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Hell could get cold.
Not metaphorically. Not in the “when Hell freezes over” sense people liked to joke about. This was the kind of cold that sank into your joints and stayed there, like it had tenancy rights. The hotel radiators clanged and hissed in protest, as if personally offended by the weather.
The lobby glowed with firelight—orange and gold spilling over threadbare furniture and the usual assortment of sinners pretending they were relaxed.
Husk had done something unholy.
He’d abandoned his whiskey neat. Not whiskey. Just… straight whiskey. In its place: a large pot of peppermint hot toddies, simmering cheerfully on a hot plate like it had no idea how dangerous it was.
Steam curled through the air, thick with warmth and sharp-sweet mint. Everyone had a mug.
Everyone.
Niffty kicked her heels against the couch, beaming. “It smells like winter punched me in the face! I love it!”
“Festive,” Charlie said, cupping her mug with both hands. “Oh! And soothing.”
Vaggie eyed the pot suspiciously but drank anyway.
Even Alastor lounged in an armchair, fingers laced around his cup, grin stretched just a touch too wide. “Ahhh, peppermint. A scent so invigorating it almost makes one forget where one is.”
Husk grunted, ears flicking. “It’s hot. It’s booze. Don’t make it weird.”
That was when the front doors slammed open.
Angel Dust staggered in, coat half off, makeup smudged, whole body sagging with the kind of exhaustion that came from too many hours and not enough personal boundaries. He barely clocked the room—
And then the smell hit him.
Peppermint.
Everywhere.
His eyes blew wide, pupils shrinking as his senses went into full spider DEFCON 1. The fire crackled too loud. Voices overlapped too sharp. The air was wrong. Sweet and biting and crawling straight up his sinuses.
“Oh. Oh absolutely not,” Angel said faintly.
Silence snapped into place.
Angel swayed, hands flying up to clutch his head. “Why—why does it smell like a candy cane committed a hate crime in here?”
Charlie was on her feet instantly. “Angel? Hey—are you okay?”
Husk turned, frowning as he finally really looked at him. “What’s eatin’ you, Legs?”
Angel’s gaze locked onto Husk.
Onto the mug in his hand.
Steam rose. Minty. Aggressive.
“Don’t,” Angel said, voice suddenly sharp, brittle at the edges. “Don’t come any closer.”
Husk blinked. “I just—”
“Back. Up.”
He stepped forward anyway, instinctive, concerned—
Angel shoved him.
Harder than he meant to.
Husk stumbled back a step, more shocked than hurt. The mug sloshed dangerously.
The smell surged.
Angel made a choked, panicked noise that sounded like it had claws and bolted. He was gone in a blur of heels and limbs, the stairs taking him two at a time before a door slammed upstairs hard enough to rattle the walls.
Dead silence.
The toddy pot bubbled, cheerful and oblivious.
“…Okay,” Charlie said carefully. “I think—something’s wrong.”
Alastor hummed. “Fascinating.”
Husk stared at the stairs, jaw tight, ears pinned back. “…Yeah,” he muttered. “I got that.”
It took a while.
Angel sat on his bed wrapped in three blankets he did not need, breathing slow and shallow until the world stopped tilting. When the peppermint fog finally cleared from his head, the guilt moved in like it had been waiting its turn.
He’d snapped. Shoved Husk. Freaked out like a rookie.
“Real smooth, Angel,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Ten outta ten. No notes.”
Eventually, he forced himself back downstairs.
The lobby was quieter now. Fire still crackling. The toddy pot conspicuously gone.
Husk sat alone at the bar, staring into a mug he hadn’t touched, wings slumped like they’d forgotten what they were for.
Angel hovered in the doorway. “…Hey.”
Husk looked up instantly. Relief flickered across his face before he buried it under a scowl. “Hey.”
They existed awkwardly at each other for a moment.
Angel scratched at the back of his neck. “So. Uh. About earlier. I’m sorry I shoved you. That was a dick move. Peppermint just—” He waved vaguely at his head. “My senses go into overdrive. Shit gets loud. Smells turn into fuckin’ jackhammers. Brain freaks out, hits the panic button, then lights the panic button on fire for good measure.”
Husk snorted despite himself. “Sounds fun.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a real fuckin’ party trick,” Angel shot back, then sighed. “I shoulda warned you instead of losin’ my shit.”
Husk studied him, then sighed, long and tired. “You don’t gotta apologize for bein’ overwhelmed.” He slid the untouched mug away like it offended him personally. “I shoulda thought about it.”
He reached under the bar and set down a new cup.
“No mint,” Husk said gruffly. “Just lemon. Honey. Whiskey. The normal stuff. If I ever put peppermint in a drink again, you got permission to slap it outta my hand.”
Angel sniffed cautiously.
Warm. Sweet. Blessedly non-aggressive.
He wrapped his hands around it, shoulders easing like someone had finally turned the volume down on the world. “Y’know,” he said quietly, “you’re real good at this whole ‘giving a shit’ thing. Kinda ruins your whole brand.”
Husk huffed. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell anybody. I got a reputation to fuckin’ maintain.”
Angel smirked, leaning against the bar. “Your secret’s safe with me, Cupcake.”
“Don’t push it,” Husk grumbled, but there was no heat in it.
The fire crackled behind them.
Hell was still cold.
But for the moment?
It didn’t feel like it was actively trying to ruin them.
EPILOGUE
The toddy pot sat on the counter the next morning, scrubbed clean and aggressively innocent.
A large label had been slapped onto the side in thick black marker.
NO FUCKIN’ MINT. EVER.
Angel stared at it, coffee in hand, eyes flicking between the words and Husk.
“…You write that?” he asked.
Husk didn’t look up from the bar. “Yep.”
“You spell fuckin’ wrong.”
Husk took a sip of his drink. “I spelled it with intent.”
Angel snorted, all eight eyes crinkling. “Damn. That’s hot.”
Husk flipped him off without turning around.
The label stayed.