Chapter Text
The knock at the door was too soft for this place. This hotel wasn’t built for quiet things.
Angel Dust blinked slowly, cheek mashed into a pillow, the metallic taste of blood still thick in his mouth. The room smelled like cheap perfume and Valentino’s cologne clinging to his skin like a curse.
The door creaked open.
“Angel?” Your voice was soft, hesitant.
He groaned and rolled onto his back, wincing as his bruises screamed. “If you’re a hallucination, I ain’t got the energy to be flattered.”
You stepped inside. Your dress was torn, dark with dried blood at the hem. One eye was swollen, and you cradled your side as you moved, limping with the stiffness of someone who hadn’t stopped running until collapsing.
Angel blinked. You looked even worse than he did. Which was saying something. “What the hell happened to you, kid?”
You gave a ghost of a smirk, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Bad day.”
“No kidding.” He sat up slowly, every muscle protesting.
You crossed the room to the chair near his vanity. “You’re bleeding, by the way.”
He watched you sink into the chair with a small gasp, then clutch your ribs like the act of sitting might break you. Something twisted in him—not pity, exactly, but a sudden, sharp sense of oh, no… This one’s not built for this place. Can a witch go to heaven?
“Why’d you come here?” he asked, quieter now.
“Didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
He nodded once. That, he understood all too well.
You looked around the room like you were seeing past the glitter and junk and makeup-stained mirrors. “I just… needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”
Angel’s jaw clenched. “This ain’t safe.”
“It’s safer than what I left.”
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He could read it in the way your shoulders curled inward, in the way your hand trembled when you thought he wasn't watching.
And that’s when it hit him—not like a punch, but like a quiet realization that settled heavy in his chest…maybe you were the version of himself he wished someone had protected back when it all started going wrong.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he muttered, more to himself than you.
“I’m not.” Your voice cut through the silence, gentle but sure. “I came to you, didn’t I?”
He looked up, startled. You met his gaze, and for a second he saw past the bruises and blood to the person underneath—resilient, stubborn, aware of your damage, but not drowning in it.
Angel pushed himself off the bed with a grunt and limped toward you. “Alright. Up.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re not sleeping in that chair. You’ll cramp up and your ribs’ll heal crooked or some crap. Come on.”
You hesitated, then let him help you stand. They moved slowly together—two broken bodies sharing weight as they shuffled to the bed.
You sat first, then curled onto your side carefully. Angel followed, staying on top of the blanket, close enough to be near, far enough to not overwhelm her.
They lay there in the half-darkness. They didn’t talk much after that. The pain still hung between them—old, bitter, and fresh all at once but now, it wasn’t something either of them had to carry alone.
Angel shifted slightly, reaching toward the nightstand with a wince. “Here,” he said, grabbing a small, half-melted jar of ointment. “Use this on the worst of it. Won’t fix everything, but it’ll take the edge off.”
You took it silently, fingers brushing his, then turned and dabbed some onto his shoulder first. He hissed at the sting.
“Sorry,” you murmured, but there was a small, amused glint in your eyes.
“Sadist,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
Then you passed it back, and Angel gently lifted the edge of your dress, careful not to press too hard on your ribs. Your skin was bruised purple and blue, like spilled ink across a page. He didn’t say anything. Just worked quietly, his touch uncharacteristically tender.
“You’re good at this,” you said.
He snorted. “Yeah, well. Turns out patching up other people is easier than doing it to myself.”
From the foot of the bed came a soft, familiar squeak. Fat Nuggets had waddled in, pink nose twitching, eyes shining with concern. He scrambled up the edge of the bed with surprising determination for such a tiny creature and plopped himself between them like he was on a mission.
“Hey, buddy,” Angel murmured, rubbing behind the piglet’s ear. “Didn’t forget about ya.”
Fat Nuggets let out another gentle squeal and curled himself against Angel’s side—then, after a moment, wiggled halfway onto the witch’s chest like he was claiming both of them. You blinked down at him in surprise.
“…He’s warm,” you said, stroking his tiny back.
They lay there, the three of them tangled in silence. Fat Nuggets let out a soft, sleepy grunt and snuggled deeper, pressing himself between their bodies.
Angel glanced over at you. “Guess we’re both taking care of each other tonight, huh?”
You nodded, eyes drifting shut. “Guess so.”
Angel leaned his head back against the pillow, letting the warmth of your presence and the soft weight of Fat Nuggets ease something tight in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely wrecked. Not fixed, but held together —by warmth, and by someone who saw through the mask.
And as sleep slowly crept in, he let it. Because tonight, he wasn’t alone. And neither were you.