Chapter Text
The neon lights of the Hazbin Hotel sign flickered, casting a sickly pink glow over the lobby carpet. It was 3:00 AM—the hour of the damned, even for the already damned.
Husk was behind the bar, polishing a glass that was already spotless. It was a rhythmic, mindless task that kept the ghosts of his past at bay. The heavy front doors creaked open, and the scent of ozone and cheap, flowery perfume drifted in.
Angel Dust didn't swagger in. He lurched. His fluff was matted, one of his lower arms was cradling his ribs, and the usual spark in his eyes had been replaced by a vacant, glassed-over stare.
"You look like hell, kid," Husk said, not looking up. "And that’s saying something for this zip code."
Angel slumped onto a barstool, the wood groaning under his weight. "Just give me the bottle, Whiskers. No commentary."
Husk paused. He finally looked up and saw the faint, shimmering bruise beginning to bloom across Angel's jaw—the signature mark of a psychic blow from a certain moth demon. Without a word, Husk reached under the bar. He didn't grab the cheap rail gin Angel usually ordered. He pulled out a dusty bottle of top-shelf rye.
He poured a double, neat, and pushed it across the scarred wood.
"On the house?" Angel quipped, his voice cracking. He tried to smirk, but it fell flat.
"On the house," Husk grunted. "Don't get used to it."
Angel downed the liquid in one go, the burn bringing a flash of color back to his cheeks. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock.
"He was worse tonight," Angel whispered, his four hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the bar. "I think... I think he's losing his grip on the studio. And he's taking it out on the merchandise."
Husk stopped polishing. He leaned his heavy paws on the counter, looking Angel dead in the eye. "You ain't merchandise, Angel. You're a pain in my ass, a loudmouthed brat, and a terrible influence. But you ain't an object."
Angel looked away, a single tear carving a path through the glitter on his cheek. "In this town? That’s the same thing."
"Not at this bar," Husk growled.
He reached out, his large, furred hand hovering over Angel’s for a split second before retreating. He wasn't a "touchy" guy. But the sentiment remained, hanging in the air like the smoke from a cigar.
"Stay here tonight," Husk said, turning back to the shelves. "I'm pulling a double. If anyone comes looking for you, I’ve got a deck of cards and a few tricks left from my Overlord days that say they won't get past the door."
Angel finally looked at him, a real, small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're a real softie under all that mangy fur, ya know that?"
"Shut up and drink your rye," Husk muttered, though his wings gave a tiny, involuntary flutter of affection.