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Day 1 started like any other in Hell—loud, chaotic, pointless. Husk woke with the weight of it all pressing down harder than usual. The bar felt like a cage, Alastor's leash a constant itch under his fur. He poured drinks with mechanical precision, but when no one was looking, his claws dug into his palm. Just a scratch. Just enough to feel something sharp and real. Blood welled, then dried. No one noticed the faint red smears on the rag he wiped the counter with.
By Day 2, the scratches had turned to deeper gouges on his forearms, hidden under his sleeves. The hotel buzzed with Charlie's latest redemption scheme—group therapy or some bullshit. Husk grunted responses, poured stronger drinks for himself. Angel flirted as usual, leaning over the bar with a wink. "You okay, Whiskers? Lookin' extra grumpy today." Husk shrugged it off. "Just tired." The pain grounded him, a secret anchor in the storm of regrets—lost power, lost soul, lost everything. He bandaged the cuts roughly that night, blood staining the sink.
Day 3 blurred into numbness. The gouges wept under the wrappings, but Husk ignored it. He snapped at Niffty when she tried to clean the bar, retreated to his room early. Claws raked across his thigh this time—deeper, angrier. Why bother fighting? Hell was eternal. The blood soaked through his pants, but he changed before anyone saw. Angel knocked once, worried. "Hey, you comin' down for movie night?" Husk mumbled through the door: "Not tonight." Alone, the cycle repeated—hurt, hide, repeat.
On Day 4, infection set in. The wounds burned, fever creeping up. Husk worked the bar anyway, movements sluggish, wings drooping. His paws shook pouring shots, but he blamed it on a hangover. Charlie asked if he needed a break; he growled her away. Angel lingered longer, eyes narrowing. "Somethin' ain't right with you. Talk to me." Husk forced a smirk. "Nothin' to talk about, kid." That night, the cuts festered—red, swollen, pus mixing with fresh blood as he clawed at old scars on his chest. The pain was louder now, drowning the quiet despair.
Day 5 hit like a freight train. Husk couldn't get out of bed. Fever raged, wounds throbbing like fire under soiled bandages. Blood stained the sheets, the metallic tang thick in the air. He curled into a ball, tail limp, purring weakly to himself—a broken, instinctual comfort. Hours passed in haze. No one checked—everyone assumed the bar being closed meant Husk was off sulking somewhere.
Until the door creaked open.
Angel slipped in uninvited, Fat Nuggets trotting behind. "Okay, enough of this bullshit. You've been ghostin' everybody, and I—Jesus fuck, Husk!"
Husk tried to sit up, but weakness pinned him. Angel was at his side in a flash, eyes wide with horror as he saw the blood-soaked bandages, the fever-flushed fur. "What the hell happened? Who did this to you?"
Husk's voice was a rasp. "Me. Did it to me."
Angel's face crumpled—shock, pain, understanding. "Why? Whiskers... why?"
"Doesn't matter." Husk looked away, shame burning hotter than the infection. "Just... leave it."
"Like hell I will." Angel's hands—gentle now, all four sets—peeled back a bandage carefully. He hissed at the sight: deep, infected gashes from claws that matched Husk's own. "This is bad. Real bad. We gotta get you cleaned up."
Husk didn't fight as Angel fetched supplies from the bathroom—antiseptic, clean wraps, water. The spider worked methodically, wincing with every touch. "You should've said somethin'. I would've listened. We all would've."
"Didn't want pity." Husk's eyes stung. "I'm the one who lost everything. Overlord to bartender. Leashed like a damn dog. Sometimes... hurtin' myself reminds me I'm still here. Still feelin' somethin'."
Angel paused, tears streaking his makeup. "You're here. With me. With us. You ain't alone in this shitshow." He finished bandaging, then pulled Husk into a careful hug—fluff enveloping fur, arms wrapping secure but soft. "I love you, you idiot. Don't hide this crap from me again."
Husk leaned in, the purr returning—faint, real. "Love you too, Angie. Sorry."
Angel kissed his forehead. "Don't be sorry. Just... let me help. Okay?"
Husk nodded, exhaustion pulling him under. Angel stayed, holding him through the fever's break, whispering nonsense until sleep came.
No one else noticed until then—but Angel did. And that was the start of healing.
The bar reopened the next day. Husk's sleeves stayed rolled down, but his eyes were a little clearer. Angel lingered closer, a silent promise.
They weren't fixed. But they were trying. Together.