Chapter Text
🎇 “First Contact”
Husker pov:
The dust hadn’t settled yet.
It clung to the air like smoke, thick and coppery, turning every breath into a memory he didn’t want to keep. Husk stood in the middle of the wreckage with his shoulders heaving and his wings still halfway out — stretched and trembling like they hadn’t been used in decades. Because they hadn’t.
His claws twitched at his sides. His jaw was locked tight. His vision pulsed in deep reds and golds, magic still fizzing just behind his eyes, not quite fading. Not quite under control.
The floor beneath him was cracked — gouged from where his fists had landed. The walls were scorched with the shape of something that had tried to get in his way and didn’t make it far.
He didn’t remember how long it had lasted. Just that something inside him had broken loose the second he heard Angel scream. And after that? It was all noise.
Until now.
Now, it was quiet.
Except… not completely.
There were footsteps behind him. Soft ones. Familiar. Hesitating near the doorway before approaching carefully, slowly, like someone trying to soothe a wild animal with just their voice.
But Angel didn’t speak.
Husk barely blinked when he felt the hand on his chest — just over his heart. Warm. Grounding. Careful.
The magic under his skin surged once. He didn’t move.
“You still in there, old man?” Angel’s voice came, not teasing this time. Just soft.
Husk didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His throat was dry, like something had scorched it shut. He was too aware of how close Angel was. Too aware of the fact that Angel hadn’t pulled his hand away.
And most of all, he was too aware that he hadn’t flinched from it.
The air between them buzzed — not with tension, but something quieter. Something heavier.
“You look like hell,” Angel tried again, gently. “A really dramatic kind of hell.”
Husk finally shifted his eyes to look at him. Angel was bruised too, limping a little, dirt smudged into the fur at his jawline. But his hand never wavered. Still pressed to Husk’s chest like it belonged there.
“…You always this handsy when a guy’s got wings out?” Husk rasped, voice rough and dry.
Angel huffed a soft laugh, but didn’t move away. “Only when they look like they’re gonna fall over.”
Husk didn’t tell him how close he was.
Didn’t admit how hard it was to stand.
Didn’t say a word about how the one thing keeping him upright was the warmth of that goddamn touch.
Instead, he blinked slow and said, “You’re not scared of me, huh?”
Angel’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “No,” he said simply. “Should I be?”
Husk looked away.
“…No.”
⛓️💥 “What Came Before”
Husker pov:
Earlier that night…
The only warning had been the sound.
A scream — sharp and guttural — the kind that cracked something in Husk’s chest before his brain even registered who it belonged to. But he knew. Of course he knew. He’d been cataloguing Angel Dust’s every laugh, every sigh, every fearful breath since the spider demon first staggered into his life and started asking questions Husk didn’t want to answer.
And now he was screaming.
It wasn’t the usual Hell kind of scream either. Not bravado, not show. Real.
Choked and frantic. Cornered.
Husk had been behind the bar. He’d only taken a few steps toward the hallway before everything inside him snapped.
⸻
It always started in his chest.
That faint hum — like a radio signal trying to push through static. It pulsed along his spine, down to the ends of his fingers, until his claws curled against his palms to try and contain it.
But tonight… there was no containing it.
The heat burst through him in waves — slow at first, like coals catching flame. Then faster. Unrelenting. Old magic surged from beneath the surface of his skin, golden and molten, licking out from under his eyes and across the creases of his hands like firelight crawling up a wick. His fur stood on end, bristling against the shift.
And then came the crack.
A splitting seam ran down his back, not physical — not exactly. But it felt like armor breaking. Or maybe the shell of something long buried finally shedding.
The wings came next. Massive. Dark. Older than most of the souls crawling through Hell. They unfurled with a violent jerk as if they’d been wrenched free from stone. And in a way… they had.
He wasn’t just some drunk cat who’d been stitched together from vices and left to rot. Husk had once been something else entirely — a creature bound by enchantment, anchored into a gargoyle’s frame as both penance and protection.
That spell had eroded over time. So had he.
But tonight, that protective layer cracked open like volcanic rock splitting at the seams.
It didn’t come out as a scream. It came out as heat.
As fury.
As purpose.
He surged forward without thinking, following the scent of blood and panic. The hallway blurred past him in gold and shadow. When he reached the room, he didn’t remember opening the door. Didn’t remember crossing the floor.
All he remembered was the sound of Angel’s voice. Broken. Small.
“Don’t —! Don’t come any closer—!”
And someone else standing in the way.
Some demon with too many arms and not nearly enough instinct.
There was no hesitation.
Husk moved.
And the ancient magic didn’t just accompany him — it poured from him. His claws were aflame with gold. His wings, wide and furious, slammed outward with a guttural gust that shattered glass and sent the trespasser flying across the wall like they’d been struck by a comet.
The heat in the room climbed. The bar’s ceiling tiles cracked.
And still, he held back. Just barely.
Because Angel was there. And he couldn’t afford to lose control of it all.
He stood in the center of the wreckage, body heaving, magic crackling across his limbs like it had missed him. Like it had waited centuries to taste air again.
And once the threat was gone, Husk didn’t chase. He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, wings drawn wide, golden light glowing in his eyes and chest like the cracked surface of an old cathedral window lit from within.
He could still feel Angel behind him. Could hear his breath — quick and shallow.
But he didn’t turn around.
Not yet.
He needed a second. Just one second to remember where he was — who he was — and that the body he was standing in wasn’t a weapon anymore.
Or at least it wasn’t supposed to be.
🕷️ “Aftermath”
Angel Dust pov:
He couldn’t breathe right.
Angel was still backed against the wall, breath caught in his throat, legs trembling from where he’d collapsed after everything went quiet. There was blood on his lip. Not a lot, but enough to remind him this hadn’t been a hallucination. This happened.
And Husk…
Husk was glowing.
Not metaphorically. Not like cute boy-in-sunlight glowing.
Real glow. Gold, raw, ancient.
There was something in the air around him — a humming charge, like the moment before lightning hits, like the world holding its breath because something divine had cracked open in the middle of Hell. And it was standing with its wings stretched out wide, heat rolling off its shoulders, steam curling from the edges of its fur like the earth itself had boiled up beneath him.
Husk wasn’t moving.
Not anymore.
He just stood there, shoulders drawn up, head bowed, fists loose at his sides. One of his wings twitched, folding slightly. He looked like he was… waiting.
Or maybe trying to make himself small again.
And that’s what did it.
Not the wings. Not the magic. Not the wall that cracked clean down the middle from how hard he’d thrown that demon. No — it was the way Husk stood there like he was sorry for it. Like he expected someone to punish him for trying to protect something.
For trying to protect him.
Angel pushed himself off the floor slowly, testing his legs. He winced at the pull in his side but ignored it. His eyes never left Husk’s back.
“You always had wings like that?” he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to himself.
The other didn’t answer. Just kept breathing — heavy, ragged, shoulders twitching now and then like the weight of what had happened was only just catching up with him.
Angel stepped forward.
One step. Then another.
It felt wrong to speak again. Like words would only make the moment collapse under its own weight. So instead, he did the only thing he could think of.
He reached out.
Carefully. Cautiously. Like touching something holy — or haunted.
And when his hand pressed lightly to Husk’s back, just between the wings, the heat there surprised him. Not fiery. Not unbearable. Just steady. Like the heat that lives in a hearth, not a wildfire. And under his palm, Husk flinched — just barely — but didn’t pull away.
Angel swallowed, barely breathing.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. I’m okay…”
He moved his hand, slower now, up toward Husk’s shoulder, until his fingers brushed over thick, warm fur. He could still feel the magic thrumming underneath it all, but it was retreating — like a tide slipping back into the ocean after the storm had passed.
“You didn’t scare me,” Angel whispered. “You hear me?”
Still nothing.
So he stepped closer — close enough that they were almost touching.
And with a breath, he moved his hand again — this time, pressing it right over Husk’s heart.
“You saved me.”
🪨🎇 “The Stone That Moved”
Angel Dust pov:
This moment lives in that surreal, half-lit emotional space — heavy with heat and aftermath, but also with reverence. Husk might not be fully present yet, not fully aware of what Angel is saying, but Angel says it anyway. Because he has to. Because someone needs to. Still intimate, still hushed, still unfolding like prayer over embers.
He wasn’t even sure if Husk could hear him.
Not really.
Not the words anyway. His ears twitched when Angel spoke, sure, but there was a faraway look in his eyes — if you could even call them eyes right now.
They were molten. Not red. Not gold. Something in-between, glowing behind the irises like floodlight filtered through cathedral glass.
Like the remnants of something divine forced to exist inside something so worn down.
Angel had never seen them like that before.
He couldn’t look away.
He moved his hand up from Husk’s chest and gently cupped his cheek. The warmth there startled him — not scorching, but dense, like the heat that radiates from sunbaked stone. Husk’s breathing was slowing now, rough but not panicked, the kind that came with exhaustion more than adrenaline.
“Hey,” Angel whispered again, not expecting a reply, just needing to fill the air with something that wasn’t silence. “It’s me. Just me. You’re alright.”
The lights overhead flickered again from whatever lingering power still simmered in the air. Something about it felt ancient. Not demonic. Not even infernal. Older.
Older than either of them.
Angel’s eyes trailed upward, following the slope of Husk’s shoulder, past the torn remnants of his shirt, to the wings still stretched behind him like a creature carved from midnight.
That’s what he looked like.
Like a gargoyle.
Not the kind decorating crumbling Hell buildings — no. The real kind.
The kind that only moved when no one was looking. The kind that stood guard over something worth protecting.
And maybe Husk didn’t know that’s what he was right now. Maybe he couldn’t feel it.
But Angel could.
“You look like a fuckin’ statue brought to life,” Angel murmured, voice hushed like he was afraid to break whatever spell had been cast. “Like something that burst outta the stone just ‘cause I called out for help.”
Still no answer.
But Husk’s head tilted just slightly into his hand. Just slightly. Like instinct.
Like recognition.
Angel’s throat tightened.
“…I’m not scared of you,” he said again. “I’m not.”
He let his thumb brush just under one glowing eye — careful not to flinch when the golden light flickered like a flame.
“I think I’m actually relieved,” he admitted, softly. “You were there. You heard me. And you didn’t… you didn’t even hesitate.”
There were blood smears on his fingers now — some of it his, some of it not. None of it seemed to matter.
Angel took a shaky breath and rested his forehead against Husk’s for a moment, letting the warmth settle over him like a cloak. Letting himself be quiet, too.
For once, they didn’t need to perform.
They just were.
The stone gargoyle had moved. And Angel had watched it happen.
🪨🩶 “Cooling Stone”
Husker pov:
Coming back was the hardest part.
Not the fighting. Not the magic. Not even the sound of the scream that ripped it all loose.
No, the hardest part was the quiet.
The moment after the fire dies down and you’re left standing in the ashes, heart still beating like war drums, but there’s nothing left to kill. Nothing left to protect. Nothing but yourself — and Husk never learned how to protect that.
He wasn’t sure when his knees had started to shake.
Wasn’t sure how long Angel had been touching him, speaking to him in those hushed tones that sounded far too gentle for Hell. It filtered in through the static slowly — like a radio station just out of range, crackling in and out, but stubborn enough to stay present.
His body ached. In ways he was used to, and in ways he hadn’t felt in a long time.
That ancient power had come too fast. Too raw. It wasn’t meant to sit under his skin anymore — not really. It had been buried like bones in bedrock for a reason. And now that it had clawed its way back out…
He exhaled shakily.
The glow behind his eyes pulsed again, weaker now. Slipping. Fading.
Good.
He was so tired.
But he could feel Angel’s palm still cradling his cheek. He hadn’t moved away, not even now. And Husk… didn’t hate it.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t growl or shove him off.
Because in the space where the magic had lived, something else had started settling in.
Warmth.
Not the kind that burned. Not rage or wrath. Something… smaller. Quieter. Dangerous in a whole different way.
“Still here?” he rasped, the words sandpapered against his throat. His voice barely sounded like his own.
He felt Angel nod against him.
“…Good.”
His arms felt too heavy to move. His wings were dragging him down like stone anchors, still half-unfurled behind him. They trembled when he tried to pull them in. Like old joints, half-rusted.
God, when did I get so old…?
The crackle in his spine had eased. The heat under his skin simmered down to dying embers. He could smell dust. Ash. Blood. And beneath all of it — Angel.
Not cologne. Not perfume. Just him. Sweat and hairspray and whatever powdered sugar scent clung to his soul no matter how much dirt tried to bury it.
Husk slowly blinked. The world stopped swimming.
Angel’s eyes were watching him. Really watching him.
Not afraid. Not wide-eyed. Not cautious.
Present.
“You got a real stubborn streak, you know that?” Husk murmured, mouth tugging up at the corner.
Angel smiled — small, tired. “Takes one to know one.”
He finally pulled back just enough to see him clearer. The bleeding lip. The messy fur. The little quiver in his fingers that said he’d been just as wrecked as Husk — maybe not in the same way, but damn close.
And he stayed.
Husk let his eyes close again for a beat, feeling the weight of the moment press in around him. He wasn’t a statue anymore. Not buried. Not silent.
He was warm.
And he was seen.
🕷️ “Guided Hands”
Angel Dust pov:
Angel didn’t say anything at first.
Just shifted one of his hands from Husk’s cheek down to the side of his arm, his palm skating gently over burned-out fur, warm skin, the tremble still lingering in muscle that didn’t usually let itself shake. Husk was still on his feet, but Angel could see the weight of it all was starting to hit.
That heroic burst of molten fury was spent now.
All that power had drained right out of him, like a lion shrinking back into its sleep. What was left standing there was still a beast — but a tired one. One that was starting to realize the ground was uneven under its feet.
Angel stepped closer, hands moving with careful confidence, and murmured low by Husk’s shoulder, “C’mon, big guy… Let’s get you off your feet, huh?”
Husk didn’t argue.
Didn’t growl or brush him off or try to pretend like he could hold himself together on sheer willpower alone. His wings twitched like they wanted to fold but didn’t quite know how to yet. He was clearly running on fumes, and Angel wasn’t about to let him collapse on cold stone.
So, slowly — one small tug at a time — Angel guided him backward toward the low loveseat up against the side wall. Husk’s boots dragged slightly, heavy with sweat and dust and power long spent. But he moved.
When they got there, Angel kept one hand at the small of Husk’s back as he slowly lowered down. The chimera sat stiffly at first — back straight, like he expected to be called back into battle at any second. But Angel didn’t move far. He sat on the edge of the cushion beside him, body turned inward, close but not crowding.
“Easy,” Angel coaxed. “You’re not gonna shatter on me.”
Husk huffed out a weak scoff, his claws curling into the cushion.
“You’d be surprised,” he rasped.
Angel gave a half-smile, soft around the edges. “Not scared of breakin’ you either.”
There was no witty comeback. Husk’s eyes had dimmed from gold-hot inferno down to a quiet ember, but they were still smoldering — and still watching him, like they were trying to read something behind Angel’s expression.
Angel caught his gaze and held it. Let him.
Then his eyes drifted down to the scrapes on Husk’s hands.
“Okay, sit still a sec.”
Husk groaned low in his throat, but didn’t stop him.
Angel reached behind the small end table and pulled the first aid kit he’d clocked earlier. He popped the lid, hands already moving like this wasn’t his first rodeo. It wasn’t. Not with this guy.
“Bet you didn’t even notice you got cut again,” Angel muttered under his breath, inspecting the marks. Some were healing — faint pink scars from before, still rough from July. Others were fresh, shallow slices from shattered glass or maybe a wall that tried fighting back. His thumb brushed carefully around the worst one.
“Y’didn’t even use your magic this time, huh?”
“…Didn’t need to,” Husk grumbled, eyes slanting half-shut. “Just muscle.”
Angel glanced up at that.
Yeah, that tracks.
It made the fact he was glowing even more insane. Husk hadn’t unleashed all of it. He could’ve. That power was still in there, just buried. Bound. A creature of stone and ember, protecting what he gave a damn about until the last shard of him broke.
Angel took in a breath and reached for the antiseptic.
“This’ll sting. Don’t punch me.”
“No promises.”
Angel smirked. The familiar rhythm settled in his hands — cleaning, wrapping. No dramatics. No flirtation. Just care.
But he did sneak one last look at Husk’s face.
His jaw was still clenched, sure. He was tired. Wrecked. But his eyes were watching every movement Angel made, soft with something he didn’t know how to say out loud. And under all that roughness, Angel thought he saw it again — the same look that had glowed like gold:
Relief.
🥀🐖 “Piggy Bank Magic and Unspoken Grins”
Husker pov/shifting to third person with interior thoughts:
The calm after the storm never lasted long in this place.
Husk had just let himself settle. Muscles no longer trembling. Wings finally drawn inward, heavy against his back like cooling armor. Angel was still beside him — still touching him in small, careful ways, like he hadn’t quite accepted that Husk wasn’t about to erupt again.
The silence in the room felt thick. Sacred, almost.
Which was exactly why it couldn’t last.
The soft creak of polished flats on marble gave Niffty away long before her voice did.
She stepped into the room with the kind of hesitant energy that tried very hard not to feel like a celebration. But Husk had known her too long, too well. The moment his glowing eyes tracked over and found her lingering in the archway — pink fingers gripping the frame, one heel bouncing on the floor like it physically pained her not to squeal — he huffed and tilted his head toward her with the driest deadpan he could summon.
“Just say it, Niff.”
“What?” she blinked innocently, hands behind her back now.
“Whatever it is you’re about to combust holdin’ in.”
“I don’t—! I mean—” Her voice hiccupped with enthusiasm as she quickly made her way toward him, skirt fluttering like a flag behind her. “I wasn’t gonna say anything! I mean I was gonna but only if you wanted me to—”
Husk raised a brow.
Niffty folded like a cheap napkin.
“Okay FINE,” she burst, flinging her arms upward with a grin she couldn’t restrain. “You’re glowing. Like really glowing. And not just your fur or the wings — which, by the way, hello, those are back too! — but the magic, Husk. It’s here again. I haven’t seen it like that in—” her voice trailed off and softened, reverent now. “Since the glory days.”
Husk looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
Angel blinked between the two of them, visibly surprised. “Wait, you knew?”
“Oh, I knew,” Niffty said, eyes shining with too many memories to count. “He just thought he could hide it forever.”
“And I was doin’ a damn fine job of it too,” Husk muttered, pulling his hand away from the gauze Angel had just finished wrapping, flexing his claws absently.
Angel glanced down at the half-dried blood and bruised knuckles. “Kinda hard to hide a magic temper tantrum when you go full nuclear Gargoyle Mode on someone.”
“Wasn’t magic,” Husk said lowly. “Was just… strength.”
But even as he said it, he knew they wouldn’t believe him. Because the air had changed when it happened. Magic had buzzed in the walls like feedback through blown speakers. His eyes still hadn’t entirely gone back to normal — and Niffty kept glancing at them like a kid who’d caught sight of a shooting star and wasn’t ready to let it vanish.
She gave him a look — tender, sharp. Knowing.
“You didn’t ‘use’ it, huh? You just let it out.”
Before Husk could answer, another presence slid into the room like a violin note just off key.
Alastor.
Grinning.
Too widely.
Too knowing.
And for once, too quiet.
“Well well well,” the Radio Demon cooed, voice syrup-smooth and resonating with low static. “I leave for one evening and return to find my favorite cat has finally cracked open his little piggy bank of power~.”
Husk didn’t even look at him. “Wasn’t for you.”
“Oh, I know,” Alastor said, positively beaming now. “Which makes it all the more thrilling. To see such discipline… such modesty in restraint…” He placed a hand over his heart like a proud theater director. “Truly — the effort you must’ve exerted to hold it back all these years. Admirable.”
Angel furrowed a brow. “Wait—you knew too?”
Alastor chuckled darkly. “Angel Dust, my dear boy, you don’t own the market on secrets. I’ve always known. It’s hard not to hear the echo of old power when you’ve once been singed by it.”
Husk still didn’t look up. He sipped slowly from the glass Angel had brought him, expression unreadable.
Niffty hovered a little closer now, kneeling near his legs with both hands folded in front of her like she was resisting the urge to cheer. “You really are back, aren’t you…?”
Husk finally glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching. His voice was gruff but not unkind. “Don’t go gettin’ sappy on me, Niff.”
“Too late,” she said brightly, eyes misting again. “I already am.”
Alastor’s laughter trilled behind them like a warped melody.
Angel said nothing — still perched by Husk’s side, eyes tracing the small ripples of conversation, of reverence, of awe. He saw the way Alastor respected it. The way Niffty loved it. The way even he couldn’t stop staring at the embers left flickering behind those tired eyes.
And all Husk did was sip his drink, like it was just another night in Hell.
Because for him — maybe it was.