Chapter Text
Morning in Hell never arrives gently.
It leaks through the blinds in narrow bars of neon and sickly gold, cutting the office into slats of dim light and stale shadow. It comes with all the ruthless grace of a hangover, something Husk figures he ought to be well past, considering how many years he’s spent drinking himself into different phases of unattainable death. It exists in endless repetition. An eternal reminder that even without a sunrise, another day is here.
Another fucking day in an eternity of days just like it.
The casino below is quieter than usual at this hour, and Husk wonders, for the thousandth time, why he bothers keeping the place open before noon. It’s never been particularly profitable to unlock the doors when most of his best customers are still sleeping off their misery. There’s no live music. No laughter or excitement. No reason to be here at all before the addicts come crawling back.
Most days, Husk doesn’t have to think about it. He isn’t usually awake this early because he usually doesn’t pass out in his office. And when he does, Angel is always there to laugh at him, haul him out of his chair, and drag him back to their bed. It’s been a long time since Angel led him back down that hallway with a roll of his eyes and that warm, crooked smile.
Husk misses it. Misses him. Misses the easy way things used to be, the routine of it. The chaotic predictability. The way it had added something to his afterlife instead of feeding the emptiness already gnawing through it. Now he’s feeding that emptiness faster than it can devour him.
And it’s easy, so fucking easy to sprinkle anger over everything like bitter spice as he listens to the slow, excruciating drone of movement and machines a floor below him.
Staff voices drift through the ventilation ducts. Echoes of rumors. Whispers of conversations he can’t bring himself to care about. Things he’d hardly notice in the evening, when the casino is alive enough to drown out how dead he lets himself feel.
Death might be kinder than sitting in this empty room, one elbow braced against the desk, a glass hanging loosely from his claws. He’s lost count of how many times he’s refilled it, and he doesn’t bother trying to tally the colorful scatter of empty bottles across the desk, their labels peeling under rings of spilled liquor. This many usually means he’s running from something. Or easing himself into something else. Sometimes it means both.
One more drink can’t hurt.
The liquor tastes dull now. Burnt out and unenthusiastic like the anger that kept him pacing the floor for most of the night. It doesn’t dull the headache hammering behind his eyes. Doesn’t quench the eternal thirst addiction carved into his soul. Husk drinks now just to complete the motion. Feeds the need from an empty serving dish. But it isn’t sanding down the sharp edges of his mind. It isn’t drowning his mistakes in dark pools of convenient memory.
If anything, it’s doing the opposite. Dragging every unwanted thought and complicated emotion right back to the surface. Letting them settle heavy in his chest. Resentment. Confusion. The sour taste of being told he was wrong when he still isn’t sure he believes it.
He stares at the nearly empty glass, catching his own haggard reflection warped in the curve of the crystal, and tips the last bitter drops onto his tongue. It tastes like ashen reveries instead of scorched relief.
His mind drifts back to the recovery room downstairs. Angel's voice, bitter and cracking. You don’t get to make this all about you. Those words have haunted him all night. Chased down every drink. Rose on exhaled plumes of smoke, collecting like dust on the blades of a ceiling fan that hasn't been used in years.
The conversation keeps replaying in his head. Not the way it actually happened. The way it should have happened. In the version that makes sense to him, Angel yells. Angel curses him out. Angel throws every ounce of pain and anger he’s got straight at Husk’s chest where it belongs. Husk can work with blame, in rare occurrences, this time, he could accept it. Blame is simple. Blame means there’s a clear line between cause and consequence. Blame means the world still runs on rules Husk understands.
But Angel hadn’t done that. Instead he’d looked at Husk like he was missing something obvious. Like the whole argument had been built on the wrong damn premise. And that’s what’s been grinding in Husk’s skull ever since. Because if Angel isn’t angry with him, then Husk doesn’t know where to put the weight of the guilt he’s been carrying. Angel refusing to place the blame where it belongs leaves the whole thing crooked. Unsteady. Almost sober.
Husk has never struggled to assign fault before. Hell, he’s built his career on shifting it anywhere but at himself. Pointing out other people’s weaknesses and using their tells against them has always been the easiest part of the game. Every deal, every hustle, every little crooked arrangement runs smoother when you know exactly how to exploit someone.
That’s how the world works. That's how you rise above after falling down. And Husk’s never been fond of betting on something he can’t control.
He rolls the glass slowly between his claws, watching the last watered-down drops slide across the bottom. Part of him still wants to be angry at Angel. All of this would feel easier if he could write off Angel’s feelings as being dramatically misplaced. It’d be easier if he could simply feel insulted, if he could cling to the same superiority he uses on everyone else. Because the alternative, the possibility that Angel might actually be right about something Husk doesn’t understand, sits in his chest like a bad hand he can’t quite bring himself to fold. A risk he can’t manipulate.
For a moment Husk just sits there, staring at the empty glass. Then he reaches for the bottle again. It’s lighter than the last time he lifted it, but the glass feels heavier in his paw. He tilts it over the rim anyway, watching the last dull amber ribbon spill out and spread thin across the bottom. It barely covers the crystal. Barely enough to bother with.
Husk drinks it anyway, because that’s what he does. It’s how he copes. How he stands tall when he feels weak. Another swallow. Another burn. Another moment of pretending that if he keeps pouring long enough, something inside him might finally feel full. Maybe the thoughts will quiet down, shut up long enough for him to think straight.
They don’t. The room stays just as loud as it’s been all night. Full of Angel’s voice. Angel’s anger. Angel’s stubborn refusal to play along with the version of events Husk keeps trying to deal from the deck.
You don’t get to make this all about you.
Husk huffs under his breath and slams the empty glass down on the cluttered desk. “That ain’t what I was doin’,” he mutters to the room.
This time, his voice doesn’t sound as sure as it did last night. The more he turns the argument over in his head, tries to pinpoint the moment Angel was wrong, tries to justify how insulted he felt, the less Husk’s self-imposed logic holds together. Every version he reconstructs ends the same way. No matter how he reshuffles it, his mind keeps circling back to the same point. The one Angel made. The one Husk didn’t want to hear.
That the story always folds back toward him like the whole damn thing is built around the shape of his pride. His mistakes. His arrogance and guilt. The way it hurt him. The way it pissed him off. Just him. And for the first time all morning, the thought lands hard enough to make him pause. Maybe that’s the problem. Not Angel. Him.
Because clinging to his offense and his guilt keeps the whole story centered right where Husk’s always been most comfortable: On himself. On how it affected his life. He’s let Angel’s suffering turn into an extension of his own. Used it to justify his self-loathing. His self-pity.
The realization sits heavy on a chest filled with sour breaths. It stretches through his lungs, fills his mouth with words he isn’t too keen on admitting. That even his remorse has been selfish.
Husk stares down at the empty glass for a long moment before scoffing out a bitter laugh. “Well ain’t that some bullshit.” He wants to laugh again, but there isn’t enough humor left to force another sound out of him. He’d like another drink, too, but every bottle is empty.
He leans back in the chair, rubbing a clawed hand over his face. The headache behind his eyes throbs harder now. Loud and grating and so painfully honest it might as well be stabbing him in the back. Not every part of this nightmare belongs to him. What happened to Angel was never about him.
Logically, he’s always known that. But surrendering control of the narrative isn’t easy when Husk has spent his entire afterlife making damn sure no one else controlled any part of his life or the way he affected theirs.
You don’t get to tell me how I feel about any of this, Husk.
Feeling that knife twist in his back, realizing why it hurts so bad, doesn’t fix anything. He still thinks he should’ve handled things differently. Been smarter. Been meaner. He still believes his pride made it easier for those bastards to get their hands on Angel in the first place. Knows that they hurt Angel because of him.
That part hasn’t changed. Probably never will. But maybe it ain’t his place to decide what Angel is supposed to do with that knowledge. If Angel doesn’t want to gut him and leave him bleeding out on the casino floor… If Angel doesn’t blame him… Well, maybe Husk just needs to fucking accept that. Be what Angel needs instead of who he needs to be to live with himself.
Husk exhales slowly through his teeth. Lets his hand slip away from the empty glass he’s been praying to all night. There won’t be another bottle, not today. Not until tonight at least. Not until he takes the truth crushing his ribs and holds it instead of trying to shove it away.
He can’t undo the last three weeks. Can’t drown them in liquor. Can’t drag Angel back through the argument until it finally lands the way he wants it to. All Husk can do, the thing he probably should’ve done the moment he brought Angel home, is decide what he does next. Not just for himself. For both of them.
For the next three weeks. Three months. However long Angel’s willing to tolerate his sorry ass. If Angel’s willing at all.
Dear fucking Satan, he hopes Angel can forgive him again.
“Well,” Husk mutters, voice rough as he pushes himself out of the chair and takes the first unsteady step toward the door. “Suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
Two floors below Husk’s office, Angel is already awake.
He hasn’t slept much. Maybe an hour here, twenty minutes there. Still, he’s been very good about keeping quiet. Keeping still. If he’s quiet enough, maybe they’ll forget he’s here and leave him alone a while longer. It won’t last. He knows that someone will buy to check on him eventually. But for the moment, he takes the silence for what it is. Comforting isolation. The strange luxury of being bedridden without restraints. The fragile privilege of believing he’s safe because he’s home, even if right now, home hurts. Everything hurts.
The bruises are already fading, lesser cuts already sealed shut in mended flesh. Hell’s recovery speed doing its grim little miracle, but the evidence of the last three weeks isn’t so easy to dismiss. His ribs are still wrapped tight beneath fresh bandages. His wrists are bound carefully in gauze. A shoulder brace locks one of his lower arms against his side in a stiff, uncomfortable hold. Fuck, he wishes he didn’t have so many arms. Wishes he wasn’t so tall, with so many places where he could ache. Wishes that a simple wash had done more to smooth away the creases in his fur from the ropes that had held him so tight. Shivering, skin crawling, he wishes that scrubbing the fluids out of his matted fur had erased the memory of their weight against his skin.
The door knocks softly before opening. He knew it would happen eventually. No way he could pretend to be asleep forever. No chance of being forgotten or left to himself.
Lettie steps inside, crisp and composed, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. Her expression carries the same calm professionalism it always does. No pity, no forced sympathy. Just a small, measured smile pressed into a firm expression.
Angel’s always liked that about her. Straightforward. No bullshit. Watching her cross the room though, he’s pretty certain he’s about to hate it about her now.
“Good morning, Angel,” she says. “How are we feeling today?”
“Like I just worked a triple shift at a truck stop,” he drawls, letting his head fall back against the pillow with theatrical exhaustion. “But hey, I’ve had worse hangovers.”
Lettie hums quietly, unfazed by the joke. “I’m going to check your vitals again,” she says, stepping closer to the bed. “Then I’d like to talk for a bit, if you’re up for it.”
Angel shrugs one shoulder. “Mouth still works fine for talkin’, doc.”
“Good.” She sets the clipboard down and begins her routine. Checking the IV line. Watching his pupils. Her fingers move with careful precision as she presses lightly along his ribs. Angel sucks in a sharp breath when she nears the fracture. “Still tender,” she murmurs. “That’s expected. You’re going to need to take it easy for the rest of the week.”
“Doc,” Angel sighs dramatically, staring up at the ceiling, “if you’re here to tell me I shouldn’t get kidnapped again, I promise I’ve already canceled my next two abductions. Had to reschedule next month’s unwilling rendezvous while I was at it.” The laugh that follows is bright and easy. It also hurts like hell.
“I’m here to make sure you understand what your body’s been through,” Lettie replies evenly. “Three weeks of prolonged restraint can cause nerve damage. Muscle atrophy. Circulatory problems. Our bodies recover quickly, but that doesn’t make us indestructible. If you push yourself too soon, you’ll slow the healing process.”
Angel rolls his eyes, forces a tiny smirk. “I’ve gotten through worse without a bed to rest in.” He points out, voice going tense and brittle. “Ain’t my first bad date with a couple of strangers. Wasn’t my first gang bang either.” He says it so easily, so detached that even a stone cold woman like Lettie winches at his tone.
“This wasn’t a bad date,” she says firmly. “This was captivity. Prolonged physical and sexual abuse. You can keep trying to deflect and joke it away, but all you’re doing is locking that trauma in your chest, and your heart can only hold so much.” ”
“I’m fine,” Angel snaps harsher than intended. His fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, and it takes a moment for him to relax every high strung muscle in his battered body. After three weeks of having every ounce of his agency stripped away, he refuses to sit here and let someone else define what those weeks mean to him. “We’re in Hell, Lettie,” he mutters. “This shit happens. I’ll get over it. What’s not gonna help is people lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall apart just ‘cause it makes ‘em feel better or because thats what they expect me to do.” He meets her gaze directly now. “I ain’t fragile enough to let this be what breaks me.”
“You can hold your ground and still admit it hurts, Angel.” She says, warm and firm, seeing him without coddling. “I’m not here to tell you how you should feel,” she continues. “And I’m not going to force you into the language of victimhood if that isn’t something you want. But what happened to you was severe. Your body will heal. Your mind deserves the same opportunity.”
Angel stares at the ceiling for a long moment. She’s right, but he doesn’t want anyone else to be right about him. Doesn’t want to feel weak despite how much pain he’s grinding his teeth against. Finally he sighs. “Fine, guess I can handle a few days being bored in bed.” He glances back at her, hesitates, because the unspoken words already taste strange in his mouth. “And the other stuff… I’ll think about it.”
Lettie nods once. “That’s all I’m asking.” She retrieves her clipboard and scribbles a few notes before heading toward the door. “Get some rest,” she says. “And I’ll be back around noon to check on you.”
Then she steps out into the hallway. The door closes softly behind her and just like that, Angel is alone again. Left in sterile stillness, surrounded by the hums and ticks of more machines than he really needs for a couple of broken bones and a stiff back. Maybe the noises are supposed to be comforting. Distracting. All they really do is pave a road straight to the wrong side of memory lane. A corner of his mind where bad memories stretch from broken windows and follow him like shadows down cracked sidewalks.
Memories of rope biting into his skin. Tugging. Pulling. Holding him still while cruel hands pin him down and spread him wide. Angel’s stomach twists, churns violently against itself and curls him inwards.
“Yeah… no thanks,” he mutters under his breath. His fingers twist absently in the bedsheet, restless energy crawling beneath his skin with nowhere to go. Three weeks of being forced still has left his body confused about what freedom is supposed to feel like. Being bedridden now makes him want to climb the damn walls just to prove he can move. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to be alone right now.
A soft knock taps against the door. Angel doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “Door’s unlocked,” he calls flatly.
The handle turns. The door opens. And then a high, delighted squeal splits the quiet.
“Nuggets?!” Angel’s eyes snap open.
The hell piglet wriggles wildly in Husk’s arms, tiny hooves kicking as he lets out another excited snort. The moment he spots Angel, he practically launches himself forward.
Angel’s entire expression changes. His heart beats with love and sadness, and a gratitude so profound he isn’t sure how to categorize it. “Oh my god—hey, baby!”
Husk barely has time to step close enough to the bed before the piglet squirms free, scrambling eagerly across the blankets. Angel gathers him up carefully despite the protest of his ribs, pulling the little creature close. Fat Nuggets snuffles happily against his chest, little tail wiggling with frantic joy, snout brushing wetly against Angel’s cheek.
Angel laughs, breathless and loud. The sound catches against the lump in his throat, drips alongside the silent tears dampening the corners of his eyes. “You’re okay,” he murmurs, pressing his face into the piglet’s fine, coarse fur. “Missed me, huh? Yeah, I missed you too, Nuggs.”
Nuggets answers with another happy squeal and enthusiastic snuffling, nudging his snout under Angel’s chin, taking as much attention as he can get from as many of Angel’s hands as are working.
Angel holds him a little tighter, careful not to hurt him, but tight enough that the warmth of that tiny body presses solidly against his chest. Breathes him in, feels him warm and happy and okay after the way those bastards threw him in that closet. Angel eventually lifts his head, scratching behind the piglet’s ears.
“’M so sorry, Nuggs,” he whispers against one floppy ear. “They never shoulda been able to hurt you.”
Fat Nuggets snorts happily, all forgiving and grounding, already curling into a comfortable little loaf in Angel’s lap. Only then does Angel glance up.
His eyes land on Husk. The warmth in his expression cools slightly. Not gone, but cautious now. Braced for another round of arguing he’s too soul weary to deal with.
The silence stretches for a long second before Husk clears his throat. “Can we talk?”
Angel doesn’t answer right away. His fingers continue idly scratching behind Nuggets’ ear while his mind quietly replays the argument from the night before. He’s tired. So damn tired. Emotionally wrung out and still aching in places he’d rather not think about. Another fight sounds exhausting. More heated words, more stubborn anger, can’t do anything but break whatever is left between them now. But avoiding it forever won’t make it disappear, and if its going to end, then sooner might hurt less. If he confronts it now, then he can still hold onto whatever hope is left.
“Yeah… maybe,” he says after a moment. “But we ain’t doin’ a repeat of last night.”
Silence settles, tense and strung too tightly across the room. Husk keeps looking at him, mouth parting like he’s about to say something, then closing again. Every word and apology he had planned is lost, dissolving across his tongue.
Angel watches him, waiting for the moment that sad, lost expression shifts into anger again. Expecting that same thunderous voice to break loose again, that vicious rumble that comes after lightning strikes. He's waiting, hoping, needing Husk to say just one thing with honey slickened gravel on his tone.
“I—” Husk takes a step back, hands clenched tight at his sides. “Angel…”
Why the hell is this so hard?
Angel adjusts Fat Nuggets in his lap, absently rubbing the piglet’s belly as he finally speaks. “If you’re gonna stand there and talk at me like I’m just the aftermath of your bad decisions,” he says quietly, “we can skip the whole conversation.”
His eyes meet Husk’s directly now, unapologetic yet yearning. “Too much already got taken from me for you to reduce what’s left to your guilt and regret. So if we’re talkin’… we’re talkin’ about me like I’m still a person with my own feelings about all this.” Angel scratches the piglet’s chin again, voice calmer now because Nuggets doesn’t need to hear how upset he is after missing him so much. “And how I feel needs to fuckin’ matter too. Deal?”
The word hangs in the air between them. It lingers like a storm cloud that hasn’t decided whether it wants to darken the sky or let the sunlight through.
It isn’t a big request. Shouldn’t be hard to agree to. But for Husk, it’s another step toward giving up the control he’s never liked sharing. Another admission of vulnerability that goes against every instinct he’s honed in Hell. Deals aren’t to be taken lightly, and this one feels like something dealt from a deck he didn’t stack in his favor.
So he stands there, dropped into a familiar game with unfamiliar rules. Hands clenched. Shoulders tight. Eyes fixed somewhere just shy of Angel’s face. Finally he exhales, the breath leaving him rough enough to sound like the beginning of a growl. “…Yeah,” he says quietly, nodding once. “Deal.”
Angel watches him for a long moment, trying to decide if that answer means anything real, or if its just meant to placate him. Husk is harder to read when he isn’t angry or cocky, and right now the one thing Angel can clearly decipher is how unhappy he looks. Less like the overconfident overlord who runs the casino knowing the house always wins. More like a man who lost the game and doesn’t know what to do without the chips in his hand.
Angel almost feels bad for him. But pity is worse than anger and he won’t give Husk the same pity he refuses to accept himself.
Husk clears his throat. “I… been thinkin’ about what you said last night.”
Angel arches a brow. “Yeah? That must’ve made for a fun evening.”
Husk ignores the jab. Banter would be easier. Safer. It would smooth the edges off this conversation, water down the poison in their veins until they could pretend it didn’t burn. Maybe later there’ll be room for that. Right now, there isn’t. “I was wrong.”
Angel’s fingers still against Fat Nuggets’ back. Not because he expected the apology, but because those aren’t words that Husk says. They aren’t words Angel thought Husk knew how to say, let alone admit to. For a moment Angel wonders if he imagined them, is damn near sure he did until he feels the weight of them on the air.
“I kept tryin’ to make the whole thing about what I did,” Husk continues slowly. “About how I screwed up. About how my pride put a target on your back.”
Angel shifts against the pillows, listening but wary.
“And yeah,” Husk mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “I ain’t pretendin’ that didn’t play a part.” His gaze finally lifts to Angel’s, lets those eyes speak and listens to what their hold has to say. “But that ain’t the whole story.”
“Took ya all night to realize that?” Angel jokes softly, wary of how easily those words could still flip the switch between Husk’s thoughts and his temper.
“’M not always the sharpest card in the deck.” Husk snorts under his breath.
“Cards ain’t that sharp to begin with.”
“Smartass.” Husk shakes his head, trying, failing, to sound annoyed. Truth is, the humor feels like oxygen, and dear fucking Christ he needed to breath. “What happened to you,” Husk says, voice rough again, “wasn’t just some cosmic punishment for my ego. And maybe it ain’t my place to decide it was.”
Angel’s jaw tightens slightly. Fat Nuggets shifts in his lap, warm and heavy and so blissfully oblivious to what's going on around him. Angel scratches behind the piglet’s ears as he studies Husk’s hands. Watches his claws flex at his sides, sees the tremble as he fights back the urge to take the words back and cling to his need to rule this moment the way he rules everything else within the casino walls.
“Go on,” Angel says quietly.
“I needed it to be my fault,” he admits. “Needed a reason to hate myself when I couldn’t find you. Needed something to justify the drinking and the way I tore through the place constantly on edge.” His jaw tightens, and once again he can’t bring himself to look at Angel, terrified of what he’ll see. “Didn’t want to accept that I had a weakness… and someone saw it clear enough to know that they could use you to hurt me.”
“Yeah,” Angel says softly. He adjusts Fat Nuggets in his lap, rubbing the piglet’s belly while he gathers his thoughts, lines them up pretty because they’re still one wrong sentiment away from lashing out at each other to heal themselves first. “What happened wasn’t just because you’re a stubborn old asshole who enjoys pissing people off.”
Husk huffs despite himself.
Angel’s gaze sharpens. “It happened because monsters exist, and those monsters decided hurting me would make ’em feel bigger.” People always hurt him to satisfy themselves. Happened on Earth, keeps happening in Hell. But this moment isn’t simply about that. Its not just about him, the same way it isn’t just about Husk. “I ain’t gonna sit here and pretend that makes me some kinda symbol,” Angel continues. “Or a lesson. Or whatever moral you’ve been tryin’ to carve outta this mess.” He meets Husk’s eyes directly. “I ain’t just a victim, though, and I sure as hell ain’t your punishment.”
The way those words make Husk flinch doesn’t escape Angels notice. Neither does the way Husk’s posture goes rigid, tension flashing through him like the echo of a temper barely held in check.
“Look,” Angel sighs, rubbing his forehead, “I get why you feel guilty.” He gestures vaguely toward the bandages. “But I’m not carryin’ that for you. That can’t be all I am now.”
“Angel—”
“Nope.” Angel cuts him off immediately. “Husk, Hell’s already punishment enough for both of us.” A crooked half-smile flickers across his face.“We don’t gotta invent new reasons to hate ourselves.”
Husk doesn’t argue. Instead he shifts his weight slightly, stops himself from sitting down or reaching out.
And it aches, makes the bandages feel so much heavier, makes him feel uglier, when Angel notices that Husk isn’t coming closer. Hasn’t come back forward since making sure Nuggets landed safely on the bed. “…Why’re you standin’ all the way over there?”
“What?” Husk frowns, glancing down at his feet before realizing how far back he’s drifted.
“Is it the bruises?” Angel asks quietly. Angel asks, less than a whisper, barely louder than a shattered plea. He knows what he looks like, knows Husk is fully aware of what was done to him. “I know I ain’t exactly lookin’ too pretty after—”
“No, it isn’t that.” Husk shakes his head slowly. Theres no sane way to tell Angel hes still fuckin gorgeous. That its killing Husk not to hold him. His jaw works for a second before he finally says anything at all. “Because I’m not addin’ to the pain I helped cause.”
The words drop into the room like a stone. Angel stares at him, lets those words echo and fade, holds them close and lets them go. “Yeah, no,” he says flatly. “You didn’t do this. And if I have to tell you that again—”
“Angel.” Husk cuts him off before threats start flying. And he knows he needs to make his next few words real good, or Angel may hit him with something more severe than a frown and arched brow. “For once,” he mutters, “I ain’t denyin’ my share of the blame.” He exhales slowly. “I’ve been shrugging off my responsibilities for years. Been plenty happy hurtin’ people to get where I am.” He laughs, bitterly humorous. “Probably will again, and won’t feel bad about it.” Then he shakes his head. His voice is quiet now, absent of anger. Not quite defeated, but damn near close in how exhausted he sounds. “But this? Let me be accountable this time.”
Its small, but it matters a hell of a lot to Angel that Husk is owning his part instead of trying to claim the effects. Blunt honesty instead of self destruction.
“You’re a stubborn bastard,” Angel mutters after a while.
“Been told.”
“But if you think standin’ six feet away makes me feel better…” Angel gestures lazily toward the edge of the bed. “…you’re gonna need a refresher course in whore etiquette.”
Husk hesitates. There are nights when he almost finds it hot, how proudly Angel wears his promiscuity, Hell, he’s enjoyed saying it to Angel face a few times when they've been caught up in the moment. But right now, after what happened, Husk feels a little differently about hearing Angel say it so casually.
Ain’t up to you how he copes, Husk reminds himself.
“Relax, old man.” Angel sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes over a reckless, endearing little smirk. It can all hurt later. For now, he needs something to feel normal. “If its you, I’ll be fine.”
Another pause. Then Husk takes the first few steps closer. There are things he still wants to say, pointless arguments that would sooth his ego, little retorts that would keep him in the right. None of them feel near as important as all the things Angel’s smile is saying. So he keeps his damn mouth shut, swallows every point he could make until his stomach is full of poison coated daggers, and focuses on closing the distance one step at a time.
There is very little in Hell that Husk values more than winning. Nearly nothing more important than looking out for himself and the corner of Hell he’s crafted to suit him best. But this? This is one loss he’ll take gladly. And he’ll be double damned if he lets his own bullshit ruin the chance Angel is giving him.
Husk stops when his leg bumps the corner of the bed. He follows the outline of Angel’s long legs beneath the sheet, drifting back down to the empty space waiting for him, but he doesn’t sit. Not yet. It would only take half a step. A simple twist of his hips and a drop into the mattress. Nothing at all, really. Instead he stands there like the edge of the bed is another line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross. Another thing he might take for granted if he isn’t careful.
Angel notices. He always notices the spaces people leave around him. Feels the buzz of tension humming through uncertain air. Fat Nuggets shifts in his lap, snuffling softly. Tiny black eyes flick between the two of them before the piglet settles again, blissfully uninterested in emotional stalemates.
“So,” he says eventually, voice dry as desert sand, “this the part where you loom dramatically, or are you plannin’ to actually sit down sometime today?”
Husk snorts, feels his heart flutter against his chest. So soft it aches. “Thought you liked the view.”
“Eh. Seen better.” Angel tilts his head, giving him an exaggerated once-over.
The corner of Husk’s mouth twitches despite himself. The tension doesn’t dissolve, but it bends a little, like steel warming in a forge. “You sure?” He asks gruffly, eyes flicking between Angel and the empty stretch of mattress beside him.
Angel raises a brow. “Whaddaya think, I’m gonna bite you?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Last time you deserved it,” Angel shoots back. “Time before that, you wanted me to.”
Husk huffs out a quiet laugh. “Guess you’re right.”
“Say that again.”
“You’re right.” Husk repeats it dutifully, but still doesn’t sit.
The smile fades slowly from Angel’s mouth. Falling into a somber curve beneath yearning eyes as his chest twists tighter. Because part of him understands exactly why Husk is still standing there despite the invitation. And another part of him remembers the things he wishes he didn’t.
All of the anger that had swelled in Husk’s voice the night before. The brief, terrifying moment when Angel had genuinely believed those claws might come down across his face instead of burying themselves deeper into Husk’s own palms.
Its a memory that sits ugly under his skin like a brand new bruise. An instinctual expectation that festers along muscle, rotting bone deep. And Angel hates that it does. Hates the way that fear manages to spread like an infection. That it keeps him teetering on edge when hes already so damn tired of keeping himself steady.
“…Husk.” It’s the softest Angel has ever said his name. Angel almost flinches under the snap of Husk’s eyes falling back over him, the way Husk leans further away again, a breath away from stepping back.
Husk stares at it, but he still can’t move. So Angel moves first before either of them can overthink it. He lifts one hand, holds it out with his heart cradled in his palm, an open invitation. That hand isn’t reaching out for help, but it's still choosing him. Wants him. And Husk feels like such a coward for hesitating. For clinging to the shards of his misery, letting them cut him deeper instead of shaking them loose.
“Don’t make me beg ya to sit down.” Angel mutters, ignoring the discomfort as he shifts carefully against the pillows. Fat Nuggets snorts indignantly as he’s nudged aside.
Finally, Husk sits. The mattress dips with a tired groan beneath his weight, the shift sliding him a little closer. It’s still warm where Angel’s been lying, so damn warm and Husk wants to settle into it as if none of this has happened. His gaze flicks down to Angel’s outstretched hand, and its everything Husk can do not to greedily snatch it from the air and hold it close.
“You gonna hold it,” Angel asks, wiggling his fingers impatiently, “or stare at it all day?” Angel can feel the heat rolling off Husk’s shoulder now. Knows it would be stupidly easy to lean against him. To sink into that solid warmth and pretend everything feels normal again. He doesn’t need the touch, doesn't need Husk here to make him feel safe, but he wants it.
So he waits. Because if Husk takes his hand, Angel needs to know it’s because he wants to, not because he feels obligated. He wants Husk to take his hand out of affection, not because of guilt.
For a moment Husk hesitates again. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because more than anything, he does. He wants to hold a hand he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve to touch. Wants to take everything Angel is offering him and hoard it under lock and key. Hide it away where no one else can even toss a threatening gaze its way. Wants to own something that isn’t his to claim, and Husk knows how fucking dangerous that need is.
So when Husk finally takes Angel’s hand, he does it carefully. Not with a firm grasp or possessive pull, just offering his own in return. Palm to palm. Warmth shared instead of taken. Its harder than it should be. It feels awkward. Foreign. But he remembers how close he came to losing Angel. How real that possibility still is if he doesn’t get his head out of his ass. So Husk holds Angel’s hand not as if its breakable, but like its the most precious thing in the world anyway.
Angel studies their joined fingers for a moment before glancing sideways at Husk. “You’re still doin’ it, y’know.” He says, tensely teasing.
“Doin’ what?” He asks absently, losing himself to the warmth of Angel’s palm pressed against his own.
“Lookin’ at me like I’m a broken slot machine.”
Husk winces faintly. “That obvious?”
“Whiskers, if you stared any harder you’d start apologizin’ again.” Angel sighs and leans his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes briefly as the dull throb behind them pulses.
“You still hurtin’?”
Angel shrugs. Bites back the groan that tries to crawl up his throat. “Are you?”
“Guess I am.” Husk huffs quietly. His thumb shifts slightly against Angel’s knuckles. “Different kind of pain though.”
“Yeah.” Angel nudges him lightly with his elbow. “You’re not gonna start broodin’ again, are ya?”
“I’ll try not to.” Husk shakes his head. “Hard habit to break though.”
Angel breathes out a quiet laugh, a paper thin flutter of sound that carries clean over the noise. He lets himself lean sideways, eases himself closer until his shoulder settles against Husk’s. “Most habits are.”
The room settles again. Uncomfortably silent. Comfortingly quiet. The tension doesn’t disappear just because the moment has calmed, but it settles into the rhythm of steadying breaths. Forgiveness sits between their joined hands woven into the space between their fingers, not yet accepted, but no longer unattainable. For a long while they sit there quietly, not quite okay. Just two stubborn bastards sitting side by side, trying to reclaim a stretch of ground they nearly lost.
“Think Lettie’ll let me outta this bed today?” Angel asks, breaking the silence.
Husk can’t help but laugh, low and deep and rumbling in a chest too sore to weather the motion. “Pretty sure she wants you resting.”
“Pretty sure she wants you to start drinkin’ less.” Angel counters, squeezing Husk’s hand.
“Not happening.”
“Then I’m not stayin’ in this room.” Angel says, shifting away from Husk’s shoulder, sitting on his own. “I wanna go home, Husk. I’ll rest up there.”
~.~
One day and a stern warning later, Lettie finally relents and tells Husk Angel can finish his recovery upstairs.
The penthouse is quiet when they return. Not the same tense sort of quiet as the recovery room downstairs, but the familiar hush of a place that knows their habits. Their arguments. Their long nights and mischievous mornings. It’s home, in the loose, conditionally stable way that word exists in Hell, and it’s where Angel wants to be.
He carries Fat Nuggets past the closet, pausing just long enough to shake the memory of frightened squeals and scratching hooves from his mind. “You’re not goin’ back in there,” he murmurs softly, promising that he’ll never let Nuggets be locked in there scared and alone again. Nuggets snuffles sleepily against his chest, and Angel keeps moving.
The living room is harder. It’s been a tomb waiting to feel life breathed back into it after weeks of being left empty. Like the rest of the penthouse, it hasn’t been used since Angel was taken from it, and though its been cleaned, the memory still hangs like a phantom shroud, haunting the air with echoes of where things used to sit before they were knocked over, shattered, dragged out of place.
Staring at the room, the place he was recklessly carefree. The last place he felt safe, Angel shudders. And maybe its easier to understand why Husk felt so guilty about how easily he had been ripped away. Because no one should have been able to get in here. Because Husk paid others, trusted them, to watch the door. And Angel had trusted too. Had let his guard down, forgotten how vicious Hell could be, and Nuggets had been hurt for it.
Angel exhales slowly. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s not different enough, either.
Holding Nuggets close against his chest, Angel keeps moving, cutting across the things he’ll think about later to reclaim the window seat that always makes forgetting easier.
The window seat stretches low and wide beneath the glass, cushions in red, gold, and pink worn soft from use. From late nights and long mornings spent looking out over Pentagram city. A view that can simultaneously take his breath away and leave him holding it tight. Neon indulgence dancing through a haze of dark shadows and curling smoke. Dangerous thrills on every corner. Clubs with music that pulses so loudly it climbs the buildings like writhing ivy.
Hell is ugly. Hell is beautiful. Angel watches it the way some people watch the ocean, aware it could swallow him whole, but still a little mesmerized by the gilded depth of it.
Fat Nuggets curls beside him, asleep mere moments after they’ve settled down. Soft little snores puff into the quiet as Angel absently rubs his back while feeling the story of the last few weeks in his own body. Bruises fading yellow beneath pale fur. Wrists wrapped again, though the lacerations beneath have already begun to close into faint, stubborn lines. His shoulder held carefully in place by a sling, ribs still aching when he breathes too deep or feels too much.
He knows he’ll heal from it all on his own the same ways he always has. It had felt nice though, having someone care enough to treat the wounds his body instinctively knew how to handle. Having someone care that it hurt despite already recovering from the abuse. Yeah, it had been real nice, right up until it got irritating.
Angel shifts carefully, settling with one knee drawn up, the other stretched along the cushions. Leans his head back against the window frame to lets his eyes drift across the city lights. Then higher, up into the red-violet of an eternally cursed sky. For the first time since the nightmare ended, the quiet doesn’t feel braced for the next bad thing to happen. Behind him, the penthouse door opens. Angel goes still. There’s a tightening in his chest, a brief hold of breath that doesn’t fully release. His hands rest heavy, protective, over Fat Nuggets as he turns his head and watches Husk walk into the room.
“Got food,” Husk calls, stopping at the end of the entryway hall. When he sees Angel seated there in his favorite spot, its like Husk’s entire world remembers how to exist beyond the casino downstairs. Ethereal in the way the city’s neon paints Angel in fractured color, pink and violet and electric blue ghosted over fine white fur. Dying his hair in shades of wild vibrancy. Warm in the glow of the room's lights.
Home again.
Husk wants to cry. Wants to drop to his knees and sob like a fool. Wants to hold that vision in his heart until the end of eternity. He wants to slaughter anyone who’d dare consider taking the sight away from him again. A part of him still wants to punish himself for losing it in the first place.
He wants to say something, anything at all, but he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Doesn’t know if he can filter the sorrow between his teeth so only the joy comes through. He’s never been good at joy, not this sort anyway. Excess and pleasure come easy, but genuine, heartfelt happiness, Husk still isn’t sure how to feel that correctly. Is even less certain he can express it without leaning on his shame first.
“I missed this,” Angel says softly.
“Yeah, me too.” Husk swallows, feels the lump squeeze in his throat as he crosses the room. He doesn’t look at the end table with the missing vase. Doesn't map out the spots on the marble that had been speckled with petals and glass and blood. He keeps his eyes forward, holds his head high the way he always does, walks with silent stealth on weak knees.
When he reaches the window seat, he doesn’t stand over Angel like he might have a few weeks ago. Doesn’t hover like a dark, possessive force keeping vigilant watch. He doesn’t hesitate the way he did downstairs. Instead, Husk lowers himself onto the cushion beside Angel, simple as that. There is no guilt in his posture. No shame in his gaze. They’re tucked away, pushed back into the pile of emotional baggage he’ll sort through when hes ready.
For now, there's only this. The way it feels to share Angel’s space. To sit beside him and share the same view. The comfort of seeing him, feeling him, knowing hes here, that hes chosen to stay.
The cushion shifts under Husk’s weight, nudging Angel slightly closer to the glass. Angel doesn’t pull back, doesn’t move closer. Just threads their fingers together and rests their joined hands against his thigh, easing the strain on his shoulder.
It’s quiet after that. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand to be filled. Just exists, silent and content. Minds racing, hearts beating out of sync yet in near perfect rhythm. Neon reflections ripple across the window like broken constellations. Somewhere far below, someone screams in delight, or terror. Sometimes its real hard to tell the difference down here. Other times, there isn’t much of a difference at all. And maybe, thats a horrific way to think about it, a realization that ought to rattle them, but it doesn’t.
After a couple decades in Hell, you get used to the screams, Learn to live with them so long as they don’t affect you. As long as they aren’t yours. And when they do, when they are, you learn to get past it, because if you don’t, they swallow you whole.
Angel knows better than most how every kind of scream feels against the lining of a throat. Pleasure and anger. Fear and sorrow. Pain and rapture. He knows them all well enough to recreate them on cue. Can identify them well enough vibrating from a strangers vocal chords. Sometimes though, when they’re his, he doesn’t know which one he’s choking on until it’s already over.
Right now, he thinks he wants to scream, though he isn’t sure why. Maybe he wants to scream just to make himself laugh so the hurts thats left will go away. Maybe hes still angry, because even though things are okay, he’s still holding onto a bit of the rage that makes the fear easier to minimize. Could just be that he’s trying to move past something he isn’t ready to let go of. He doesn’t know, all he knows is that he wants to scream in every pitch he’s ever known. That sooner or later, he’ll need to let it out. Because in a place like Hell, sometimes screaming is the closest thing to healing you get on your own.
But he isn’t on his own. Not the same way he used to be. Doesn’t have to be unless he wants to. And he doesn’t. Not really.
“You’re quiet,” Husk says, voice low and rough, like feathers dragging over gravel.
“Thought you liked that sometimes.” Angel’s eyes shut, focusing on the cool heat of the glass. The warmth of Husk’s hand settled at his thigh. The weight of Nuggets pressed into his side. Home.
“In small doses.” Husk grunts, smirking to hide how sentimental he feels. Because Angel’s voice, as much as it can drive him crazy with the things Angel says, is a sound that drives back the demons in his own head. Calms the addictions. Its something he didn't realize he didn't want to live without until it was taken away.
He’s fought for that voice. Killed for it. Longed for its musical caress and rasping breaths. Theres nothing Husk wouldn’t do for it, for Angel, and he knows that makes him weak, knows it will haunt him, hinder him, make him a God forsaken force to be reckoned with. And he still doesn't quite know how to handle that with any semblance of grace or wisdom.
They fall back into silence again. It’s not awkward, not exactly comfortable either. Just there, loudly unspoken, nestled between them, stretching through the glass and across the city skyline. Highlighted by neon lights and lulled by the smoke curling between rooftops. A monstrous, flawed thing that manages to suit them perfectly in its own disastrous way.
Husk leans back against the wall beside the window, lets his eyes drift shut for a timeless second against the span of eternity. And for the first time in days, the noise in his head slows enough to think clearly.
He’s always known the game isn’t fair. Wasn’t in life, sure as Hell isn’t after death. The deck was never meant to be played with your heart sitting out on the table. No one with any sense gambles with more than they’re willing to lose. But he already did that. Already played that card with careless arrogance and watched how close it came to costing him everything.
All he can do now is play the cards he has left better than he played before. Remember what his pride nearly took away from him and try not to make the same mistake twice. Hope, foolish as that is, that all the screams he hears in the future will be torn from the throats of his enemies, from strangers whose faces he’ll never know, and not the only sinner who has ever left him blessed.