loose in a chocolate factory instead of a grown man about to murder a family. Angel doesn't have to look at Vox's meticulous notes to know that the family is stereotypical, a man and woman with two boys and a girl. It's always the same around this time of year, the Vees' anniversary of adopting Angel.
"Do you remember the plan? Get in and get out this time. We don't have room for dramatics."
"Do I look like a fucking idiot?" Vox makes a show of looking Val over from the top of his bright red baseball cap to his shiny boots and back to the fucking sunglasses he insists on wearing. "Don't answer that, ya little shit. I'm sensitive."
"I know, baby." The sarcasm has Val's lip curling, baring that gold tooth he's oh so proud of. Angel stays quiet in the back, well-aware of what happens to kids who interrupt. He's still got the bruises on his thighs from the last time. "Angel, what's the rules while we're inside?"
"Stay quiet," Angel recites. "If anyone comes snooping, text Val." Vox leans through the two seats to deliver a soft pat to Angel's cheek. His fingers slide down until he's cupping his chin, tilting Angel's face up. Vox is shockingly pale in contrast with his dark hair, the green glow of the radio outlining the sharp edge of his jaw.
"And if the police manage to take you from us?"
"I keep my trap shut and give them nothing."
"Even if they try to bribe you?"
"Nothing," Angel insists fiercely. "Because I know you guys will get me back."
"Good boy." Another condescending pat to the cheek and then the pair leave him alone in the car. It's beyond easy for them to get inside without triggering an alarm, Vox is so goddamn tech savvy that ADT doesn't stand a chance. When the police show up later, there won't be a sign that the alarm had been tampered with. Angel winces and ducks his head when he spots the golf club in Vox's hand, swinging gently back and forth. Val liked guns the best, they were quick and clean, easy to take care of, but Vox loves a hands-on approach.
(pale hands gripping a silver driver, the glint of the metal in moonlight followed by pained howling and a woman begging)
He turns his attention to his phone, well-versed in navigating the screen with his useless left hand. It's not his usual phone, just something they'd picked up from Walmart once they'd hit Louisiana, but it's got a few games on it and it keeps him occupied on long nights. He'll get a new one after they leave, he always does.
After losing yet another level on Hexa Sort, he drops his phone to his lap and pouts out the window. He wants to sleep, exhaustion is weighing down his bones, but he's gotta keep an eye out for cops. Vox and Val tend to get tunnel vision whenever they're working, whether it's running successful businesses or beating some poor sap's head in like a watermelon.
He hums low, scared to make too much noise even when he's by himself. It's from a musical Val had watched with him back when he was pretending to be a real father instead of Angel's daddy. He manages a smirk, remembering the way Velvette had gone green when a dented kettle bashed a man's brains in. Despite her dads being serial killers, she can't stand anything remotely graphic.
"And are you beautiful and pale with yellow hair like her," he sings softly. "I'd want you beautiful and pale the way I dreamed you were…." He trails off, straightening from his slouch when he notices a light on in the house across the street. Blinds are pulled down to reveal part of a face, but nothing definite. "Just go back to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep." More lights, but no one's coming out to investigate.
Angel grabs his phone, pulling up Val's contact and typing out a quick text. His thumb hovers over send, hesitant. What if he doesn't warn them? What if he does before they're done and the neighbors don't end up calling the cops, after all? Angel would be in so much trouble. The choice is made for him ten minutes later when a police car turns onto the street, bubblegum lights blissfully off. He sends the text and ducks down as well as he can with his hand still cuffed over his head.
The car pulls to a stop behind the SUV and a single cop gets out to investigate. Angel holds his breath when the man pulls out a flashlight, shining it into the tinted windows like it'll do anything. He tries the doorhandle and Angel wants to curse when the fucking thing opens because how could Vox have forgotten to lock it? He always locks the doors when they leave him behind.
The cop looks just as shocked as Angel does when they come face to face, his flashlight lowering so that it's not blinding Angel. The cop is tall and skinny with a little name tag that says Harlon, his cornflower blue eyes so much softer than Vox's. He's got a soft expression when he eyes the cuffs, the way Angel flinches away from him.
"Are you okay," he asks, a gentle whisper. "Here, I've got some bolt cutters in my trunk." He's gone and back in a flash, cutting through the links of the cuff so that Angel can lower his arm back to his lap. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you out of here." Angel lets himself be pulled out, unsure what the protocol is for this. He knows to stay quiet, but does he go willingly? Will the Vees be mad if he doesn't fight to get back to them? Will they—
A shot rings out and Harlon drops hard, letting out a strangled groan. Warm blood sprays over Angel's face and there's a hand on his arm trying to drag him away from the bleeding officer, and there are voices screaming at them to halt, hold still, goddamnit don't move!
More shots, sirens, screeching tires, flashing lights. Angel trips over his own feet and then he's going down, nearly dragging Val down with him. Vox turns to reach for him, but Val's got his coat clutched in his free hand and keeps dragging him with only one look thrown over his shoulder for Angel. It's a threat, that look, it's a promise. If he talks, he gets punished.
Angel stays down on the cold asphalt and he stays quiet.
Husk had always known he and Alastor would have a kid one day, the perfect little alibi for when one or both of them are…. Out. He never expected that alibi to be a foul-mouthed teenager, let alone the child of their rivals. They'd seen the news, of course, knew that the Vees had been caught mid-murder by a neighbor and been forced to run without their precious toy. Husk never thought said toy would be at the group home, though.
"Is that," Husk starts.
"Yes."
"We can't—"
"We can."
Which is how they end up remodeling the nursery they'd set up months ago when they first started this little charade. Gone are the Winnie the Pooh decals and race car bed, the fluffy toys and picture books; all replaced with plain white walls, a queen-sized bed, and a stack of textbooks to determine where the boy is in his classes.
Anthony gazes around him with something like apprehension, like he's waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. Husk almost feels bad for the kid, watching as his shoulders rise up around his ears.
"It's all yours, kid," he murmurs. "We can take you to the store once you're settled; get you some posters, new paint, personal touches."
"Not gonna be here long enough for all that," Anthony says. Alastor's brows pinch together, head tilting to the side. Anthony notices this, still tense, and rubs his arm. "Val's not gonna let me stay here for long. It's a miracle that I stayed in the group home for a full month."
"Valentino can't get to you here," Alastor states. It's meant to be reassuring, but the kid's shoulders don't relax an inch. "Trust me, Anthony—"
"It's Angel." The kid sucks in a sharp breath, then repeats himself more firmly. "My name is Angel, okay? Anthony is the name my pops gave me and he can kiss my ass." Obviously no love lost there. They'll need to schedule the kid a therapy session once he's settled in, make sure he won't be trouble.
"Language, please, Angel. I can put up with a lot of things, but I won't have you cursing in this house."
"So I can curse outside of it?" Angel smirks over at him, all that fear sloughing off of him for an instant. Alastor arches an unimpressed brow at the sarcasm, but he doesn't correct Angel. "Ya ain't gotta worry about it, I'm a real good boy."
"I suppose we'll see about that."
"We'll leave you to get unpacked, kiddo," Husk says, wrapping his fingers loosely around Alastor's elbow. "Come on down whenever you're ready." A hand on his shoulder stops Husk in his tracks, Angel retracting it like he'd been burned, like he was afraid a hit was coming.
"This is all mine?" He gestures around him like they'd gifted him a suite at the Ritz instead of a bland bedroom with no personality. "This is…. I can do what I want with it?" If Husk ever gets a hand on Valentino and Vox, he's going to beat them into a bloody smear on the pavement.
"Yeah, kid, it's all yours." Angel clenches the trash bag closer to his chest, all his worldly possessions. It makes Husk's belly clench, that vulnerability widening Angel's eyes. He's barely sixteen and he looks so utterly terrified. It ain't right.
"What…. What do I hafta do to keep it?"
"You'll have chores just like Husker and I do," Alastor says, completely oblivious. "Dusting, for certain, since you're rather tall and I can't quite reach the ceiling fan without a step stool. Dishes, as well—"
"Al," Husk cuts him off. Alastor frowns at the interruption, then finally notices the way Angel's made himself small. A soft gasp leaves Alastor at the realization, revulsion and then terrible rage darkening his eyes.
"Goodness, nothing like that." Alastor wrinkles his nose in an exaggerated expression of disgust that eases some of the tension in the room. "I don't even do that with my husband. No, just dusting and dishes. Perhaps you could cook dinner once a week." Angel perks up at that, an eager flush coloring his cheeks.
"I can do that," he chirps. "I'm a real good cook, Mistah Alastor."
"Wonderful! It'll be aces to have another cook in the house since Husker here could burn water!"
"It was one time," Husk protests. "And that firefighter said it could'a happened to anyone!" Angel bites his lip to muffle a laugh and that, at least, is a plus.
"I'm sure he did, my love. Now, let's get out and leave Angel to unwind. Goodness knows he needs some space after being in that group home." Alastor pauses in the doorway, glancing at Angel over his shoulder. "The bathroom is across the hall if you'd like to shower without someone bustling inside to interrupt. There is a Bluetooth speaker for music."
"I don't have a phone," Angel says, a soft mumble that Husk almost doesn't catch.
"So long as you don't mind jazz, you can borrow mine. Music is basically all this thing is good for." He holds the phone out without hesitation, but Angel doesn't take it right away. Alastor frowns, wiggling it. "My credit card information is saved to it as well if you'd like to buy your own music and create a playlist."
"Aren't you worried I'll steal it and run?"
"Why would I be?"
"Coz I'm a stranger."
"You aren't a stranger, Angel, you're our child." He wiggles the phone again and Angel takes it gingerly, like he's afraid it'll shatter if he grips it too tightly. "Take as long as you like, dear. I'm afraid you'll have to use our products until we go shopping, but it's better than nothing."
"Thank you, Mistah Alastor."
"No need to thank me, Angel, it's my job to provide for you. And, please, you don't need to call me mister. It makes me feel unbelievably old." A shadow of a smirk graces Angel's mouth and Husk has to bite back a laugh when the kid speaks.
"Well, Mistah Alastor, you're certainly no spring chicken." Alastor's left squawking his offense as Angel disappears into the bathroom.
It's three hours before he joins them in the living room, dressed in borrowed clothes with his hair slicked back with pomade. It's nearly the same hairstyle that Alastor sports, an old fashioned thing that suits the kid. There's a healthy flush to his pale cheeks after the long shower and he looks a little more at ease.
"Feel human again," Husk asks with a faint smile.
"Yeah, thanks." He sets Alastor's phone on the low coffee table, shifting from foot to foot nervously. "Uh, d-do I need to get some chores done? I can start dusting now if you'd like."
"Nah, we're going shopping, remember? If you're feeling up to it."
"I'm always down for shopping."
"Wonderful," Alastor booms. "Let's get going!" They pile into the car, Alastor adjusting his seat to account for Angel's long legs. The kid seems to be ninety percent leg.
Angel is fairly easy to please as far as shopping goes; a few cute outfits, a pink and blue bedding set, some fairy lights, and a container of pale yellow paint. With some urging from the men, Angel begins to add more and more things to the cart that Husk is all too happy to push. Eventually, once he realizes that he's not going to get yelled at, Angel begins adding different odds and ends that Husk never would have thought the kid would like.
Various creams and lotions, face masks, cinnamon toothpaste, make-up and a bag to put it all in, a couple of books and some DVDs. Alastor grabs another cart and adds a bookshelf and vanity in it, followed by a chair that accommodates Angel's long legs.
"What type of books do you prefer, Angel," Alastor asks. "I've got some mystery novels and Husker has quite a few westerns." Angel pauses, fingers of one hand drumming a senseless rhythm against the shopping cart. He's kept a loose hold on it the entire time they've been in Target.
"I like horror novels."
"Really?" Alastor seems surprised and Angel gives a sheepish smile in response.
"Yeah. Coz my life might suck sometimes, but at least there's no elevators spewin' confetti at me at ungodly hours or the human embodiment of the plague breaking into my house." He shrugs, still tapping away. Alastor hums, sharing a look that Husk knows all too well. His dark eyes have lit up the way they only do when he's got someone to spoil (or found a new victim, but even alastor won't kill kids).
"Then we'll have to make a stop at the bookstore before we go home. I happen to have quite a few reward points saved up and someone needs to use them."
"Ah, no, that's okay—"
"Angel," Husk interrupts gently," you're gonna learn pretty fast that Al likes to spoil ya."
"Money don't grow on trees."
"It certainly accumulates in a trust fund, though," Alastor points out. "My paternal grandparents were very rich and I was their only grandchild. They left me their entire estate."
"I can't pay ya back yet, but I'll get a job and—"
"None of that, dear." Alastor waves off Angel's protests, shaking his head firmly. "You're under my care and I'm entitled to spoil you rotten." A flush heats Angel's cheeks and he ducks his head to hide it, but Husk can make out a smile. "Anything else you can think of that you'd like?"
"I don't think so."
"We can always come back later if you remember something." They check out and head straight to the bookstore, wandering around for two hours as Angel slowly relaxes. By the time they return home, all three of them are loaded down with bags and boxes. "Husker, be a dear and start putting Angel's furniture together while I cook dinner."
"Oh, I can do it if he doesn't want to."
"I'd love some help," Husk shrugs. "C'mon, kid, four hands are better than two."
"Can you imagine having four hands? I could get so much shi— Uh, stuff done." They wander upstairs to Angel's room and the next hour passes in a blur of quiet murmuring and jazz music floating from the kitchen. "I've never done this before."
"What? Put together cheap furniture?"
"Yeah."
"Seriously?" Angel shrugs, turning the instructions for his chair upside down, then turning it to the right and tilting his head. Husk reaches out to pluck the sheet from him, turning it right side up before handing it back. Angel makes a soft oh.
"I was too young to be much use when my pops was doin' this stuff, then I ended up with Val and you don't really need'ta put furniture together when you're livin' out of hotels for a few months and then live in a fully furnished house for the rest of the year." Husk offers a quiet hum, securing the bookcase to the wall opposite the bed.
"How'd you end up with Valentino anyway? Didja run away from home?" Angel doesn't answer him, keeping his focus on the allen wrench he's clumsily using to secure a chair leg in place. Husk watches him for a moment, just in case, but he doesn't push. God knows he's not exactly the poster child for being open about trauma.
"What's up with Alastor's obsession with jazz?"
"His mama used to play it when he was growin' up."
"My ma used to play a bunch'a classical music, swore it'd make her kids smarter. She used ta teach music at some university, but I don't remember which one."
"Do you play any instruments?"
"God no!" Angel huffs a laugh, quiet. "I can't carry a tune in a bucket. I'm real good at dancin', though. Even Voxxy agreed on that." Husk hasn't had many run-ins with the Vees, not like Alastor has, but he remembers the shrewd man in an impeccable suit and the charisma of a cult leader. Compared to him, Valentino was all show and no substance.
"Maybe we can find a dance studio in the next city." Angel perks up and deflates in the span of seconds.
"Nah, I won't be here long enough for that. Val's gonna come get me." They're quiet a moment, Angel working away at his chair while Husk pretends to struggle slotting a shelf in place. He's studying the boy, the graceful curve of his spine when he contorts himself to fix a mistake.
"Do you wanna go back to them?" Angel freezes like a deer in the headlights, the allen wrench tumbling from his hand. Husk moves slowly, letting the kid keep an eye on him as he kneels down beside him. Husk keeps his voice soft and level when he speaks again. "You don't have to, you know? We can keep you safe."
"No one can keep me safe." There are tears gathering, stuck to dark lashes like diamonds. Husk wants to strangle Valentino for what he's done to this kid. Angel looks so certain that the Vees will get him back, that he doesn't have a choice in how his life will go. Husk reaches out to cup Angel's cheek, smiling a little when Angel nuzzles against his palm.
"I promise you, kid. Those shitheads won't ever lay another hand on you."
Angel isn't sure how to act for the first couple of weeks, so unused to being cared for. Vox and Val spoiled him, of course, they had to keep up their public image. One daughter from Val's previous marriage and an adopted son so that Velvette isn't lonely, both of them given whatever money can buy.
Once Angel turned fourteen, Val and Vox found a way for him to pay them back for all those amenities. Rough tumbles in a California king, dancing for Val and strangers and people he'd known since he was nine years old, carpet burns on his knees in Vox's office. He knew his place with the Vees, what was expected of him.
It's all uncharted territory with Alastor and Husk. The most affection he can wring out of Alastor is the occasional head pat when he's done something clever. Husk is freer with touches—side-armed hugs, hair ruffles, shoulder bumps—but he never takes things farther than that.
It's during the third week that Angel straddles Husk's lap on the couch, wrapping slender arms around his neck and grinding down lightly. It's teasing, that grind, a promise of just how good Angel can be for him. Valentino had loved it when Angel did that, but Husk just crinkles his brow in disgust and shoves Angel to the cushion beside him.
"What the fuck are you doing," he demands. Angel can't help the way he flinches, shoulders coming up around his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for a blow. Angel blinks his eyes open when it doesn't come, completely baffled. "Kid, what the hell?"
"I thought…. But I hafta pay yous guys back." His voice sounds childish and small to his own ears. "Besides, I know Al doesn't touch ya like that." Angel rearranges himself on the couch, kneeling so that his bottom rests on his heels. He knows how good he looks like this, with both hands resting on the cushion between his knees and his skirt fanned out over his thighs. "You ain't ace like he is. I know you ain't."
"And I'm not a pedophile either," Husk shoots back. "Have you talked to your therapist about this?" Angel cocks his head to the side, staring at Husk with genuine bafflement. Husk lets out a gusty sigh, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
"It's okay ta like me, Husk. It could be our secret." Husk jerks when Angel reaches for him, practically jumping off the couch and pacing away. He doesn't stop until the coffee table is between them, hands out to ward him off.
"Just stop it, okay? Stop with the act."
"How?" The question seems to catch Husk off guard more than the vulnerability in Angel's voice. "I-I've been doin' this since I was fourteen, Husky. It's what I'm good at. I don't…. I don't mind it."
"Jesus fuck, I'm gonna kill 'em. Fourteen?" Angel nods, shifting so that he's sitting normally. "Promise me you'll tell all of this to your therapist."
"I don't talk to my therapist."
"What? Do we need to find you a new one?"
"Nah, I'm not allowed." Husk furrows his brows, slowly moving to sit on the coffee table. Angel doesn't reach for him, doesn't even glide down to his knees so that Husk has the high ground, he stays right where he is on the couch. If he spooks these two, they'll send him away.
"Who told you that you aren't allowed?"
"The Vees." The duh is left unsaid, but it hangs in the air between them. "That's the rules. I keep my trap shut and I don't get punished. I can tell you things 'cause ya ain't gonna be runnin' to the cops. Can't do that when you're doin' illegal shit."
"What illegal shit?" The look Angel gives him suggests he's a brand new sub-type of stupid. "Don't give me that look, ya little shit. What are you talking about? I work construction."
"But what does Al do for a living?"
"He's a lawyer."
"The fuck he is. I've met enough lawyers to know the type and he don't fit in that mold. If he's a lawyer, then I'm a prima ballerina." Husk's face scrunches up at that and it's just funny enough to make Angel crack a smile. "What's he up to on those days he spends out of town? He a hitman?"
"No, he's not a hitman."
"Shady private detective?"
"No."
"I'm gonna figure it out."
"Keep tellin' yourself that." He stands and starts to walk away but pauses mid-stride so that he comes down a little too hard on his right foot. "Tell your therapist shit, too."
"But the Vees—"
"I already told you, they won't lay another hand on you. You're mine and Al's kid now and we protect family." Angel stares up at him for a long moment, fingers tugging on the hem of his skirt. When he finally breaks the silence, it's with a joke that he desperately hopes disguises the waver in his voice.
"You should work on a rumble-growl, Husky. You could be Dom's brother in the next Fast and Furious movie."
