Only Angel 2 [h.s] AU

In the wrong hands

Harry's POV
New York.

The dining room smelled like rosemary chicken, red wine, and barely concealed contempt.

I sat at the head of the table — not because I wanted to, but because no one else ever did. My mother was refilling her glass with Chardonnay, Joseph was trying too hard to keep the peace, and Elija... well, Elija was being Elija.

He hadn't just overstayed his welcome. He'd built a whole fucking guest suite out of my patience.

What started as "just crashing for a night" two weeks ago had turned into him throwing his towel over my bathroom door, leaving protein shake sludge in my blender, and asking if I had any "real food" in the fridge — as if his ass wasn't freeloading off my groceries.

Now we were all here, pretending to be a functioning family.

Well. Some of us were pretending.

"I'm just saying," Elija was smirking, swirling his wine like he was in some goddamn French film. "Some people wouldn't know class if it slapped them in the face with a Prada loafer."

Bill's fork paused mid-air, eyes narrowing with that same disgusted curl of his lip he always reserved for people beneath him. Which, in Bill's mind, was just about everyone.

He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, setting his utensils down with a little too much force. The kind of quiet aggression that made mothers shift uncomfortably and sons clench their fists under linen-covered tables.

"And what," Bill began, voice slick like oil, "would a homeless junkie know about class?"

The insult sat heavy in the air for a beat. Like he thought he'd landed a blow that would finally shut Elija up.

Except Elija never shuts the fuck up.

That was the thing about him — he didn't have a limit. You couldn't offend him. He'd already made peace with being the worst version of himself a long time ago, and wore it like armor.

If anything, he grinned wider.

"Oh, Billy," Elija crooned. "You're adorable when you try to insult me with shit that stopped being true last month."

Bill sneered. "You're still couch-surfing."

"I prefer the term urban nomad," Elija said, toasting him with a lazy lift of his glass. "Besides, crashing with a CEO sounds pretty fucking classy to me."

"Only thing classier would be you getting a job."

Joseph cleared his throat, the kind of tired, diplomatic and disappointed father noise he made when he wanted to pretend like he wasn't enjoying the fight.

My mother pretended to be fascinated by the folds of her napkin. Either that, or she was counting the hours until she could down her Xanax with a rosé chaser.

"I mean, look at you, Bill," Elija went on, undeterred. "You dress like a hedge fund asshole, talk like you just walked off the set of Succession, and you still manage to be the least interesting person in the room. That's talent."

Bill shoved his chair back an inch. "Say that again."

"I said you're boring," Elija replied, smiling sweetly. "With daddy issues and a superiority complex. You should write a book. Title it Why I'll Die Alone With My Stocks."

I put my elbows on the table, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. This wasn't dinner. This was a live-streamed breakdown with side dishes.

"For fuck's sake," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. I pushed my chair back just an inch, debating if I could get away with standing and walking the hell out without. "I can't believe I'm listening to two grown-ass men argue like fucking teenagers."