Chapter Text
One day felt a lot like the next. He no longer even knew when a new one started. Nothing around him was real. Faces all blurred together. Moving from one activity to another didn't register.
His body felt heavy—like he was stuck in place and everyone moved around him.
Time had lost any sort of meaning.
So had everything else.
As hard as he tried—there wasn't a state deep enough to drown it all out.
He drank, he smoked, he snorted, he injected. His body shook all the time, nausea his new best friend. And yet, shame, guilt, and grief clung to him like festering sores he couldn't get rid of.
Not with the haughty way Val now acted—the smirk he constantly wore. He'd become the new face of the Vees and it only made him more confident. Angel had become numb to it, not caring how pompous Val got. It didn't matter. It changed nothing for him.
And they both knew Val's ego was deserved. Because now they both knew the truth.
Angel's life wasn't his own. There was no fighting back. There was no doing better. There was nothing but the afterlife he'd earned. The one he'd chosen.
The memory of signing that contract was a sharp stab of pain.
And he deserved it. He'd earned his place in Hell. His father could attest to that.
Now his days were just: get fucked, get so high he couldn't see straight—repeat.
The burn in his nose was an old friend he'd missed. The sharp sting of a needle a lover he'd forgotten. Now they came without that blessed relief—instead they were a sharp reminder of why he deserved punishment. Why he was unworthy of redemption.
And the hollow feeling in his aching body was a penance he gladly bore.
But even that wasn't enough. The pain and degradation and self-loathing weren't enough to erase Husk's face when he'd walked away. The feel of his warm hand wrapped around Angel's.
He'd held on so tightly—his soft fur the last gentle touch Angel would ever get. He'd cried for hours when he realized that—forcing Val to prove him right.
God. How many times had he thought about holding Husk's hand?
What a fucking joke.
Worse was the feeling of his hands wrapped around Cherri's neck.
Her hot skin under his tight grasp. Her choking cries of pain, confused betrayal in her eye. He'd tried to stop—for a moment he'd known—and then he'd been lost again.
His hands constantly itched with the memory—her face popping up every time he wasn't high enough.
Cherri. The one person in Hell who had loved him. No matter how fucked up he was, Cherri was always right there.
He'd seen her, lurking outside the tower when he left with Val on occasion. She'd looked determined the first time, but eventually her shoulders slumped and she looked defeated.
He pretended he didn't see it.
Treated her like she didn't exist.
Guilt lay so heavy in his stomach he'd thrown up in the limo once. He stopped looking after the beating Val gave him.
And it ripped something open inside of him that no amount of drugs could fill. A cold, empty place where Cherri used to live. Her gunpowder scent, her obnoxious laugh, her arms around him.
It felt like losing Molly all over again.
No amount of physical pain could touch the ruined psyche he was left with.
Whatever Vox had done to him had gone deeper than he could have imagined. He dreamed of things he didn't recognize—following people, eavesdropping, Vox's smiling face. He'd wake in a cold sweat, shaking from a sense of dread that stuck to his throat like cough syrup. Only to beg Val for more drugs.
It no longer mattered what Val wanted in return for them. Half the time he didn't even ask for anything anymore. What was the point? All he had to do was ask Angel in just the right way and he'd find himself doing things with no memory of how he'd gotten there.
Val would order him and everything would fade to fog. The room would slip sideways—the scent of Val's cologne always the last thing to fade. And when it was over, horrifying clarity would pop back into place.
Val never made him forget like Vox did.
He wished they'd never pulled him out. At least before they came he was unaware of anything. Husk had knocked something loose when he struck Angel. The shock of Husk hurting him had overridden whatever Vox's powers did.
Now he was too aware. There was no more blissful ignorance of his actions. Only the stark terror that nothing was his anymore.
And yet nothing had changed.
It was too bad Charlie had ended the extermination. Now he had no out.
He refused to even pretend he wanted Val anymore. But it didn't matter, because Val could just make him pretend. Make a smile spread on his cracked lips.
Not even his mind was his own.
He stopped doing anything other than exactly what Val told him to. When he wasn't filming or taking clients or being fucked by Val—he did nothing.
He didn't eat. He didn't tend his wounds. He just stared at nothing. Waiting for the next fresh torture.
Val was happy he'd lost weight.
Fat Nuggets wasn't even there to make him feel like he wasn't alone. He reached for him sometimes. It was the only time he cried anymore—when he missed his baby so badly his heart felt like it was ripping in two.
It was for the best though. Cherri would take care of him. And he was safe at the hotel.
No one was safe from him.
His hands held the truth of that. He'd hurt Cherri. Hadn't been able to stop himself. If she wasn't safe—no one was.
And so everything blurred into one big mass of pain, fear, and misery.
All he knew anymore was the bright lights of the studio, Val's venom, and the acid always in the back of his throat.
Until something happened he wasn't expecting.
"Angel," a voice called distantly through the fog.
He looked up slowly, his head only so much jelly as the room moved around him, swaying like a boat in the water. He didn't recognize the demon standing there, or perhaps he was too high to remember. His thin silhouette did seem familiar.
Not worth remembering. Won't matter.
He just stared. Words weren't worth using.
"Do you… um… want a robe?"
He looked down, realizing he was naked. And bruised—bodily fluids dried in his fur. It hardly mattered. He wasn't cold. And if Val wanted him to put something on, he'd let him know.
His eyes traveled off into the room, he could hear people talking around him, but the words bled together to create a low buzz in his ears. They had no faces.
He briefly thought he should feel alarmed at his emptiness. But the thought passed without feeling.
He went still again. Staring at nothing.
Arms went around him, carefully pulling him to his feet. He tried to stand with them, but he couldn't tell if he'd actually moved. He went with whoever it was, leaning heavily on them. Apparently it was time for something else.
Sounds faded as they passed through a door. He vaguely recognized the room but his brain was too fuzzy to remember.
Plus it hardly mattered. The tower was his prison. He didn't care where he was.
The arms let go and he collapsed to the floor, unable to keep himself upright. Pain jolted through his knees at the impact—floor cold against his naked skin. The demon made a noise of distress but Angel made no sound at all.
"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, Mister Dust."
The demon pulled him up again, with some difficulty, and plopped Angel into a chair. A familiar but faint smell invaded his senses and he blinked slowly—turning his head toward it.
A vase full of faces stared at him—red light turning them into bleeding faces. He recognized those flowers. Pansies were his favorite. His hand twitched.
What were they doing here?
He reached out a trembling hand, hating how it worsened as it neared them. He caressed a golden one. They were the color of Husk's eyes. The thin petal as soft as the fur on Husk's hand.
Pain rose and he snatched his hand back.
Husk's smiling face filled his mind. He didn’t even remember what that smile had felt like anymore—just that it wasn’t this.
He fucking hated the flowers.
"They came with this."
The demon set a little card on the table—the kind that was usually stuck in the flowers. He tried to read it but his vision blurred and swam.
So he leaned closer, holding his breath so he didn't sway.
Just thinking of you.
-H
Angel's breath caught. What—why?
His chest tightened with grief so heavy he thought he might throw up.
And then hot fury road its coattails.
Does this mother fucker not know how to listen??
He stood abruptly, knocking the chair over as he shoved the demon. The room pitched wildly.
"Fuck you! Who said I want these?! You little piece a shit!"
He stumbled, grabbing the table. His heart hammered in his chest, making it hard to breath through the pain. The demon held up his hands, trying to quiet Angel. But his anger burned too hot. He didn't care who heard him.
"What tha fuck is wrong with you?! Why would ya bring me these?! They belong in tha fuckin' trash!"
The door burst open behind him, banging loudly into the wall—echoing in the small room. Angel whirled, falling into the table. Everything spun harder.
Fear spiked in his chest at Val's cold steps.
"The fuck is going on in here," Val hissed.
Angel pointed. "This… this little shit…"
Val stalked closer, halting next to Angel.
"Flowers? Who's sending you flowers, baby?"
The was ice in Val's voice. But Angel didn't care. Val couldn't be as mad as he was. He snatched the card off the table and shoved it at Val.
Val growled as he ripped it from Angel's grasp, squinting to read it. Angel focused on staying upright until Val squeaked in anger.
"Tenía que ser ese pinche gato pulgoso malcriado! I'm gonna cut his balls off and feed them to him!"
Shit. Ice rolled down his spine. That wasn't what he'd meant to do.
"I hope you enjoyed your flowers, baby because that pinche puta imbécil is dead."
Val pulled Money Shot from his coat, grinning wickedly. Angel's vision narrowed to nothing but the gun.
Adrenaline surged and fell, bringing acid up from his empty stomach. His throat tightened. Weakness trying to pull him down.
Fuck.
He had to do something.
He turned and picked the vase up and hurled it at the demon's head. He ducked and it slammed into the wall, leaving a crack as it exploded into water, glass, and petals.
"I didn't want tha damn flowers! You tell that sad sack a shit I hope he drinks himself ta death—again!"
He stalked forward—ignoring the demon's stammering. Using every bit of energy he possessed to stay upright—he grabbed it by the throat. He lifted it to his height, his hand trembling harder as he struggled to give a proper show of force.
"You eva bring me something from him again and I'll flay you alive, you little snake. Now get out a my fuckin' sight and give that message ta that crusty old cat!"
He turned, throwing it at Val's feet. Dizziness hit him hard. His chest heaved in anger.
Stayup, stayup, stayup—
Anger that Husk didn't listen, that he put himself in danger, that Angel had to resort to threats so Val wouldn't kill him.
Selfish prick.
Val smirked down at the demon. "You heard him, Ethan. Run along like a good little slave. Deliver the message."
Val chuckled as the demon scrambled to his feet and ran like dogs were at his heels. He put his gun away as he sauntered over to Angel, and gripped his chin hard, lifting his face.
Angel didn't resist—he stilled as Val's fingers dug in painfully. Val's cloying cologne invaded his senses.
"Mmm. You look so hot all worked up like that."
Val's hands were on him then—in his fluff, on his dick, pulling him closer. Angel gasped at the assault, grabbing onto Val so he wouldn't fall.
"I like this so much better than all that moping you've been doing, Amorcito," he purred. "From now on, you're done with that, Angel. You're gonna be that sexy confident bitch I love. Tell me you understand."
Val's voice rang in his ears. The room slipped sideways as the command slid into his brain and fog rolled down his spine. He knew what was happening, but he couldn't stop it.
He gave Val a seductive grin as he pressed closer. "I understand, Daddy."
Val's cologne overwhelmed his senses and he forgot about the flowers and how sad he'd been. And just like before, the room stopped hurting. He stopped hurting. This was right where he belonged. No reason to be upset about it.
"Good. Now bend over that table, baby. We're gonna have some fun."
~~~~~
Husk lay on the lounge floor, one leg bent as he stared at the ceiling. Nuggs stuck his snout in Husk's face, oinking sadly.
Again.
"Yeah, buddy. Me too."
He’d been lying on this floor so long it had begun to feel like a second bed. No energy to get up. No reason.
His back was damp with sweat from the carpet. He hadn't realized how long he'd been lying there until the fibers had stamped patterns in his fur—tiny indentations that hurt when he moved, as if the floor itself was trying to keep him down.
"We should get shit-faced tonight," Cherri suggested from where she lay on the couch.
"Why not."
They'd been drinking together a lot since Angel had left them. Cherri was trying her hardest to stay positive but positivity wasn't in Husk's nature.
Angel brought it out in him. But he wasn't the rule. Angel was the exception.
To everything.
Husk hadn't known it was possible to miss someone so deeply. He'd thought he found Angel annoying—with his stupid stunts. But now he missed how loud that asshole could be. His mischievous smile. The stupid over-the-top flirting.
He ached. Deep, bone-deep.
It sat behind his ribs like a weight, pressing down every time he breathed. Some nights it felt like his heart was rotting in place. The nights he woke up reaching for a body that had never actually been in his bed. Nights he'd dreamed Angel was beside him—warm, safe—only to wake up with his arms tight around nothing.
Those mornings hurt worst of all.
Angel was the only reason he'd gotten out of bed some days. And now… now he couldn't remember the last morning he'd managed to stand upright without wanting to crawl back into the dark.
"I saw him yesterday," Cherri said softly.
His stomach dropped. For one sickening second he thought he might throw up. His claws dug into the carpet. A ringing started in his ears—sharp, metallic, drowning out everything but his heartbeat. He didn't want to hear the next thing out of her mouth. Couldn't. He wasn't built for that kind of pain—the kind that hollowed you out mid heartbeat.
"Don't. I don't wanna hear it."
"Husk—"
"No. There ain't nothing you can say that'll do anything but piss me the fuck off."
Either Angel was doing poorly, which would break his damn heart. Or he wasn't. And that would kill him.
"We gotta do something," she pleaded.
Husk rolled his head, glaring. "You said he'd come back. That was months ago. Where is he, Cherri? He ain't fucking coming back. He doesn't want to."
"That's bullshit. He wants to be here, asshole."
"He did. Once." Husk looked back at the ceiling. "He don't now. Quit living in a damn fantasy."
He heard her get up. He wasn’t expecting the kick to the ribs. Something cracked—he was sure of it—and he yowled as pain shot through him.
"Fuck you, Husk! Angie would never leave me!"
He held his side as he looked up into her eye. Tears streamed down her face and his ears fell. Damnit. He hadn't meant to make her cry.
He hated himself instantly—for upsetting her, for making it about him, for existing at all. The shame crawled up his spine like something alive, something with teeth.
He hated that he couldn’t even defend Angel without hurting the people Angel loved. Everything he did lately just made things worse.
"But he did leave," Husk said quietly. Pain filled his chest, squeezing what was left of his wretched, broken heart.
There wasn't much left. He'd lost most of it years ago. Angel had taken the rest with him.
"I'm not the one living in a fantasy! You're just afraid he doesn't love you back!"
Husk was on his feet in an instant—wings flared, fists clenched.
"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"
Cherri crossed her arms, her hip jutting out. "Yeah, okay, Husk. Whatever."
"Fuck you, bitch. I don't need this shit!"
He stalked toward the door as Cherri yelled at his backside.
"Oh yeah! Go ahead and run away. Just like you did when Angie saved your life. Cause that turned out SO WELL!"
Husk flipped her off without stopping.
Stupid bitch.
Didn't know what she was talking about. Angel made his choice. Husk didn't have to fucking like it. But it wasn't his choice to make.
This had nothing to do with his goddamn feelings.
Nothing.
Liar.
He growled at nothing, guests in the hallway watching him as he stalked past. Buncha nosy bitches.
He didn't know if they were really staring. Maybe no one was. Maybe he was imagining it. His nerves were shot to Hell—every whisper sounded like his name. Everyone in this damn hotel was a fucking bitch.
Including you.
He couldn’t breathe right. Every inhale felt thin, like there just wasn’t enough air in the damn hotel anymore.
A cowardly little bitch.
His heart lurched but Husk ignored it. What he felt didn't matter. This wasn't about him. This was about Angel.
And Angel had hurt people. People he loved. It didn't matter that it wasn't his fault. Because underneath of all the stupid fucking bravado—Angel was incredibly sensitive and caring.
He took care of everyone around him. And he did it in such a way that you'd never notice if you weren't paying attention.
Husk paid attention. He'd always paid attention. Admittedly, not in the same way he did in the beginning. He hadn't understood Angel then, and hadn't realized just how wrong he was.
Even after all this time, he still hadn't understood. Angel had tried to make them all understand, but they never really listened.
His wings rustled hard in self recrimination.
Angel wasn't like the rest of them. Being Valentino's favorite wasn't like being owned by Alastor.
Alastor had his own shit and mostly—he left Husk alone unless he needed him.
Everything about Angel's life was decided by the Vees. Even when he'd thought he was free, it was because they'd wanted him to think that. To stay at the hotel and spy for them.
And now Angel knew the truth. Nothing about his life was real. Nothing was true.
Except… the hotel had been. They all cared about Angel. And Angel had really wanted to change. To be redeemed. Husk still thought he could have been if only they understood how it worked.
"Hey, Husk," Vaggie called out as he crossed the foyer of the hotel. "Could you—"
"No. I'm fucking leaving."
Vaggie hurried after him, grabbing his arm. The contact burned. Not with heat—with grief. He hated how fast he pulled away. Like he was made of exposed wires and anyone touching him might get shocked. He growled as he turned to her, but Vaggie wasn't intimidated. She frowned.
"For good?"
"Only if you keep asking me stupid fucking questions," he spat.
They stared at each other for a long beat. "He still might come back, Husk."
He didn't even bother with words as he turned away. His tail flicked wildly as he left the hotel.
Shame crept up as he stalked down the hill to the street. Everyone else still believed Angel would come back. But Husk hadn't told them that Angel had given up before Vox had taken him. Not even Cherri knew.
He'd already been convinced he couldn't be redeemed. And now he knew he was a danger to everyone he cared about. What would he come back for?
Husk made his way to the nearest bar—where he could get drunk without bitches chirping in his ear. He couldn't care less about the sticky bar top or the staticky TV or even the rancid smell of the customer three seats down.
He just needed a drink. Or two. Or three.
He needed the numbness more than the alcohol. Needed that warm, creeping fog to wrap around the jagged edges inside him. Without it, everything in his chest scraped.
By the time he hit the fourth drink his anger had cooled into what really ate at him.
The liquor didn’t even burn anymore. Nothing burned. His body felt pickled, preserved in sorrow, everything muted except the hollow throb behind his sternum.
Despair.
For months the last conversation he had with Angel played over and over in his mind. He could still hear Angel's sultry voice as he sang a love song to the crowd. One that had felt like it was meant just for him.
His feathers had bristled that night, every one of them standing on end. It was the stupidest thing—a physical reaction he couldn't control. Like his body had known something before his mind did.
They had locked eyes at the end. And something inside Husk had recognized the moment for what it was.
Real.
An opportunity for Husk to be honest, with both of them. But he hadn't been. He'd thought he'd have time to digest things. To get used to the truth.
He wasn't sure if it was better that he hadn't confessed, or not.
Who would it have helped?
Angel still would have left.
And Husk had no idea if Angel had felt what he felt, or if it lived in his head alone.
All he knew was that there wasn't enough liquor in Hell to erase the look on Angel's face when he'd told them to forget him. It tore at Husk every damn day, widening the hole in his chest until there was nothing left.
Until all his hope died.
Hope didn't die quietly. It clawed its way out of him, hollowing him out, leaving an echo in his ribs where something used to live.
Cherri was wrong. This wasn't about the way he felt. It was the death of hope. He knew she'd been trying and failing to get Angel to even acknowledge her. Every time she came back unsuccessful, Husk had lost hope.
If Cherri couldn't get through to him—no one would.
You did once.
Husk curled around his glass, his ears dropping low. He had. But this time was different. This time he had nothing to offer Angel. What advice could he give?
Words wouldn't change anything.
Only Valentino's death would. But he wasn't strong enough to kill the man for good. He'd kicked his ass once, but that hadn't done anything useful. Only permanent death could help Angel. And Alastor wouldn't be pleased if Husk started a war he couldn't finish.
Especially with the Vees.
The TV flickered, and Husk glanced at it. He wasn’t even watching the screen—just letting the flicker paint his face in colors he didn’t care to identify. He looked away again before his brain registered what he'd seen. But when it did, his gaze flew back to it—glued to the screen.
His vision tunneled. The bar noise vanished. Even the glass in his hand stopped sweating. For a terrifying second, everything around him froze—except Angel's face on the screen.
It was advertising some new movie of Angel's. Husk barely noticed what it was supposed to be about—all he could see was Angel.
He'd lost significant weight—something he couldn't afford with how thin he already was. Husk's breath caught. Not in surprise—in dread. Angel didn’t just look thinner. He looked carved down. Hollowed. His cheekbones stuck out sharp enough to hurt. His smile wasn't a smile—just a reflex. Something practiced. Something empty. His eyes didn't focus on anything. Not even the camera. As if no one was home behind them.
He looked sick and his eyes were clearly glazed over with a haze of drugs. Husk’s pulse thrashed against his throat. The room tilted. He gripped the counter just to stay upright.
He remembered the night Angel had sat quietly at the bar after a bad filming session—quiet, exhausted, but still grinning at Husk like he hung the damn moon.
"Just tell me if I'm too much," Angel had whispered.
And Husk had shrugged it off. He should have said something then. He should have told him he mattered. Should have told him everything he'd been denying.
Nausea rose in Husk as guilt drowned him. Was this what Cherri was trying to tell him? And he'd refused to listen.
He’d been so damn stubborn. So sure he was the only one hurting. And all the while Angel had been slipping away in plain sight.
Fear choked him. He'd seen addicts look bad. He'd seen demons dying. He'd never seen Angel look like that—like a candle burning from both ends, melting faster than it could hold its own shape. How far gone did Angel have to be before he couldn't come back? Before Husk's Angel didn't exist anymore?
He was wasting away. He'd given up.
For a split second he pictured Angel’s body on Val's couch, too still, too cold, surrounded by empty bottles and the stink of Vee-brand drugs. The memory gutted him. His grip on the counter tightened so hard his claws cracked the wood.
He was so fucking blind and stupid. Cherri was right. Husk was living in a fantasy—one where he thought Angel had the right to choose.
Angel had no choices.
None.
Husk's breath died in his lungs. The truth hit so violently his wings twitched open on impact. People glanced at him. He didn't care. All he could think was: He's dying. Maybe not literally—not yet—but in every way that mattered.
What if he already wasn't the same person anymore? What if the Angel Husk loved had been chipped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but a shell wearing his face?
Angel wasn’t choosing this. Angel couldn’t choose anything.
And if he had no choices, then what the fuck was there for Husk to respect?
He wasn't just a coward. He was the kind of coward who let the only person he loved rot alone. If Angel never came back, it'd be Husk's fault. He knew it. And he'd have to live with it. Forever.
He abandoned his drink, hurrying back toward the hotel. He needed to talk to Cherri.
But something caught his eye on the way and he stopped, staring at the flowers by the window. He recognized them. Pansies. His throat closed.
Angel, holding a little vase. Angel explaining why he liked their faces. Angel laughing. Husk had thought it was stupid at the time—flowers with faces. Now he'd give anything to hear Angel ramble about them again. Anything just to hear his voice not slurred. Not drugged. Not deadened.
All of it felt like a ghost brushing past him.
He'd meant to tell Angel once that he liked pansies too—not the flowers, but the way Angel smiled when he talked about them. But he never did. And now the sight of them felt like a goodbye he wasn't ready for.
His hand hovered over the flowers. He didn't touch them—afraid they'd crumble the way Angel was crumbling.
He wasn't going to lose Angel. He'd already lost too many things he loved. Too many people. If he lost Angel too… he wasn't sure there'd be anything left of him.
He didn't know where they'd go from here, but he could let Angel know they were coming.