Work Text:
Angel never remembered the trip back from Valentino’s place.
The studio lights always lingered behind his eyes long after he left — those harsh pinks and reds, the smell of sweat and perfume and fear. Tonight was worse. His cheek throbbed beneath the makeup he hadn’t dared to retouch. Every time he blinked, the world seemed to pulse with it.
He’d laughed on cue, flirted on cue, obeyed every order until he couldn’t fake another giggle. That’s when Val’s smile had gone sharp.
The words came after the first hit. Angel didn’t even hear them all — just the tone. The kind of tone that slid under his ribs and made him small.
He’d learned a long time ago how to keep still while someone decided what he was worth.
By the time it was over, his ears were ringing, his chest tight.
He told himself he was lucky it hadn’t been worse. He always told himself that.
He walked home in silence, clutching his jacket to his chest like it might hold him together.
The hotel was quiet — too quiet.
Angel hated quiet. Quiet meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering.
The makeup hadn’t even been wiped away properly. His hands had shaken too much when he’d tried, smearing foundation with tears until it looked like watercolor bleeding down his face. He’d ducked into the hotel’s lounge to avoid anyone seeing him like that — Charlie, Vaggie, Niffty. He didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want anyone to look at him and see what Val had said this time.
The words still clung to him like smoke.
The hotel was half-lit, quiet. The kind of quiet that made every thought echo too loud.
Angel sank into one of the couches, the cheap rouge velvet brushing against his skin. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He could still feel phantom fingers at his jaw — the roughness, the control. He pressed his palm against the bruise forming beneath his eye, hissing when it stung.
He didn’t cry at first. Just sat there, staring at nothing, trying to remember how to breathe.
Then it came, sudden and ugly.
A sob that broke him open. He buried his face in his arms and let it happen, the way he never let it happen in front of anyone else.
Husker POV:
I’ve seen enough drunks, gamblers, and ghosts in my time to know when somebody’s walking around hollowed out. Angel’s got that look tonight. The one where the shine’s still painted on, but it’s sliding right off his face like wet chalk. He came through the door around midnight—quiet, which is rare for him—and went straight past the bar without a word. I told myself not to notice.
I poured another drink I didn’t need and tried to convince myself the silence was a gift. But the air shifted after he disappeared into the lounge. Heavy, like thunder hanging low but never breaking. I waited five minutes before I set the glass down and went after him.
There he was, crumpled into the couch, shoulders shaking, face in his hands. The smear of red around his eyes looked like he’d been crying for hours. A bruise bloomed under one eye, deep enough to catch even in this light.
Something in my chest pulled taut. I almost turned around anyway. I don’t do this—comfort, caretaking, all that sentimental crap. But I’d seen enough hurt to know when someone’s about to drown in it.
Husk had been halfway to him when he heard it — the sound of someone breaking apart quietly. Not the kind of cry you meant other people to hear.
He hesitated.
He’d told himself a hundred times not to get involved in other people’s messes. Not after all he’d seen. But the sound twisted something in him anyway.
♥️🥀🕷️🩹
He found Angel curled into the couch, makeup streaked and trembling, clutching at his jacket like it was armor.
“Hey,” Husk said, voice low, roughened by too many cigarettes and too little sleep. “You’re makin’ the furniture look bad, fluff.”
No response. Just another shuddering breath. No laugh. Not even a twitch. Just a muffled sound, more breath than word. He stepped closer.
He moved closer, his claws flexing with the strange urge to do something. “Angel,” he tried again, softer. “C’mere.”
Angel looked up like he didn’t know where he was. Eyes rimmed red, lashes wet, makeup cracked across his skin. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Angel looked up, eyes glassy, the left side of his face darkening under the light. Husker’s gut twisted at the sight. He didn’t ask what happened. He already knew.
“Who—” Husk started, then stopped himself. “Never mind. You don’t have to say.”
“Come on,” Husker murmured. “Sit up.”
He did, slow and shaking. The right side of his face was flushed in a way that wasn’t natural. Husker didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to. Valentino’s name hung in the air like cigarette smoke—you didn’t have to see the fire to know what started it.
He grabbed a bar towel, dipped it in cool water, and crouched in front of him. “Hold still.”
Angel blinked at him. “You— you’re not gonna tell me to tough it out?”
Husker’s mouth twitched. “You look like hell, sweetheart. You’ve done enough ‘toughing it out.’”
The towel brushed against Angel’s cheek — light, careful, the pressure gentle enough not to hurt. Husk’s claws moved with an almost reverent touch, tracing the streaks of mascara away. He flinched when Husker first touched him, then went still. The towel met his cheek, cooling the heat beneath. He shuddered once, then breathed, slow and uneven.
Angel’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Husk muttered. “But you’re not alone here, all right? Not tonight.” My thumb brushed the edge of a tear, careful not to press too hard.
Angel stared at him, eyes trembling, lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find words.
Husk sighed, the sound heavy but not unkind. “He doesn’t get to break you, Angel. Not while I’m around.”
Angel laughed weakly — or tried to. “That’s real poetic, comin’ from a guy who says he doesn’t care.”
“Maybe I don’t,” Husk said, voice quiet. “But I can’t watch you fall apart and pretend I don’t notice either.”
Something in the words unspooled him completely. Angel leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Husk’s chest, shoulders trembling. Husk froze, then wrapped his arms around him — slow, cautious, like handling glass.
The scent of smoke and feathers mixed with tears and fading perfume.
Husker’s voice came out a murmur. “You’re safe here. Whatever he said — it’s all bullshit. You hear me?”
Angel nodded against him, the movement small, fragile. “I just… I hate that I believe him sometimes.”
Husk tightened his hold. “Then I’ll believe for you until you can again.”
🕷️♥️🥀🩹⛓️
Angel Dust POV:
I didn’t mean to cry in front of him. I’d tried so hard not to. All the way back from the studio, I told myself I’d make it to my room, lock the door, fall apart where no one could see. But Husk had that look—the kind that saw right through me.
The towel was rough, smelled faintly of whiskey and soap. Every pass of it across my skin made something inside me unravel.
“I don’t get it,” I whispered, voice small. “Why you’re bein’ so nice.”
He snorted, low and tired. “Don’t read too much into it, doll. I’m just… here for you when I can be.”
“Yeah, well, that’s more than most people bother to be.”
He paused, and for a second I thought I saw guilt flash behind his eyes. Like maybe he knew what that meant. Maybe he knew how long it’d been since someone touched me without wantin’ something back.
I tried to make a joke—deflect, like I always do—but my throat closed up. The room blurred again.
He didn’t say anything. Just wiped another tear, slow and gentle. His hand lingered at my jaw, claws barely grazing skin. I didn’t even realize I was leaning into it until he sighed and let his thumb rest against my cheekbone.
“Whoever did this,” he said quietly, “ain’t worth the space he takes up.”
My breath hitched. “Yeah, tell that to my brain, will ya? It’s still takin’ the memo in triplicate.”
“Brains are dumb like that,” he muttered. “They get used to pain.”
There was something in his voice I hadn’t heard before—a crack, maybe. Not pity, not sympathy, but understanding. The kind that only comes from someone who’s been there.
♠️⛓️🍷🥃🎲🫗
Husker POV:
He’s lighter than I expect when I guide him closer, like he’s made of air and nerves and mascara dust. The towel’s damp now, his tears mixing with the water. I wring it out, toss it aside, and just… keep my hand where it is. He doesn’t pull away.
The bruise under his eye stands out sharp and ugly. My claws curl before I can stop them. I want to break something, someone—but that’s not my job anymore. That’s the old world. The one I don’t get to go back to.
He exhales, long and shaky. “You ever get tired of pretendin’ you don’t care?”
“Every damn day.”
That earns me a small smile. It’s faint, but it’s there, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a light trying to break through fog.
“You’re a good liar, Husk,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I answer. “And you’re worse at hidin’ hurt than you think.”
Silence folds between us then, warm and heavy. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled. My feathers rustle when I shift, the edge of one brushing his shoulder. He looks at it like he’s never seen wings up close before, eyes wide, tears drying on his cheeks.
“They’re softer than I thought,” he murmurs.
“Don’t get used to it,” I tell him, but my voice betrays me—low, rough, almost fond.
He leans in, forehead pressing against my chest, breath trembling. For a moment I forget to breathe at all. His body shakes once, then goes still. I let my hands rest against his back, tracing light circles through the fabric of his jacket.
“You’re safe here,” I say, barely audible.
He makes a small sound—half sob, half sigh—and whispers, “You keep sayin’ that like it’s true.”
“It is,” I tell him. “Even if it’s just tonight.”
🖤⛓️🍷🥃🎲🫗
They stayed like that until the hotel lights dimmed. Angel’s breathing steadied, his body finally relaxing against Husk’s chest.
When Angel pulled back, eyes red and damp, Husk smirked faintly. “See? Still pretty.”
That earned him a choked laugh. “You’re such a bastard.”
“Yeah,” Husk said, brushing one last tear from his cheek. “But I’m your bastard tonight, apparently.”
Angel blinked at him, then smiled — small, shaky, but real.
For the first time in a long while, the word safe didn’t sound like a lie.
🖤⛓️🍷🥃🎲🫗
Angel Dust POV:
I can hear his heartbeat. Slow, steady, somewhere deep under the rumble of his chest. It’s the first real sound that’s felt solid in hours. My whole body feels wrong—like I’m still waiting for the next bad thing to happen—but Husker’s hands anchor me in place.
“You’re not supposed to be nice,” I mumble against him.
“I’m not,” he says. “You just bring it outta people, I guess.”
That makes me laugh, just once. It comes out wet, but it’s real. “Guess I should cry more often, huh?”
“Fuck no that’s not what I meant and you know that, sweetheart.”
The nickname lands soft this time, not teasing. Like he means it.
I tilt my head back, just enough to see him. The lounge lights catch in his fur, all gold and rust, and for a second I swear he’s glowing. He looks tired, ancient, and beautiful in that way old things sometimes are—fragile, but still standing.
His gaze meets mine. For a heartbeat, neither of us looks away.
Something passes between us—quiet and deep. Not desire, not exactly. Just understanding. Recognition.
He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair out of my face, then hesitates. I nod, wordless.
He bends down, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath. His nose grazes my forehead before he stops, lips hovering a breath away.
“Rest,” he murmurs. “You’ve done enough.”
When his mouth finally touches my skin, it’s barely a kiss—just warmth, a promise, the kind of gentleness I’d forgotten existed.
♥️🥀🕷️🩹♠️
Husker POV:
He falls asleep against me. Just like that. One minute he’s trembling, the next his breathing evens out and his head sinks into my chest. I stay still, afraid to wake him. His hand’s caught in my shirt, like he’s afraid I’ll leave if he lets go.
I don’t.
The lights hum softly above us, dust motes floating through the air like lazy ghosts. Outside, the city burns in pink and gold, and somewhere far away, someone’s still shouting his name for a camera. But here, there’s quiet.
I let my claws thread through his hair once, careful not to wake him. He shifts, sighs, and the corners of his mouth twitch toward something like peace.
“You’re tougher than you think, kid,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
The towel’s still damp on the table beside us, mascara staining it like ink on a confession.
I reach for the glass I left behind earlier, take a long sip, and stare out at nothing. For the first time in years, the drink tastes like nothing at all.
All I can feel is the weight of him breathing against me, warm and alive.
And I think—just for tonight—that’s more than enough.