Angel is ten years old and he's so tired. Tired of being afraid. Tired of being paraded around. Tired of his new parents poking and prodding and snarling until he's too broken down to fight back. A year is a long time to be so far from his family.
(one year is a long time for untreated trauma.)
He allows himself to be dressed in an impeccable suit, classic black with baby pink accents. Velvette had picked the suit for him at some fancy boutique, the perfect match for her own dress with its black silk and pink ruffles. They're to take a photo for the newspaper and various blogs, letting the world know that Angel has officially been adopted by the famous Werner Vox and Valentino Alamilla.
As far as the world knows, they began fostering Angel last year. No one has connected Angel to the missing Anthony Bianchi, he's far skinnier than that boy, far too pale and serious. If he acts too much like that other boy, he gets punished.
So Angel allows himself to be guided down the stairs into the formal sitting room. There's photography equipment strewn throughout, tarps put down to protect the pristine wooden floors. The Vees are already on the couch where the interview will take place, one man on either side with room for the children between them.
Velvette drops down beside Valentino, curled up against his side like a cat. She's fourteen, vibrant and beautiful and graceful. There aren't any dark circles under her eyes that she had to conceal, no tension in her thin shoulders from stepping on eggshells to avoid punishment. The Vees don't hurt Velvette even when she breaks the rules.
(angel was on the computer unsupervised two weeks ago and val held him down while vox hit him with a belt.)
Angel sits stiffly beside Vox, tensing even more when Vox wraps an arm around him. He leans close with a smile, looking for all the world like a father sharing a joke with his son.
"Relax or you'll have a few more bruises after these parasites leave."
"Yes, sir," Angel murmurs.
"Smile." Angel manages a close-lipped smile and earns a sharp pinch to his side. He smiles a little wider, crooked and almost believable. The interview is a blur of trivial questions that Angel's been coached on how to answer, seeming like a happy little boy who's oh so lucky to have been adopted.
"And how do you feel about all of this, Angel," the interviewer asks. "A regular rags to riches story, eh?"
"It's like a fairytale," Angel says, an actor with a script. He forces excitement into his voice and he makes sure he never loses his smile. He's always been able to remember things he reads, used to quote Magic Tree House books when he was little. They'd been his first chapter books.
"How so?"
"Well, look at this place!" He gestures around them with gangly pre-teen arms that don't have an ounce of grace in them. "It's like Cinderella's castle! We've got a private theater and we watch movies together once a week. Plus me an' Vel have a huge backyard to play in!"
"And how do you feel about your new brother, Velvette?"
"Well, I wanted a puppy, but I guess he's a good substitute," she jokes with a cheeky wink at the camera. "I can't wait to get my license so I can take him shopping with me." Vox gives a subtle nudge and Angel takes the cue.
"I love shopping," Angel adds. "Do you like my suit?"
"You look very handsome," the interviewer gushes. It's three hours of this—questions and photos and a cute moment where Angel lays his head on Vox's shoulder. When it's published later that week, they look like a perfect family. No one notices the shadow of a bruise peeking out of Angel's collar. No one cares.
He remembers a brief investigation in the weeks following those pictures, remembers cops pounding on the door and demanding to see Angel. They have pictures of the missing Bianchi heir, but the Vees have an ungodly amount of money that makes those pictures and questions disappear.
No cops come knocking again, no family reaches out, no one notices as little Anthony Bianchi becomes Angel Vox-Alamilla.
Angel raises his hand, doing his best to minimize the tremors running through him. His stomach is twisting itself into knots, a snake eating itself. Vox's grin is nothing short of predatory, head tilted to the side.
"May I be excused, please," Angel requests, voice barely more than a rasp. He can't bring himself to be any louder. Vox gives a mock pout, looking almost ridiculous with all those sharp angles.
"Was ist los, Engel? Fühlen Sie sich ein wenig schuldig?" Vox's German is as easy to understand as Val's Spanish, an adolescence spent learning all those delicate nuances so he knows if he's in trouble. The computer science teacher looks between the pair, brows furrowed in confusion.
"Just…. Not feelin' too hot, is all."
"Do you have the flu," the teacher asks. Angel's not sure about his name, barely even shows up to class enough to keep a D-average. "Maybe you should go see the nurse, Angel."
"Thanks—"
"Are you sure he isn't faking it to get out of a lecture," Vox checks. His tone is hard as granite, his dom voice without the sensual purr meant to lure people into submission. "You know how kids can be these days. They don't like to follow the rules."
"Ich habe geschwiegen, wie du es gesagt hast, Mistah Vox. Ich habe mich an die Regeln gehalten." He's desperate to leave, his stomach torn up like the worst crash he's ever had. Fuck, coming down off heroin hadn't hurt this badly. Will the German persuade him to let Angel leave? Show he's been a good boy, kept up with his studies? He hasn't forgotten the rules.
"Go on, Angel," the teacher urges. When Vox tries to protest, the poor idiot puts a hand on Vox's shoulder to reassure him. "The flu's been making the rounds for the past month. It's probably just Angel's turn to have it." Angel grabs his bag and then he's out of the classroom, making a beeline straight for the door. Outside, parked at the curb, is a familiar cherry red Ferrari. Valentino is sitting in the front seat, more focused on his compact than the high school. Angel thanks whatever deity is looking out for him before ducking around the side of the building.
He doesn't think to call Husk or Alastor, just makes himself small as he takes the long way to the house. He has to cut through a few yards and ends up getting chased two blocks by a territorial duck, but he finally makes it. He slams the front door shut behind him, leaning against it to catch his breath.
"I'm going to assume you joined the track team and this is just a practice lap," Alastor says dryly. He's in his armchair, a glass of lemonade on the side table and an Agatha Christie book in his hand. His eyes narrow behind his glasses as he registers how washed out Angel looks. "What happened?"
"I was— I—" Ooh, Angel really needs to work on his cardio. "At the school— Vox." Alastor's made his way from the chair to Angel's side between one blink and another. He guides him to the couch and presses the cold lemonade into Angel's hand.
"Take a drink and a breath, petite chérie." Angel does as he's told, slowly relaxing under Alastor's touch. A hand lightly squeezing his nape, a slow slide along his spine, another slow slide up, a squeeze at his nape. It's rhythmic, something to time his breaths to so he doesn't hyperventilate. "What happened?"
"Y'know how I told ya that my computer science teacher was nerding out about some bigshot comin' to visit? It was Vox. He and Val are at the school and I pretended to have the flu so I could come home, but they're here! They're here, Al! I don't wanna leave ya! I wanna stay home! Please don't make me go!" He's rambling and sobbing and he can't stop either one, trailing off into gibberish.
"Well, this certainly moves our plans up." Alastor arranges him so that he's sprawled out on the couch with his head in Alastor's lap. There are fingers in his hair, but they aren't pulling, yanking, tearing at him. Gentle strokes, the feeling of safety and the smell of pine. "I was hoping we'd be ready to kill them at the beginning of next year, but needs must."
"I don't know if I can do it." The confession carves the air out of his lungs. He wants them to hurt like he's been hurt, he wants them punished, but he doesn't think he can do that himself. They'd been kind to him, once. They'd given him a good life that he didn't appreciate. He was only punished because he acted out.
"Then I'll keep them chained up until you are. There's no excuse for their behavior, little dear. No one gets to put their hands on my child and keep their hands."
"Just property," Angel slurs. The panic attack is lessening, the adrenaline drop accompanying it. He always gets so damned sleepy after them, untethered.
"You aren't property." Gentle fingers catch under his chin, urging his head back. Alastor's expression has softened, no hint of the vicious serial killer to be found. This is a man who tortured people to death because they were rude, who kept taxidermied arms in his garage, kept bones in the woods.
(this is a man who gleefully helped angel dye his hair, who taught him how to swing dance, delicately sewed three halloween costumes.)
"Je t'aime tellement, Al." He barely registers the way Alastor's eyes widen in shock at the French. Angel's always had a knack for languages, loves the intricacies and the little accents some letters get. "S'il vous plaît, ne me quittez pas. C'est ma maison, non? Je suis toujours en sécurité ici?"
"You will always be safe here. Husk and I will keep you safe until the day we die." At the worried sound that slips past Angel's lips, Alastor is quick to reassure him. "That won't be for a very long time, little love. We're both very stubborn."
"Too stubborn to die."
"And far too stubborn to let you slip through our fingers. Repose-toi, petit faon. Nous réglerons cela une fois que vous vous sentirez mieux."
It only takes fifteen minutes for the house to be packed full of people, all of them seeming to take turns making sure Angel's okay. They don't ask him how he's feeling, they don't ask if he's okay, they just murmur to him about trivial things. Stolas drops a book in his lap, a slim volume about poisonous flowers. When Angel glances away from it, Stolas winks.
It's another ten minutes before Husk makes it back from the jobsite, kicking the door shut and elbowing people out of his way until he can see Angel for himself. He kneels down in front of him, large hands cradling Angel's face like he's made of glass.
(God's a connoisseur of fragile things, and decorates His cloudy outlook with ornaments of finest glass.)
"Heya, Husky," Angel greets weakly. "Called it an early day, huh?"
"Seems to be contagious." Husk glances around them at the people filling the living room, but those dark eyes land back on Angel's face like he doesn't want him to disappear. "Wanna go for a walk?"
"I don't think that's the best idea," Stolas cautions. Husk doesn't break eye contact, leaving it up to Angel to decide. He knows where they would go, the decaying bones in the woods. They're almost gone now, the flowers nourished and thriving. Maybe they can plant a new body there soon.
Angel thinks of that warm August afternoon spent with Alastor. Remembers the vague plan to turn Vox into a beehive, to cover Valentino in flowers like a death shroud.
(like an arm wrapped too tightly against a child's throat, the cold edge of a pistol against the delicate skin of their temple.)
"I wanna go," Angel says, a quiet plea. Take him out of here, take him away from the too-close press of bodies. He hasn't felt this outnumbered since he first started dancing, back when large hands would grab at his small body, manipulate him into promiscuous poses.
"Then let's go." The others make as if to follow them, but Alastor holds an arm out to bar their way.
"He's safe in the woods," Alastor reminds them with a predator's hungry grin. "Not even the Vees will step foot in my hunting grounds." He says this like it's a known fact. The grass is green, the sky is blue, and even egomaniacal maniacs don't trespass on a cannibal's property.
"We'll be back in an hour."
"I'll have everyone nice and settled by then, le plus cher." Alastor's expression is as openly affectionate as he can manage, still a little cold by most standards. Angel can see love in the uptick of his lips, the squint of his eyes, the twitch of brown fingers against red trousers. "Gardez notre garçon en sécurité, Husk. Ne prenez aucun risque."
"Je ne fais jamais." Husk pats the gun holster over his ribs, an over the shoulder thing like he's trying to be Rick O'Connell. Angel would find it hot if it was anybody but his dad. Ugh, he's getting sentimental and shit. Someone kill him now.
"Husky," Angel pleads, gently tugging on his wrist.
"Alright, kid, I'm comin'."
"You're not even breathing hard yet," Blitzø quips. He's sitting across the room in Angel's fuzzy chair, little Mallory in his arms. He waggles his brows and Angel can't bite back a choked laugh. They share a crass sense of humor that has Alastor rolling his eyes skyward.
"This is why you failed as a clown."
"Hah, wrong! I failed as a clown because I scared the kids, assface!" Mallory whines and Blitzø's eyes widen, one hand frantically patting her bottom to lull her back to sleep. "It's okay, Mally. Uncle Blitzø is right here."
"You're so fucking whipped," Cherri giggles.
"If I had a spare hand, I'd flip you off. Angel, do me a solid."
"Can't flip off my best gal," Angel shrugs. "Them's the rules."
"Fizz?"
"She'd break my finger," Fizz scowls. "I've only got one real middle finger left and I'd like to keep it a little longer."
"Traitors, all of you." Octavia stares between her stepsiblings and her stepdad, then she grins and flips Cherri off. "That's my girl! You're my new favorite." Then, in a staged whisper. "Just don't tell Loona I said that. She'll get sad and therapy is fucking expensive."
"Not when the therapist owes you a favor," Alastor says snidely. On the couch, Vaggie lets out a long groan and drops her head against Charlie's shoulder.
"Husky," Angel says, tugging once more. His long fingers easily circle Husk's thick wrist, a stark white compared to rich brown. Husk wraps an arm around Angel's shoulders and leads him out the kitchen door, down a familiar path that's been well-trod this past six months.
They're quiet on the walk, Angel still holding Husk's wrist. Something bad might happen if he lets go; satellites falling from the sky, swarms of locusts, nuclear war. He thinks of that movie again, of Rick O'Connell and the others staring up at an impossible solar eclipse. And he stretched forth his hand towards the heavens and there was darkness throughout the land of Egypt.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
"Not yet." Husk settles down with his back against the tree, legs splayed open carelessly. Angle settles in that nook, back-to-chest with warm arms supporting him instead of holding him down.
(just lay down, goddamnit. lay down and i can make this so good for you, angelcakes—)
"Did you know I'm good at languages?"
"Is that right?" Husk's voice is a quiet rumble against Angel's back, a baritone that's so wonderfully different to Valentino's tenor. "Didn't think you'd be interested in something like that."
"Always have been. I was learnin' Italian when the Vees took me and I kept learnin' it in secret after. Then I learned Spanish and German so I could make them happy. If they were happy, they wouldn't hurt me too often. When Val found out I was fluent, he took me out for ice cream."
"And how fluent are you in French?"
"Almost got it down, but the Cajun version still gives me fits." Cherri's helping him with that on lunch breaks and in detention, her little charity project while his is teaching her how to do a perfect manicure.
"What's next?"
"Well, Fizzy knows ASL and that's always been really interesting to me. I watched Orphan when I was a kid and it kinda stuck with me, y'know? The movie isn't profound by any means, but it was the first one I watched that had deaf representation in it." There's a hum, low and vibrating against Angel's spine. Comforting.
"Do you know why Fizz knows ASL?"
"Just figured he wanted ta learn it."
"You know he was in a car accident, right?" At Angel's nod, Husk continues. "They were comin' home from one of Mammon's gigs and he was drunk as a skunk, had no right to be drivin'. One of the front tires went off the road and he overcorrected, flipped it, messed up his leg pretty bad. Fizz was pinned under the car when the paramedics got there. Lost a leg, an arm, and part of his hearing when his eardrums ruptured."
"So why's Mammon still alive?"
"Doubt he will be for much longer." Now that Fizz and Cherri live with Stolas, safe and sound from the abusive fuck. Angel hopes there really is a Hell after this, wants Mammon to suffer.
"Think Cherri and Fizz will help put him down?"
"Not sure they're up for that quite yet. Cherri's a vengeful little thing and Fizz lives on spite, but they ain't killers." Not like the Vees are, like Angel's new parents are, like his original family had been before a golf club put an end to them. "You don't have to kill the Vees if you don't wanna. Al and I can take care of them or put them on ice until you're ready."
"What if I try to take the shot and I just can't? Val and Vox…. They raised me, Husky. Despite all the bad, there was some good in there." Val used to let him ride on his shoulders at Disney World, taught him how to style his hair, how to cook. Vox had made sure Angel had any book he could think to want, let him play in his office during important meetings, sang to him when he was sick.
"We'll support you no matter what."
"Feels too good to be true sometimes. What if you guys don't win? What if the Vees take me back to California and force me to pretend none of this ever happened? I don't wanna go back, Husky. I can't go back there or they'll kill me." His voice is a hoarse rasp by the end, choked with tears.
Husk doesn't say anything, but he tightens his hold and presses a kiss to the crown of Angel's head. It's better than anything he could have said, tangible proof that he loves Angel and he will always love Angel, no strings or webs to get stuck in. No carefully placed land mines for Angel to step on so there's an excuse to punish. Angel finally allows himself to relax, eyes straying to the bones and the wildflowers.
He'll put Valentino there and he'll put Vox right next to him. Together in life and death, one last good thing between the three of them. He'll need a new sketchbook, fingers twitching with the urge to capture a scene that hasn't even happened yet.
Vox has always loved bees and now he'll be a home for them.
"God's a connoisseur of fragile things, and decorates His cloudy outlook with ornaments of finest glass." —Stephen King's Doctor Sleep
