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Another Fucking Day
(A HuskerDust Slowburn Oneshot — comfort, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy)
I. The Return
The streets of Hell were empty in a way that made Angel Dust feel exposed, every crack in the pavement and flicker of neon a reminder that he wasn’t invisible. His heels clicked against the broken asphalt, sharp and too loud, echoing off walls smeared with grime and advertisements that promised more chaos than relief. Each step felt deliberate, rehearsed, like he had to keep moving to prevent the past hour from catching him fully.
He whispered to himself under his breath, mantras he had been repeating since leaving Valentino’s studio: It’s fine. You’re fine. Don’t cry. Don’t look weak. The words felt hollow, but if he repeated them enough, maybe they’d stick.
The air was heavy and cloying, smelling faintly of sugar and smoke, and Angel’s own perfume felt wrong against it—as if it belonged to a different, safer world. He kept tugging at the hem of his skirt and adjusting his jacket, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the day, trying to smooth himself out of the exhaustion.
The hotel loomed ahead, its neon sign buzzing in the darkness, red and pink smears across the cracked sidewalk. The front doors were closed, a barrier between him and the world he had just escaped. He lingered for a moment, fingers brushing the cool metal frame, trying to gather himself before stepping inside.
💔🕷️♥️
The neon outside the hotel buzzed in the way it always did, sharp and insistent, like a dying heart monitor that refused to stop. Angel Dust pressed one hand against the frame of the front doors, the other curled around his waist as though holding himself together could keep the world from noticing. Mascara smudged under his eyes, half from trying to look deliberately glamorous, half from trying not to cry on the street. The heels he’d insisted on wearing clacked sharply against the cracked pavement, a rhythm far too loud in the still night, as if the city itself were listening.
He muttered mantras under his breath—“It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t cry. Don’t look weak.”—but the words had little weight. The air in Hell felt heavier tonight, thick with heat, the scent of burnt sugar, and a hint of something metallic. The perfumes he wore for armor felt like chains he couldn’t shrug off fast enough.
By the time he reached the hotel, the lights were mostly out, shadows pooling in the lobby. The bar cast a dim glow across the tile floor, the radio murmuring softly in the background like static heartbeats. Husk was there behind the counter, pouring himself a drink, claws flexing lazily over the edge of the glass. His ears flicked once at the sound of the doors, but he didn’t look up immediately.
Inside, the lobby was quiet. Most of the lights were off, leaving long shadows stretching across the tile. The bar cast a dim glow, and the soft hum of Husk’s radio floated in the background. He was behind the counter, pouring a drink with the kind of slow, habitual precision that made it clear he’d been waiting for nothing in particular—yet still knew the moment Angel walked in would shift the air.
Husker’s wings twitched, feathers trembling faintly. The mascara under Angel’s eyes was streaked from rubbing at them in the cab. Husk noticed, immediately, even before Angel said a word. He didn’t comment. He just watched.
When his eyes finally met Angel’s, they lingered a little too long, and the usual teasing or snark that came with a greeting wasn’t there. Instead, there was the tremor of vulnerability in the arch of Angel’s back, the stiffness in his stance, the way his body seemed almost too heavy for itself. Husker’s voice broke the silence quietly.
“…Hey, Fluff,” he said. “You’re home late.”
Angel’s laugh was paper-thin, brittle, forced. “Yeah. Y’know how it is. Another fuckin’ day.”
The joke hung there, fragile and wrong, drifting in the neon haze like smoke that couldn’t find an open window. Husk set down his glass towel slowly and tilted his head, expression unreadable but patient.
“C’mere.”
Angel blinked, surprised, like he hadn’t expected the invitation. But his feet moved first. The heels clicked uncertainly across the lobby, drawing him to the bar where Husk waited. Head bowed, Husker’s wings drooping, he barely noticed the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco that clung to Husker’s fur.
Angel blinked, startled, then moved. He crossed the floor slowly, the sound of his heels clicking unevenly, until he was standing at the bar, head bowed, shoulders tight. Husk didn’t push him. He just stayed still, letting Angel arrive at his own pace.
The silence stretched. Husk didn’t push; he leaned against the counter, letting the quiet fold over them. Each breath was measured, tentative, a negotiation with the tension coiling in Angel’s chest.
II. The Quiet Invitation
Angel’s gaze kept flicking toward the bar, toward the clutter of empty glasses and folded napkins, as if something familiar in the space could anchor him. Husk’s eyes followed every small motion—the way Angel’s fingers traced the edge of a coaster, the way he tapped a claw against his leg unconsciously.
“You look beat,” Husk said quietly. No judgment, no teasing. Just observation.
Angel forced a laugh. “You should see the other guy.”
Husk tilted his head, voice low and even. “You drinkin’, or sittin’?”
Angel’s choice surprised both of them. “Sittin’.” His heels clicked as he eased onto a stool, wings folding tight around him. The act of sitting felt like a surrender, though he didn’t admit it even to himself.
Husk leaned against the counter, just close enough for the warmth of his fur to brush Angel’s arm when he shifted, letting him feel that he wasn’t alone. The radio buzzed softly. The space smelled faintly of whiskey, tobacco, and Angel’s cloying perfume—a mix that felt intimate in its own odd, accidental way.
Angel traced the rim of his glass with a finger, the polish on his nails catching the dim light. He kept the sunglasses perched just long enough to hide the redness under his eyes. Husk noticed all of it, of course, but didn’t comment. He just let the silence stretch, a soft cocoon around them both.
III. Breaking Point
Angel tried to talk about something light. He mentioned Niffty, Charlie’s latest schemes, the hotel chaos. But the words were hollow, and even he knew it. He laughed too hard at a joke he barely made, then stopped, face falling.
Husk didn’t move closer yet. He let his tail flick lazily and wings shift slightly, an open gesture of safety. It was a subtle signal—Angel didn’t have to stand guard here.
“I thought I could handle it,” Angel whispered finally, voice breaking. “I always can… just this time—he—he said—”
He swallowed, shaking his head. “Forget it. It’s nothin’, Whiskers.”
Tears welled up before he could blink them away. He tried to smooth his fur down, tried to hold himself upright, but the dam broke.
Finally, the words came, fragile and stumbling. “He—he got mad ‘cause I wouldn’t—”
Angel swallowed hard, cutting himself off. “…Doesn’t matter. I got outta there before it got bad. Just needed some air.”
Husk’s claws curled around the edge of the bar, just enough to keep himself grounded. “Yeah. Sure sounds like it matters though. It ain’t just nothin.”
Angel gave a weak laugh, almost a hiccup. “You gonna make me talk about it, bartender?”
“Not unless you need to,” Husk replied. Low, steady. Grounded. The kind of tone that let Angel be fragile without having to explain it.
And maybe that’s why, when Husker shifted slightly and eased his wings open just a touch, Angel broke.
He didn’t collapse gracefully. He just folded, letting himself sink against Husker’s chest, shivering as years of swallowed tears and tension poured out. Mascara streaked Husker’s newly stitched vest. Husker didn’t care. He wrapped his wings around Angel, claws tucked, holding him like he was something delicate and worth the effort.
Husk’s wings moved without hesitation, folding around him like a soft, protective cage. His claws stayed tucked. He let Angel lean into him, allowed himself to inhale the faint smell of perfume and stress and the remnants of his frantic night.
“Shh. Easy, dollface. You’re safe here,” Husk murmured.
Angel pressed his face into Husker’s neck. “I hate cryin’,” he muttered through shaking breaths. “Makes me feel like a wreck.”
“You don’t look like one.” Husker said solemnly.
“Yeah right.” He hiccups.
“Looks like someone who’s survived too much bullshit and still managed to show up anyway.”
Angel let out a wet, shaky laugh, the first real sound of relief since leaving Valentino’s studio. The neon flickered against the two of them, painting their silhouettes in hot pink and gold. Husk kept one hand in Angel’s hair, stroking gently, while the other rested on his back. Angel’s arms clung to Husk like he might disappear if he let go.
Eventually, Angel lifted his head. Cheeks wet, eyes bright with the residue of tears. His smile returned—crooked, vulnerable, real.
“Thanks, Whiskers,” he whispered.
“Don’t thank me. I’m just doin’ my job.”
“Since when does your job include free hugs?” Angel teased, voice hoarse.
“Since now. Don’t tell management.”
That earned a giggle. Husk’s chest ached quietly, a sensation he didn’t name aloud.
A wet, shaky laugh escaped Angel. Husk’s claw brushed a strand of hair back from Angel’s face, smoothing it softly. The neon light reflected off their shadows, painting them in warmth amid the lingering cold of the night.
IV. The Holding Pattern
The tears slowed, hiccups taking their place. Angel’s laugh softened, tinged with relief. Husk made a low joke: “You’re leavin’ streaks all over my vest, Fluff.”
“Guess it’s an improvement,” Angel replied, and the small grin felt like sunlight in the quiet space.
They shifted to the couch. Shoulders brushed, wings intertwined, breaths syncing. Angel admitted he hated how weak he felt. Husk’s answer was quiet but firm. “You ain’t weak. You’re just tired.”
Husk’s mind churned silently. God, seeing him like this… Every tear, every shiver pulled at something he rarely admitted, not even to himself. Protecting Angel wasn’t pity—it was recognition. A quiet promise in the dark: I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you here.
A pause. Angel’s eyes flicked toward Husk’s hat. “You always wear that thing even inside?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“’Cause it keeps people from askin’ questions.”
“Oh yeah? What kinda questions?” Angel grinned, reaching before Husk could stop him. “Like what your hair looks like—”
“Hey—!”
But Angel had already plucked the hat off Husker’s head, holding it just out of reach with a mischievous smirk. Husker sputtered, flustered.
To lighten the heavy air, Angel snatched Husk’s hat. Husk sputtered, “Hey—!”
Angel’s grin was mischievous. “What’s under there, Whiskers?”
Gold and dark grey hair caught the dim neon, soft and untamed. Angel brushed a loose lock behind Husk’s ear before returning the hat. Husk’s ears flicked. “Happy now?”
The moment lingered, quiet, small, a spark against the lingering heaviness. Beneath the hat, Husker’s hair shimmered—streaked with gold and dark grey, soft and untamed under the low light. Angel’s gaze softened.
“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Actually, yeah.”
He handed the hat back slowly, brushing his fingers over Husk’s claws deliberately. Husk didn’t flinch. Their hands lingered longer than necessary.
Husk tugged Angel toward him more closer to him on the couch, and they sank into its worn cushions. The silence wasn’t empty—it was a quiet exhale, a space full of trust and soft breaths.
Angel leaned his head against Husk’s shoulder. “Hey, Whiskers?”
“Mm?”
“Thanks for… lettin’ me just be a mess tonight.”
“Anytime, Angel. You don’t gotta earn that here.”
Angel’s smile was faint but genuine. “You really are a softie under all that fur.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Too late.”
They stayed like that for hours—or maybe minutes—time folding around them, punctuated only by the hum of the radio, the soft rustle of wings, and quiet breaths. Angel traced his fingers over Husk’s arm absentmindedly. Husk responded with a subtle squeeze, letting Angel know he was anchored, present, and unjudging. Angel curled into Husk’s lap, his many arms entangled in his wings. Husker’s arm draped over him, claws tucked, warmth radiating across them both. The radio hummed faintly, a heartbeat in the quiet room.
VI. The Soft Sleepover
Husk suggested Angel stay on the couch instead of trudging upstairs in heels. “You ain’t walkin’ up those stairs after all that.”
They talked in whispers—Alastor’s outdated slang, what drinks they’d make for themselves if Hell’s chaos could pause, what songs could drown out the static.
Angel reached for Husk’s paw, squeezing it lightly. Husk didn’t respond with words, only pressure, a small signal of unspoken solidarity. He brushed a few strands over to the side from Angel’s full luscious head of hair, tucked a stray lock behind his ear, adjusted the angle of his wings to make him comfortable too.
Angel nuzzled into Husk’s chest. Husk kept a gentle hold, letting him settle without asking anything in return.
Angel’s hand brushed through the fur, murmuring, “You’re somethin’ else, Whiskers. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Husker shifted, one claw resting on Angel’s shoulder. “You’ll never have to find out.”
They watched the light change together, pressed close, wrapped in the quiet warmth that existed only between them—another day survived, another mess weathered, made gentle simply by each other’s presence.
Until they both fell asleep.
For tonight, the chaos of Hell could wait.
For tonight, they had each other.
♥️🕷️💛🕯️🩹🎞️🎇🎲🥀
VII. The Domestic Morning
Morning came soft, neon-filtered through the windows. Angel stirred first, half-draped over Husk’s lap, wings tangled like a blanket around them both. Husk’s hat was tipped over his eyes, hair spilling in loose streaks. He looked almost peaceful, the scowl and gruffness absent, replaced by something calm and unguarded.
When the neon light shifted to a soft pink, Angel woke first. He was draped half across Husk’s lap, hair messy, wings folded like a blanket. Husk’s hat was tipped low, shadows hiding his expression.
Angel watched him, noting the rare softness in Husk’s face. He brushed his hand through Husk’s hair. “You’re somethin’ else, Whiskers. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Husk murmured, half-asleep: “You’ll never have to find out.”
They were both still too sleepy to realize or remember they’d had already repeated the same exchange with each other quite literally just the night before.
The meant it just as genuinely both times, however.
After a moment, Angel crawled to the small kitchenette Husk kept stocked. Coffee smelled faintly sweet with cream. Husker had already set out a plate of pastries, warm from the oven, chocolate oozing faintly from a croissant.
They ate quietly, fingers brushing as they passed mugs, sharing a few jokes about the heat of Hell and the absurdity of Valentino’s schemes. Husker absentmindedly adjusted his wings when Angel leaned too far, brushing crumbs off his jacket. Angel returned the gesture, leaning his head briefly against Husker’s shoulder, breathing slow, trusting.
The morning stretched around them, soft and domestic. No expectations. No chaos. Just warmth, quiet, and the slow, deliberate pace of two people learning to be safe together.
Even in Hell, some mornings felt like home.