Chapter Text
October 27th – twenty-four hours earlier
Coward. You've always been a coward, Henry Husker.
When his little voice started addressing him by his first name and surname, things were getting serious.
He struggled to focus – the alcohol had blurred his vision considerably – on the question marks on the chat screen with Anthony, and a part of him told himself for the umpteenth time that there was no point in answering.
Bless the autocorrect, which had allowed him to send that laconic message without any obvious errors; it had taken him at least three minutes to write it, between second thoughts and attempts to hit the right letters, and the moment he sent it he realized he had run out of whiskey.
Fuck.
He couldn’t even continue to pathetically drown himself in alcohol, because dragging himself out to buy some more of his poison at the 24/7 store in the next block was out of the question.
He simply locked his phone again, for the fourth time in which an unidentified impulse suggested him to answer Tony and explain how things were, to take it all back and have him come over; setting the phone down on the arm of the sagging couch proved harder than expected – Husk could swear it had moved, the asshole.
The thud of the thing falling onto the ruined parquet elicited a sort of frustrated, very, very drunk half-growl from him.
“Fuuuuck!”
No, this time it hadn’t been just a thought.
He sighed, sinking further into the couch and ending up half lying down with his ass out of the seat and only his back resting on the slightly ruined fabric. Even the strength to get up from there was gone along with the desire to go out and buy new whiskey; they’d probably gone together somewhere far less pathetic than his empty apartment, on a Sunday afternoon that should have gone very differently.
He only turned his neck to peek into the bedroom and the vision of the warm light of an October morning overlapped with that of the sunset, along with the ghost sound of Anthony’s crystalline laughter and his pale figure moving barefoot around the apartment to prepare breakfast, with all the naturalness in the world.
If you’re like this after just one morning, Husker, we’re in deep shit.
“Shut up, for fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up.” he slurred, trying to get up but only managing to slide completely to the floor; lying like that, he leaned his head heavily on the parquet and banged it against the woodfloor a couple of times, trying to compose himself. Or to punish himself, who knows.
Coward coward coward coward —
A mantra that rang in his head, a thousand voices mixed together repeating the same words – a cacophony of sounds that left him even more dizzy than before. Henry’s stomach chose that moment to threaten to show its contents again soon if the room didn’t stop spinning.
The truth is that he would have really wanted that date with Anthony.
He would have wanted that lazy and hot Sunday sex – in his head, all Sunday fucks were like that – in that golden hour that was quickly tinged with autumn darkness.
He would have wanted to stay in bed afterwards, with the blond still naked laid on top, talking about everything and nothing exactly like they had done in those days; he would have wanted to ask him directly all the things he still wanted to know about him: if he had a middle name, why he liked dogs, how the fuck he thought getting a golden canine was a good idea.
And he still had so many, many more questions.
He had prepared himself for that date.
He had ignored the mean little voice that told him he was exaggerating, that he had only known him for a month and half and that the other man had just a silly crush that would soon pass. He had ignored the whisper that suggested it was only a sex thing, ‘cause the feelings that had started to bloom were very, very different.
Yeah. So fucking different.
Henry had not understood exactly when that switch inside him had been clicked, but somewhere that sort of fog from which he had found himself surrounded after the Accident – after his marriage had begun to slowly sink – had begun to clear. As if he were slowly waking up from a long anesthesia made of alcohol and confused memories of evenings spent throwing down one glass after another.
He had spent months entangled in a sort of continuous loop between deep unhappiness and the thought that however it was not enough to just end it; not for good, ‘cause the truth is he no longer felt anything. Like his body was there, in the room, but he was not really there.
Months.
Then Anthony had arrived by chance and something had changed. Slowly, but still.
Maybe it had happened when he realized what it was, that sweetish scent that he hadn’t been able to recognize right away but that had clung to the sheets: cherries. Something that normally would have made him nauseous, being so sugary, but combined with Angel’s skin it had fucked up his brain chemistry.
Or maybe it had been after the jukebox night, after he found out about his job – his ex. After they had danced to that song, swaying, as if they were alone in that diner and had shut out the world for at least one night. After he had walked him home and earned his smile in return – bruised cheek, golden tooth, glimmer eyes – and his heart had done a stupid flip.
No, he hadn’t isolated the exact moment yet, but maybe it wasn’t there.
Maybe they were many small moments that had slowly crept inside him.
So yeah, he wanted that date – damn if he wanted it.
But.
The phone call from the social worker, informing him of a new visit scheduled for Tuesday, had frozen his blood in his veins; he had taken all his plans and crumpled them up, buried them in the nagging, all-consuming feeling he had felt during the first visit.
You are not good enough. You are not a good father. You are worthless, just a pathetic drunk. A failure.
And that same feeling had swallowed him up completely.
Downing one drink after another had been the only way to numb the emptiness, instead of filling it with yet another round of poker that would have ended with him begging Zestiel to advance him his salary to pay Lidia’s child support; and he couldn’t afford that.
He could afford to get drunk on that sagging couch instead, and he could certainly afford to ditch Anthony so as not to drag him down.
He doesn’t deserve this shit.
Husk lay there staring at the ceiling for who-knows how long; all he knew was that outside the window it had gone dark and he hadn’t still moved from there. The phone had remained silent, after those question marks, forgotten somewhere on that same floor, exactly like him.
Coward. Coward. Coward.
Coward—
October 28th – present
Henry looked once again at the door of the room where Alastor had disappeared about forty minutes ago, while an unpleasant feeling sank its teeth into his stomach.
Or maybe it was still the hangover, which after the throbbing headache that had lasted all day - from waking up on the same floor he had fallen asleep on Sunday until arriving at work on Monday evening - had given way to a heartburn that reminded him that he was now over forty and his liver was saying goodbye.
He heard the sizzle of an aspirin being dropped into a glass of water and starting to dissolve, then pushed towards him by Rosie's perfectly manicured hands.
"Here, Husker," she murmured, shielding her lips from any prying eyes with a conspiratorial air. “I think you might need it.”
The bartender wondered, silently, how could someone as kind as Rosie hang out with a cold, narcissistic asshole like Alastor; then he remembered that she was the widow of three husbands, who had died in rather mysterious circumstances, leaving her rich financial funds in the Cayman Islands and two houses in the Hamptons and on Fifth Avenue, and he remembered why he had stopped wondering.
He looked a little warily at the glass in which the aspirin was dissolving, then raised his amber eyes at Rosie's amused but contained laughter.
"It's just a simple aspirin, my dear. Don't worry." She even gave him a wink, to reinforce the point.
Husk sighed, mentally calling himself stupid for thinking it could poison him - at least in that place - and took the glass.
"Thanks, Rosie. Al is taking a long time, isn't it?" he commented, before downing the contents of the glass with a grimace of not exactly delight.
The woman – about Husk’s age, with a blonde bob perfectly in keeping with the speakeasy twenties and deep black eyes – fanned herself gracefully, rustling the feathers of her elaborate fan and adjusting the skirt of her dress that also matched the dress code of the place. Perched on a stool in front of the mahogany bar and turned three-quarters toward the private room where Alastor had retreated with Zestiel and three other people, she glanced absently at the stage where a pianist was playing something jazzy.
An average Monday, at the Coffre.
“I guess it’s a more complex issue than expected.” she cut short, closing her fan with a gesture and then smiling at Henry. “Since when do you worry about Alastor?”
The sarcastic sound that escaped from Husk’s mouth, who was meanwhile washing his freshly used glass, was enough of an answer. At least for Rosie, who smiled again like a cat who had eaten a mouse and didn’t elaborate further.
“It’s just, I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring along—” he trailed off, unsure how to continue and sliding down to stare at Alastor’s second companion for the evening.
Away from the counter, sitting alone at one of the tables closest to the stage, was a young woman no older than twenty-five – although Husk knew she was at least a couple years younger. Dressed in a black twenties dress, full of fringe and little diamonds that sparkled in the pool of soft light from the table lamp; long black gloves, on which she rested her chin in contemplation of the musician. A long bob of red hair, clearly dyed, and Asian features, even though Nancy wasn’t entirely Japanese; more importantly, no one ever called her like that.
Rosie began to fan herself lazily again, immediately realizing who Henry was referring to.
“Niffty can take care of herself.”
“Yeah, when she’s not herself.” he pointed out, raising his left eyebrow in an ironic look and earning yet another soft laugh from the woman.
“You’re always so funny, Husk.” Coming from her, not Alastor, the comment sounded genuine. “I can see why Alastor is so fond of you, even if he’s not able to admit it.”
Another thing Henry had never understood was the type of relationship between Al and Rosie; well aware of the other’s disinterest in sex or any form of physical contact, he had never asked for details about it. Nonetheless, he had known Rosie for at least one year and Alastor had introduced her to him as a dear friend.
The fact that she was somehow involved in the underground world in which Alastor and Zestiel were moving had ceased to be a mystery when Husk realized that it was her who had ‘introduced’ Al to certain not-so-legal circuits; consequently, Henry had also been dragged into it with both feet because “I share everything with my friends, Husker.”
The fact that Alastor saw him more as a sort of pet rather than as someone on his level was a detail that pissed him off every time, but Rosie’s comment – he’s not able to admit it – reminded him again that Al simply ticks differently.
Niffty, on the other hand, was a question he had never had the courage to ask.
He had met her one of the first days Henry had moved to New York, where Alastor had been hired a couple of months earlier as a medical examiner at Lennox Hill.
During a practically forced lunch break, he had found himself sitting in the hospital cafeteria – his back still bandaged – in front of a terrible lunch, looking confused from the painkillers and the eternal smile of Al who introduced Niffty to him as ‘his niece’.
The resemblance was absolutely non-existent: Al, a mulatto man and only child, what could he possibly have in common with a half-Japanese girl? Adoptions aside.
But, again, Alastor seemed to have a truly father-like fondness – in his own way – for Niffty, who in response openly called him uncle.
Henry had chosen to ignore the day he had collapsed drunk on Al’s couch – before the official divorce from his wife, it had become a bit of a rule – and had overheard in his half-sleep a late night conversation in which Alastor had taken mop and bucket from the woman’s hands, firmly, pointing out that the floor was clean. That her husband’s blood was gone. That she was safe now.
Maybe he had just imagined all of that in fumes of cheap booze.
“Husk, can you make another two for them?”
Millie’s voice brought him back to the present, as the waitress set the tray down on the counter and pointed to one of the tables not far from Niffty, where a couple of already decidedly tipsy men had started to ogle the young woman and nudge each other.
Henry frowned slightly, looking back at Millie meaningfully, who sighed in response.
“I know, they did it to me too. But they’re two tycoons from London, guests of Big Z himself.” she rolled her eyes. Rosie turned around to stare at the scene, still fanning herself graciously as Husk simply filled two more glasses of scotch.
“You men are so rude sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Henry grumbled, giving Millie the two glasses and keeping an eye on her as she approached the table in question to serve the tycoons; they ignored her completely, too interested in Niffty at the moment.
Alastor chose that moment to end his meeting, following Zestiel and the other three ‘guests’ out of one of the Coffre’s business rooms; the gangster shook Alastor’s hand, in thanks, before motioning for the men to follow him upstairs for who-knows-what other phase of the meeting.
Al, straightening his black bow tie with a pompous air of satisfaction, joined Henry and Rosie at the bar, his usual smile plastered on his face.
“I hope Husker didn’t bore you too much, ma chére.” He took Rosie’s hand in a gallant kiss of the proper kind, that is, without even touching her gloved knuckles. “He’s in an even more grumpy mood than usual tonight. And what dark circles, Husker, did you look at yourself in the mirror?”
Henry’s murderous gaze slid over the doctor like fresh water; he ignored him completely.
Rosie hid an amused half-smile behind her fan.
“Oh no, not at all. Husk is always a pleasant company. Have you sorted out the matter with Zestiel, darling?”
“All sorted. Perfectly, I dare say. The next shipment should pass without a hitch.” He sat down on the stool next to Rosie, rapping his knuckles on the counter in a silent request to Henry, who began to pour his usual: rye whiskey. “Zestiel knows that to make advantageous deals, my presence is always a guarantee.” He grabbed the glass, raising it in a silent toast and an indecipherable smirk. For whom that toast was, it was not entirely clear.
Husk had a flash of one of the first times Alastor had dragged him on one of his ‘errands’, as he liked to call them.
The spray of blood that had hit his face, when Al had asked him to extract some information from a rather reticent guy, had been the ferocious brush stroke that had sealed their agreement forever, probably.
Alastor had playfully run his fingers over that red streak – to remove it or spread it better, he hadn’t figured out – before tapping his chin with the knuckles a couple of times and making him look up in his dark eyes.
Smile like you mean it, Husker. It’s your most valuable tool.
“Where’s Niffty?” Alastor asked, looking around and spotting a bob of fiery red hair right there, near the stage. “Oh, there she is. Husker, you’re keeping an eye on her for me, right?” he pointed out, returning to search for the bartender’s amber gaze with a sharper smile.
“Don’t always be so protective of her, Alastor,” Rosie soothed. “You know Niffty can handle herself perfectly well.”
“Oh, I know for sure. Still.” He paused, still looking at Husk. “I would appreciate it if your personal issues did not affect your work, Husker. Work which I have so generously provided for you and for which I have vouched for you.” The interview he had had with Zestiel had indeed been a mere pro forma.
Henry metaphorically ruffled his fur, returning the doctor’s gaze.
“My job is to be a bartender, not a goddamn babysitter.”
“Your job is to do what I tell you,” Alastor shot back, without hesitation. “Regardless of what engaging radio drama you and your new bedroom pastime have decided to enact today.”
“I don’t think radio dramas exist anymore, Alastor.” Rosie pointed out lightly.
“What a pity, my dear. What a pity indeed.”
Henry took the comment, darkening a little more.
It’s not a pastime, said the little voice, immediately silenced by Husk’s bitterness: after ditching him up on Sunday, Anthony had probably felt exactly like that. He had no right to prove Alastor wrong.
A dull, liquid noise – something being poured over someone with a certain verve – interrupted their conversation and made the pianist stop playing as well.
Niffty, who in fact knew how to take care of herself perfectly, had just thrown her midori-green cocktail in the face of one of the two London tycoons, with a smile that walked perfectly on the edge between madness and lucid decision.
She had gotten up from her seat, in the meantime, and had sat directly over the table of the two men. The one who took the unexpected shower cursed a lot, rubbing his eyes under the astonished gaze of his colleague who seemed incapable of reacting at the moment.
“That’ll teach you to stare at me like that,” Niffty scolded him, putting her glass down and crossing her legs with a satisfied expression, dangling her little foot in a black Loubotin. The sole was red like blood. “Bad boys need to be punished.” she added, tilting her head towards the right shoulder in an almost flirtatious way.
Henry thought back to that conversation he had overheard one night and it was not difficult for him to believe that it was all true.
“You, useless whore!”
“Oh dear.” Rosie said, fanning herself again, staring at Alastor and the dark flicker that crept into his dark eyes; in the corner of the perpetual smile, Husk almost thought he could see a low growl. He was distracted when the other cleared his throat with apparent nonchalance.
“Husker, if you please, go get her and take her home.”
“Isn’t it better if—”
“I asked you. That’s the second time you’ve questioned what I’m asking you to do.” He dragged a sharp look at him and a shiver ran down Henry’s spine at the sight of that empty smile. “Do you really want to see what happens if you do this again?”
Henry sighed resignedly, walking around the counter as the customers began a rather agitated buzz and the pianist remained silent.
“Fine. If Zestiel pisses me off ‘cause—”
“I’ll talk to Zestiel, you don’t have to worry about that.” the doctor cut him off. “Just take darling Niffty home safe.”
At that point, Husker raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender.
He walked toward the tables under the stage, planting himself next to the one where one of the two tycoons – the one who could still see – had stood up and was menacingly shouting various threats at Niffty, held at bay by a bouncer who nevertheless did not dare throw him out.
In the Coffre, there was a golden rule: never do anything against the guests, unless expressly authorized by Zestiel.
Alastor had said he would speak to him, right?
You’ll get yourself fired again, Husky.
For once, the little voice made him sneer, an indecipherable flicker at the bottom of his amber eyes; maybe it would have been the right punishment for his constant failures.
“Hey, asshole.”
Besides, Henry liked to go all in when he could; why hold back.
Three pairs of eyes turned in his direction: one very red, one very angry, and one almond-shaped – which smiled at him, he knew before even looking at Niffty’s mouth.
“Husk!” she hopped down gracefully from the table, straightening her skirt and approaching the bartender – she was considerably shorter than him. “This place is soooo boring, Uncle Al said that we—”
“I’ll take you home, Niff.” Henry replied, without losing sight of the two guys – the bouncer, meanwhile, had slipped away; the buzz had never stopped, but the pianist had prudently started playing again to bring back a more serene atmosphere.
Not very successful, to be fair.
Niffty chirped a very happy noise, hanging onto Husker’s arm and already starting to yank him away.
“Shall we stop by for some frozen yogurt before we go home? I want some froz—”
“You’re not going anywhere!” the tycoon who could still see, in his thick English accent, reached out to roughly grab one of Niffty’s wrists. “You just blinded my colleague, the least you can do is suck him off so we don’t report you.”
The sentence made Husk’s hair metaphorically ruffle, in a mixture of anger and disgust.
Rosie’s comment about rude men had been far too kind.
He jerked an amber gaze towards Alastor’s dark one, at the counter; he already knew he would find him there, fixed on him. He asked him a silent question, or rather: he silently asked for his permission, which was granted with a nod.
He and Alastor might have a lot of friction, debts, and unfinished business, and Husk might have a little trouble understanding where was the line between hating him and considering him his best friend, but there was a sort of deep respect and kinship of thought on some matters. This was one of them.
Without further ado, clicking his tongue, Husk simply acted: he pushed Niffty away from his arm, managing to remove her partially from the tycoon’s grip; the latter broke away completely when a well-placed punch hit him right on the jaw, sending him to the floor and agitating the speakeasy’s customers even more.
The pianist stopped playing altogether and walked out of the wings, deciding that it was too much even for him.
Niffty giggled, clapping her gloved hands at Husker.
“You’re always hot when you’re a bad boy, Husky.”
He shook off the hand that had hit the man’s face, a little sore, snorting a half laugh at the young woman’s comment.
“Thanks. Now, let’s—”
He didn’t finish his sentence, for the umpteenth time that night. The guy’s buddy who had just been knocked out, now more or less able to see, hit him back in kind – distracted by Niffty, he hadn’t seen him.
A punch hit him square in the left cheekbone, turning his face the other way and knocking him off balance enough to trip over the legs of the guy on the ground and fall down himself.
Holy shit, that was a blow.
From there on, events became a confused kaleidoscope.
As he lay on the floor trying to figure out why that was moving too, he saw a lot of feet intervene in the situation: Alastor’s shiny two-tone shoes, Millie’s, Zestiel’s, and the bouncer’s who was finally authorized to take out the two men, who – as he heard the gangster’s voice specify – were no longer welcome in there.
Rosie’s face above him, asking if he was okay, and Niffty’s, smiling delightedly, telling him that the black eye would make him look even hotter.
Black eye. The visit from the social worker tomorrow.
Shit.
Henry, overwhelmed and still a little woozy, snorted a laugh in his throat, sarcastic and bitter, in what he recognized as the beginning of a mental breakdown.
He put an arm across his eyes, continuing to laugh like that: for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he found himself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, unable to get up.