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Angel noticed it the third day in a row.
Husk was avoiding him.
Not in the dramatic “I’m mad at you” way — more like the “I’m physically positioning myself on the opposite side of the bar at all times” way. Every time Angel leaned over for a kiss or tried to drape an arm around his shoulders, Husk would shift just enough to stay out of reach. Subtle. But obvious as hell to someone who knew every inch of that grumpy cat.
At first Angel thought it was moodiness. Husk had bad days sometimes — old memories, Alastor bullshit, the usual. But this was different. Husk wasn’t grumpy. He was… twitchy.
And quiet.
Husk was never quiet unless something was seriously wrong.
Angel watched from the couch while Husk polished the same glass for the fifteenth time, tail flicking irritably, ears pinned back. Every few seconds one hind leg would lift and scratch furiously behind his ear — quick, almost guilty — before Husk caught himself and forced it back down.
Angel’s eyes narrowed.
Then he saw it.
A thin black band around Husk’s neck — barely visible under the fur, but unmistakable once you looked for it.
A flea collar.
Angel’s jaw dropped.
Then he burst out laughing so hard he nearly fell off the couch.
Husk’s head snapped up. “The fuck’s so funny?”
Angel wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Whiskers… are you… are you wearing a flea collar?”
Husk froze.
His ears flattened completely. His tail stopped dead.
Then — slowly — he reached up, paw brushing the collar like he’d forgotten it was there. His face flushed under the fur.
Angel was already crying from laughter. “Oh my god. You know you have fleas, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been dodging me for three days! You’re embarrassed!”
Husk growled low. “Shut up.”
“No! No, this is gold. My big bad bartender boyfriend is scratching like a stray and wearing a flea collar like a guilty teenager. I’m never letting this go.”
Husk slammed the glass down. “It’s temporary. Charlie got it for Nuggets and thought it’d work on me. I didn’t ask for it.”
Angel wiped tears from his eyes. “Charlie collared you like a house pet and you just… let her?”
Husk muttered something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like “she said it was medicinal.”
Angel slid off the couch and sauntered over, still grinning like a maniac. Husk backed up until his ass hit the bar.
Angel leaned in close — close enough that Husk couldn’t escape without knocking bottles over.
“You know fleas jump, right?” Angel whispered, teasing. “You’ve probably got ‘em in your wings. In your tail. In your—”
Husk’s paw shot up and covered Angel’s mouth. “Don’t. Finish. That sentence.”
Angel licked his palm.
Husk yanked it back like he’d been burned.
Angel cackled again. “You’re so cute when you’re mortified.”
“I will end you.”
“You love me.”
Husk glared. But his ears were still flat, and his tail was tucked between his legs like a scolded cat.
Angel softened. He reached up slowly — giving Husk time to pull away — and brushed gentle fingers over the collar.
“Does it itch?” he asked quietly.
Husk looked away. “Like hell.”
Angel’s grin faded into something tender. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Husk shrugged — small, embarrassed. “Didn’t want you laughin’.”
Angel cupped Husk’s face with both hands, forcing him to meet his eyes. “I’m laughing with you, dummy. Not at you. And I’m gonna help.”
Husk’s tail twitched. “Help how?”
Angel tugged him toward the stairs. “Shower. Now. You, me, hot water, flea shampoo Charlie definitely bought in bulk. I’ll wash your wings. You can growl at me the whole time if it makes you feel better.”
Husk grumbled but didn’t resist when Angel pulled him along.
In the bathroom, Angel stripped them both down, turned the water scalding, and dragged Husk under the spray.
Husk hissed at the heat. Angel just laughed and grabbed the flea shampoo.
“Hold still, pussycat.”
Husk did — reluctantly — while Angel worked the suds into his fur, fingers gentle on his ears, his neck, the base of his wings. Husk’s tail finally relaxed, curling loosely around Angel’s ankle.
Angel leaned in, kissing the side of Husk’s wet neck. “See? Not so bad.”
Husk huffed. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Damn right I am.” Angel scratched behind his ears — slow, soothing. “My big tough boyfriend reduced to a collared kitten. It’s adorable.”
Husk growled — but it was half-hearted. His purr started up anyway, low and reluctant.
Angel kissed him under the water — slow, warm, tasting like shampoo and forgiveness.
When they finally stepped out, Husk’s fur was fluffy and clean, collar still on (Charlie’s orders: “Wear it for the full ten days!”), and Angel was grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Husk looked at himself in the mirror — damp, embarrassed, but flea-free — and sighed.
Angel wrapped arms around him from behind, chin on his shoulder.
“Still my favorite grumpy cat,” Angel murmured.
Husk’s tail curled around Angel’s leg.
“Still my pain-in-the-ass spider.”
Angel laughed.
And Husk — finally — let himself lean back into the embrace.
Fleas or no fleas.
He was home.