Chapter Text
The door gives with a metallic groan that sounds too loud in the small concrete room.
For one suspended heartbeat, Husk can’t move. Can’t bear to take another step and risk being wrong. Or worse, too late. If there's any shred of holy grace still looking down on Hell, let it be neither. Not an empty room or a body beyond saving.
Please, let it be neither.
He pushes the door open the rest of the way, nose scrunching at the scent of the room. Rusted iron and sour fear. Dead sex and old copper. The air is thick with it, overwhelming and clinging to the back of his throat so strongly he nearly gags. There are hooks in the walls, chains bolted into brick. Wooden frames fitted with leather straps worn loose from use. Instruments of pleasure arranged beside devices of torment, laid out with obscene neatness across a scarred wooden table. A single naked bulb dangles from the ceiling, humming faintly, casting everything in a rotted, unforgiving glow.
He takes it all in, sweeping the room with tear stung eyes. And then, along the back wall, he finally sees Angel.
Three weeks. Three God-forsaken, damned weeks.
Three weeks of canceled rehearsals at the casino lounge, three weeks of Husk trying to convince himself it wasn’t his fault. Three weeks of waking up in a cold sweat reaching for a body that wasn’t there because he had failed to protect him.
Hubris tastes like poisoned metal at the back of his tongue. Denial dusts flakes of rusted sorrow across Husk’s vision. Relief is a breath he can’t quite swallow without choking on it.
Angel is on his knees, arms stretched above him, wrists locked in iron cuffs that have rubbed bruised skin raw. His lower arms are bent cruelly behind him, twisted in restraints that strain swollen joints. His head hangs forward, white hair matted and dull. A blindfold is tied tight over his eyes, damp fabric plastered to his face. A thick leather bit wedges his jaw open, the cloth behind it too saturated to stop the thin ribbon of blood-tinged drool slipping over his chin.
Bruises bloom across dirty white fur in ugly constellations; violet, yellowing green, fresh red at the edges, all of them mapping out the trail of possessive fingerprints that have bruised claim across Angel’s body.
The door shifts under Husk’s hand. Angel jerks violently at the sound. He twists against the chains, panic embedded in instinct, body trying to recoil with nowhere to go. A wrecked, muffled plea breaks through the gag. Unable to lift his head, Angel shakes it instead. No, no, no, over and over, like that refusal is the last desperate thing that still belongs to him.
Husk’s heart doesn’t just ache. It caves inward. Collapses against the love sculpted architecture Angel had rebuilt from the ruins of his heart. That heart had been a demolished home before Angel moved into it. Worthless and empty. And now, seeing the wreckage his negligence has caused, Husk can feel the foundation crumbling again.
Making enemies had always been part of the game. That was the cost of doing business. The price of power built on deceit and other people’s gambled souls. Until a few months ago, Husk hadn’t had anything irreplaceable that could be taken from him. He had assumed no one would be stupid enough to use Angel as leverage.
How the fuck could he have been so stupidly blind?
“Easy—” Husk starts, but his voice breaks. Because Angel doesn’t hear safety, he hears a door opening in the dark. Feels the vibrations of unseen feet coming closer and anticipates the danger he's come to associate with movement.
And Husk doesn’t want to think about what Angel has endured to be in this state. Isn’t ready to admit that his actions paved the treacherous road to this room and everything that's happened inside of it.
He forces himself forward. His feet drag heavy on the floor. His chest feels too tight. He wants to burn the room down. He wants to tear the walls apart with his bare hands. He wants blood for every bruise he can see. But right now, Angel doesn’t need him vengeful. Angel needs him steady.
So Husk swallows it. All of it. The rage. The horror. The guilt he’ll never be free of. The relief his heart is too broken to accept without blame.
He kneels in front of Angel. Up close, the damage is worse. Rope burns scoring pale fur. Welts swollen and angry around broken skin. Faint tremors in his thighs from being forced to kneel far too long. Dried blood. Dried tear tracks cutting through grime on his cheeks like rivers that ran out of strength before they reached the sea.
Angel flinches again, pulling at the chains, broken sounds clawing their way around the gag. Get away. Please. Don’t touch me. Not again.
“It’s me,” Husk says, low and rough and trying, trying so fucking hard to be gentle. Holding himself together when all he wants to do is shatter. “Angel… it’s me, baby.”
A small, choked sound is Angel’s only reply.
“I got you,” Husk whispers, fingers moving to the blindfold. “I’m gonna get this off of you.” He presses his palm to Angel’s cheek, feels the tear damp fur, feverish warmth. He's alive. After days of fearing the worst, after believing he’d never find a piece of Angel to bury, here he is, alive. “You’re okay. I’m right here.”
He unties the blindfold. It falls away, wet and heavy in his hand.
Angel’s eyes squeeze shut against the sudden light, long lashes trembling against the faded shadow of a black eye. When they open, they are unfocused. Glassy with exhaustion, ringed red and bloodshot. They move over Husk’s face, see the blood on his claws, splattered across his fur and suit. They drift through flashes of recognition in a hazy sea of pain, unable to believe that Husk is there and real and he isn’t dreaming again.
He blinks. Fresh tears fill weary eyes. Silent, because he's learned not to make a sound if he doesn't want to be hurt more. And dear fucking Christ, that realization nearly unmakes Husk entirely. To see Angel afraid to let himself cry. To be afraid of using that voice that Husk has spent sleepless nights longing to hear.
“Look at me, darlin’,” Husk murmurs, jaw clenched tight against the break in his tone. “I’m right here. It’s over.”
Angel’s breathing hitches. His brows knit together as if the sight of Husk hurts almost as much as everything else. Relief flickers hesitantly in his eyes, but all Husk can see is a reflection of accusation. Not from Angel. From himself. Because this is his fault. Even if Angel will never say it.
“Hhzk—” Angel tries, voice shredded behind saliva coated leather.
“I know,” he says thickly. “I know. I’m sorry it took me so long. I’m here now. You’re safe. I swear you’re safe.” He rambles, stumbling over words as if repeating them is enough to fix all of this.
He pulls a small pick from his pocket with hands that are steady only because they have to be. The padlock on the gag is old, stubborn but simple. He works it carefully, mindful of every tremor in Angel’s jaw, of his own claws so close to damaged skin.
The click when it opens is deafening. Bittersweet and wretched. Monstrously merciful. Husk removes the leather bit slowly, catching sight of the irritation at the corners’ of Angel’s mouth. The split along chapped lips. The wadded cloth comes next, damp and soured. Angel gasps the moment it’s gone, clean air rushing into lungs that have struggled to breath for days.
“Breathe baby.” he murmurs, thumb sweeping the drool away. He tosses the rag, hears it fall heavy and wet, saturated with stifled screams and unanswered prayers. “That’s it. Just breathe.”
“Husk,” Angel coughs, voice a shredded imitation of what it used to be. Barely louder than a whispered rasp. His lips tremble. Move around words he can’t voice as his head falls forward towards Husk’s shoulder. The next sound he manages is a choked, strained sob he isn’t able to swallow.
“You don’t gotta talk,” he whispers, pressing his forehead lightly to Angel’s temple. “Not a damn word that you don’t want to.”
And it's selfish. So god damned, unforgivably selfish to take that comfort. Because he needs it. Needs the proof of warmth beneath his skin, needs the fragile weight of Angel’s breath against his mouth to quiet the terror that has been living in his chest for twenty-one endless days. He hates himself for wanting comfort when the suffering has been Angel’s. Hates that some small, starving part of him feels steadied by holding Angel as he trembles.
“I’m here,” he whispers against the corner of Angel’s mouth, stopping himself from stealing more. What he wants or thinks he needs doesn’t fucking matter in the grander scheme of things, and he won’t be another monster that takes what Angel isn’t willing to give.
“I wanna go home,” Angel breathes, exhaustion heavy in his limbs. His wrists twist weakly in their shackles, chain rattling with a hollow, defeated sound. “Please, Husk… take me home.”
The plea is simple, yet the way it's spoken destroys him.
“I’m gonna get you outta here,” Husk promises. “And no one’s ever touchin’ you again.” The vow tastes like ash. He’s made promises before. He’s failed to keep them all.
“Just wanna go home,” Angel repeats, gaze falling to the filthy concrete between them as if he’s already halfway gone somewhere safer inside his own mind. “I’m so fucking tired.”
“I know,”
It’s easy enough to slice through the ropes binding Angel’s lower arms. What isn’t easy is seeing what’s underneath. Red and violet streak through pale fur in violent bands. Dark bruises around swollen skin, proof of how hard Angel fought, how he resisted despite being overpowered. One wrist hangs wrong, loose and unresponsive. A lower shoulder slopes at an unnatural angle, dislocated beneath the curve of his ribs.
Yeah, they’re in Hell. This place isn't known for nice treatment, but Husk can’t fathom how anyone could hurt Angel like this. How it could possibly be so damn easy to abuse someone who couldn’t fight back or defend themselves for entertainment.
Husk has never been a saint, hasn't always fought fair, but he would never do this. That he isn’t capable of this much pointless brutality.
At least, that's what Husk tells himself. He doesn't think about the broken bodies scattered along the halls. Doesn’t spare an empty prayer for the informant he dismembered or the guard he tore apart for letting Angel be taken. Doesn’t think about the trail of desecration he left behind or all of the blood he stepped through to reach this door.
The shackles at Angel’s uppermost wrists take longer. Husk works each lock slowly, murmuring half formed sentences under his breath the entire time. Soothing words dragged over the gravel of his voice. Mechanical promises pried loose from the rusted hinges of a jaw clenched too tight. Reminders of home. Fat Nuggets waiting in their penthouse. The view of the city from their penthouse window that Angel loves so much. The warmth of casino lights and thrill of the games they play. Of the life waiting outside this concrete coffin.
Each lock opens with a dull, clanking surrender. Angel’s arms start shaking, dropping down and pulling him forward now that they aren’t holding him up anymore. Husk catches him before gravity can throw him across the floor, holding him close. Angel leans against him. Too light but so damn heavy. Voice quiet while his body screams against the ache.
“It hurts…” Angel folds into him like he’s forgotten how to hold himself upright. Like he's nothing more than a collection of old scars and new wounds bound beneath tarnished flesh. “Don’t want it to hurt anymore.” He murmurs, voice so damn small Husk almost doesn’t hear it.
And that shatters another piece of Husk, because Angel is never quiet. He's never small or fragile.
“Just a little longer, baby” he says softly, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over Angel’s bare shoulders. “Then it won’t hurt any more.” He catalogs the bruises, every visible injury, the ones he can’t see but smells. “Gonna pick you up real careful, okay?”
“Mmhmm.” Angel nods, teeth gritted, breath held because he knows Husk would never hurt him intentionally, but this is going to hurt. Everything hurts.
Husk gathers him fully into his arms, one hand bracing his back, the other beneath his knees. Angel’s fingers curl weakly into Husk’s shirt nails digging into fabric, pulling, holding, because if he lets go, if he can't feel Husk then there's a chance Husk will disappear. That he’ll wake up from another hallucination still chained to the wall alone.
“’M sorry,” Angel murmurs, head lolling against Husk’s chest, breath weak and warm against Husk’s collarbone.
“This wasn’t your fault,” Husk says, pressing his cheek into matted white hair. His throat goes tight, eyes close against the burning heat. The tears come anyway, deathly silent and heavy. “I never shoulda gambled with your safety. Thought I had it handled. Thought —“ He swallows hard. “I was wrong, and my mistakes let this happen.” It's not easy to admit. He's never admitted fault before, because honesty has never been profitable.
“You didn’t.” Angel murmurs against Husk’s chest, drowning sound in the echo of Husk's heartbeat against his ear. It’s uneven. Heavy. The saddest rhythm he’s ever known. “I’m fine. Don’t be sad, whiskers.” He tries to smile. A crooked, strained curve wearing forced bravado like lipstick stains on cracked glass.
For now, Husk lets him have the lie. Until they’re far away from this place, until Angel is truly safe, Husk will live in the lie that his own pride and overconfidence had nothing to do with what happened. He takes selfish comfort in the fact that Angel isn’t blaming him when he ought to be cursing Husk’s name with every ragged breath.
“I’ve got you,” Husk says again, brushing his lips featherlight against Angel’s temple. The kiss saying everything Husk doesn’t trust himself to speak without breaking apart. Not yet. Not while Angel needs him to be the man Angel has always believed he was instead of the monster he’s always been. “I ain’t never letting go again.”
“I’m okay,” Angel repeats softly. “Been through worse.” He jokes, settling himself into the lie, because he knows that he isn’t. Knows that the pain isn't over yet, that some part of himself will always be trapped and scattered across this room. “Are they dead?”
“Every single one of them.” Husk promises, grip tightening.
As Husk carries Angel out of the cell, past the chains, past the instruments that were used to hurt him yet failed to break him, away from the nightmare that stole three weeks of their lives, he doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
The guilt will stay with him. It should. It will follow him into sleep, curl beside him in the dark, whisper in his ear every time he dares to close his eyes. He deserves the nightmares, knows how to drink through the phantom shrieks of his sins and numb the weight of his faults.
Right now, all that matters is the living weight cradled in his arms. The brush of breath against his throat. How strong Angel is, even though he never should have had to be. Knowing that Angel has forgiven him even though he hasn’t yet begun to earn it. Isn’t even sure he really can.
Husk steps out of that concrete hell scape, into the sulfur scented air of Hell, looks down at Angel unconscious in his arms, and makes a promise he intends to keep. To never again let his arrogance lead him to gamble with something he can’t afford to lose. To never let his pride make him blind to the consequences he’s always avoided taking responsibility for.
Because some debts can’t be repaid in bloodshed. Some sins can’t be so easily forgiven, no matter how easily that offering might erase his own guilt and flatter his pride. The deck won’t always be stacked in his favor And Husk has already come too close to losing the only thing that ever made him believe he was more than a monster.