Work Text:
Slowburn, warm red-orange light, late nights, smoky softness, and gentle touches that mean more than either of them say aloud. The Halloween season makes Hell a little more bearable for a few fleeting nights.
I. Two Weeks ‘Til Halloween (Sensory detail: orange lights, cigarette smoke, soft jazz, tired wings half-open around Angel.)
Halloween in Hell
Two Weeks Before the Party
The neon outside Valentino’s studio flickered like dying embers, casting Angel Dust in a light that made his eyes sting. By the time he trudged through the hotel doors, the sequins on his costume had started to shed — one long trail of glitter marking every step like a breadcrumb path back to Hell itself.
Husk was behind the bar, same as always, hunched over a deck of cards and a half-empty glass. The soft hum of the old radio filled the room — some jazzy tune that made the air feel thick and slow.
“Shit, ya look like a crime scene at a drag show,” Husk muttered when Angel slumped onto a stool.
Angel tried to grin. It came out weak, all teeth and no sparkle. “You say that like it’s new, handsome.” His voice cracked halfway through, and he reached for the drink Husk was already sliding toward him without being asked.
The first sip burned. The second almost hurt less.
Husk tossed a folded hoodie at him — the one with the wing cutouts in the back. “You keep forgettin’ this.”
Angel stared at it for a long moment before tugging it over his bare shoulders. “You keep pretendin’ you don’t care, sugar.”
“Yeah, well, pretendin’s my best talent.”
For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low buzz of the bar lights and the occasional clink of glass as Husk restocked the shelf behind him. Angel’s head dipped forward, chin against his chest, breath slowing.
He looked like he might finally sleep — until a tremor ran through his arm.
Husker’s tail flicked. He didn’t say anything, just poured another drink and nudged it toward him, softer this time. “You eat today?”
Angel huffed. “Does Val’s ego count as protein?”
Husker’s mouth quirked — barely. “Thought not.”
Husker’s behind the counter, muttering about the hotel’s chaos as he slides Angel another drink, of water this time. Angel knew that came later with the promise of his cooking later too, and that Husker would make no room for Angel to argue anything otherwise about it. Husk was such a giver and great caretaker, even if he was a total grump.
Angel didn’t notice the warmth in Husk’s magic when the old cat brushed a hand past him to reach for the glass towel. It lingered in the air, subtle as static. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make Angel’s heartbeat even out — enough to keep him steady until morning.
II. The Hotel’s Haunted Heart
Charlie’s boundless energy has infected the hotel: streamers, cobwebs, glitter pumpkins. Alastor and Lucifer both try to outdo each other in elaborate Halloween decorations, much to Husk’s dry irritation. Angel’s roped into helping — partly to keep him busy, partly to get him away from Val’s control for a few hours. Niffty notices Husk’s quiet magic flickering again when he uses it to help fix lights, remembering how beautiful it used to be before he stopped using it.
(Themes of restoration and gentle care — Niffty sees Husk’s light returning; Angel’s safety helps it bloom.)
By the time Angel was awake again, the hotel was alive.
Streamers hung like spider silk from the rafters. Paper bats fluttered by on invisible strings. Every lamp had been replaced with something orange or purple. And somewhere upstairs, Charlie Morningstar was singing.
It wasn’t exactly good singing, but it was the kind that made you smile despite yourself — too earnest to mock.
Angel stood in the hallway, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, glitter still clinging to his hair. He could smell cinnamon, smoke, and glue. Someone—probably Niffty—had been burning scented candles in every room again.
“Good mornin’, sunshine!” Charlie called, poking her head out from the ballroom doors. Her halo of blonde curls was hidden under a witch’s hat. “Or, uh, good evening? Time’s fake in Hell anyway! Come see what we’ve done!”
Angel laughed despite himself and followed her in.
The ballroom had been transformed. Alastor’s old-timey radio had been enchanted to play a constant loop of swing Halloween music, while Lucifer’s gaudy magic had filled half the room with floating lanterns and a crystalline dance floor that sparkled like frost.
In the middle of it all, Vaggie was threatening to decapitate a floating skeleton decoration with her spear.
“Don’t touch that, Vaggie,” Charlie said gently.
“I’m not touching it,” Vaggie growled, “I’m fixing it. It keeps smacking me in the face.”
Angel snorted and grabbed the skeleton’s hand. “There, see? He just wants to dance, dollface.”
Before Vaggie could respond, Alastor appeared — materializing like smoke, his grin wide and eyes gleaming red. “Why, my dear! I think the skeletal fellow has found himself a more graceful partner.”
Angel raised a brow. “You flirtin’ with me or the skeleton?”
“Why, both, of course!”
From the corner, a low, baritone low gravelly voice cut through: “Someone please stake me.”
Husk stood behind the bar they’d set up for the party, wings half-open, tail flicking in agitation. A witch hat perched crookedly on his head — clearly Charlie’s doing.
“Don’t even start,” he grumbled when Angel started laughing. “She said it’s mandatory for morale.”
Angel leaned his elbows on the counter, chin in his palms. “And what morale would that be, huh, sugar? You finally gettin’ in touch with your inner feline familiar?”
“Keep talkin’ and I’ll use your tail-end as a bottle opener.”
It was a weak threat. Angel could see it in his eyes — the same kind of tired fondness Husk never admitted to.
He plucked one of Husk’s cigarettes off the counter and twirled it between his fingers. “You know, this whole Halloween thing ain’t half bad. For once, everyone looks a little less dead inside.”
“That’s ‘cause I’m pourin’ drinks early,” Husk said, a smirk tilting the edge of his mouth like a threat of mischief just before putting his poker face back on.
Alastor chuckled from across the room, adjusting a phantom microphone. “A toast to our grumpy ghoul bartender and his eternal patience with this merry band of sinners!”
“Cheers!” Charlie sang out, raising a glass of something bubbling and green.
Husk sighed, but Angel caught the way he softened just slightly — a small flick of his ears, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
When the others turned away, Angel leaned closer, voice silken and low. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoyin’ it.”
“Not enjoyin’ it,” Husk said automatically. ‘Stubborn Ass’, Angel thought dripping in fondness for him.
“Sure, sure.” Angel tapped the rim of his glass. “That’s why you’re still here instead of flyin’ off to drink alone like usual.”
Husker grunted. “I don’t fly.” ‘Bullshit’, he held back his giggles.
“Mmhm.” Angel tilted his head. “Then you better get used to this kinda crowd, gramps. We got two weeks ‘til the party, and Charlie’s got a whole checklist.”
“I’m terrified.”
“You should be,” Angel said, grinning. “You’re on decor duty.”
That got him a glare — but the faint flicker of amusement in Husk’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed.
⸻
Later that Night
The hotel quieted after hours. Charlie and Vaggie had gone upstairs, Alastor vanished into the radio static, and Niffty was probably reorganizing the entire kitchen for the fifth time that day.
Husk stayed downstairs cleaning the counter, muttering to himself. When he looked up, Angel was still there — slumped in one of the high chairs, fiddling with a broken plastic bat.
“Didn’t think you’d stick around,” Husk said.
Angel shrugged. “Didn’t think I’d get a day off, either. Val’s lettin’ me ‘rest up’ before a Halloween special shoot. Which really means I’m gonna get turned into a goddamn ornament.”
His laugh was hollow. Husk didn’t like the sound of it.
“Eh,” Angel said after a moment, leaning back, “at least Charlie’s makin’ this month bearable. Ain’t been a Halloween party since I died. Used to be my favorite holiday.”
“Why’s that?”
Angel’s eyes softened. “You could be whoever the hell you wanted for one night, y’know? Nobody laughed at it. Nobody told ya to be more or less. Just… masks, lights, candy, and bad choices.”
Husk huffed. “Sounds like every day in Hell.”
“Nah.” Angel looked up at him, eyes glowing faintly pink under the neon bar sign. “This one’s got magic in it.”
The words hung in the air like smoke — warm, unspoken things. Husk didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The silence between them was comfortable, heavy in a good way.
Angel’s shoulders sagged; he looked small again, the sparkle worn down. Husk reached under the bar, pulled out a clean warm wet rag, and tossed it toward him.
“What’s this for?”
“You’re drippin’ glitter all over my counter.”
Angel smirked, half-asleep. “You’re welcome.”
“Shut up.”
He did — but he smiled when Husk started quietly polishing glasses beside him. Just that — side by side, in the low hum of bar light, the scent of whiskey and orange peel filling the air.
For the first time in weeks, Angel felt safe enough to breathe.
III. The Night Shift
Hell never really slept. It just changed colors.
The neon lights around Valentino’s studio bled from fuchsia to ultraviolet as another night dragged on. Angel’s world was all stage smoke and too-tight latex, camera flashes that seared, laughter that never reached the eyes behind it.
Val’s voice cut through the haze — sugar-coated cruelty. “C’mon, Angel Cakes, sell it! Don’t fade on me now, huh? The holiday special’s gotta be perfection. Pumpkins, cobwebs, and a little filth for the fans.”
He’d said it like it was a joke, but it wasn’t.
By the time the last scene wrapped, Angel couldn’t remember his own name through the ringing in his ears. The lights went down. The world stayed bright behind his eyelids.
He didn’t bother changing out of the costume — a spider-web bodysuit that glittered like broken glass under the streetlamps. He didn’t even take off the heels. He just walked. Away from Val’s voice. Away from the smell of smoke and sweat and film reels.
By the time he reached the hotel, dawn’s faint red edge was climbing over the skyline.
⸻
Inside, Husk was still up.
He sat behind the bar in a dim glow of dying candles, the ashtray crowded, his whiskey glass untouched. The radio hummed softly, some low jazz number that pulsed like a heartbeat.
When Angel pushed through the door, the noise made Husk look up fast. His eyes softened instantly.
“Jesus, baby.”
Angel forced a grin, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t gimme that look, daddy-o. I’m fine.”
“Fine,” Husk echoed flatly. His gaze swept over him — the glitter caked on, the smeared makeup, the half-torn fishnets. “You look like you got chewed up by a jukebox.”
Angel shrugged, voice smaller. “Might as well’ve been.”
He climbed onto a barstool, but it wasn’t graceful. Husk was already there, sliding a glass toward him. Something mild — not enough to hit hard. “Sip. Slow.”
Angel’s fingers trembled when they brushed Husk’s. He took a drink anyway. It burned, but it grounded him — something real that didn’t taste like perfume and lies.
“Val worked you like a damn dog again, huh?”
Angel laughed — high and breathless. “Yeah. I’m his best Halloween decoration.”
Husk frowned. His wing twitched behind him, feathers rustling with unease. “You gotta stop lettin’ him—”
Angel cut him off. “Can’t stop, Husk. He owns the rights to my soul. I’m a limited-edition collector’s item.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
Then Husk reached out — slow, deliberate — and set his hand on Angel’s shoulder. Just a weight. Just contact. Enough to keep him tethered.
Angel didn’t pull away. Didn’t joke. Didn’t speak. He just breathed. Once, twice, and let the tremor fade.
When Husk finally spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave — low, rough, tender.
“Come on. Let’s get the glue off you before it turns you into a disco ball.”
Angel blinked up at him. “You offerin’ to help me undress, sweetheart?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“It’s me, baby. It’s already weird.”
Still — he followed Husk’s lead. The old cat fetched a warm towel, wet it, handed it over. Angel sat at the counter while Husk worked from a careful distance — wiping away glitter from the edges of Angel’s hairline, dabbing gently at the makeup streaked down his neck.
Angel’s eyelids fluttered. “You got soft hands, y’know that?”
“Yeah, well. I used to do card tricks, not open-heart surgery.”
He hesitated a second, then used the towel to wipe the red paint from Angel’s wrists. The makeup was supposed to look like ribbons of blood — Val’s idea of art. Underneath, the skin was rubbed raw from rope burns.
Husk swallowed hard. “This ain’t right.”
Angel gave a ghost of a smile. “It’s Hell, Husk. ‘Right’ ain’t part of the deal.”
That should’ve ended it. But instead, Husk reached for his magic.
It came reluctant — like an old song half-remembered. Golden-red, faint, flickering as it coiled around his fingers. It wasn’t meant for fighting this time. It was gentle warmth, tracing up Angel’s arms, numbing the ache beneath his skin.
Angel gasped. “What— what’re you—?”
“Just shut up a minute,” Husk murmured. “Let me… do somethin’ good for once.”
The glow lingered, fading only when Husk did — and by then Angel was slumped against the counter, eyelids heavy, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice gone low. “For the drink. For… y’know. Bein’ here.”
Husk tried to look busy wiping down a glass from his own personal room drinking cart. “Ain’t doin’ it for you. Just don’t want glitter in my bar again.”
Angel laughed quietly. “Sure, sugar. Sure.”
He dozed off a few minutes later, arms folded, cheek resting against them. Husk stood there watching him, wings partly spread — a quiet, protective curtain of feathers and warmth.
The jazz song changed, soft horns fading into silence. Outside, the first notes of fake daylight flickered through the red haze.
Husk exhaled through his nose. “Halloween in Hell,” he muttered. “Least it’s startin’ to feel like one.”
And then, as if his magic couldn’t help itself, the candles lit around them flared once — gold against crimson — before dimming back to stillness.
Scene IV: “The Street Fight.”
This is the moment where all that slow, simmering tenderness gets tested — when Angel’s pent-up pain finds release, and Husk, for all his grumbling, can’t not fight beside him. The tone stays cinematic and red — smoky neon haze, blood-orange light, cold air and gunfire, and that sudden, electric understanding between them.
⸻
IV. The Street Fight
Hell’s streets always felt different near Halloween.
The air went sharp — colder, somehow — even though nothing in this place ever really changed. Paper ghosts drifted between lampposts, glowing faintly pink under the flicker of faulty neon. Vendors sold candied bats, and every club from the penthouse to the gutter had some kind of “Costumes Required” sign plastered on the door.
Angel loved it, once.
Tonight, he just felt tired.
He and Husker had gone out so Angel could “clear his head,” which Husker translated to: make sure he doesn’t go do somethin’ stupid. Angel was still half in costume — sequined bodysuit, high boots, a black hoodie with Husker’s wing cutouts thrown over the top. He looked like a fever dream, exhausted but glowing faintly in the red streetlight.
Husker walked beside him, trench coat collar turned up, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “You sure Val ain’t got goons followin’ you?”
Angel shrugged. “If he does, I’ll give ‘em a show.”
“Yeah, a goddamn funeral.”
That earned a smirk. “You worried about me, kitty?”
Husker didn’t answer — just flicked his tail in irritation. But when they turned down an alley near the Strip, Angel noticed him subtly shift his stance, wings flexing, eyes scanning corners. Always watching.
They were halfway past a shuttered pawn shop when the sound broke through — rough laughter, a hissed cry.
Angel stopped dead.
Across the street, three demons had a smaller one pinned against a wall — some poor dancer from another studio, judging by the glittered cuffs and fear in her eyes. The biggest of the three sneered, holding her chin up with a clawed hand. “C’mon, sweetheart. Show us what you’re worth—”
The gunfire cut him off.
Angel’s Tommy guns bloomed into being with a curl of hot pink magic and rage. The air went white-hot for a second — muzzle flashes strobing the alley crimson. Shells hit the ground like rain. The three demons scattered, cursing, as Angel stalked forward, firing at their feet.
“Pick on someone your own fuckin’ species, slime!”
The smallest demon fled immediately. The other two turned on him. One lunged — Angel ducked, heel connecting with a jaw, the smack echoing off the brick. He spun, kicked again, a graceful, furious blur in pink and black.
“Fuckin Christ,” Husk muttered, watching from the curb. “I leave him alone for five minutes.”
The third demon lunged toward Angel’s back — Husker’s wing flicked open before he thought. Cards appeared in his hand, glowing with faint gold. They hit like blades — slicing through the air, catching the attacker across the chest. The demon stumbled back, hissing and then collapsing down into the ground.
“You okay?” Husker barked.
Angel didn’t even turn. “Peachy, sugar!”, he yelled back.
Another gunshot. Another scream. Then silence.
The demons scattered into the dark, dragging their wounded, leaving only the smell of gunpowder and cheap cologne behind. Angel stood in the middle of it, chest heaving, pink hair in disarray, lipstick smeared and eyes blazing with something wild and broken.
Husker exhaled, wings lowering. “You done?”
Angel looked down at his shaking hands. “Yeah,” he breathed. Then again, quieter: “Yeah. I think so.”
He dropped the guns; they vanished in a shimmer of magic. The smaller demon — the one they’d saved — scrambled away with a mumbled thank-you and tears in her eyes. Husk didn’t stop her. Neither did Angel.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant hum of traffic and the faint crackle of burning neon.
Husker walked over slowly, cigarette still between his teeth, voice softer now. “Feel better?”
Angel gave a shaky laugh. “That depends. You gonna tell Charlie I turned the street into a fireworks show?”
“Hell no.” Husker’s tail flicked. “She’d make me clean it up.”
Angel grinned — a real one this time, sharp but genuine. “You’re gettin’ soft, old man.”
“Soft?” Husk snorted. “Baby, I just saved your ass.”
“Mmhm.” Angel brushed glitter off his shoulder. “Pretty sure I had it handled.”
“I’m sure you did.” He meant it to.
They started walking again, slower now. Angel’s adrenaline ebbed away in tremors. Husker noticed, but said nothing. He just shifted his wing enough that it brushed Angel’s back with each step — steadying, grounding.
After a while, Angel spoke again, voice quieter, threaded with something vulnerable.
“I don’t like bein’ angry. It’s just… sometimes I gotta do somethin’. Or it eats me alive.”
“I get it,” Husker said.
Angel glanced at him. “Yeah? You? Mr. I-Don’t-Care-About-Nothin’?”
Husker’s eyes stayed ahead, faintly glowing molten gold under the streetlights. “Yeah. Me.”
That shut Angel up for a while.
They reached the edge of the street where the hotel lights glowed faintly in the distance. Husker flicked his cigarette into a puddle and sighed. “C’mon. Let’s go home before Alastor decides to start singin’ spooky show tunes again.”
Angel chuckled. “You mean before Lucifer joins in and they start fightin’ for key changes?”
“That’s my fuckin nightmare.” Husker’s expression soured, starting at the furrowed scrunch of his brow.
“Mine too.” Angel smiled, small but real. “Thanks, Husk.”
“For what?” His expression smoothed back out, but he looked back at angel almost confused.
“For lettin’ me shoot things.”
Husk’s mouth twitched in understanding. “Anytime, kid.”
Angel tilted his head. “You mean that?”
“Don’t push it.” His face soft, his eyes fond of Angel.
The laugh that followed carried all the way back to the hotel — light and free, for the first time in weeks.
⸻
That night, as Angel crashed on the couch still half-dressed and Husker threw a blanket over him, the old cat caught himself thinking that maybe — just maybe — this Halloween thing wasn’t total bullshit after all.
V. The Halloween Party
This is where all the quiet tenderness, the exhaustion, the healing, and the small mercies between Husk and Angel finally meet the warmth and glow of Halloween night. The tone: cinematic amber light, soft music, laughter in the distance, ghosts of trauma softened by found family and quiet affection.
Halloween arrived in Hell the way sunrise never did — not soft, not gentle, but loud.
By evening, the Hazbin Hotel had become something out of a fever dream: flickering jack-o’-lanterns lining the banister, cobweb lights draped across chandeliers, and a mist of dry ice spilling over the floor like ghostly smoke. Charlie had gone all out, of course — she’d been waiting centuries for this.
Lucifer and Alastor had been trying to one-up each other since morning.
Lucifer had conjured a full haunted ballroom, complete with levitating candelabras and a string quartet of skeletons that played themselves to dust. Alastor retaliated by enchanting the walls to pulse to the beat of his radio broadcast, each flicker of light timed perfectly to the music.
By the time guests arrived, the whole place throbbed with joy, chaos, and just enough menace to make it fun.
And in the corner of the bar, Husker poured drinks like he’d been born for it — tail flicking to the rhythm, hat tipped low over one eye. He looked every bit the reluctant Halloween host.
That is, until Angel walked in.
Every head turned.
His costume — one of his own designs this time, not Valentino’s — shimmered under the dim light: a deep crimson spider-queen ensemble, threaded with silver web patterns that glowed faintly pink under the jack-o’-lanterns. Long gloves, thigh-high boots, and a card-suit motif stitched down the sides — hearts, spades, diamonds, clubs. Subtle, elegant, and a little dangerous.
And beside him, Husk.
In a matching black vest with the same card-suit embroidery at the collar, sleeves rolled up, gold cufflinks glinting under the light. His wings framed him like velvet shadows.
“Would ya look at that,” Angel said, sidling up to the bar, “we match. Didn’t peg you for a hearts guy.”
“I ain’t,” Husker muttered, sliding him a drink. “You picked the theme.”
“You still wore it.” Angel’s grin was pure mischief. “That’s love, baby.”
Husk grumbled, but the tips of his ears twitched — pink, just barely visible beneath the brim of his hat.
Angel took the drink and examined it with a critical eye. The glass swirled with red smoke, a curl of dry ice fog spilling over the rim. “What’s this one called?”
“The Dead Man’s Hand.”
“Ohh, I like that. What’s in it?”
“Mostly regret,” Husk said, smirking faintly. “And rum.”
Angel laughed, the sound bright and real. “You’ve got a sense of occasion after all, handsome.”
Before Husker could answer, Charlie bounded past them, a bundle of excitement in an Angel costume that glowed brighter than the décor. “You two look amazing! Angel, Husk—thank you for dressing up! It means the world to me!”
Vaggie followed behind her in a devil costume, dragging a tipsy Alastor and muttering about “goddamn theatrics.” Lucifer was on the stage, making a dramatic toast that no one could hear over his own fanfare.
Angel giggled into his glass. “You think the King of Hell’s ever had to compete with his weird demon radio host boyfriend for his daughter’s attention this much before?”
“He ain’t his boyfriend.”
“Mmhm.” Angel sipped his drink. “Tell him that.”
Husker chuckled low. It was a rare sound, rough-edged but warm. The kind that made Angel’s chest ache in the best way.
The night unfolded like a dream.
Niffty spun through the crowd in a vintage polka-dot dress, dragging Baxter into awkward slow dances. Vaggie and Charlie ended up tangled in fairy lights, laughing so hard Charlie snorted. Alastor and Lucifer took turns hijacking the microphone for dueling monologues, both pretending not to care who won the audience over.
And through it all, Husker and Angel lingered near the bar — watching, talking, occasionally joining in when Charlie demanded photos.
Every so often, Angel would brush close enough for their shoulders to touch. Once, when a drunken imp stumbled too near, Husker’s wing instinctively shifted — wrapping around Angel for just a second before pulling back. Angel noticed. He didn’t say anything.
He just smiled and leaned in a little closer.
⸻
Later, when the crowd thinned and the music softened to something like a heartbeat, Angel found himself sitting at one of the window booths, staring out at the flickering city lights. Husker joined him, carrying two more glasses.
“You still awake?” Husk asked.
“Barely.” Angel’s voice was quiet now — the bravado gone, replaced by something gentler. “Didn’t think I’d make it to tonight.”
“Yeah, well,” Husk said, setting down the drinks, “you did. And you ain’t wearin’ anyone else’s costume this time.”
That made Angel’s throat tighten.
He looked at Husk — really looked at him. The way the candlelight caught the edges of his feathers, the faint gold glimmer of his magic flickering like a heartbeat beneath his skin. There was something alive in him again, something Angel hadn’t seen before.
“You hate all this,” Angel said softly. “The parties, the noise. Why’d you do it anyway?”
Husker looked away, exhaled through his nose. “’Cause someone had to make sure you got to enjoy it.”
Angel blinked. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. “You serious?”
“Don’t make me repeat it,” Husker muttered. “Ruins my reputation.”
Angel laughed under his breath, eyes bright and wet at the corners. “You’re somethin’ else, y’know that?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Husker raised his glass. “To bad decisions and even worse costumes.”
Angel clinked his against it. “To a pretty damn good Halloween.”
They drank. And for the first time in far too long, Angel didn’t feel owned by the night.
He leaned sideways until his temple rested against Husker’s shoulder, eyes closing, breath steadying. Husker didn’t move for a long time — then, finally, he shifted just enough to let his wing curl around Angel’s back, a sheltering arc of warmth and quiet.
Outside, the city burned orange. Inside, the two of them sat in the soft afterglow of laughter, distant music, and the faint hum of safety.
Angel murmured, almost to himself, “Told ya. This one’s got magic in it.”
Husker glanced down at him, then at the faint pulse of his own golden magic threading through the feathers around them.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess it does.”
⸻
🕯️ End. 🎃🎇♠️♥️