Work Text:
“Where It Hurts”
The hotel was half-asleep when Angel slipped back through the front doors.
Neon bled through the lobby windows in soft pink and blue smears, painting the tile floor in restless light. The only sound was the lazy hum of the bar fridge and the faint static buzz of Husker’s radio somewhere behind the counter. Usually, Angel’s arrival came with chatter, heels, perfume—noise and life he carried like armor.
Tonight, he was just a shadow in a hoodie.
He closed the door quiet, like it might bite him if he made a sound. The hood sat too low, hiding the familiar sweep of white fluff, and the sleeves were bunched tight around his hands. His steps were small, soft—socked feet instead of stilettos—and that alone was wrong enough to make Husk look up.
The old cat was nursing his third drink, half-listening to static and half-dozing. But even half-drunk, he didn’t miss much.
He frowned, claws still hooked around his glass.
“Since when do you wear hoodies, doll?”
Angel froze halfway past the bar. The tone wasn’t harsh, just curious, but it landed like a weight on his shoulders. He forced a laugh—thin, too quick.
“Can’t a guy change up his look? Maybe I’m startin’ a trend. Cozy couture.”
“Cozy, huh?” Husk’s ear flicked. “You’re never cold.”
Angel shrugged, still not facing him. “Maybe Hell’s gettin’ chilly.”
It wasn’t funny, and it wasn’t even trying to be.
Something in the air shifted. Husk set the glass down slow, eyes narrowing. The tremor in Angel’s voice wasn’t obvious—but the quiet was. Too careful. Too contained.
Husk came around the counter, paws dragging softly against the floor.
“Long night?”
Angel’s hand twitched at the hem of his hoodie. “You could say that.”
“Uh-huh.” Husk stopped a few feet away. “What kinda long? Work long, or Val bein’ a—”
“Drop it, Husky.” The nickname came out sharp, but the sharpness cracked halfway through, collapsing under something small and tired. Angel’s gaze was still fixed on the floor.
Husk’s tail flicked. “You tellin’ me to drop it makes me not wanna drop it.”
“Yeah, well—too bad.” Angel’s laugh this time sounded like glass cracking. He started toward the stairs.
That should’ve been the end of it. Husk could’ve let him go, pretended not to see the stiffness in Angel’s gait, the way his hand pressed subtly against his ribs under the hoodie. He could’ve ignored the faint copper tang that didn’t belong to perfume.
But Husker wasn’t good at ignoring things when it came to Angel.
“Angel.” The word wasn’t loud, but it stopped him cold.
The spider’s shoulders drew up, his breath hitching. Husk walked closer—slow enough not to spook him, quiet enough that each step was deliberate. When he reached him, Angel didn’t turn. Husk’s ears flicked. His voice softened.
“What happened.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t quite a demand either.
More like an old scar recognizing another.
“You flinch every time you move,” Husk said softly. “And you smell like blood.”
Angel’s mouth tightened. “You’re imaginin’ things.”
“I don’t imagine, doll. I notice.”
The silence stretched thin between them. The flicker of the neon sign outside pulsed pink across the back of Angel’s hoodie, throwing the smallest tremor in his outline.
“Lemme see,” Husk said, voice low and even. “C’mere.”
“No.” The answer came quick, panicked.
“Angel—”
“I said no.” Angel finally turned, eyes flashing—too wide, too wet. The hood slipped a little, revealing tired, smudged pink around his eyes. His lip trembled before he could harden it back into something sharp.
Husk froze where he stood, claws flexing uselessly. He didn’t push again. Not yet.
Angel took a shaky breath, tried to smirk through it. “It’s nothin’. Just tired. Studio was a bitch tonight.”
Husk’s gaze fell to where the sleeve of the hoodie was pushed up just enough to reveal a streak of red across pale fur—a half-healed scratch that had started bleeding again. Angel saw the direction of his eyes and yanked the sleeve down fast, flinching as he did.
Husker exhaled slowly, like he’d just been punched.
“That’s ‘nothin’,’ huh?” The fabric rode up — not far, just enough to show the telltale purple bloom of bruises climbing up the inside of Angel’s forearm. They weren’t fresh, but they were deep, layered — the kind that didn’t happen from falling. Husk’s breath left him in one short sound, half-growl, half-gasp.
He froze.
If he said the wrong thing, Angel would bolt. He knew that look — the wide eyes, the fake calm, the forced grin that said please don’t make me explain.
So he exhaled slowly and crouched instead, bringing himself level with Angel’s trembling hands.
Husker softens more immediately, voice low, coaxing instead of commanding: “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me see.”
“Easy, kid. I ain’t mad. Just let me—yeah, that’s it…”
He lifted the hem of the sleeve carefully, claws turned inward so the edges wouldn’t scrape.
The bruises traveled higher, dark patches overlapping pale fur, ringed by faint welts. Beneath that, a spot of dried blood clung to gauze that had peeled at the edges. Whoever wrapped it up did it fast — probably Angel himself, one-handed in some dingy bathroom.
Husker’s jaw flexed.
“You patched this yourself?”
Angel’s silence answered for him.
Husk set his glass down so gently the sound barely registered. He rubbed a thumb over the gauze, feeling the texture of cheap tape and grit beneath it. Then he met Angel’s eyes, voice low, the usual sarcasm stripped out.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
For a second, Angel looked ready to cry. Then his grin cracked back into place — brittle, shining, desperate.
“Oh, baby, you’re sweet. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I bounce back. Spider legs, remember?”
Husk shook his head.
“Don’t start. You don’t gotta dance through it tonight.”
Angel swallowed hard. “Please, Husky. Don’t.” His voice cracked around the word. “I just… I just need to crash. I don’t wanna talk about it, okay?”
Husker stepped forward before he thought better of it, careful, claws twitching like he wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure he had the right.
He didn’t grab. He just said, quietly, “You can crash. But not before I make sure you’re not gonna fall apart first.”
The silence that followed was the kind that held a thousand things neither of them were saying.
And when Angel’s chin dipped, hoodie shadowing his face again, Husk knew that was as close to permission as he’d get.
Husker stood, wings flicking once, slow and deliberate, as he gestured toward the stairs.
“Come on. Let’s get that cleaned up before it gets worse.”
Angel hesitated, looking small, hoodie bunched around him like armor.
But he followed. Quietly.
And Husk didn’t push — he just walked ahead, jaw tight, pretending he didn’t notice the faint limp in Angel’s step.
🔑🕷️♥️🎲
Husk didn’t say another word until they reached the stairs.
Angel moved like his strings were tangled—one arm curled protectively against his middle, the other gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Every now and then, his breath hitched, and Husk’s jaw clenched at the sound. He stayed close, one step behind, ready to catch him if his knees gave out.
The stairs creaked under their feet.
Angel trailed slowly, hood up, sleeves tugged down again. Husker didn’t speak — not yet. His silence said enough; it filled the narrow hallway, humming low and steady, something protective and dangerous in equal measure.
When they reached Angel’s room, the spider hesitated at the door, fingers twitching at the handle. The hoodie’s too-long sleeves had gone darker purple at the cuffs. Husker didn’t mention it—just nudged the door open himself and flicked the light switch on.
The room was small but soft. The bed was a chaos of pillows and silk, perfume and glitter dusting everything like it was trying to hide the rough edges of Hell. Husk closed the door behind them with a soft click.
The soft glow spilled over the bed, the cluttered vanity, the heap of glittering clothes kicked into a corner. A faint scent of powder and cigarette smoke clung to the air — Angel’s kind of normal.
But there was something quieter beneath it tonight.
Husker gestured toward the bed.
Angel sank down on the edge of the bed, still hugging himself. “You happy now, Dad?” he muttered, voice thin.
“Not yet.” Husk grabbed the first-aid kit Charlie had shoved behind the bar weeks ago—“for the staff,” she’d said, too bright. He set it down on the nightstand, the latch clicking open. “Now I’ll be happy.”
Angel huffed out a laugh, but it broke halfway through. His hands fidgeted in his lap, the claws of one trembling against the sleeve of the other.
“Take it off,” Husk said softly.
Angel flinched. “The hoodie?”
“No, the hotel wallpaper, yeah the hoodie,” Husk replied dryly, then sighed. His tone gentled again. “C’mon, sweetheart. I can’t help you if you don’t let me see.”
Angel looked down. His lips worked around a dozen half-formed jokes, all of which fell apart before they reached sound. Slowly, he lifted the hem of the hoodie over his head.
Husk swallowed hard.
The fabric dragged against fur matted dark in places—bruises blooming across Angel’s ribs like ink stains, thin cuts crisscrossing his arms. The marks were sharp-edged, deliberate. Not from a fall. Not from accident.
The bruises were worse under proper light — not just purple, but layered through with sickly yellows and fading greens, the kind of hurt that had been there awhile. Husk’s gut twisted.
He swallowed the growl crawling up his throat and focused on thinking on his own plan on cleaning the wound instead, dipping a cotton pad in antiseptic and dabbing carefully.
Angel avoided his gaze completely. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor. “See? Not that bad.”
Husker didn’t answer right away. He just crouched down in front of him, the motion slow, deliberate. His claws brushed Angel’s wrist, barely a hovering touch. “Who did this.”
It wasn’t really a question.
Angel’s shoulders hunched. “Don’t start.”
“Angel—”
“Don’t,” he snapped, too fast, too defensive. Then, quieter: “Please. Don’t make me say it.”
Husk shut his eyes, jaw tightening until it hurt. When he opened them again, his voice came out steady. “Fine. I won’t. But you’re gonna let me clean these up, yeah?”
Angel hesitated, then nodded—barely.
So Husker did.
He didn’t talk much while he worked. The only sounds were the quiet rip of antiseptic packets and Angel’s shallow breathing. Every time Husk dabbed at a cut, Angel twitched, but he didn’t pull away. Husk’s hands were surprisingly gentle, claws precise and careful. His wings trembled once when he found a deeper bruise, then folded tight again, like he was trying to keep himself from showing too much. For a while, that was all — quiet sound of bandages unrolling, the faint clink of metal against the bedside table, Angel’s soft breathing between winces.
Then Husk said, almost too low to catch,
“He did this, didn’t he.”
Angel froze.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
Husk didn’t need him to answer. He saw it in the way Angel’s eyes darted down and away, the way his fingers twisted in the blanket like he was trying not to shake.
“You don’t gotta say it,” Husk said after a moment. His tone wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t harsh either — it was careful, like he knew how easily Angel’s whole composure could crack if pushed wrong.
“I just needed to know what I’m dealin’ with.”
He reached up and adjusted the bandage, smoothing it down against the curve of Angel’s arm. His claws brushed fur — light, deliberate, grounding.
Angel’s voice came out small between breaths. “You don’t gotta do this, you know.”
“Yeah,” Husk murmured, eyes fixed on the next bandage. “I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because someone should.”
The words hit harder than either expected. Angel stared at him, blinking slow, mouth parting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a reason.
Husk finished wrapping the last strip of gauze, then leaned back on his heels. “There. You’ll live.”
“Yay me,” Angel whispered, trying for a smile that didn’t quite make it. His hands were shaking now that it was all over—the adrenaline gone, leaving him raw.
Husk noticed. He reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over Angel’s shoulders without asking. The spider stiffened at first, then went very still, breathing unevenly.
After a long silence, Angel spoke again, voice almost lost in the air between them.
“Feels stupid, you know? Bein’ this tired over somethin’ that happens every week.”
Husk’s eyes softened. “Ain’t stupid.”
“It is,” Angel murmured. “I should be used to it by now.”
“Nobody gets used to bein’ hurt, Angel. You just learn to hide it better.”
That did it. Angel’s composure cracked—his lip trembled, and he pressed a hand over his face, hoodie sleeve brushing against his cheek. Husk didn’t say a word. He just sat there until the sound of Angel’s quiet sobs faded into uneven breathing.
When Angel finally lowered his hand, eyes red-rimmed, Husk was still there, steady and unflinching.
He used gentle, deliberate care — cleaned, wrapped everything, gave him water, checked if he’s eaten.
“Lay down,” he said softly.
Angel blinked at him. “What, you gonna tuck me in too?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Husk’s smirk was faint but real. “Just… rest, doll. You need it.”
Angel hesitated, then shifted, curling up on his side. The blanket slipped, and Husk adjusted it, pulling it up to Angel’s chin with a kind of tenderness he tried to disguise as routine.
Husk moved to stand, but Angel’s voice stopped him, small and unsure.
“Husky?”
“Yeah?”
“…Can you stay?”
Husk froze mid-motion. His tail flicked once, betraying him. Then, without a word, he sat back down at the edge of the bed.
Angel reached out tentatively, fingers brushing the end of his sleeve. Husk looked at the gesture for a moment before sighing and unfolding one wing—slow, deliberate. He draped it over Angel like a second blanket, heavy and warm.
Angel exhaled, tension melting out of him inch by inch. His voice, when it came again, was barely a whisper.
“You did good, Husky.”
Husk huffed out a quiet laugh. “Pretty sure that’s my line, baby.”
Angel smiled weakly, eyes already closing. “Guess we can share it.”
Within minutes, his breathing evened out.
“You did good, Angel,” Husk murmurs, low enough to barely be heard.
Angel’s reply is almost fully sleep: “Didn’t think anyone’d say that to me.”
Husker sat there long after, wing still over him, cigarette burning low between two claws. The glow lit the bruises on Angel’s face in soft amber, turning them into something almost peaceful.
“You don’t deserve this,” Husk muttered, too low for anyone but the walls to hear. “Not one damn bit.”
He brushed a bit of stray pink fur off Angel’s cheek and let the ember die out in the ashtray. Whiskey eyes fixed on the faint rise and fall of Angel’s breathing as it evened out, hoodie still on the end of the bed where it was removed, bruises hidden again — but not from him.
He murmurs to himself: “Ain’t gonna let him come back like that again.”
The neon outside flickered once, painting them both in rose light before settling again.
And for the first time that night, Angel didn’t flinch in his sleep.
🥀🩷🪽🥃♠️🕷️🕸️♥️🕯️
The hotel was hushed when morning found them.
No traffic, no chaos, just the faint hum of the neon signs outside flickering against the curtains — weak daylight filtering through in pinkish gray streaks. Dust floated lazily in the air, catching on the glow. Somewhere down the hall, the pipes moaned, then went still again.
Husker hadn’t slept.
He sat where he’d been all night — half on the bed, wing still draped over Angel like a shield he didn’t quite have the heart to lift. His whiskey glass sat untouched on the nightstand, condensation long gone. Smoke lingered in the air from a cigarette that had burned itself out hours ago.
Angel was still asleep, curled small under the blanket and Husker’s wing, hoodie abandoned at the foot of the bed. The bruises on his arms looked less harsh in the soft light. His breathing was steady now, slow and deep — the kind of peace Husk hadn’t seen touch him in months.
For a long time, Husker just watched. He didn’t mean to. It was just… quiet. Easier to breathe here.
Angel stirred a little, a sleepy sound catching in his throat. He blinked awake, squinting against the pale light. For a second he looked confused, then the memory of the night before flickered back across his face — the hoodie, the pain, Husker’s hands cleaning the blood off his skin.
His gaze drifted to the wing still covering him.
“…You stayed?”
Husk scratched behind his ear, pretending it was casual. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Angel smiled — a small, tired thing, soft around the edges. “You’re a lousy liar, Husky.”
“Yeah, well, you’re a lousy actor when you’re hurt.”
That earned him a quiet huff of laughter. Angel shifted closer, careful not to jostle his bandages. The movement brought his shoulder against Husker’s leg, and for once, he didn’t pull back from the contact.
“I’m sorry,” Angel murmured after a long moment.
Husker frowned. “For what?”
“For makin’ you deal with my mess.”
Husker sighed through his nose. “Ain’t a mess, babyl. Just life.”
Angel stared at him — really looked, eyes still heavy with sleep but searching his face like he was trying to find the punchline. There wasn’t one. Husk meant it.
“…You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Angel said softly.
“Yeah. I’ve been called worse.”
Angel snorted, then winced when it tugged at a sore rib. Husker automatically reached out, pressing a steadying hand to his arm. The gesture froze both of them for a moment — a breath of warmth between the usual banter.
Angel’s voice dropped, almost a whisper.
“I didn’t think anyone’d… notice. Or care enough to.”
Husker looked away, eyes flicking toward the half-open curtains. “Guess you were wrong, huh?”
The words hung in the air like something fragile but real.
Angel leaned back against the pillow, gaze softening. “Guess I was.”
For a while, neither spoke. The light grew stronger, filtering through the blinds, brushing gold over the edges of the bed. The hotel outside was starting to wake — faint sounds of Niffty clattering around in the kitchen, a radio crackling to life somewhere down the hall.
Angel pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself and glanced at Husker again. “You ever gonna let me thank you for this?”
Husker’s ear twitched. “Already did.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Angel smiled — real this time, crooked but bright in the morning light. “Then I’m gonna do it again later. Properly.”
“Uh-huh,” Husk said, trying not to show the way that made his throat tighten.
Angel let his eyes close again, body sinking into the mattress.
“Wake me if Val calls,” he murmured sleepily.
“Not a chance in hell,” Husker muttered.
Angel hummed, already half gone again. His last words were a quiet mumble, half-buried against the pillow: “You’re good, Husky. Don’t let anyone tell ya you ain’t.”
Husker stared at him a long time, heart giving one of those small, traitorous lurches he’d been pretending he was too old to feel.
He brushed a bit of lint off Angel’s shoulder and whispered, more to himself than to him:
“Yeah… you too, baby.”
Then he leaned back, wing still stretched over the both of them, and let the morning settle around them — warm, fragile, and a little bit hopeful.