Discover Top Posts Tagged with #husk angst

Taglist: @jozzieblood @ravennaortiz @winterklls @death-in-a-tar0t-card @bagpipes606 @mrs-mischief1917 @ghostlytraitortale @berriblissful @bagofrice @cantbecreative @straw--b3rry @agustdeeyaa @notlikeothernerds @star-maker-rain-dancer @storminat3acup

TW: Dudes ... it's literally hell!, Canon typical violence, dark theme's, some canon typical religious overtones, s£x work, abuse, drug use, blood, alcohol consumption, fish out of water.

A/N: ⚠️ The heavier stuff starts in this chapter.

This gif is so cute ! If you know the creator please let me know ? (Found on Google!)

Part 7 | Part 9

DISORIENTATED ♣️🃏 P.8

You've been at the Hotel long enough that the initial shock has worn off into a dull, constant awareness of your situation. Long enough that you've stopped flinching every time you catch your reflection and see pink skin and snake hair staring back.

Long enough that you've almost, almost, started to accept that this is your existence now.

Almost.

Tonight, you're sitting against the headboard legs proped up on Angel's bed—which is exactly as extravagant as always, all pink and white with more pillows than any person, or demon, could possibly need. Fat Nuggets is snuggled against your side, snoring softly, and you're absently petting his head while Angel rummages through his closet with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.

"No, no, absolutely not—oh fuck, where did I get this?" Angel holds up something that's more straps than fabric, makes a face, and tosses it over his shoulder. "Okay, different pile. That's the 'drunk decision' pile."

You giggle, and it's still strange how comfortable you've become around Angel. When you first met him, his raunchy humor and constant innuendos made you want to disappear into the floor. Now, though, you understand that underneath all the sex jokes and bravado, he's actually really kind the two of you fast becoming friends.

"I don't know why you're so stressed out," you say, scratching behind Fat Nuggets' ears. "It's just Cherri, right? She's seen you in everything."

"It's the principle, babe. You don't just throw on any old thing when you're going to The Pit. You gotta make a statement. You gotta say 'I'm hot, I'm dangerous, and I'm probably gonna do something I'll regret but look fabulous doing it.'" He pauses, pulling out a pink and white striped top. "Also, I gotta reputation to uphold"

Your phone—buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, careful not to disturb Fat Nuggets, and see a text from Cherri in a group chat she's just made.

💣 Cherri Bomb: Get your asses to The Pit in an hour. No excuses. Yes that means you too, ya Munter.

You smile despite yourself. Cherri had taken to calling you a "Munter" after your first meeting, and somehow it felt more affectionate than mocking, although you weren't excatly sure what the word actually meant.

"Cherri says an hour," you report.

"AN HOUR?!" Angel drops the shirt he's holding. "Oh fuck, okay, we gotta get moving. Up, up!" He makes shooing motions at you. "Time to make you look absolutely sinful, sweetheart."

"I don't know if I should—"

"Come onnnn," Angel whines, and somehow he's moved to your side without you noticing, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "One night. A few drinks. Some dancing. I'll even keep the creeps away from you—mostly. It'll be fun! Don't you wanna have fun?"

"I dont know this is all still ... kinda new" you say weakly, because last time you went out you, quite literally walked into Zestial.

"Yeah, we established that. Booorrring. Let's establish something new, like what your alcohol tolerance is!" Angel's already pulling you off the bed, twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of Angel's full-length mirror.

The outfit is from Sinful Threads, the boutique Angel had dragged you into despite your protests about not having money. He'd been relentless, piling clothes into your arms until you'd agreed to try them on, but you where greatful.

The top is a deep colour that somehow makes your pink skin look intentional rather than weird, and the bottoms fit in a way that makes you look confident. Dangerous, even. Your snakes are behaving for once, styled in a way that frames your face rather than writhing chaotically.

And wait, was that little one checking itself out ? You shoo it back into place gently.

"See?" Angel appears behind you in the mirror, now dressed in his own carefully selected outfit. "I told you that color would work. You look hot. Like, scary hot. Like 'maybe I should sin again' hot."

"Jeez Angel!" You swat at him, but you're smiling.

"Still too soon?" He grins, unrepentant. "Come on, let's go break some hearts. Or at least give Husk a fucking aneurysm."

"Wait-what?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing." But his grin widens in a way that makes you nervous.

The lobby is quiet when you come downstairs, just Husk behind the bar doing his usual routine of cleaning glasses and nursing a drink that's definitely too strong for this early in the evening.

He looks up when he hears footsteps, probably ready to make some sarcastic comment about Angel's outfit, but the words die on his lips when he sees you.

You're too busy adjusting your top, making sure everything is sitting right, to notice the way Husk's eyes widen slightly. The way his hand freezes mid-wipe on the glass. The way his wings fall ever so slightly.

"It's too much isnt it?" you ask, self-consciously. "Angel says it's good but I don't know if—"

"You look fine," Husk says, and his voice comes out rougher than usual. He clears his throat. "Good. You look good."

"Just good?" Angel saunters past you to lean against the bar, and his grin is absolutely wicked. "Whiskers, I worked hard on this. Give me more than 'good.'"

Husk shoots him a glare, but there's a faint flush under his fur that you've never seen before. "I said she looks good. What more do you want?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe some enthusiasm? Some appreciation for my artistic vision?" Angel's grin somehow widens further, and he leans in close to Husk, lowering his voice to a whisper that you can't quite hear.

You're too busy double-checking that you have everything you need in your small bag to notice Angel murmur, "Your welcome, kitty," or the way Husk's face darkens, or the growled "Shut the fuck up" that follows.

"Ready?" Angel calls to you, straightening up.

"I think so?" You glance at Husk one more time. "We won't be out too late."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Husk mutters, but there's something almost... soft in his expression. "Just stay close to Angel. And if—"

"I'll handle it," Angel interrupts. "Don't worry, I got her."

Husk doesn't look convinced, but he nods. His eyes follow you as you head toward the door, and if you'd looked back, you might have caught the concerned, protective way he watches you leave.

But you don't look back.

Angel does, though, and he shoots Husk a knowing wink that earns him a middle finger and a muttered curse.

He sighs deeply, and knocks back the rest of his drink.

"Fuck," he mutters, then louder, "Wait up. Someone's gotta make sure you idiots don't die. Again."

Pentagram City at night is somehow worse than Pentagram City during the day. The neon signs burn brighter, casting everything in shades of pink and purple and sickly green. The streets are more crowded, full of demons of every shape and size, all of them looking for trouble or already in it.

Angel keeps a firm grip on your wrist as he navigates through the chaos, Husk following behind with his hands shoved in his pockets and his wings tucked tight against his back. You try not to stare at the things you pass—the fights breaking out on street corners, the screaming coming from alleyways, the deals being made in the open because shame doesn't exist here.

"Almost there!" Angel calls back cheerfully, as if you're on your way to a theme park and not deeper into literal Hell.

The club, when you arrive, pulses with bass so heavy you can feel it in your bones, and the line to get in stretches down the block. Angel, naturally, walks right past everyone, exchanging some kind of hand gesture with the bouncer—a massive demon with horns that could impale a car—and suddenly you're being ushered inside.

The interior is a assault on the senses. Strobe lights flash in dizzying patterns, the music is so loud you can barely think, and the crowd is a writhing mass of bodies that seems to operate as a single, chaotic organism. The air is thick with smoke—both tobacco and things that definitely aren't tobacco—and the smell of alcohol and sweat and something sweetly chemical.

"This is—" you start to say, but Angel's already pulling you deeper into the club, toward a section that's slightly elevated from the main floor.

"Cherri!" Angel yells, waving frantically at her through the crowd. Her outfit is equal parts punk rock and apocalypse survivor, and when she grins at Angel's approach.

"Angel Dust, you beautiful disaster!" She pulls him into a hug that involves a lot of backslapping. "I was starting to think you where gonna go full nun on me!"

"Please, bitch, you know I can't quit you." Angel finally releases your wrist to gesture at you dramatically. "Tada, We're taking her on her first night out in Hell."

Cherri's eye lands on you, and Husk who's appeared at your shoulder like a grumpy guardian angel. "Aw, look at you! Fucking adorable. Like a demented little cupcake or some shit."

"I'm not—this is—all really overwhelming," you manage.

"First night outs always rough, bitch. Don't worry, we'll fix that." Cherri's already moving toward the table, which is covered in an alarming array of bottles and other substances you can't identify and aren't sure you want to. "What's your poison?"

"She doesn't drink," Husk answers for you, settling into one of the chairs with the air of someone resigned to a long night.

"Doesn't drink? In Hell?" Cherri laughs like this is the funniest thing she's heard all week. "Oh, hell no. That's gonna change real quick."

Angel and Cherri disappear into the crowd, something about getting "supplies," and suddenly it's just you and Husk in the booth. The music thrums through the floor, making you feel like your vibrating, and you wrap your arms around yourself despite the heat.

"I really don't think I should have come out," you say, loud enough to be heard over the music.

Husk shrugs, already pouring himself a drink from one of the bottles on the table. "Probably not. But Angel's right about one thing—sitting around dwelling on shit isnt healthy."

"I keep waiting for it to get easier" The words slip out before you can stop it. "Being here, I mean. Dealing with all this" you say gesturing around.

Husk takes a long moment before answering. "You'll get used to it. That's the closest thing to easier you're gonna get."

It's not comforting, but somehow it's more honest than anything else.

Angel and Cherri return with a tray that makes your stomach drop. Shots—at least a dozen of them—line one side, glowing in colors that definitely don't occur in nature. The other side holds various pills and powders and things you can't even identify.

"Alright, fresh meat!" Cherri announces, slamming the tray down on the table. "Time to get this party started!"

"I'm not taking any of that," you say immediately, eyeing the drugs like they might attack you.

"Okay, okay, we'll start easy." Angel picks up one of the shots—this one is relatively normal-looking, just amber liquid in a small glass. "Just one shot. That's it. Consider it a Hell baptism."

You shake your head. "I don't—"

"I'll keep an eye on you," Husk interrupts, his voice gruff. He's watching you with something that might be concern buried under layers of cynical detachment. "One shot ain't gonna kill you. You're already dead anyway."

"That's not reassuring!"

"It wasn't meant to be reassuring, it was meant to be factual." Husk nudges the shot glass closer to you. "Look, you can sit here sober and terrified all night, or you can take the edge off and maybe, possibly, have five minutes where you're not thinking about... everything. Your choice."

You stare at the shot glass. The liquid inside catches the strobing lights, making it seem to glow from within. Your hands are shaking—fuck it.

"Just one," you finally say, your voice barely audible.

"That's my girl!" Angel cheers, and before you can second-guess yourself, he's pressing the glass into your hand.

The liquid burns going down—burns in a way that makes your eyes water and your throat close up and your stomach rebel. You cough, sputtering, and Angel and Cherri burst into laughter while Husk looks vaguely amused.

"Holy shit," you wheeze, "that's awful."

"That's the spirit!" Cherri cackles, taking three shots in rapid succession like it's nothing.

The burn fades quickly, replaced by a strange warmth that spreads from your chest outward. Your fingers and toes tingle, and the anxiety that's been your constant companion since waking up in Hell... softens. Just a little. Just enough that you can breathe without feeling like you're drowning.

"Oh," you say, surprised. "Oh, that's... that's actually kind of nice."

Angel and Husk exchange a look over your head—quick, surprised, almost concerned.

"Uh, that was just one shot, toots," Angel says slowly. "You feeling it already?"

"Is that... is that bad?" You blink at him, and the strobe lights seem prettier now, less overwhelming. The music is still loud but it feels more like it's surrounding you in a good way, like a hug made of sound.

"You're a lightweight," Husk observes, leaning back in his seat. "Good to know."

The warmth continues to spread, and with it comes something you haven't felt since arriving relaxation. Your shoulders drop from where they've been tensed up near your ears. The snakes on your head drop there heads instead moving in lazy, content patterns.

"Hey Husker" you say, and you're surprised to find yourself giggling—actually giggling, "the loan sharks in Hell are actual sharks? Like, with fins and everything? That's so funny. That's such a literal joke. Hell has dad jokes!"

Cherri snorts into her drink. "Oh, she's definitely feeling it."

"One shot," Angel repeats, sounding both amazed and delighted. "One fucking shot and she's gone. This is amazing."

The next hour passes in a pleasant blur. You don't take any more shots—Husk makes sure of that, intercepting every attempt Angel makes to get you to "just have one more"—but the single shot continues to work its magic, keeping you floating in that pleasant space between sober anxiety and drunk oblivion.

The music pulses through you, and at some point, you find yourself swaying to it. Not dancing, exactly, but moving in a way that feels natural, like your body is having a conversation with the bass line.

"Ohhhhh you got rhythm!" Angel observes, and suddenly he's pulling you up from your seat. "Come on, let's dance!"

"I don't—I'm not really a dancer—" you protest, but your feet are already moving, following Angel onto a small raised platform near your booth. It's not quite a stage, but it's elevated enough that people can see you.

The song changes, shifting to something with a heavy, more deliberate beat. And then, without meaning to, you start singing along.

Your voice surprises you—it's steadier than you expected, clearer, with a quality that cuts through the club's noise.

You raise your hands in panic. “I—I can’t—Angel, I don’t—”

But the music swallowed your words and something inside you—something you didn’t know you had—rises like a wave.

“My flesh will feed the demons now, No trial, no case for reason, I’ve been chosen to pay with my life—!”

A cheer erupted from somewhere in the back.

Angel whistled.

Husk’s head snapped upward from his drink as though your voice had reached straight into his spine and yanked.

You spun, feeling the pull of something wild—something electric. The club floor blurred into a whirl of devils and neon as you moved, some hidden momentum pulling you.

The next words rip from your throat like a scream. “Mad men define what mad is turning witches and saints to ashes, rising masses marching to find heretic blood—!”

Patrons roared approval, some pounding their glasses, panic rises in your chest as you looked for Angel.

“I—why the fuck am I singing?!”

The question comes out frantically as you met Angel's shit eating grin. “WHY AM I SINGING?!” You yell at Angel, who has gone back to the booth.

Angel laughs like this is normal, waving dismissively. “Relax, It’s Hell! Sometimes you just break into song!”

“But I don’t WANT to break into song!”

“Too late for that, babycakes!”

The lyrics keep pouring out, unstoppable, like someone has cracked open your chest and this was what spilled forth.

“Impose your will on me ... ’Til fire sets me free"

You hit a note so sharp and furious the lights above flicker, and Angel yelled, “GET IT, TOOTS!”

You look down. At the demons cheering. At Angel and Cherri, dancing?

Your foot slips on spilled liquor. The platform edge rushes up toward you, but before the floor can catch you—Husk does.

The impact against him is solid and warm, knocking the breath out of you, his claws dig instinctively into your waist to keep you from sliding. His wings flare slightly, bracketing you both in their shadow.

His arms are solid around you, grounding, steadying, smelling faintly of whiskey and smoke. His wings tuck in behind you both like he is trying to shield you from the entire club. You weren’t sure if he meant to do it. He didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.

“Easy, sweetness,” he murmured, before catching himself and clearing his throat.

The crowd was still hooting. Still trying to decide whether to chant your name or demand an encore.

Your heart hammered like it was trying to claw its way out. Your snakes were still puffed up, one of the traitorous little things booping Husk’s cheek in nervous apology.

“uh—hi?” He blinked at it with a baffled expression.

“I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to sing!” you sputtered, your voice rising embarrassingly high.

Husk sighed like he’d aged a century in three seconds.

“Toots ya got PIPES!” Angel hollered from somewhere behind him, kicking one leg up.

“Angel, shut up,” Husk grumbled.

“I don’t know what happened. I was just—I was on the—over there and then I was—WHY WAS I SINGING ABOUT DEMONS EATING MY FLESH?!”

“It was METAL AS FUCK, THAT’S WHY!” Cherri cackled from her perch.

"Why was I—how did I—" you stammer, looking at Angel. "I don't sing! I can't sing! Why was I singing?"

"Uh, because you're fucking good at it?" Angel offers, looking genuinely confused by your distress. "Babe, that was hot. You should do that more often!"

"Sorry I need to—I need air, I need to—" You step back from Husk face hot with embrassment, your buzz rapidly fading as panic takes its place.

"Hey, wait—" Angel reaches for you, but you're already moving, pushing through the crowd toward the back of the club where you hope there's an exit or a bathroom or just space to breathe.

You stumble away from the platform, weaving through the crowd, desperately looking for a bathroom or a exit, somewhere to get your shit together, the pleasant buzz from earlier has completely evaporated, leaving only confusion, what the fuck was that ? You just need to sit down, catch your breath, figure out what just happened—

A hand closes around your upper arm—large, firm, impossible to escape.

"Oh, you're one of those sinners."

The voice is unfamiliar but when you're spun around, you find yourself face-to-chest with a tall demon. He towers over you even more than you remembered from that first day, and his smile is predatory as he looks down at you like you're the most valuable thing he's ever seen.

"I don't—I need to go back to my friends—" you try to pull away, but his grip is iron.

"Oh no, chiquita. Not until I introduce you to some very influencial friends." He's already moving, dragging you through the club with him, and the demons around you part like water, none of them willing to interfere with Valentino.

He pulls you to a private booth tucked into a corner of the club—more isolated but just visible to the main floor. The table is glossy black, expensive-looking, and already occupied by several demons in various states of intoxication. They eye you with curiosity and hunger as Valentino shoves you into the booth, boxing you in with his body.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Valentino addresses the table with the air of someone about to show off a prized possession, "I'd like to introduce you to—."

"I dont want to be rude—but I just—if I could—" you start, but he's not listening.

Before you can finish your sentence, he grabs your hand, and you feel the sharp slice of his claw across your fingertips. The pain is immediate, and you gasp, trying to jerk away, but he holds firm.

"Just a little demonstration," Valentino purrs, and your blood wells up from the cuts, shimmering in the club lights.

He drags your bleeding fingers across the black table surface, creating several thin lines of pastel pink against the dark background. The blood seems to glow slightly, iridescent, beautiful in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Then, casual as anything, Valentino leans down and snorts one of the lines.

The effect is instantaneous. His pupils blow wide, his antennae quiver violently, and a sound of pure euphoria escapes his throat. His wings extend fully, trembling, and when he straightens up, there's an expression of ecstasy on his face that's disturbing to witness.

"Oh shit," he breathes, laughing. "That's—fuck, that's incredible." He turns to the others at the table, gesturing at the remaining lines of your blood. "You have got to try this."

"Please—I really need to" You try again to pull your hand back, but he's not done with you yet.

"Do you have any idea what you'd be worth, Chiquita?" Valentino's grin is predatory.

Then to your horror he offers your still-bleeding fingers toward one of the demons at the table—a shark-like creature with too many teeth. "Go ahead, take a bump. You're gonna want to experience this."

The shark demon leans forward, interested, and you feel like you're going to be sick.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER!"

Angel Dust appears like a whirlwind of fury, shoving the shark demon back and putting himself between you and the table. His usual playful demeanor is completely gone, replaced by something fierce and protective.

"Angelcakes" Valentino's voice drops several degrees, the euphoria fading into something dangerous. "You're interrupting my business."

"She's not your fucking business, Val." Angel grabs your uninjured hand and pulls you out of the booth, you scramble over the table top and away from Valentino's reach. "Did that shit you just snort fuck with your hearing?"

Valentino stands slowly, using every inch of his height to intimidate. The other demons at the table tense, sensing the shift in atmosphere. "Watch yourself, Angel Dust. Your forgetting who your talking to?"

"Hard to forget when you remind me all the goddamn time," Angel shoots back, but there's a tremor in his voice that wasn't there before.

Husk appears at Angel's shoulder, wings spread, looking ready for a fight. "We're leaving. Now."

"You walk away with her and there will be consequences." Valentino's voice is soft, almost gentle, which makes it even more threatening. "We're gonna have a long conversation about respect."

Angel's grip on your hand tightens, and you can feel him shaking—whether from fear or rage, you're not sure. "Whatever. Come on, we're done here."

Angel pulls you through the crowd, Cherri flanking your other side and Husk bringing up the rear. You don't breathe properly until you're through the club, and back on the street where the air—despite being Hell—feels blessedly clean.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet. Cherri has said her goodbyes back near the nightclub.

Angel keeps glancing sideways at you, concern written all over his face despite his attempts to hide it. Husk is at your other side his golden irises watchful, his hands twitching in his pockets like he's ready to catch you if you fall.

"What the fuck was that?" Husk finally asks, his voice cutting through the silence. "That blood thing?"

"How the hell would I know," you say honestly, staring at your fingertips. The cuts sting—small but persistent, a reminder of Valentino's violation. "I don't know what happened. I don't—I don't understand any of this."

"Your blood got him high," Angel says bluntly. "Like, really high. I've seen Val on nearly every drug in Hell, and I've never seen him look like that."

"But I didn't do anything! I don't—I'm not—" You struggle to find words for something you don't understand. "I'm just me. I'm nobody. I'm just a person who made a terrible mistake and now I'm dead and I don't—"

Your voice breaks, and suddenly you're crying, the respite of the evening evaporating like smoke.

"Hey, hey, none of that." Angel wraps an arm around your shoulders, gentler than you've seen him. "We'll figure it out, okay? Charlie's proably got books or some shit. We'll figure out what that was."

"Fuck," you whisper. "I just want to understand what's happening."

Husk makes a sound that might be sympathy. "Welcome to Hell. Where nobody gets what they want."

By the time you reach the hotel, exhaustion has settled into your bones like lead. The shot has worn off, long ago, and the stress is leaving you with a dull headache and cuts that sting more with each passing minute.

"You need your hand looked at," Husk says before you can answer, nodding toward your injured fingers. "And then sleep. It's been a long fucking night."

Husk is already moving toward the bar, already pulling out a small medical kit from behind the bar—because of course he has one. "Come on, come sit down."

You approach hesitantly, holding your injured hand close to your chest. The cuts aren't deep, but they're still bleeding slightly, and they sting like hell.

Appropriate for where you are now, you suppose.

"Sit." Husk gestures to a barstool, and you obey, watching as he sets out antiseptic and bandages with surprising efficiency.

"I could do it myself—" you start.

"Shut up and let me help." There's no real bite to his words. He reaches for your hand, then pauses, his claws hovering. "This might sting."

You're very aware of those claws as he takes your hand—so carefully, like you're made of glass. His touch is gentle in a way that contradicts everything about his gruff exterior, and when he dabs at the cuts with antiseptic-soaked cotton, you barely feel it because you're too focused on the concentration on his face.

"You've done this before," you observe quietly.

"Yeah, well. Once your here for a while you see your share of fights and stupid decisions." He works methodically, cleaning each cut with a care that makes your chest feel tight. "He shouldn't have touched you."

"I know."

"I mean it." He looks up, and there's something fierce in his eyes. "Anyone tries that shit again, you come find me. Or Angel. But you don't let anyone corner you alone."

"Okay," you whisper.

He finishes wrapping your fingers in small bandages, checking his work twice before releasing your hand. "There. Should be fine in a few days. Might scar, might not. Hard to tell with our sinner bullshit"

"Thank you, Husker." You flex your fingers experimentally. "You didn't have to—"

"Yeah, I did." His claws give your wrist a slight squeeze before putting away the medical supplies, not meeting your eyes. "Now get some sleep. You look like shit."

You slide off the barstool, managing a small smile despite everything. "Goodnight, Husker."

"Night, doll."

By the time you reach your room, you barely have the energy to change into pajamas before collapsing into bed. Your bandaged hand rests on the pillow beside you, and the last thought you have before sleep claims you is how gentle Husk's claws had been.

Downstairs, Husk pours himself a drink and tries very hard not to think about how much he wants to track down Valentino.

Angel slumps onto a barstool, his earlier energy completely drained. "That was fucked up."

"Yeah." Husk pours them both drinks, something strong and necessary. "Val's going to be a problem."

"Val's always a problem," Angel mutters, but there's a tremor in his voice. "But, fuck, he looked at her like she was—"

"A commodity," Husk finishes grimly. "A resource. Something to be used."

They sit in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks. Husk swirls the liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light before continuing.

"It's going to put a target on her back."

"Fuck," Angel breathes.

"Yeah."

"She's not gonna survive that," Angel says quietly. "She's too..." Angel runs a hand thru his hair smoothing it back.

"This place is gonna eat her alive."

Husk doesn't answer immediately. He's thinking about the way you looked when you came down the stairs. The way you giggled about loan sharks. The way you broke down when you first realized you where in hell.

"Then we don't let it," he finally says.

Angel looks at him, surprised. "What?"

"We don't let Hell eat her alive." Husk meets his eyes, and there's something determined in his expression, something that hasn't been there in years. "Charlie wants to redeem people, right? Help them get better? Well, maybe we start by helping her survive long enough to figure out what the fuck is going on."

A slow smile spreads across Angel's face. "Husk, are you going soft on me?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"You like her."

"I said shut the fuck up."

"You're going all protective guardian on her. That's adorable. That's precious. I'm gonna tease you about this forever—"

Husk throws a towel at Angel's face, but there's no real heat in it.

Upstairs, you sleep, unaware of the conversation happening below.

Unaware that you just became valuable in the worst possible way.