Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Post-it notes were everywhere, and no one was allowed to talk about them. Especially not with Angel. 

They were plastered everywhere and have been for the past few months. They started in Angel’s room with little reminders like, ‘Bring your dishes down, Vaggie,’ or ‘Take meds at 9:00 PM.’ But now, they’re on nearly every wall, door, and cabinet. And no one talked about it. Angel never ate anymore, but he did do his best to show himself at the nightly dinners and the occasional movie night. But Angel rarely ate till Alastor ate, and with him gone so often. Angel became her new fixation — tapping at his plate whenever he refused to eat, and grumbling when he would leave unexpectedly. Sometimes he’d just wander, and they would have to keep track of where he went, since he never knew, either. 

Recently, though, he had taken a special interest in the hotel’s TV, mainly due to its proximity to the front door, as well as the broadcasts displayed. He’d lie limp on the couch, staring at the screen for hours sometimes, while the Valentino-sponsored ‘Hell’s Angels’ documentary played in the background. 

He even caught himself forgetting he had work sometimes, which he never did before — he thinks?

Though thankfully, today was one of his, albeit rare, off days, where he could simply lie around and do whatever he wanted. And, of course, the sinner had found himself plopped, eyes half-closed, in front of the bright TV. 

“Oh, you are filthy, spider!” Niffty squeals, picking up a crinkled Post-it off the floor, going to toss it in the garbage quickly, before Husk stops her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, that’s Angel’s,” Husk grumbled, yanking the piece of paper out of Niffty’s tight grip. She tilts her head, confused, as Husk swallows thickly and meets her gaze, “He may need that.” 

The taller demon then goes back to Angel, who was now sleeping on the couch, a glass of wine lay untouched next to him, the woman squints, watching as Husk drops it on the table. She watches as he stares at him for a bit. She can only assume he’s staring, since she can’t really see the whole scene, but, yeah, he’s definitely staring, and stroking his head too. 

“Oh! Are you planting a bug on him? Oh! Oh! Can I kill it? Kitty, kitty! Please!” 

Husk’s chest tightens in a way he can’t describe, he knew it wasn’t right to baby Niffty, as discussed in the many sit-downs he, Charlie, and Lucifer had had, he couldn’t just tell her. She knew what drugs were, she’d been in hell for a long time, she knew what mental illness was — of course she did! Everyone here had something wrong with them, right?

He hated wording it like that; it was something wrong. Like it could be fixed, like medicine could help it. He could feel Niffty’s piercing through his fur and tearing through his skin. Fuck. He took a deep breath. She wasn’t stupid; she was a smart girl, a woman. And she was great with patterns; she was good at fixing them when they broke. But, hell, she couldn’t fix this. 

He picks the girl up gently, his large claws tickling at Niffty’s pale skin — causing her to giggle. She rubs and scratches at her face a bit, then sneezes. 

“You remember switchboards, Niff?” He asks, part of him already knows her answer, but he wants to ask, anyway.

“Sort of,” she replies, her voice small. It’s impossible not to hold her right now, but he maintains his position. 

“You know how some switches get… messed up sometimes? And how some of the wires get… crossed?”  

“Flickering lights?” Niffty questions. “Like Alastor fixed last week!” 

Husk cringed internally, gritting his teeth a bit before continuing, “Yeah… Alastor, sure—”

“How does this have anything to do with Angie?” Niffty hisses, pulling away. Husk sighs, rubbing his forehead. He tries to cover up the fact that he can barely breathe, “Well, some of Angel’s… wires… are crossed, too.”

“Like a twenty space, a twenty circuit, or a twenty space with a forty circuit?” 

Husk squinted, not fully sure any of her ramblings meant anything. He sighs, “Yeah—yeah, like that… whatever you say, Bug.”

“So is that why he’s been crying and sleeping so much?” 

Husk nods slowly, fiddling with a few pieces of Niffty’s hair, his gaze unfocused. Niffty tilts her head, reaching her hands out to squeeze the cat’s claws — trying to comfort him. She opens her mouth to speak, she wants to say something nice, she should, but her brain couldn’t come up with anything. 

Husk hummed that thick, gruff noise he only made when he couldn’t speak himself; it was like his own special filler word… even if it wasn't quite a word. Niffty stood up carefully, and slowly, taking a deep breath before wrapping her tiny arms around Husk’s shaky frame. He smiles, leaning in to kiss the smaller one on the forehead — he should probably stop doing that soon, too.

Niffty scrambled off, as Husk looked back over at Angel. The TV was stuck on a channel he’d never even glanced at, light snores emanating from his thin body. Husk sighs, walking forward and grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him. Love is deliberate, loss is a feeling of love, he tells himself; he remembers Angel saying something stupid and lovey like that. It felt good, though, to think about it. 

His eyes scan the area around him, the bright pink Post-it clutched loosely in Angel’s hand. Husk gulps, and, against his better judgment, he fiddles with his hand, pulling out the note softly. It’s crumpled up, wrinkles already set deep into the paper — gentle, caring crevices make the words difficult to read, but Husk still tries.  

Written in smeared, sparkly, red ink is a note — a note that Husk has to read over and over again to understand. 

Love is deliberate and patient, Husk’s is. It’s supposed to be like this, Charlie said so. He gulps, his darting from the paper to Angel’s face. 

Maybe it was an emotional thing, and that’s why he wasn’t getting it — he wasn’t supposed to get used to this, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. He looks back at the note, tears coming to his eyes. He reads it over again; he has to be reading it wrong.

‘Short maid girl, Niffty. You love her. Likes being called ‘Nugget’ but only in private.’

He exhales shakily, looking back at Angel, his hands trembling; he doesn’t even trust himself. And he hates that. 

He hates all of this.

Chapter Text

Angel squints at the photo in front of him. He was never great with names, especially recently. But God…

He gulps, as Charlie rambles on about the man in the photo, Angel knew him; he had to. He was posed with him, wearing a beaming smile, and there were several other photos of the two together. He rubbed his finger against the man’s picture, bright lights of the bar came back to him. But he can’t remember where they were. He knew him, though. His chest hurt; he knew who he was. He knew him.  

There’s a pang that pulls at his body, a painful, tightening feeling — it makes his eyes sting. He fights with his mind, pleading with himself to be present. He keeps staring. It hurts because he knows. 

“…he was so sweet, he didn’t drink much, but when he did! He was so funny! Wasn’t he, Angel?” Charlie questions, nudging him. 

He blinks away tears, but he does manage a nod. Vaggie squints, her brows furrow, but Charlie smiles — beaming. 

The spider begins to feel nauseous, but he always did, Lucifer doesn’t notice, no one does, thankfully. He feels a pressure push against his lungs; he tastes metal. There’s a shift in his feeling, but he doesn’t know why; he thinks the… snake, left. He left at some time, he knows there was a battle, he remembers one, he remembers fighting, an explosion, a lot of explosions, actually, he was there, he was there with the ship. 

The ship! He could practically jump up, cheer, scream; it was his ship! That’s why he halted his fighting, why everyone stopped moving, he recalls moments — quick glimpses of flashes, pavement, metal, lots of metal. He jolts, Vaggie watches, and he feels her eyes burn into him. 

There’s a twisting feeling in his gut, he wraps his arms around himself, a wave of dread washes over him, flooding his body, titatunuim rushes him. He looks at Vaggie again.

Angel sighs, standing up slowly. 

They deserve better.   

There’s a pit in Angel’s stomach. It makes him dizzy sometimes. And he doesn’t know why.

His feet hurt from pacing. He gulps. He inhales. He clutches his chest. 

His brain works like a comberbelt; it keeps running,  metal and blood mix in indecipherable ways, and he’s stuck. He’s stuck, and yet he can’t stop moving. 

The air is cold, it didn’t snow much, it was a Lucifer-controlled thing, really. And everyone knew the devil was not fond of colder weather, though he did enjoy the festivities that came along with it. 

…but to Angel’s surprise, it was cold, like a pre-snow kind of cold. Everyone in the hotel had begged for a snow day, even Charlie. 

His gaze was fixed on the clouds, the way they stuck together and sank into the air, wind whistling by in an anticipatory chill. He sighed, and he saw his breath. Then, his stomach grumbled, and doom hit him. 

The spider’s chest aches; at least he thinks it’s his chest, it could be his stomach, maybe he just needed to throw up? Angel halted his pacing and stuck to fidgeting in place. He brought a finger to his mouth — gnawing on the digit. His breaths are shallow, not daring to inhale any more than his greed lets him. Tears come to his eyes for a moment, his brain begs him to stop, he rubs his legs together, and then collapses to the ground. 

The concrete collides with his knees, and he feels his bones jangle, pricks of blood splatter across the concrete — his legs sting. There’s still a sickness in his stomach; the pit grows deeper. He curses his metabolism for a moment before surveying his whole body. 

Had he gotten skinnier? It wouldn’t make sense, especially around Sinsmas, but the thought wasn’t completely out of the question. His hands move from his knees to his stomach, tracing the lining of his sweater, the fluff tickling at his skin. He never liked fleece much — maybe that’s why everyone was looking at him weirdly. He breathed again, the air was thick, invading his lungs and burning inside his chest, digging his nails deeper into his skin. 

Angel moves his hands away from his body, focusing fully on his lower half, only to reveal a pool of blood below him, though mostly dried. 

He panics, as if he wasn’t already, he rubs his hands harshly against his wounds. He feels the tiny rocks of the pavement clash against his raw skin. It burns. But it’s all he can identify. Then, he uses his upper arms to envelope himself, and he shuts his eyes tightly, tears falling from his face and dampening his skirt.

He hears a thump echo behind him, tiny feet trotting on top of the sidewalk. He hears the door click shut. His head pounds with imposition, his hands tremble and he struggles to speak. He opens his mouth, his throat quakes, and all he can do is whimper. 

There’s a tiny finger poking at his back, there’s a bubbling quality to his skin, and it’s everywhere. He whips his head around, scanning the woman in front of him for a few moments before sighing and smiling softly. But Niffty just stares. That's all she can do now. 

“…it’s dinner time,” she squeaks. Angel stares back, locking eyes with the smaller, her undereye was dark, damp, shiny — it wasn’t supposed to be like that. It was blatant, and she didn’t even bother to wipe it away, like she just knew. 

“Dinner time,” Niffty reminds, playing with the hem of her dress. Angel flinches, nodding slowly. Niffty speaks again, “Inside,” she murmurs, her tiny voice crackling through her words. Angel’s chest tightens. Niffty rarely eats without him now. The man freezes, stiffening as Niffty shivers in front of him, holding herself. 

Something clicks in his brain, switches click on and off, levers, levers shifting upward — he blinks. He blinks awake. He knows he’s blinking, and he can stop.

Angel clenches his fists, looking back down at his hands and then back up at Niffty. He turns around and reaches his arms out.

Niffty’s eye widens, almost vibrating and dilating in the way only Niffty’s could. She smiles, toothy and hissing, excitedly, of course. She jumps in place, clenching her own fists a bit before launching herself at the taller, digging her tiny fingers into his fluffy back. She shoves her face into his chest fluff and lets her throat rumble, almost like a purr; it’s a deep, low hum. A sound that escapes her only when her brain is at the peak of its enjoyment, the crystallized, sharp stimulation of physical contact, soft physical contact. A rarity for both of them. 

Angel keeps his arms around her for a few moments. It burns at first; his body tends to burn a lot. But eventually, it subsides, leaving a crisp, warm fire behind. His blood sizzles within his veins, while the other exhales into his chest. That’s when Niffty pulls away, gulping.

“It’s time for dinner,” she mutters, rubbing her eye.

Angel smiles, standing up slowly and stretching his arms, “Good, ‘cause I’m really hungry.” 

There’s a pit in Angel’s stomach, but for now, he could ignore it.