It starts with curtains, ratty things that have been left to collect dust in a derelict house at the top of a hill. Husk calls Angel, tells him about the state of the curtains, and the man is there within ten minutes. He clearly broke the speed limit considering he lives across town, but Husk isn't going to judge. No one can drive worse than Alastor, after all.
"Ugh, they're so dusty."
"Think they'll survive the washing machine," Husk asks.
"Husky, I don't think they'd survive the journey to the washing machine. Kindest thing to do would be take 'em out back and shoot 'em." Husk chuckles softly, Angel sending him a pleased smile.
"S'pose we'll have to make a Target run to get some new ones then. Maybe white?"
"Nah, you can't buy curtains until you've chosen the paint color for the walls. Gotta make it cohesive, ya know?" Husk doesn't know, but he's not about to admit that. It's bad enough that Angel's taken it upon himself to spruce up Husk's wardrobe. Gone are the ripped jeans and stained shirts, replaced by nice slacks and button-downs with the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows. He's not going to admit yet, but he likes the way Angel drools over his forearms.
"The walls are white, Ang. We just gotta clean 'em is all." The look Angel sends him suggests he's a couple cards short of a full deck. Husk is well aware of what that look entails and his knees hurt just thinking about it.
They end up at Lowes, Angel and Alastor passing swatches back and forth for literal hours. It's torture and Husk would normally be passed out in the car by now, but something about the way Angel's eyes light up and Alastor's smile grows a little brighter keeps him rooted to the spot.
"A nice pale blue for the waiting room," Angel decides, holding up the swatch to the light. "Keep our clients nice and calm while they sit."
"And a grayish green for the office, nice and sophisticated," Alastor adds. Between the two of them, they've got fifteen swatches that they've compared under several different lightings, which means electrical work. Thankfully, Pentious went to trade school before he became a theater geek and he'll do the wiring for ten bucks and a stick of Juicy Fruit. "We'll also need to look into fixing the crown molding. Have you seen the master bedroom?"
"Who the hell wants tiny child faces carved into their molding? Old owners must'a been some real fuckin' sickos." Alastor hums his agreement and Husk is already making plans to swing by storage and dig out his old wood-working tools.
"Mm-hmm, very Hill House." Ooh! Husk actually gets that reference! He fucking loves that movie. "And what about the carpeting? Do you think there's hardwood floors underneath?"
"I swear to the sweet baby Jesus, if Boomers don't stop hiding perfectly good floors under neon orange carpet, I'm gonna dropkick each one of 'em into the sun." Which means heavy-duty gloves, sanders, and a portable dumpster. Can they even afford a portable dumpster? Nah, they can just load it all in the back of Husk's truck and dump it in the industrial dumpster on campus. With as much as they're paying in tuition, they can use the fucking dumpster.
It's damn near suppertime when they finally return to the house, unloading all of their supplies in the main hall. Dinner is a quick thing, hotdogs grilled in a skillet, macaroni shaped like SpongeBob, and a couple of beers. They get to work afterwards, tearing up the old shag carpeting in what's going to be their waiting room.
Their waiting room. It seems almost too good to believe that this dump they got for twenty-thousand is going to be their headquarters. Just last year they were editing footage in Husk's dorm with its lingering smell of ramen and the dirty underwear hidden under his bed. Now they have an entire house.
It's not until they're all piled into their sleeping bags that night that a realization makes Husk smack a hand against his forehead. Alastor's head snaps around at the sound and Husk gives an apologetic look in response. He forgets sometimes how sensitive Alastor's ears can be.
"We forgot the fucking curtains," Husk groans.
They don't get curtains the next day, or the day after that, or even the month after that. The ratty things stay in a heap at the foot of the stairs, a buffet for moths as the men work.
Angel's family comes down that August, one last hurrah before school starts back. Husk didn't really know what to expect when Henry Bianchi steps inside, has only heard rumors about the notorious mob boss that owns most of Brooklyn. He's an imposing figure even in khaki shorts and an old Jets jersey with a hole in the armpit.
"So this is what you've been spendin' all your allowance on." He's framed in the doorway of the waiting room, hands on his hips as he looks around. He's in the construction business as a legitimate source of income, pretty fucking good at it too. His gray eyes squint against the sunlight pouring in through the windows, catching here and there on half-finished projects that they've started and haven't managed to stay on top of.
"Whaddya think, Pops?" Henry is quiet for a moment longer, studying the room and then the three ghost hunters. He shares an amused look with Arturo, snorting.
"I think we got a lotta work to do if we want this shithole ready for business in less than a month. I'll call ya Uncle Lucky and tell 'im to bring in the others."
"Really," Husk squeaks.
"I ain't lettin' my boy live in a house that's prob'ly filled with asbestos." He reaches out with a large hand to gently ruffle Angel's hair, grinning. "I'll be right back. You kids finish up getting those tack strips up. Ain't nobody gettin' outta work today 'cause one'a you dumbasses stepped on a nail." He points at Molly with a raised brow. "That includes you, miss priss."
"Who's the one that begged outta the last job because he hit his thumb with a hammer," Molly returns. Arturo squawks his offense, sounding like that giant blue bird from that one Pixar short with the powerlines.
"I broke my thumb, you ass," he grouses. "And you're the one who refused to help with the Franklin job because you'd just gotten your nails done!" Molly looks like she's about to pounce when Henry grabs the back of her top and yanks her backward.
"If I wanted to hear two idiots arguing about their nails, I would'a stayed home with your ma and aunt Kathy," he warns. "No more bickering!" The siblings pout as Henry walks outside, sending each other glares. Husk can see the mischief in Angel's smile, the diabolical little shit.
"Aw, poor babies sad that Pops got onto 'em," he mocks. Henry's not there this time to intervene, Molly and Arturo chasing Angel out the front door and into the front lawn. Molly tackles him and holds him down while Arturo gives him a world class noogie.
"Is it going to be like this the entire time," Alastor asks.
"Probably," Husk nods.
"Well, at least we'll be entertained."
Turns out that a house full of Italian mobsters is a lot like having a house full of college kids. Their diets are about the same, pizza and beer from a local joint that Henry somehow knows the owner of. Husk's beginning to realize that the Bianchis have contacts all over the fucking globe.
They also have shit taste in music.
"I've been waiting on you for a long time," Lucky's crooning upstairs, tone deaf and uncaring of delicate eardrums. "Fueling up on heartaches and cheap wine. I ain't heard from you in three damn nights."
"I put your picture away," Angel joins in, voice significantly sweeter. "I wonder where you've been. I can't look at you while I'm lyin' next to him." Alastor's the next victim, though the man practically lives on a diet of red meat and country songs. Husk was forced to listen to Rascal Flatts' entire discography during finals last year. It was a crime to humanity and good taste.
Soon enough, almost everyone in the house is singing along to the song on the radio. Husk holds out as long as he can, but joins in after Pentious elbows him in the side with a cheeky smile. Damn little nerd has sharp bones. Personally, Husk prefers rock with a heavy bass, something he can feel in his chest. Probably because that's what he'd grown up with, his mama being deaf and all.
By the end of the day, the entire waiting room has been renovated and repainted a pretty blue shade. They're all standing there admiring it when Henry lets out a soft sound of revelation. All eyes turn to him, their apparent leader in all things construction.
"We gotta get some curtains. Ain't no pervs gonna be lookin' at my son when he's sleepin'."
It ends up taking a little more than a month before the house is completely repaired even with all of Henry's contacts. The man himself has just finished packing up the last of his tools when Husk joins him in the driveway. Henry lets out a gusty sigh, staring up at the house and then down at Husk. Dude's tall, something all of his children have inherited.
"You, uh, you takin' care a' Angel," he asks after a tense round of staring. Husk feels like one of Niffty's specimens under a microscope, stuck between two panes of glass with a spotlight highlighting each flaw. He wants to squirm under those hard eyes, but stamps it down.
"Doin' the best I can, sir." Henry narrows his eyes, the same gray as Arturo's.
"How much do you know about his past, Husker?" Husk can feel his spine go rigid, certain that this absolute bastard is going to out his son to a relative stranger. Angel isn't shy about being trans, has a whole blog dedicated to the process of transitioning so that baby gays might find some help that he didn't have.
"I know enough."
"Know why he picked the name Angel?" This catches Husk off-guard, wary brown eyes resting on Henry's face. Truthfully, Husk had never given the name much thought. It's pretty unisex as names go and certainly better than some. "My wife always loved that name, but I couldn't picture a kid bein' saddled with it."
"That right?" Henry grunts, those eyes leaving Husk's face long enough to make sure they're still alone. Angel and Alastor have a writing class and most of Henry's men have already hit the road for Brooklyn.
"I didn't want any a' my kids thinkin' that name defines them, that we expect them to be perfect angels. For one thing, there's never been a kid alive that was a perfect angel. Hell, I'll bet Jesus' step-dad beat his ass a few times for runnin' through the house."
"Think he ever told Joseph that he's not his real dad?" Henry grunts, but doesn't laugh. Tough cookie.
"You know that Angel's trans, right? You ain't totally oblivious?"
"I know." That seems to take some weight off Henry's shoulders and Husk realizes this conversation isn't going in the direction he'd feared. "Angel hadn't had the top surgery yet when we met, but he's pretty open about everything."
"Always has been." Henry runs a hand over his face, like he's mentally preparing himself for something difficult. "When he came out to us, he had us all write some names down and stick 'em in a hat. Angel was the first one he pulled out and he'd said it sounded perfect. Imagine how much money we could'a saved on changing his name if we'd just gone with his ma's first suggestion twenty years ago?"
"No offense, Mister Bianchi, but is there a point to this?" Henry huffs out a quiet laugh and meets Husk's gaze again. There are no smile lines around his mouth, not a man that smiles easily, but there are deep furrows in his brow that suggest that he spends an awful lot of time worrying. Husk has the feeling it's less about the illegal shit and more about his childrens' safety.
"Look, I was tryin' to be tactful and shit, but I don't have the patience. Are you and Angel dating?"
"Not officially—"
"Then I'll put it plainly and you can repeat it to the little fella with the glasses and goofy accent. You break that kid's heart after his ma and I spent so much time putin' it back together and I'm gonna make sure you're never found. You remember Jimmy Hoffa? I'm the motherfucker who took care a' him. Understand?"
"Yes, sir." Husk swallows hard, staring up at Henry with wide eyes. The man's face has darkened considerably, a solemnity to it that would be better suited to Father Karras before he took that jaunt out a window. Henry studies him for a long while, seems satisfied with whatever he finds, and stalks to the driver's side of the truck. He's just about to climb in when he pauses and turns to look at Husk one more time.
"And, for fuck's sake, get some fucking curtains."
Is this a completely ooc way to write Angel's dad? Yes, but I'm gay and I can do what I want.