Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Honestly, this isn’t the first time Husk has found himself tied to a chair surrounded by big muscly guys and most of those other times weren’t by choice either.

And they were all back on earth. Here in Hell, he’s supposed to be above all that. An overlord. Powerful. A big fucking deal.

Thing is the guy who sent these goons is a big deal too. The Count, damn stupid name but no one dares use his real one. Right now he holds all the cards. “Look” Husk manages, “I’ll get your boss his money. But I can’t do that if I’m dead, can I?”

The sinners surrounding him don’t back down. Some look excited and few just look bored like tying up an overlord is all in a day’s work for them. Husk has to admit to himself that none of them look like they’re about to spare him.

None of the muscly goons back on earth actually went through with it. How he died is actually a lot stupider than that.

A few of the sinners laugh. One tells him, “Begging don’t work down here, pussy cat. You can pay him when you come back from double death.”

“I ain’t begging.” Husk swallows, straining against the ropes even though he knows he can’t break free. It actually makes things worse, sending a wave of dizzying holy energy through the binding that makes Husk’s head spin. Angelic steel wire in the rope: They’d enjoyed explaining that part, once he’d come round from them attacking him from behind like the cowards they are. Husk can feel it sapping his power, leaving him woozy and shaken. “It’s just reason” he argues, “You think being double dead’s gonna help me get the money faster?”

Does being double dead hurt as much as everyone says? He’s heard it hurts like nothing else, Hell or earth. He’s heard you can come back more distorted, demon form exaggerated, even less yourself. So what the fuck does that mean for him? He’s already a giant fucking cat!

“Boss has got forever” the head goon tells him, “You won’t be dead forever.” His grin turns nasty. “It’ll just feel like forever.”

Husk has heard that too. Heard that if you die in Hell, it’s months that feel like centuries. Centuries of darkness and pain. People come back screwed up in the head from it. “Look, I can pay him. Give me a day.” Okay, he thinks distantly, now that sounds like begging.

Like a day will help anyway. And it’s not like he can run. He’s trapped in the Pride Ring for all eternity, just like they are.

The sinners laugh. Must be a fun night for them, seeing an overlord reduced to this. First they find him drinking alone in his empty casino, now they have him tied up at their mercy too? No wonder they’re on a power trip.

One of them takes a length of rope from a deep pocket and Husk’s eyes widen.

“Don’t worry” says the sinner, “No angelic steel in this one. You’ll come back.”

Husk wasn’t actually worried about that so much as the pain. He mentally runs through all the ways he can think of that they could kill him with a rope. It’s a surprisingly long list and none of it’s quick. “Just hold on a minute!” he manages, struggling more openly now as the guy walks round the back of the chair he’s tied to and all the rest just watch, clearly loving every damn minute of this. He feels the rope slip around his neck from behind.

Then it tightens. Not slowly: viciously. Cuts off his airway more or less instantly and then Husk can’t breathe. Fuck. He struggles some more but there’s only so much he can move, bound by angelic steel with no air in his lungs.

Questions that were already pressing shoot up to urgent: How much is this gonna hurt? Is he going to be in pain for months that feel like centuries?

He’s blacking out now, hearing his attackers’ laughter like it’s far away and under water.

The pain doesn’t get distant though. It stays close. So far, it is every bit as bad as everyone says. Husk is pretty sure he’d scream if he could make any noise at all. It feels like his throat’s being crushed. A sharp tug sends an agonising jolt down his spine. The laughter sounds distorted now, filtered through senses that are rapidly dulling. Sounds more like screams, he thinks. Is he screaming after all?

Will he be able to hear as well as feel while his body pieces itself back together and drags him back to unlife? Or will it just be silent, like he’s lost in a void?

Will his body reform? Or will they destroy it completely and he’ll just be some ghost, some whisp of a thing until he solidifies? Would that be worse? It seems worse.

Then the rope releases and Husk’s lungs pull in air automatically, making him cough and splutter and, crucially, not die. “Fuck!”

“Tactfully put” says a clipped voice to one side.

Husk sucks down another deep breath and then another. His throat burns, he feels sick and his head is spinning. It takes a long moment before the glitzy red and gold carpet of his casino comes back into focus. Another long moment before he can raise his head and see who saved him. “Alastor?!” His voice comes out rough and slurred.

“Husker, you’re just the man I wanted to see.” Alastor reaches behind Husk and slits the rope at his wrists with a flick of his claws. As they fall away, Husk feels the draining tug of angelic power slip from him like a curse is lifting. Which it probably is. “Fuck” he mutters, then doubles over coughing.

Alastor tuts and a piece of cloth appears at Husk’s lowered eye level. It takes him a moment to process that the Radio Demon is handing him a fucking handkerchief. He doesn’t actually need one, no blood to wipe up, but it seems rude not to take it. Cautiously, Husk takes it. “Th –” he begins and then he’s coughing again, pressing the handkerchief to his mouth as he hacks and gasps.

Husk finally manages to snatch a breath and the coughing eases up. He forces himself upright, running a hand through the fur that grows where his hair should be. As he does, he looks around and sees what happened to the guys who attacked him. For a second, the scattered limbs and streaks of blood make him certain he’ll puke. He looks away, forcing the nausea back down.

Alastor is watching him with his permeant smile. Like he always does when someone walks in here these days, Husk quickly searches his mind to work out if he owes the guy money or souls. Neither, he decides. Thank fuck. There’s a long list of demons he’s in debt to and he does not want the Radio Demon on it.

Husk stands shakily and, picking his way through guts and sinew while trying not to look too closely at it, heads over to the bar.

All the money, all the staff and half the furniture is gone but the booze is still here. Husk drains the bottle he was in the middle of when he was attacked. It burns his sore throat but in a good way. He sinks onto a barstool. Alastor drifts over and Husk moves to hand back the handkerchief he’s still gripping in one hand, then realises Al probably doesn’t want it now he’s coughed all over it. He shoves it in his pocket instead.

Alastor looks pointedly around at the empty casino. Husk is unsurprised to find the fellow overlord seems just as at home in this creepy, abandoned incarnation of the place as he ever did when it was lively and bustling.

Alastor is a regular. Rosie too. Husk is always careful to make them feel welcome despite how downright terrifying they are because…Well, because of how downright terrifying they are.

Of course, most overlords have patronised the place by now, and Alastor and Rosie ain't the worst of them. At least not in public, where they hide their malice behind smiles framed by rows of sharp teeth.

“Thanks” Husk says when he feels like he can talk again. His voice is a rough croak. He puts a hand to his throat, wincing.

Alastor acknowledges him with a nod. Husk wonders what he’s doing here if he isn’t here to collect a debt. He must have heard the place went under.

Maybe the question shows on his face because Alastor answers it. He says, “I came to see if the rumours are true.”

Or to enjoy the show more like. But he did just save Husk from painful regeneration so it’s not like he can complain.

Alastor asks, “So you really have lost this place?”

Husk can’t say the words out loud, and not just because of how fucked his throat is this time. He just nods.

Static fills the air, indicating Alastor’s displeasure. Well, boo fucking hoo, thinks Husk. Alastor has lost a drinking hole. Husk has lost everything.

“How unfortunate. But Rosie was certain it’s Hefinn you’re in debt to and she’s rarely wrong about these things.” He nods towards the shredded goons. “And yet here you are beating gums with the Count’s lackeys.”

“I owe him too” Husk admits, “You know, from the high stakes games? Let’s just say here in Hell, the house don’t always win.”

Alastor’s smile morphs into something like a smirk. “It doesn’t help when you bet the house, you know.” He sits down at the bar. “Never mind all that. Why don’t we have a drink, for old times’ sake?”

Husk sighs, slips off his stool and trudges round to the other side of the bar. When he was just getting this place off the ground, he sometimes poured the drinks himself because he didn’t own enough souls to staff the place full time without pitching in. More recently, with his afterlife falling apart around him and the win that’ll save it always just out of reach, he’s been gambling his staff away to stay afloat, including the bartenders, so he’s been back here again. At least when he finally loses everything, Husk thinks, he won’t need to pour drinks for anyone but himself.

“So is Rosie half right?” Alastor probes, “Hefinn gets the casino?”

Husk nods, reluctantly, pouring a couple of whiskeys.

“Ah, good. She’ll be glad.” Alastor frowns above his smile. “That she was right, I mean. She won’t be happy to lose this place. You must know Hefinn won’t use it as a casino.”

Husk grimaces but tries to hide the hurt. “Yeah, I hear guns are more his thing. He’ll probably turn this place into a shooting range or something.”

Alastor winces. Husk sighs, letting his bravado slip away. It’s too soon to act like this don’t hurt.

“Really, Husker, you’re depriving Hell of one of its more enjoyable venues.”

“I know that.” Nowhere, thinks Husk, in Hell or on Earth, is better than his casino. His casino. A place he could run as he saw fit, keeping the best parts of every casino he ever visited on earth and that’s a long ass list. A place he was respected. Where he had power. Real power. And he lost it.

Power, respect, a comfortable afterlife. All gone. All because he didn’t know when to quit. Like he couldn’t have learnt that lesson from losing his way through life again and again.

He slides Alastor a drink and adds, “In my defence, I thought I’d win eventually.”

Alastor tuts and Husk feels compelled to say, “Look, it ain't my fault! It’s not like Hell’s falling over itself to provide gambling addiction treatment!”

Alastor raises an eyebrow. “The Gambling Demon addicted to gambling? How ironic.”

“Like you can judge.”

Alastor tilts his head, reaching an unnatural angle. “You think I’m addicted to radio?”

“I was thinking of murder but now you mention it…”

“Interesting.” Alastor, to Husk’s surprise doesn’t take offence. “I suppose there is an element of thrill seeking in both betting and butchery” he admits. “But, unlike you, I could stop anytime I wish.”

“Right” says Husk, slipping into sarcasm, “Sure. Never heard that one before.”

“And even if Hell had some sort of misguided therapy available, I can’t imagine you’d put yourself forward for treatment. It would rather put a dampener on your business.”

“So has losing it” Husk mutters. But Alastor has a point: Husk wouldn’t have gotten help even if help existed down here. If you can’t give in to your vices in Hell, where can you?

He made a whole career out of his vices for a moment there. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do now.” Or why the fuck he’s sharing this with Alastor of all people. Might as well expect sympathy from a rattlesnake. But just saying it out loud is a relief and the bastard did just save his afterlife. Which Husk is surprised to find he’s still grateful for despite it not being worth much anymore.

“Are you indebted to anyone beside Hefinn and the Count?” Alastor asks.

Husk sighs. “I owe basically everyone at this point. Kept thinking if I could win against one, I could pay off the others.” He looks down and away. “I don’t know how I let it get this bad.” Except that being constantly drunk can’t have helped, he thinks, but sober isn’t fun when you’re losing.

Sober isn’t fun when you’re gambling with people like they’re property. Leave it to him to finally grow a conscience when he’s literally in Hell and it’s too damn late.

“I can’t pay” he adds, gesturing around at the empty casino. “I already sold every soul in this joint. I owe money. I owe souls. I’m just waiting for the final contracts to transfer and then I’m just another sinner. A sinner still in fucking debt.”

“This is quite a predicament” Alastor muses.

“Yeah.”

“Really it’s only a matter of time before another debtor comes for you.”

Husk sighs again. “Yeah.”

“And you won’t have your overlord powers to protect you.”

Husk thinks of what it felt like to be in the grip of that angelic steel rope. Helpless. He shudders.

Alastor grins pitilessly as he stands up fixes Husk with a red eyed stare. “I tell you what” he says, “Let’s make a deal…”

Chapter Text

Not long ago, Husk enjoyed a good turf war, but fighting for someone else just ain't the same. All risk, no reward. It doesn’t help that he’s still working through the list of people who haven’t seen him since he was put on a chain. Everybody’s gotta comment on it. Alastor has had him fight old rivals who are so thrilled at the Gambling Demon’s downfall that they don’t take him seriously as a threat. Sure, that can work in his favour but it still ain't fun. Nor is all the sneering and mockery from those who have always hated him, openly or not. Then there are old allies, disappointment morphing into anger when Husk has no choice but to attack them on Alastor’s orders.

The worst part is when whoever Alastor is attacking this week inevitably send out lackeys to fight for them. If the foot soldiers are strangers, Husk has realised, it sucks to hurt people he’s got no beef with. If they’re not strangers, chances are he knows them from when they got gambled away in his casino and now they’re only in their current chains because of him. That gives them a thirst for revenge that makes the fight personal and vicious. And the worst part? Husk understands that thirst. If someone other than him put him in these chains, he’d wanna fight them too.

But in his case he only has himself to blame so he settles for drowning himself in booze. At least Alastor seems to allow that, up to a point.

Maybe he’ll get used to it one day. Or maybe he won’t and he’ll stay hating Alastor for claiming his soul every bit as much as he does now and still be stuck with the bastard forever. Husk isn’t sure which would be worse. At least hating the guy feels reasonable. About the only reasonable response to the shitshow that is his life now.

That and getting blind drunk on the regular. Also a reasonable response. Only Husk wishes he hadn’t done that last night because now Alastor has him up against Lord Estaroth of all overlords and no one wants to be up against this ruthless bastard hungover. Or at all.

Not that Husk is in this alone, of course. Alastor might be standing back and letting Husk do the hard graft, but he’s still joining in here and there. Waving his tentacles about and melting in and out of the shadows to wrongfoot the other overlord. He’s having fun. Husk is vaguely aware of his laughter in the background. The foreground is full of a much more immediate struggle to gain and keep the upper hand. At least they’ve taken most of the minions out between Husk’s cards, Alastor’s tentacles and brief appearance from Alastor’s creepy ass puppets. It’s been months on the bastard’s chain and Husk still isn’t used to those damn puppets. Or the tentacles. Or the chain.

Fuck he needs this fight to be over already. He’s getting dangerously close to sober here.

Only Estaroth himself left now, plus one stubborn minion. Estaroth’s minions are like little scarecrows, only with more sharp pointy bits than you’d expect on a regular scarecrow. Husk knocks the last one aside, sending it flying into an ungainly heap, then turns to the overlord. Or, overlords, because Alastor is finally in the asshole’s face, dodging Estaroth’s blows and hurling insults and magic at him. Husk pauses, out of breath. Could he just leave this last part to Al?

No, says a sharp pull on his chain. He’s been ordered to fight and that order still has its grip on him. He can’t not obey.

So he leaps forward and attacks Estaroth from behind while the bastard is busy with Alastor. Element of surprise and all that. Only the last minion springs back up, and then Estaroth isn’t the only one taken by surprise. The minion grabs Husk from behind and jabs at his gut. Husk hears himself yowl. 

And suddenly Alastor is twenty foot high. Finally. A stray tentacle wraps around the minion still holding Husk and the thing is lifted away, squealing like a rat. Husk slumps forward. His arms wrapped instinctively around his middle the moment the minion jabbed at it and something tells him not to stop now.

It didn’t hurt right away but as soon as he thinks to wonder about that the adrenaline ebbs and it hurts like a motherfucker. Husk hisses, hunching over tighter.

Thankfully at that moment he feels the chain’s death grip let up a little, the order dissipating. Apparently Alastor just wanted him to be a distraction so he could do his kaiju trick. So what if Husk gets stabbed in the gut in the process.

‘Cept he wasn’t actually stabbed in the gut, right? Sure, his belly hurts bad but Husk didn’t see a blade. Then again, it was quick.

Cautiously, he straightens up to examine the wound, then shrinks back in on himself as a wave of fresh pain folds itself around him. Sharp pain, all focused on where he was jabbed. Or stabbed, if he’s getting technical about it. But not stabbed stabbed. He’d know.

“Well” says Alastor, seemingly from a long way away, “That was fun.”

Husk risks glancing up, sending another wave of pain though his body. Alastor is shrinking back to his normal size. He’s covered in blood but from his smile, Husk can tell it ain't his own. He’s starting to be able to tell when Alastor actually means his smile and when it’s just his fake bullshit.

Glancing away and to the side, Husk spots Estaroth, or what’s left of him, being folded into one of Alastor’s shadows. Another overlord down. Maybe, Husk thinks, he’s lucky Alastor didn’t just kill him instead of striking a deal, but luck in Hell is a bitch of a thing. One minute you’ve got power and influence, the next you’re on a chain. Fuck him if that’s luck.

Fuck him generally. The adrenaline is wearing off for real now and Husk realises the pain is raw bloody hell. Stabbing levels of bad. “Fuck.”

“Is something the matter, Husker?” Alastor twirls his cane as he strolls over. Husk misses his own cane.

Not that Alastor left him powerless. That was the deal: Protection and a portion of his power preserved, in return for eternal servitude. Eternal! It’s a long time to get used to all the things that smile can mean.

“Husker?”

Husk only groans and wraps his arms tighter around his middle. He’s still hunched over. Straightening up doesn’t seem to be an option any more.

“Husker, this is getting silly.” Alastor’s voice is stern, like Husk will just snap out of it if he’s harsh enough. He stops in front of Husk and tilts his head with an audible click. Then he moves closer, stepping into Husk’s personal space like he owns it. Which he fucking does. If Husk could have his time again he’d insist on a clause in the contract to make sure a certain smiley faced freak can’t come within ten foot of him even if he can order him around.

Then again, there’s a lot he’d do differently if he could have his time again.

“Husker? Did it get you?”

“No” says Husk, still hoping that’s true. He cautiously peels his hands from his stomach. Blood hits the pavement. He clamps his hands over the wound again, shuddering at a fresh wave of pain. “Fuck me.”

“Ha! No.”

“Fuck you, Alastor!”

“Pick a different theme, Husker.”

Great, and now Alastor’s pissed off with him. First he gets stabbed, now his new overlord’s mad at him. Maybe too mad at him to help. This is a bitch of a day. Husk manages, “I’m just in pain here.”

Alastor ruffles his fur. “There, there.”

Husk moves to brush the bastard off him – thankfully Alastor lets him do that, even if he ain't considerate enough to keep his hands to himself in the first place – but then he registers the pain sharpening as he moves and curls around the wound again instead. “I thought the bastard was down” he grumbles. “I mean, I threw him hard enough!”

“Hm” says Alastor noncommittally.

“What? I should have been able to take that guy!”

“Well, let’s not forget that you don’t have the power you once had.”

“I wasn’t going to fucking forget that.” He had forgotten it, Husk has to admit to himself, in the heat of the battle. Just for a moment there. Had to, in a way, to keep fighting. He doesn’t want to think about what the chain would do to him if he stopped. But outside of adrenaline fuelled moments like that, belonging to Alastor isn’t a thing that just slips the mind.

Alastor summons up some medical gauze and pulls Husk’s hands from his middle. Looking down, Husk shudders at the sight of bloodstained fur framing a deep wound still spilling blood. Alastor just tuts and presses the gauze into Husk’s hands. Husk presses it over the wound, hisses, and mutters, “Thanks.”

“You really ought to be more careful, Husker.”

“Hey, don’t look at me. It was your fight.” It will always be Alastor’s fight now, Husk thinks.

Still, at least he wasn’t pulled off into the shadows like the unlucky bastard they just beat. Estaroth was a monster even by overlord standards, but Husk can’t help but feel a flicker of pity imagining the upcoming broadcast.

The way Alastor kills them doesn’t leave any room for coming back. Fuck knows how he does that. Husk knows he should be careful not to get on the wrong side of his new master – and fuck, how wrong does that word sound – but right now he’s too pissed off to hold back. “You can’t order me to fight then have a go at me for not being careful! You want me to fight or be careful here? I can’t do both!”

“Calm down, dear fellow. It’s not my fault you didn’t watch your back.”

“You’re supposed to be watching my back! That’s the deal: You’re supposed to protect me!” Even as he says it, Husk thinks he sounds petulant but what can he do ‘cept complain? Next time could be worse than a gut wound.

There is a staticy flicker in the air and Alastor tells him, “If you’d rather not fight, I’m sure I could find some other way to put you to work. Estaroth could use a co-star for example.”

Husk flinches. “No! I didn’t…I don’t…Sorry, Al. I’m just worked up her. I just got stabbed, it’s not exactly putting me in a good mood.”

“Well that’s no reason not to smile.”

Husk forces himself to grin, plastering a smile as false as Alastor’s across his face and letting his real feeling out by digging his fingers into the gauze, sending shooting pain through the cut beneath it.

“Lovely” Alastor murmurs. Then he clicks his fingers and suddenly they aren’t in the trashed street anymore. They’re in the room Alastor refers to as his parlour, like he’s a Victorian matron with a manor house, and not murderous fiend residing in a glorified shack in the hellish scrubland at the edge of the city surrounded by a magical forcefield.

A comfortable glorified shack to be fair, even if it’s a lot smaller than the private quarters Husk had back in his casino.

 Alastor has summoned him here a handful of times before. Once to help defend the place from attack, once to do card tricks for some bitch called Mimzy, once to pour drinks for Rosie and once because he needed help with his fucking cufflinks. Husk half suspects his new boss was drunk on that occasion.

After Alastor’s threat, being here doesn’t put Husk at ease. The radio tower is at the top of the building and Husk can’t help but glance warily at the overlord in case he’s about to drag him up there to co-star. Then Alastor’s hands land on his hunched shoulders and Husk flinches. But Alastor only steers him to an armchair and pushes him into it. Husk sinks into the cushions with a groan. The gauze is already saturated, damp against his skin.

“Chances are nothing important is pierced” says Alastor cheerfully, kneeling beside the chair. 

“I was pierced” Husk mutters. He scowls as Alastor tugs his hands from the wound, and lifting the gauze to examine it. Fresh blood wets his lap, dabs the red armchair redder.

Alastor sniffs obviously and Husk freezes. Is that a cannibal thing?

But then Al announces, “It doesn’t smell like any organs were pierced.”

Husk lets out a long painful breath. “We’re chancing that on your nose?” he asks. If he isn’t going to be ripped apart on air or eaten, he’d quite like not to die at all today.

Then again if he dies from something other than Alastor’s radio show, it’s not like he won’t reform. It’ll be slow and it’ll hurt but he’ll still be on the leash when he comes back. So why should Alastor care?

“I think blood loss is the biggest concern” says Alastor, clamping the gauze back down against Husk’s skin. It’s too soaked to do much good now and Husk notices spots of blood on Alastor’s fingers. Maybe it’s the sight of it or maybe it’s the actual blood loss but he feels a rush of dizziness that has him tilt his head to rest against the back of the chair.

“Feeling alright, Husker?”

“No you fuckhead, I just got stabbed.”

Music comes on at the same time as the fire in the grate springs to life. Good, thinks Husk, he could use a fire. It’s cold.

Alastor summons more gauze and replaces the soaked wad, lifting Husk’s hands to accomplish the task. Husk finds that despite his head spinning he can summon up the energy to press the fabric hard against his torso.

Next Alastor licks the blood off his fingers and Husk decides, nope, whatever the fuck Al is about to do to him, he doesn’t want to watch. He closes his eyes, sinking deeper into the chair.

The fire grows but so does the cold. Husk’s hands start to shake, his grip on the gauze slacking at last until Alastor bats his hands away and starts stemming the stream of blood himself.

Another gauze soaks itself red until it can’t take any more liquid in and still the blood keeps flowing. Alastor summons up a third wad.

Husk grips the arms of the chair to keep from shaking but it takes more energy than he expects and he feels his grip slip until his arms are hanging out the chair. He should lift them and wrap them round himself to keep warm. It’s still fucking cold. Is there something wrong with Alastor’s fire?

Something’s wrong with his ceiling for certain: As Husk stares up at it, it blurs and shivers. He shuts his eyes.

“Husker? Do try to stay awake old pal.”

Husk groans and opens his eyes again. Looking down, he is shocked at how red is fur is despite…the third gauze? Fourth? Alastor is surrounded by wads of discarded bandages. There’s quite a lot of blood on the overlord’s clothes as well. Not on his skin, which makes Husk suspect he’s been sampling some more. “Boss, I gotta ask, are you going to fix me or eat me? Because either way I’d like you to get on with it.”

A laugh track plays. “Ah, there’s your lively humour! I thought you’d lost it for a moment there.”

“Yeah, well. Being threatened with your radio show will do that to a fella.”
The laughter screeches to a ringing silence. Alastor’s smile slips briefly to a grimace and he mutters, “I thought you could take joke, Husker.”

“Threatening my soul is a joke now? Yeah, real fucking funny.” Husk tries to move to fold his arms then realises that would disturb the wound. Which Alastor is still holding the gauze to. Husk gets a burst of annoyed energy at that and shoves the overlord’s hand away, gripping the gauze himself again.

Fuck it hurts. He shudders through another wave of dizziness.

Meanwhile Alastor stands and for a moment Husk thinks he’s going to punish the complaints by going off and letting Husk bleed to death in his parlour. But instead Alastor summons up a little figure who drops into the fireplace, disturbing the flames. Well, never mind, thinks Husk, they don’t seem to be working anyway.

The figure stands, steps out the fireplace and stares around with one big eye. Husk stares back apprehensively. It’s too big to be one of Alastor’s puppet minions but it’s too solid to be a shadow. Then it dusts itself off and he realises it’s a sinner. A cyclops shaped sinner so small that for a moment Husk thinks she’s a child. Then he realises no, but still pretty young. Younger than anyone should be down here. Alastor greets her with, “Hello, Niffty, darling.”

“Hi Alastor!”

“This is our new friend Husker.”

Niffty turns to Husk with a big smile. Husk bristles. “It’s Husk” he mutters.

“I’m Niffty! It’s nice to meet you. Why are you bleeding?”

“I got fucking stabbed.” Husk glares at Alastor as he says it. Alastor smiles blandly back.

Niffty catches sight of the bloody rags on the floor and spins on the spot to take them all in. “Oh no, what a mess!”

Alastor steps forward. “You can clean your black little heart out later, Niffty, but do see to Husker first.”

“Oh” says Niffty with some reluctance, “Right.” She jumps up onto the armchair with surprising speed and grins at Husk. “My master wants you to not die” she tells him, “So you’re going to have to hold still while I save you.”

Master? Fucking figures, Husk thinks. No way would Alastor have friends. Well, other than that bitch Mimzy, apparently. And the mayor of fucking Cannibal Town. But this okay slightly scary but mostly sweet girl? Of course he owns her.

Then Niffty produces a needle, grin widening, and flips from slightly scary but mostly sweet to slightly sweet but mostly scary.

At least she sterilises it, asking Alastor to summon up the necessary basin, hot water and antiseptic solution. Which he does, and Husk is distantly aware that he should be surprised by Alastor following someone else’s instructions, but he’s too fucking tired to care at this point.

“There” says Niffty when she’s done, “I just need to clean you up now.” She scowls at Husk’s middle. “Except your fur is gonna get in the way.”

Alastor snickers and summons yet another item. Niffty grins as he hands it to her. “Perfect!”

Catching sight of the razor, Husk groans. “You gotta be shitting me.”

They’re not, of course: Alastor cackles while Niffty shaves a sizable patch of fur from Husk’s front and Husk alternates between glaring and wincing.

His lap is soaked with blood now and the icy cold is seeping into his bones. If he dies like this will he be this cold until he reforms? Husk shivers harder just at the thought, then makes an effort to hold himself carefully still while Niffty shaves the wound. She ain't gentle, chucking clumps of fur over her shoulder as she works.

“Ah” says Alastor, apparently noticing Husk’s discomfort, “Allow me.”

A small bottle of cheap gin appears on the arm of the chair, already uncapped. Husk grabs it and gulps it down. “Thanks” he says, grudgingly.

Glancing up from her work, Niffty asks, “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir? He’ll be feeling all woozy and we don’t want him to make more mess.”

Husk expects Alastor to have some sharp words at her questioning him but he just gives an indulgent chuckle and pats her on the head. Husk frowns: Apparently his new boss isn’t above playing favourites.

Niffty ain't gentle when it comes to cleaning either. Husk chugs the gin while she scours him with a cloth, bathing his now-exposed skin with warm water, laced with another mysterious antiseptic agent “to kill the germs because they can’t be stabbed like roaches.” She grins up at him.

Next comes the stitching and Husk has to bite back a whimper because if cleaning was bad enough, stitching is murder.

And then it’s done. Reluctantly, Husk says, “Thanks.”

“Uh huh. Mr Alastor, can I clean the blood off the floor now?”

Alastor holds up a roll of clean bandages and replies, “Soon, dear. First, be a good girl and put these on Husker.”

Niffty unfurls the bandages, quickly creating a banner of the them at least double the length of herself. She tugs at Husk until he shuffles forward, still clutching the bottle of gin, then weaves around him, slipping behind his back and clambering over his knees, pulling the bandages with her. It takes a few circuits and by the end, Husk is dizzy.

That done, Niffty hops down and gathers up the bloody gauze on the floor, unleashing a peel of laughter and running out the room with them.

Alastor crosses the room to a drinks cabinet and pours himself a whiskey, then returns to take the seat opposite Husk by the fireside. It occurs to Husk the overlord didn’t sit down this whole time up until now. He didn’t leave Niffty to it either. He stayed.

Probably wanted to make sure his property wasn’t too badly damaged. Husk huffs in annoyance: He almost thought the bastard cared for a moment there.

Niffty runs back in, scrubs the floor experimentally with a brush, mutters “nope” and runs out again. Wanting to break the silence, Husk says, “She seems nice.”

“Isn’t she? I’ve known her since the fifties.”

“Uh huh. And how long have you owned her?”

“Tsk. You make it sound so sordid, Husker! I prefer think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Mutually beneficial like you promising me protection then throwing me to Estaroth?” Husk regrets the words as soon as they’re out his mouth: He’s had enough threats today. Blame it on booze and blood loss, he figures.

Alastor’s static spikes and his eyes narrow above the grin but he seems to reign in his annoyance and only says, “I only ordered you to fight. How well was up to you. You were sloppy, not checking that minion was down.”

Husk shrugs, sending a ripple of pain through his torso. “You got me there.” He gazes into the fire for a bit. The flames have recovered from Niffty’s entrance and are dancing again. It’s actually starting to get warm. “I guess I got to get used to a reduced power level is all” he admits, before taking another swig from the bottle.

“The alcohol can’t help either” Alastor observes.

Husk waves the bottle. “Hey, you summoned me this.”

“For pain relief.”

Husk shrugs again. “That’s all I ever use it for.” Then he grimaces because that was more than he wanted to share.

“I suppose losing one’s overlord status must be rather painful” says Alastor with a cruel twist to his grin. Husk glares and reminds himself that it’s better to be sat by the fire listening to Alastor’s bullshit that sat wherever Estaroth is right now waiting for a guest appearance on the next broadcast. Better to say nothing. He takes another deep drink.

Alastor continues, “While we’re on the subject of your reduced power, you should take care of your health too. You’re more susceptible to sickness now.”

“Oh yeah. Fuck.”

“I must admit, it is tiresome. You’re of no use to me whatsoever in your present state.”

“My heart bleeds for ya, boss.”

“Perhaps I should pay for my contracted souls to be vaccinated against common ailments.” Alastor’s smile morphs into a smirk and he adds, “I could get you wormed while I’m at it.”

“Oh fuck you.”

The laugh track plays and Alastor laughs along with it. Then Niffty returns, weighed down now by a different scrubbing brush and bucket full of some strong smelling detergent. “What’s funny?” she asks, setting it down and rubbing again at bloodstains on the floor.

“Nothing, dear.”

“You got that right” mutters Husk. He drains the bottle and sets the empty on the floor. Niffty snatches it up and puts it, of all places, in the bucket of detergent. It bobs merrily.

After a few moments, a jazz track starts up from the radio over the mantlepiece. Alastor hums along for a bit, occasionally pausing to sip the quality whiskey Husk is getting jealous of. “Isn’t this lovely?” he says after a while, “The three of us here together?”

Niffty looks up from her enthusiastic scrubbing. “Sure is!” she chirps.

Alastor grins expectantly at Husk. Husk sighs. He’s got no interest in this freakshow. Then again, at least he isn’t cold anymore. Or in pain, or bleeding, or sober. No hole in his gut anymore thanks to Niffty. And it looks like he’ll be listening to the next broadcast instead of staring in it. “Could be worse, I suppose” he admits.

Chapter Text

It’s been a few years since he lost the casino and Husk still feels his heart sink every time he comes back to the lousy apartment his paltry wage from Al lets him just about manage to rent. It’s a shithole. Tiny, with dodgy wiring and walls so thin he can hear his neighbours fuck. Somehow, it’s damp. In Hell. How the fuck does that happen?

Course, even if the apartment was comfortable, Husk would still miss his casino. But it ain’t comfortable and that don’t help. Possibly he could get a second job and scrape together enough for a better place. Bar work or something. But there’s a few problems there. For one thing, just the thought makes him shudder with the knowledge of how far he’s sunk: He used to be an overlord and now he’s contemplating working two jobs just so he can upgrade from shithole apartment to crappy apartment? And yeah, that thought’s messed up. He knows it. He isn’t afraid of hard work. But still, it’s a helluva comedown.

Thing is, every time he worked hard before, alive or dead, working two jobs or three, it was to eventually get out of whatever rut he was in. To move up in the world. Now wherever he lives, he’ll still belong to Alastor. So what’s the point?

And a second job would cut into valuable drinking time. That’s what Husk does now: He drinks. Well, and gambles. There are still casinos out there, just not the classy venues he used to own. Alastor doesn’t actually get him to do much, just summons him for random battles or chores here and there, so Husk still has plenty of time for vices. It just isn’t fun like it used to be. But probably more fun than another job on top of being on call for Alastor 24/7.

Alastor who probably wouldn’t let him get a second job anyway. Most overlords don’t. Even if they don’t call on their contracted souls much, they want them to be ready to serve when summoned, not midway through mixing drinks or whatever. Plus not many sinners would hire someone whose soul belongs to someone else who can just summon them away without warning and now someone has to cover their shift.

Nah. No second job, Husk decides. Just more booze. He moves to pour himself another whiskey, then thinks fuck it and just picks up the bottle.

He didn’t even get as far as gambling today. Hell, he didn’t get as far as dressing today. Just skipped straight to the liquid lunch, which then became liquid dinner followed by a nightcap, all in the nude because who fucking cares. No turf wars raging right now so it’s not like Alastor needs him. Which means no one does so who cares if he’s dressed.

Wait, did he just get needy over Alastor not summoning him lately? Fuck but that’s a new low. Husk downs the rest of the bottle and groans.

That was a lot even for him and now the room is spinning and…oh, great, the neighbours are at it again. Husk raises his middle finger to the wall.

And then the wall isn’t there and Husk finds himself falling back as the couch he was slumped against vanishes with the rest of the apartment.

Alastor is in front of him. Husk hastily lowers his middle finger. “Boss?”

“Ah, Husker. I require your services. I…Where are your clothes?”

Husk hastily covers his crotch and shrugs, trying not to look as embarrassed as he feels.

Alastor lets a little static slip into the air. “Really, Husker! I expect you to be ready to assist me when I summon you.”

“To be fair, boss, you did summon me at…” Husk stares around groggily, hoping for a clock. They seem to be in some kind of cross between an office and a dressing room. A big vanity table competes for space with a desk along one wall, a wardrobe and a set of filing cabinets rub shoulders at another. No clock. “Late” he concludes. “I could’ve been in my PJs for all you knew.”

“That would have been preferable” says Alastor. Then he clicks his fingers and Husk finds himself dressed in… A suit with a name badge? “What is this?”

“Your uniform, naturally. I’ve just been informed by Mimzy that several of her staff were killed off by someone she had a small misunderstanding with and naturally I said you could step in.”

Stepping anywhere seems ambitious. Husk isn’t sure how long he’ll be able to stay upright but he gets cautiously to his feet. The floor tilts and he leans hastily against the filing cabinet.

Alastor sighs. “Are you drunk?”

“What do you think” Husk mutters. Then, catching sight of the glare above Al’s smile, he adds, “Yeah, a bit, it’s fine” in a less surly tone.

“Husker, I don’t mind you drinking but I expect you to moderate yourself enough to be useful.”

“Look, it’s been quiet. I didn’t think you’d need me tonight.”

“Quite an assumption as it turns out.”

“Yeah.” Assuming Mimzy wouldn’t get on the wrong person’s wrong side and come running to Alastor: That was his mistake, Husk thinks. Now he’s going to have to sober up fast. “I’ll just have a coffee or something. It’ll be fine.”

“I should hope so. For your sake.” Alastor’s smile widens, all sharp teeth and threat.

Husk nods hurriedly, sparking a headache. He clutches his head before he can stop himself and Alastor laughs. “Ah, poor Husker! Your liver is going to hate you tomorrow.”

“It’ll just have to live with it” Husk mumbles. “Nothing better for a hangover than hair of the dog.”

Alastor’s static flares, like it always does at mention of dogs, and Husk adds, “Sorry, boss.”

Alastor recovers his composure in a flash and says, “And if you do die of liver failure, you’ll just come back and harm your liver all over again! You’re a veritable Prometheus, Husker.”

“He drink a lot too?”

Alastor’s laugh track rings out, causing Husk to flinch. At that moment the door opens and Alastor turns his head towards it at an angle that’d kill him if he were human.

It’s Mimzy. She bustles in saying, “Is he here yet, Al? We’ve got a load of bachelorettes in. I never get why people get married in Hell.”

“Or at all, dear” says Alastor, stepping aside, neck still broken looking, so she can see Husk.

“Oh, Husker, good.” Mimzy comes over. She pulls him upright away from the cabinet and brushes a hand down his uniform. “You look real stupid in a suit with all that fur and your wings sticking out. Like a CEO bat or something.”

Husk gives Alastor a glare that he hopes conveys Really? Alastor just grins and says, “Well I must be going. I have a table booked in Cannibal Town.”

Mimzy grimaces. For once, Husk gets where she’s coming from. She says, “You have fun with that, sweetie” then scowls when Alastor vanishes into the shadows. “He ever just leave a building like a normal person anymore?” she asks, then carries on talking before Husk can reply, telling him, “Anyway, thank you for coming here to help little ol’ me out, it’s been a nightmare here. First this guy robs the place, kills my barmaids, then he tries to shoot me! I mean can you believe that? All cause I owe him some heavy sugar, and he’s got no patience. I’ll get eventually!” Then she smiles. “Or I would have only now Al’s eaten him so he’s got bigger problems.” She pauses and frowns. “I hope Al hasn’t ruined his appetite for Cannibal Town though. How’d you think he fits them all in? You know what, don’t wanna know.” She marches towards the door. “Well are you coming? I got hooch for ya to sling.”

Great. Bar work. First Alastor has him pour drinks for guests in his parlour now he’s hiring him out to Mimzy for her club? Husk ain't drunk enough for this. Or he’s too drunk. Maybe somehow both.

Too drunk to walk straight, he finds, but Mimzy is hurrying ahead and doesn’t notice. She leads Husk to a crowded bar done up like a ‘20s speakeasy. Husk drank in a few in his time, at the start of a long and interesting drinking career that reached new heights after prohibition was repealed. Mimzy asks, “You know what to do?” and then says, “Good” like he actually answered and heads off into the crowd. Husk hears her calling someone over and launching immediately talking about herself before her voice is lost in the rest of the din.

The bar is chaos. Apparently whoever robbed the place trashed it and someone put everything back wrong. The glasses are all mixed together, champagne flutes hanging with martini glasses and shot glasses stacked inside highballs. Even the garnishes are mixed, in a way that makes Husk suspect they were just peeled off the floor but he's here to be a barman not a hygiene inspector so he just shrugs and gets on with it.

The bachelorettes crowd the bar asking for fancy cocktails and Husk has to look around for the shakers (on a shelf behind the red wine) and all the ingredients he’ll only need a shot or two of anyway.

No one else is working the bar, and he’s so busy he doesn’t have time to even think of coffee for the first hour, let alone look for any, let alone make it. He downs a few glasses of water in between taking orders but it don’t sober him up, it just makes him need a piss.

Well, he’ll just have to hold it because no way is he getting a break. Husk has a history of unwise bets but even he wouldn’t put money on either Alastor or Mimzy thinking of that. And the surviving staff he catches sight of here and there in the crowd are just as busy as him.

It’s Hell. Literally obviously but also it’s a metaphorical personal hell once the alcohol in his system ebbs some. At first it’s a relief because he can finally move around to reach for stuff he needs without getting dizzy, but then it sucks ass because the place is so damn loud and everyone’s yelling their orders at him. Husk’s head starts to pound and he resorts to downing another glass: Not water this time, rum.

And then another. Then he switches to shots: Quicker to down. Wouldn’t do to be too taken up with drinking when he’s supposed to be preparing these good people’s cocktails, now would it?

So by the time the place has closed and the staff have left, Husk is drunker than he’s been in a long time. He sways on the spot while Mimzy comes over to the bar. She greets him with, “Oh bless ya, you look done in! Still it’s not like you had anything better to do tonight, an old sap like you.”

Very distantly, Husk finds himself agreeing with her. Closer up he’s annoyed enough to growl, which makes Mimzy laugh. She sits down on a barstool and tells him, “Mine’s a mojito, pussy cat.”

Damn, just when Husk thought this shift was over. And hopefully the whole night. Come to think of it, how long does Alastor expect him to stay here? Until Mimzy hires more staff? Fuck that.

Mimzy grins expectantly so he gets started, while also trying to work out if the order to help out here is still in place or if he can leave already. Leave and try to figure out how to get from Mimzy’s club to his shithole apartment, which he wants to be in badly right now, damp and all. He’s so wasted the room is blurring in and out of focus and time keeps skipping forward in jolts. He needs to sleep this off already.

One of the worst things about being on Al’s leash is how the overlord keeps plucking Husk from wherever he happens to be and magicking him to wherever he he’s wanted, and then he expects Husk to find his own way home again. With no warning or map or money! It’s hard enough when he’s sober. How’s he going to do it tonight?

Not that he can leave right now: He is still under orders. It takes him a while, but when Husk finally manages to focus on the chain, it’s still tingling with the power of Alastor’s command. Usually he can’t forget about his invisible bonds but drunk it can be hard to tell they’re there. It’s a good feeling.

Mimzy is speaking to him, mouth working while she opens a little compact mirror and starts fussing with her eye make up. She doesn’t seem to expect a reply which is good because Husk can’t make out what she’s saying, the words just washing over him, not going in. Another good thing about being drunk. No chain, no Mimzy, no problems.

Well except there’s no lime left in the tub of miscellaneous garnishes. Husk picks through layers of cucumber, mint and orange and wonders about just leaving it before deciding no, there’s a lot he’d be prepared to do to Mimzy but serving her a badly made drink ain't one of them. It’s a matter of principle. Professional and personal: Serving drinks is the only thing left he’s good at.

So Husk finds a knife sat in an empty wine glass with a few pens and a lime in an eggbox in the fridge, and gets to work slicing it. It spins across the bar top on his first attempt and falls on the floor. Husk bends to get it and when he straightens up the room spins. He growls again and slams the lime back down, slices it for real this time.

And then he’s covered in blood. Huh. Husk stares woozily from the blood suddenly soaking his arm, to the knife, to the lime still unsliced in his hand. He’s too numb with drink to feel a cut and it takes him a second to realise that what he sliced into wasn’t the lime at all. “Fuck!”

Mimzy glances over. “All right, calm down!”

Husk examines his hand, then his wrist, finally finding the deep gash all the blood is coming from. “Shit. I’m ah…I’m bleeding out here.”

Mimzy finally puts her mirror down and looks over. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Husker, you slit your wrist? I annoyed you that much?!”

“Yeah, but this ain't on purpose.”

“You’re just massively incompetent?”

“I’m just drunk.”

“And incompetent.”

“Fine. Whatever. Can I get some help here?”

Mimzy rolls her eyes, then leans across the bar to pluck up a crumpled towel. “Here, put this on it.”

Husk clamps the towel to his wrist, hissing as whatever he mopped up with it earlier stings the cut. Mimzy goes back to her eye make up. Husk stares at her. Then at the towel, turning red. For a second, all he can think of to say is, “Um. Your mojito’s done.”

Mimzy glances up again. “Thanks.” She leans over the bar again to get it, then scowls. “Ugh, what the fuck, Husker, you got blood in it!” She sits back, pouting.

“Oh yeah.” Husk watches the blood swirl in the glass, streaking the liquid and darkening the mint leaves. Then another wave of dizziness overtakes him and he sits down on the floor.

The fabric in his hands is completely soaked now. “I’m gonna need another towel.”

Mimzy sighs heavily and finally stands up. “If you’re gonna be so much trouble, I don’t want you back tomorrow.”

The chain shivers. Husk frowns. “Huh. Order’s gone.”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Al said I could have you as long as I wanted you.”

Husk nods vaguely, thanking whoever is listening that he slipped and cut his wrist open before Mimzy could get it into her head to keep him here all week.

Nodding does not help the dizziness. Husk can’t tell if it’s more booze or blood loss at this point. Either way, he’s getting close to passing out.

Mimzy has gone, he notices. Has she left him to double die here, on the sticky floor behind a speakeasy bar? Right back to where he started in other words. But then she’s back, handing him a different towel. “I found this in the laundry tub. It’s got a stain anyway so it doesn’t matter if you ruin it.”

Husk peels his current towel off the cut, unleashing a spray of blood. Mimzy hisses and scrambles out the way, dropping a box as she goes. She heads back around the bar while Husk presses the new towel to his wrist. It’s white but it very soon isn’t. He turns to the box Mimzy dropped: A first aid kit. Useful if he had another pair of hands but he doesn’t, so he ignores it, grips his wrist and tilts his head back to rest on the shelf behind him.

Some time passes. After a while Mimzy asks, “You okay? You’re not double dying are ya?”

“I dunno.” Husk opens his eyes, decides that’s a bad idea and shuts them again.

“I don’t think Al would be okay with you double dying while you work here.”

Husk opens his eyes to find her staring at him. She fidgets, then slips off her stool to come back round the bar. “Do you think we should do one of those torniquet things?” she asks, “Or will that make your arm drop off?” She opens the first aid kit and pulls out a roll of bandages. “Here.” She holds them out. Husk is still holding the towel to his wrist so he says, “I can’t take them.”

“Well you gotta do something or you’ll die and Al will be mad at me!”

At that moment, a shadow forms unnaturally under the glaring light and then Alastor is stood there. “Mad at you, Mimzy?” he repeats, “How could I be?” He catches sight of the ruined cocktail and asks, “A bloody mojito? I didn’t know you serve cannibal cocktails here.”

“I don’t” says Mimzy, “It’s Husker’s blood.”

“Ah, still.” Alastor takes the glass and drinks a sizable portion. Then he frowns above the smile. “Wait, what did you do to Husker?”

Mimzy gestures at Husk. “Hey, he did this to himself!”

“She’s right for once boss.”

Alastor seems to finally notice him bleeding on the floor and his eyes widen. Husk gets the impression he’s not the only one who’s drunk.

“Husker, really, I know you don’t enjoy Mimzy’s company but this seems extreme.”

Mimzy scowls. “Only extreme thing here is how drunk he is.” Then the scowl fades and she smiles at Alastor. “Hey, how was Cannibal Town?”

“Oh it was lovely! We went to a new restaurant which turned out to be very inventive, and then back to…”

Husk interrupts before Alastor can get sidetracked. “Hey, boss, I am still bleeding here.”

“That’ll be the alcohol” Mimzy tells him. To Alastor she adds, “Thins the blood.”

“Really? That explains why you bled so much when you were stabbed, Husker.”

“That wasn’t booze, that was being stabbed!”

Alastor makes a dismissive gesture like being stabbed verses being a little drunk is basically the same thing. He bends down and tugs Husk’s arm up, telling him. “Raise it above your heart, old pal.”

“Oh yeah” mutters Husk, lifting his arm. He knew that already, but he’s not exactly thinking straight here.

“He’s got a heart?” asks Mimzy. She heads back round the bar and plonks herself down.

Alastor ignores her and snaps his fingers. Niffty appears. It’s gotta be nearly dawn but she’s fully dressed, bright eyed and is holding a feather duster. Alastor beams at her then turns to Husk. “See, Husker, this is how I expect you to be dressed when I summon you.”

Mimzy blinks. “What, in a poodle skirt?”

Alastor frowns. “Well, maybe not. Unless that’s what you’re comfortable in, Husker my man!”

“What I’m comfortable with is not bleeding to death!”

Niffty has scrambled up the shelves to dust the light fixtures by now by this gets her attention. She slides back down with a squeak. “Oh no, another mess!”

“Yes, darling” says Alastor, “It seems Husker is determined to make a habit of this. Fix him up, could you?”

“On it.”

Niffty works just as diligently as last time, only slowed down by Alastor being too busy chatting with Mimzy to summon up supplies as fast as he did back then. Husk leans against the shelves, sleepy and dizzy and in no mood for any of this bullshit. It’s a relief when all of it, Alastor and Mimzy’s cruel laughter, Niffty’s chatter and the ache in his arm, all fade away.

And then he finds himself in bed, back in his apartment. He extracts his wrist from under the covers and finds it is neatly bandaged.

Fuck, he’s tired. That’ll be the blood loss, he guesses. It took his days in bed being fed suspect soup by Niffty to recover last time. Apparently he’s in for that again: He can hear her cackling and clattering in his kitchen even with the door shut.

The curtains are closed – and thank fuck for that, because Husk’s head is killing him – but the light leaking from under it tells him it’s late morning.

The door opens and Alastor strolls in carrying something under one arm. Husk is disappointed to note that the overlord is not looking remotely hungover. Alastor greets him with, “Ah, you’re awake at last.” He pulls his bundle out from under his arm and unfurls it to reveal a blanket that Husk is sure he doesn’t own. Alastor spreads it over the bed. Husk stares at it and then at Alastor. Alastor gives a little shrug and says, “Well, you looked cold.”

“Oh. Thanks, I guess.”

Alastor’s smile does something weird then. Like he might actually mean it for a moment there. Of course he catches himself and plasters the fake grin over it. Then he glances around and says, “Husker, I don’t mean to be rude but you could really use some interior design advice.” His gaze lingers on the damp up the wall and he adds, “Or perhaps a different apartment.”

“Yeah” says Husk tiredly, “I’d need a second job for that. Bar work or something. And you know what? It just ain’t worth it.”

“Oh, a second job is out of the question” Alastor tells him. “I need to know I’ll have your full attention when I summon you.”

Husk sighs. Alastor is a cannibalistic overlord. It’s hard not to give him your full attention. But he doesn’t want to inflate the bastard’s ego anymore than it already is so he says nothing. Alastor adds, “Besides, if you worked for someone else, they’d always know when I’ve summoned you. No, it wouldn’t do to broadcast my affairs like that.”

Husk risks asking, “I…don’t suppose a raise so I can get a better apartment anyway is too much to ask?”

Alastor just laughs. Husk figures it was a long shot after last night. Turning up to a job drunk and stabbing himself isn’t exactly his finest hour. 

“You should sleep” Alastor tells him.

“Um. Yeah” says Husk. It’s weird how Alastor can, just now and then, act like he almost gives a fuck.

Of course, no way could he sleep with Al actually in the room so it’s a relief when Alastor vanishes into the shadows. Niffty stays: Husk can hear her singing to herself as she works. He smiles For someone who’s utterly terrifying in her twisted way, Niffty can be a surprisingly comforting person to have around. And it’s nice to have anyone in the shithole apartment. Makes the place feel almost homely. Husk drifts off to sleep, hoping that when he wakes the hangover will be gone and Niffty will still be here.

Chapter Text

Husk winds up doing a lot of bar work. Somehow, despite being wasted, he still did a good enough job for Mimzy that first time that she wants him back eventually. That or she just goes through staff like underwear. Seems like her place gets attacked every other week and it’s never Mimzy they actually succeed in killing. Which is probably a good thing: Husk doesn’t want to know how Alastor would react. Not to mention he wouldn’t wish double death on Mimzy even if he can’t stand the bitch. Shame that her employees keep taking the heat though. Husk would feel sorry for them but he manages to drown it.

Once he realised that Husk’s skill as a barman extends beyond telling a decent whiskey apart from an okay one, Alastor started sending him to other places that are low on staff after a turf war or an extermination. Clubs and bars Alastor likes, a few he even owns, all with the same vintage vibe as the man himself. A few dance halls too. Why Alastor doesn’t just pick a place for him to work permanently or even set him up with his own establishment to manage on the overlord’s behalf, Husk doesn’t know. Maybe Alastor doesn’t want to share his ex-overlord long term, even with venues he likes. Maybe he’s holding him back for some future spat with the handful of overlords Hell has left. Or maybe he just likes messing with Husk and sending him all over Pentagram City whenever the fuck he feels like it does that better than letting him stay somewhere long enough to actually get a routine going. That or he just hasn’t thought about it, Husk figures. It might throw off all Husk’s plans for an evening when Alastor pulls him out of nowhere and sets him to work, but he figures that from Alastor’s perspective, it’s easy. Just a case of clicking his fingers and there’s Husk, why think too hard about it.

Years down the line, and Husk is pretty sure he’s served drinks at every bar in the city that were established before 1935 plus plenty of newer ones that are just in the style. And everywhere in Cannibal Town. The less said about those freaks the better. Lucky for Husk the fur seems to put them off.

Tonight it’s a cosy little place not far from the palace. It’s quiet, just Husk and Alastor at the bar, in fact, which is weird. Usually when Husk serves Al drinks it’s in Cannibal Town, his own parlour or at Mimzy’s place. Everywhere else, the overlord is shown to a VIP area before he can scare away the other customers. Here, tonight, they saw the tipsy twist to his forced smile and the slightly unhinged glint in his eyes and wisely got out of his way when he headed on over to the bar. Now the other customers have scarpered and the staff are all hiding out in the kitchen. Only Husk is still here because what choice does he have? None is what. Joys of being on a chain.

Not that Alastor actually looks ready to attack. Actually, Husk knows from long, annoying experience, Alastor is usually a surprisingly happy drunk. He just gets a little dazed, his smile goes dopey and then he wants to dance. And impressively actually can. It’s an improvement overall, the one downside being how keen he always is to pet Husk’s ears.

This look in his eyes tonight though. Husk hasn’t seen this look before. He cautiously slides another drink across the bar and debates asking what the matter is. If he asks, Alastor might get angry about his prying. Or he might answer. Husk isn’t sure which would be worse. So he stays silent and busies himself wiping the bar down so Al can’t accuse him of staring when he sobers up.

Alastor meanwhile has coaxed a jazz track from the radio over the bar (every place he patronises has one) and is picking at the bent box of chocolates he came in with. Another piece of weirdness: Alastor doesn’t do sweet things.

Husk must be staring after all because Alastor sees him looking and explains the chocolates by gesturing at them and saying, “Mimzy brought them for me.”

“Uh huh.” Husk doesn’t want to ask but it seems like a better response is needed. “It your birthday or something?”

“My Death Day.”
Oh fuck. That would explain the look, the on-edge forced cheer. Husk says, “My commiserations.” He doesn’t ask if Alastor wants to talk about it because he really, really doesn’t want to hear it.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The afterlife has treated me rather well, wouldn’t you say?” Alastor plays his laugh track. It’s more feedback laden than it is when he’s sober. He offers Husk the box. “Would you like one?”

Husk gave up chocolate years before he died, some shit about being on the verge of type 2 diabetes and wanting to avoid it and focus on drinking himself to death instead. Somehow, he never got back in the habit. He takes a chocolate now, just to please Al. “Thanks.”

It’s actually pretty good, and that must show on his face because Alastor slides the box to the middle of the bar and says, “Help yourself. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

“Yeah, me neither. Actually, this is the first time I’ve had chocolate since I died.” Husk takes another one. “It’s not bad once you get started though.”

Alastor takes another himself, apparently determined not to waste them even if he don’t like them. Husk is out of chores now and it feels wrong to stand here eating Al’s chocolates without making conversation with the bastard. He asks, “So Mimzy took you out for Death Day drinks?”

There is a burst of static and Alastor seems to have to make an effort to reign it in. “Only the one drink” he admits, “Then she ran into an old flame.” He scowls above the grin. “They kissed and made up. At our table as it happens.” The grin briefly becomes a grimace of disgust.
“Wait, she hooked up with someone and ditched you? On your Death Day?” Husk remembers too late who he’s talking to. Alastor ain’t a lonely heart in need of comfort and Husk wouldn’t care if he was. Really, he wouldn’t. He coughs and finds a glass to polish before he can piss Alastor off with any pity he don’t feel anyway.

Alastor gets another burst of static under control and glowers, but only says, “Yes, well, it’s always been Mimzy’s way. When she wants to do something, she goes right ahead, regardless of anyone else. I’ve always admired that about her.”

There’s a lot Husk wants to say to that. He puts another chocolate in his mouth before he can say any of them and tops up Al’s drink.

“Besides” Alastor continues, “It’s the fate of us lifelong bachelor’s, I suppose. Always playing second fiddle to the latest beau so far as the ladies of our acquaintance are concerned.” His frown deepens. “It’s the same thing with Rosie and her husband.”

Husk pours a drink for himself. Fuck knows he’ll need it if Alastor is about to talk about his personal life.

Alastor downs his own drink and holds his glass out for a refill. Once he’s got one, he holds the box out to Husk, shaking it slightly until Husk rolls his eyes and takes a chocolate.

“Am I right on the money, Husker, old pal? Were you a lifelong bachelor?”

Fucking great. Telling Alastor about his private life has got to be about the only thing worse than hearing about Alastor’s. The guy already owns his soul, what more does he want? Husk helps himself to another chocolate, hoping to avoid answering. Alastor watches him, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning his head in his hand. Husk tries to figure out how drunk he is, and concludes very. It’s kinda refreshing to be the most sober person in the room for a change.

As he finishes the chocolates, Alastor is still watching him expectantly so Husk resigns himself to his fate and reluctantly replies, “Well, I never married.” That doesn’t mean he didn’t get around, of course, but Alastor don’t strike him as a man who’d approve of that even if he wanted to share.

“Never found the right lady, eh?”

Husk shrugs. “Or man” he says, “Or person.”

“All those options and you still couldn’t find the one? My, my, Husker, you’re an even greater failure in matters of romance than I am!” The laugh track plays, completely garbled this time.

Husk’s fur bristles, and he glances around for a distraction, finds the chocolate box. “So…Mimzy’s known you how long, life and death?”

“Around eighty years.”

Husk gestures to the box. “And she still hasn’t learnt you don’t like chocolate?”

Alastor shrugs. “Well, it can be hard to recall other people’s whims and preferences. Sometimes I forget she doesn’t like cannibalism.”

“…Right. Each to their own I guess.”

Alastor raises his glass to that. Then his tipsy smile grows and he adds, “Oh that reminds me! Who do you think’s planning to eat her husband?”
“Couldn’t possibly guess” Husk deadpans.

“Rosie! Really, Husker, I would have thought you could work that out.” Alastor drains his glass and holds it out again. Husk fills it reluctantly. He knows better than to cut Al off but fuck him if he has to carry the bastard home. He settles for saying, “Boss, maybe you should take it easy.”

Alastor only tsks and takes a deep, demonstrative drink as soon as Husk hands the glass back. Then he adds, “That’s the upside to lifelong bachelorhood, you know.”

“Cannibalism?”

“Yes! Once hubby’s out the way, I’ll still be in Rosie’s afterlife. Husbands come and go. An honest alliance is far longer lasting.”

Husk eyes him sceptically. Alastor drinks some more and adds, “It’ll be the same when Mimzy’s had her fun with her latest catch.” His smile slips into something genuine and he holds out the chocolates again. Husk takes one. He’s over the sweetness by now but he figures he needs Alastor in a good mood if he is going to have to carry the asshole home.

Alastor adds, “Not that Mimzy will eat her current man, unfortunately. Unless I can convince her to try it with the right recipe…”

“Uh huh” Husk interrupts, not wanting to know about any recipes, “Well…” He trails off, rubbing his chest with a frown. Why is his heart going so fast? Alastor might be terrifying but he actually isn’t doing anything wrong right now. Well, except talking about cannibalism but he does that a lot. Which, Husk knows, shouldn’t make it better, but point is Husk is used to it. It doesn’t freak him out enough to send his heart racing like this. What gives?

Alastor drains another glass and holds it out. Husk pinches the bridge of his nose. “Boss, how about you slow down? I don’t wanna be in charge of getting you home safe.” Especially as he’s suddenly no feeling great himself. Last thing he wants is to haul Alastor to a cab. Or fight off anyone who might want to attack the Radio Demon while he’s vulnerable and the list of sinners down here who’d do that is not a short one.

Alastor gets his laugh track right this time. “I assure you, my dear fellow, I’m in no need of assistance.”

“…Right.”

“In fact, you can pour me the same again.”

Husk opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it. If he says no, the overlord will order him to pour the drink anyway and kick up a fuss on top of that. Husk can’t face that right now. He gets Al the drink. Then he stands tugging at the collar of the uniform he has to wear for this latest job. “Is it me or is it fucking hot in here?”

“It’s you. It’s probably all the fur.”

Husk glances at the door to the staff area and figures no one is making policing the uniform a priority while they’ve got a drunk Radio Demon at the bar. Probably everyone’s escaped out the back anyway. He tears his top off. Alastor watches him with wide eyes. “What in the world’s gotten into you, Husker?”

“Nothing. Just hot is all.” Husk pours himself a drink. Just water this time. His heart is still racing and he suddenly feels sick.

Wait, make that very sick. “Fuck.”

“Husker?”

“I’ll, err…I’ll be back in a bit.” Husk retreats into the staff area and heads for the washroom at the end of the corridor. Once he’s in there, he sinks to his knees in front of the toilet and tries to breathe deeply. What the hell? Where’d this come from? He runs a hand through the suddenly sweaty fur of his head. Something’s wrong here. Husk tries to tell himself he’s just sick. But sick so suddenly?

Before he can figure out what’s going on, he gags and leans over the toilet to throw up the water he just drank.

Fuck that. What is this? His heart is still pounding but Husk figures that might be from puking.

Or maybe not. It doesn’t settle down.

He waits until he’s sure he’s done before forcing himself to stand up and head over to the sink.

He still feels bad. Worse even. Whatever the fuck this is, it’s not going away.

Husk allows himself to stand at the sink for a bit, washing his face and letting cool water flow over his hands. That done he finds himself pacing about a bit, partly from not being sure if he is done puking after all, but mostly from a growing restlessness, a sense that something about this is seriously wrong. Wronger than just getting sick out of nowhere.

The nausea doesn’t go away but enough time passes that he figures he might as well leave the washroom. He makes his way back into the corridor, pausing as he goes past the kitchen to check if anyone else is in this place. Someone who could take over the bar unless Alastor insists on him staying. Husk hopes the overlord won’t. He seems amused by Husk’s hangovers but he doesn’t go out his way to make Husk work through them. Hopefully regular sickness will be the same.

Because that’s what this is: Regular sickness. Right?

The kitchen is deserted. Everyone musta snuck out the back leaving Husk to cope with a drunk Radio Demon alone. Alone and sick. Fucking great. Husk mutters a few curses and heads back to the bar.

Alastor is still there, now pouring his own drink from the bottle he must have scooted the bar around to steal. Husk glowers and lets him finish before confiscating it back. Alastor narrows his eyes. “Don’t be such a wurp, Husker.”

Husk puts the bottle back on the shelf. “I’m closing up” he announces. Who knows if Al will let him but it’s worth a try.

“It’s barely midnight” Alastor protests.

“Yeah, and you’re the only one here, boss. You really wanna sit there and drink alone like I do?”

Blurry static emanates through the room. “You have a point.”

Husk nods, relieved, then turns back to the shelf just in time to see one of Alastor’s shadow tentacles snatch the bottle back. Alastor stands, adding “We should fine somewhere more lively to spend the rest of our evening.” He catches the bottle as the tentacle disappears, just about managing not to drop it. “How about we head for Carmilla’s territory?”

“That’s a bad idea” says Husk.

“Nonsense! There’s a lovely bar there that serves a wonderful gin rickey.”

“You don’t need anymore to drink! And I don’t need to trail around after you and carry you home…I…” Husk trails off, panting.

Alastor plays his laugh track, the track skipping like it’s got hiccups. “Ah, but you do! If I say so, you trail after me all night!” He ruffles Husk’s ear and adds, “But no carrying if you know what’s good for you.”

“Fine. I’ll drag you.” Husk glowers but feels his eyes widen as the nausea flares outta nowhere. No time to run for the toilet, he just manages to grab the trashcan under the bar and heave into it violently. “…Fuck” he says when he’s done.

Then he bristles as the damned laugh track rings out and Alastor leans over to run a hand through the fur between his now-pinned-back ears. “Poor Husker.”

Husk brushes him off with a growl. Alastor sits back down laughing and asks, “Drunk again, are we?”

“One of us is and it ain't me for once.”

“Then why are you vomiting?”

“Fuck if I know.”

Alastor reaches out and strokes the fur on Husk’s forehead almost thoughtfully. Husk finds himself torn between not hating the sensation right now and really hating that Alastor gets so handsy after a few drinks. Alastor sits back and says, “Your fur’s gone rough. Are you unwell?”

“No shit.”

Alastor shrugs. “Well, it might not be illness. You could have been drunk.” He frowns. “This has come on rather quickly hasn’t it?”

“Came out of fucking nowhere.”

“Hm.”

That hum sounds like it’s leading somewhere but when Husk turns expectantly to Alastor the overlord has lost interest and is busy with his drink again.

“What?” Husk prompts.

“Well it does occur to me that chocolate is toxic to cats.”

“I ain’t a cat, I’m a cat shaped human” Husk mutters. Then he says, “Wait, what?”

“Amusingly, so is alcohol” adds Alastor.

“Well that proves I’m fine then! If alcohol doesn’t affect me like it affects cats, why would chocolate?”

“Oh, who knows what infernal logic our demon forms follow. I don’t freeze at the sight of danger – thankfully, it would be very inconvenient – but I do shed my antlers. You really never know.”

“Well…Yeah…But…Well, one cat poison working on me and another not? That don’t make sense.”

“That is entirely my point, Husker.”  Alastor sips his drink, swills it and adds, “Though I suppose alcohol is technically a poison for humans too, just nowhere near as fast acting.” He seems to notice Husk’s distress and asks, “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, asshole, you just told me I might be poisoned!”

“Ah, yes!” Alastor seems to consider this the way he’d consider a punctured tyre, a flickering light bulb or some other malfunctioning tool.

Husk grips his stomach as a sudden pain ripples through it and snaps, “Any time you want to help here, boss!”

“Perhaps we should induce vomiting?”

“I’m already puking here!”

“Well I don’t know what you expect me to do, Husker. I’m not a doctor.”

Husk raises his eyebrow pointedly. After a moment, Alastor says, “Oh, perhaps I should call a doctor!”

“Ya think?”

“Or a vet.”

“Fuck you.”

Alastor shrugs. “A vet might have more expertise in this matter.”

“Right, and that’s why you said it” Husk mutters, knowing full well Alastor saw an opening for a pet joke and went for it.

Alastor, meanwhile, is frowning. “Are there vets in Hell?”

“I don’t know.” Husk is sure as fuck Hell doesn’t have regular cats and yet the jokes keep coming.

Alastor tsks. “You’re not being very helpful, Husker.”

“Sorry, I guess I’m little wound up on account of being, I dunno, fucking poisoned!”

Alastor laughs, like this is funny, which Husk figures it must be to him.

Maybe he’s screwed. Maybe now he’s more barkeep than muscle, Alastor doesn’t value him enough to call a doctor. And pay for one because no way can Husk afford to. Maybe he’ll have to just ride out whatever the fuck is about to happen to his body and hope for the best.

And if he dies, he’ll come back eventually and Al will probably put him right back behind the bar.

Husk pours himself a glass of water and sips it slowly, trying to ignore the way his hand shakes and his heart is still racing. He paces a little, trying to calm himself. It don’t work. He tries to breathe deeply but just winds up panting. “Can I at least go home?” he asks. Getting no reply he adds, “Boss?”

Alastor is gone. Of fucking course. Bastard must have decided that carrying on his Death Day drinks somewhere else was more entertaining than watching Husk suffer. Well, Husk thinks, at least that means he can go home and go to bed. He feels like shit.

If this kills him, will he feel like shit until he reforms?

Enough already. He won’t die. Probably. He’ll just go home and sleep this off. He’s getting damn tired.

First he needs to piss. He didn’t go long ago but his body seems to want to expel what it can. Husk staggers back down the hallway to see to that. Coming back, he is surprised to find Alastor has returned. The overlord greets him with, “Ah, Husker, there you are. Do you have everything you came with? We need to hurry.”

Husk growls because fuck his life. At least with Alastor gone he could’ve gone home. “What, hurry to your next drinking hole?” he snaps, “I ain’t coming.” Then he tries to look confident, like the decision is final, even though he knows full well Alastor could just order him to come along. Hoping it might discourage the overlord, he adds, “I’d be shit company anyway. I feel like crap.”

Alastor plays his laugh track. It was slurred earlier this evening but either he’s sobered up some or Husk getting sick has inspired him to better clarity because it rings out loud and clear. “Oh, Husker, my dear fellow…You’re always shit company.”

Husk growls again and leans tiredly against the wall. “Same to you, boss.”

Alastor makes a point of letting the laugh track screech to a halt at that but he still chuckles with his actual voice. Then he says, “But really, we must get going. Barnes said the sooner you came in, the better.”

Husk frowns at him. “Who?”

Alastor’s magic envelopes them both and Husk finds himself dumped on a bench in room that is clinical in an old fashioned sort of way. Alastor is stood grinning to one side and a cannibal in a white coat is stood grinning in front of him. Husk feels uncomfortably aware that he is now outnumbered by freaks prepared to eat him.

“Ah, still conscious, I see” greets the second cannibal. “Excellent.”

“What is this?” Husk asks.

Alastor tells him, “I would have thought that is obvious.”

Husk doesn’t answer, just folds his arms and eyes the new cannibal suspiciously. Sure, the guy’s in a white coat but that don’t mean he’s a doctor. Even if he is, he’s still a fucking cannibal.

The cannibal explains, “The Radio Demon arrived in my study and asked me to treat you for suspected poisoning. As I understand it, you’re to be viewed more as a cat than a sinner for the purposes of this treatment.”

Husk glares at Alastor. Alastor smirks. Husk asks the cannibal, “Well are you a doctor or a fucking vet?”

“More of a hobbyist” says the cannibal evasively.

“Doctor Barnes dissected quite a few people back in the nineteenth century” says Alastor, “It’s not as if they’ve changed much.”

“How’s dissecting people make you an expert in medicine?” Husk demands.

Alastor ignores him and gestures to the shelves around the room, which Husk now notices are lined with little glass bottles. Alastor adds, “Well he also has the better collection of poisons than anyone else I know.”

“Wait, you know more than one person who collects poison?”

“I like to think I’m something of an expert in toxicology” says the cannibal, who Husk refuses to think of as a doctor. “And most of my dissections were part of my medical training.”

“Most?” Husk asks sceptically.

“Unfortunately I died before I could complete my studies” the cannibal goes on, ignoring Husk’s question.

“Uh huh. Your studies a hundred fucking years ago and it ain't like my body is the same as most sinners anyway.”

“Really, Husker, do you want a doctor or not? Because you were very grouchy about the prospect of a vet.”

Husk waves a hand at the cannibal. “He ain't a doctor.” Then he doubles over as a wave of nausea ripples through him. He manages not to puke but it’s a close thing. The cannibal not-doctor hands him a bucket and Alastor pats his shoulder and says, “Do stop complaining and cooperate, Husker” with just a trace of warning in his tone.

“Seriously, Al?” asks Husk, straightening up, “This is the best you could do? A medical student with a poison obsession?” Husk pauses to catch his breath. He wants to get out of here but even if Al lets him he isn’t sure his legs will.

“A man with a poison obsession is surely what you want when you’ve been poisoned?”

Husk waves a hand angrily at the cannibal. “He probably knows about it from doing the poisoning!”

Alastor and the not-doctor both laugh and make no denial. Husk growls and adds, desperately, “Doesn’t Cannibal Town have an actual hospital?” Not that he wants to add more cannibals to this situation but still, if he’s going to be treated here he wants an actual hospital with actual doctors. Who don’t poison or dissect people for fun. Is that too much to ask? Probably.

Alastor leans against him, smelling of blood and booze. “If I took a contracted soul to the hospital here, it would be only polite to run it by Rosie and I don’t want to bother her at this hour.” Seeing how unconvinced Husk looks, he runs a hand through Husk’s fur and adds, “It will be fine. Don’t worry, Husker.”

The cannibal nods. “Poisoning is very straightforward to treat” he says, “Though it will take a while. Would you like the Radio Demon to stay?”

Alastor takes his hand from Husk’s shoulder and moves as if to leave, but Husk says, “Yeah, he can stay.” When it comes to cannibals, he figures better the bastard he knows.

Alastor raises an eyebrow quizzically, but comes back to stand by the bench. The other cannibal grins widely and says, “Well then, let’s get started.”

It isn’t a fun night. First up is an injection of something that makes Husk puke so much he starts to think fuck it, maybe double death wouldn’t be so bad. He groans miserably over the bucket in between heaving and is actually kind of grateful for Alastor’s grip on his shoulder.

Next comes activated charcoal and after that’s in him, Husk clocks out, dozing on the bench. He vaguely hopes that neither of the assholes in the room with him decide they’re hungry but he don’t care so much he’s prepared to stay awake.

He is half aware of Alastor and the cannibal not-doctor having some sort of conversation, possibly about him, possibly about shit he don’t want to know about, and then Alastor’s magic lifts him away again and he’s back in his lousy apartment. More specifically, he’s in bed in his lousy apartment, which is a damn relief after the night he’s had. “Thanks” he tells Alastor, who is stood around inspecting how much the damp has spread since he was last in here.

“Not at all, my fine fellow. It could have been nasty without treatment and we couldn’t do without you, now could we?”
Couldn’t we, thinks Husk. Whatever: Alastor’s a freaking weirdo. If he wants to save Husk’s afterlife on a whim, Husk will take it. There’s no question being double dead sucks ass to the point that even bartending for Al is better. Even dealing with Al drunk is better, and on that note, Husk says, “There’s painkillers in the bathroom cabinet. You know, for when the hangover kicks in.”

“I’m not staying to witness your hangover, Husker.”

“I meant yours, jackass.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Mimzy could tell you I can handle my liquor.”

Yeah, thinks Husk, she probably could if she’d bothered to stick around. He is starting to drift off but he opens his eyes to say, “Hey. Sorry your Death Day was a washout.”

Alastor shrugs. “I doubt these things are supposed to be fun.”
“Guess not. It is Hell.”

“Indeed.” Alastor bends down to ruffle Husk’s fur a final time before he vanishes into his shadows and Husk is left alone.

Chapter Text

Pretty much the only perk to being on Alastor’s leash is that Husk gets to spend the exterminations in the overlord’s personal shelter. It’s beneath his radio tower and is every bit as creepy as you’d expect a bunker decorated by the Radio Demon to be, but it is secure. Way more secure than the public shelters, which hold nine times outta ten and on the tenth round they turn into traps. Husk only tried one once, his first year down here, before his overlord days. Swore off them after that. Even if he didn’t spend all the time he was crammed in there hyper aware that he was there on a platter if the angels did get in, the sinners he was crammed in with were enough to put him off. Hell ain't exactly full of people who get amiable and cooperative in a crisis. After that, he holed up at home during the annual killing spree, same as everyone else who couldn’t fit in the public shelters or who felt safer above ground. Hiding under furniture and hoping the fuckers would go to some other poor bastard’s house.

Then he got his casino with its luxury bunker. Damn he misses that bunker. Honestly he misses the casino itself less and less these days. A guy can only grieve so long and it’s not like being an overlord was stress free. Husk isn’t sure he could cut it these days after years of drinking and following orders. But he misses that bunker. It was comfortable, as well as secure, and he didn’t have to share it with Alastor.

Not that Al will be joining them this year. The overlord has agreed to provide entertainment in a public bunker in Cannibal Town, some morale-boosting scheme of Rosie’s. This year it’ll be just Husk and Niffty hiding out under the radio tower.

And Mimzy of course. Worst part of any extermination as far as Husk is concerned. Trapped with that bitch up to twenty four hours? Sometimes, Husk would rather just let the exorcists in.

Except he really fucking wouldn’t.

Alastor does not help his stress levels with his parting orders. After talking Husk through the following day’s arrangements like Husk hasn’t hid out under the radio tower every extermination for nearly a decade now, he casually adds, “Should the worst happen, Husker, dear fellow, I expect you to be between Mimzy and the exorcists to the end.”

Husk lowers the bottle he’s halfway through downing. “What?”

“You heard me” replies Alastor tersely. Static rises from his tense form, conveying annoyance. That figures, thinks Husk: Admitting the bunker powered by his magic might fail is admitting that he might fail and Al ain’t good at that to put it mildly. Husk would appreciate the honesty if he wasn’t busy getting riled up about the order he’s just been placed under. “What the Hell?” he asks, “You expect me to die protecting that bitch?”

Alastor’s static intensifies and Husk winces, but keeps on glaring, adding, “You gotta be fucking kidding me, boss!”

“Kidding? Is doing the right thing by a lady funny now, Husker?”

“It wouldn’t make any difference anyway! If those exorcist fuckers get in, they’ll kill all of us even if I, what, shield Mimzy? You really want me to go down protecting her?”

“As you say, they’d kill you both anyway so you may as well be a gentleman and go first.”

“If they’ll kill us both anyway why’s it matter if I go first?”

“Precisely! I see you understand, my good man! It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Too fucking right it is! It’s against my principles to die for Mimzy!” At that moment, Niffty zips past carrying a basket of wool. Husk waves a hand at her and asks, “And what about Niffty? Am I just supposed to let them at her?”

Niffty pauses and tells him, “Oh, I’d be down the toilet.”

Husk blinks at her. “You what?”

Alastor explains, “She’s under orders to wedge herself in the U bend if they try the door. She’s already done it voluntarily several times for reasons I cannot fathom.”

“You never know where the bugs might hide” Niffty confirms. She grins at them and hurries away.

Husk stares after her then stares at Al. Niffty’s demon form gives her some weird abilities. She’s fire proof and she can hold her breath a surprisingly long time but not forever. If the exorcists got in, there’d be no Husk or Mimzy to pull her out; they’d be slaughtered. Fuck, if the bunker was breached that’d probably be because the bastards already killed Alastor. Niffty would just stay stuck under water until she finally drowned.

But at least it wouldn’t be angelic steel that killed her, so she’d come back. That’ll be why Al gave her those orders. 

Alastor stares back, grin fixed and unreadable. Suddenly Husk wants to tell him he doesn’t have to do this stupid Cannibal Town gig, he could stay here where it’s safe. Well, safer.

He doesn’t say anything, of course. No point aside from anything else. Alastor has made up his mind and there’s no way he’ll go back on a promise to Rosie, especially last minute like this.

Well, last hour: Husk checks the clock and finds it’s just gone eleven. The extermination runs midnight to midnight.

It’s the build up Husk can’t stand. The last week before the extermination. The last day. Even on the day itself, the angels don’t usually come as soon as they’re allowed. Usually they ratchet up the tension by waiting an hour or two. Maybe making last minute preparations, sharpening those angelic blades, or maybe they rally the troops or fuck, maybe they have a big party first. Except no: The party must come after. Husk doesn’t know much about angels but he knows no one’s committing slaughter like that with a hangover.

Maybe they want to lure Hell into a false sense of security. Make people think maybe they’re okay to risk making a final run for supplies or to find a better hiding spot, and then the legions of Heaven swoop down.

But yeah, the fuckers take their time. The bell tolls and all of Hell holds their breath. And holds it. Nerves strained, anxiety building, just waiting. Almost silent. Never completely, of course: There are outbreaks of noisy violence, Hell not being full of people who can keep quiet at the best of times and extermination day is the worst. The unlucky bastards with nowhere to go fight over last minute hiding spots. A few stupid fucks always gamble on being able to get back under cover in time and start looting. Vehicles screech like if they go fast enough they could burst out the Pride Ring. And everyone else just listens and waits. Sometimes it’s almost a relief when the angels swarm down.

“Husker? You understand your orders?”

Husk grips his bottle hard. “Die for Mimzy like the gentleman I’m not. Got it.”

Alastor nods. Then his grin widens and he says, “Cheer up, my fine feline: We’re only discussing the worst case scenario. You know it will be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know that.” Husk takes a long drink.

“Don’t drink too much” Alastor tells him.

Husk growls softly. Alastor always insists on some level of sobriety for extermination day. Thing is, he’s hardly been sober for months and this is the one day of the whole miserable year he wants to be drunkest. “Fuck you.”

Alastor laughs and vanishes.

Husk stares at the spot the overlord is now not and wishes the bastard had given him more warning. Now if Alastor gets exterminated, the last thing Husk said to him was fuck you.

Then he thinks about it and decides that’s what he’d have said if he did have warning.

Not that he really wants Alastor exterminated. Which is fucking stupid. It’s the only thing that would break the contract short of Alastor tearing it up voluntarily. So, in other words, the only thing that would break the contract. But it doesn’t sit right to root for it. At the end of the day, Husk figures, he and Alastor are both just sinners: Mortal souls locked out of Heaven’s mercy. Just as screwed as each other on that fundamental level, even if Alastor would never admit it.

Husk sighs and drinks some more. Not too much, Al said, which gives him plenty of wriggle room. Define too much.

He has to admit, he’s been letting himself go lately, even by his own sorry standards. It happens he hasn’t been hired out as a barman by Alastor this month which leaves drinking and gambling as his only pastimes. One leads to the other since gambling seems like a good idea when he’s drunk and getting drunk seems like a good idea when he’s lost at cards. And it takes more to get him drunk than it used to. Somehow, he’s sunk even lower than he already sunk.

But he needs it today. Already the adrenaline has him feeling pretty shit and the bell hasn’t even sounded yet.

The final hour crawls past. Niffty runs in and out of the bunker, fixing the place up with enough food and entertainment to last them a week, let alone a day. Husk tries to help but the wait must really be getting to him this year because he gets out of breath and has to sit down. Niffty studies him sceptically, then rolls her eye and mutters about bad boys.

Once she’s finished organising the bunker, she starts cleaning, and she’s deep into it by the time Mimzy arrives. Husk feels a flicker of relief that she made it here in one piece, and quickly drowns it in booze.

Mimzy dumps the large suitcase she’s brought with her with a grunt of relief and shrugs off her coat. Her fur coat, Husk notes, with a shiver of sympathy from one furred beast to another. He gulps some more beer down.

Niffty glances up from her work to say, “You look pretty, Miss Mimzy.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Mimzy flutters her mascaraed lashes. For whatever fucked up reason, she dolls herself up every extermination.  This year she’s decked out in a beaded cocktail dress that ripples as she moves. Pearls on top of that, and she reeks of perfume. Husk asks, “Cutting it close aren’t you?”

“Well don’t blame me, I’m used to Al just magicking me here. I can’t believe he’s abandoning us for that cannibal freak.”

“I can. Al is a cannibal freak, remember?”

“Yeah, but he’s our cannibal freak. He oughta be protecting us.”

“He says his magic will work if he’s here in person or not.” Husk peels himself from the chair he’s slumped in, wincing as his back aches. He selects another beer from the six pack he brought over, along with several bottles of whiskey, which he already sent down to the bunker with Niffty’s sewing pile.

It crosses Husk’s mind to offer Mimzy a drink but he reins it in. Let her get her own drink for once. If things go tits up later, it might be her last chance to shift for herself.

Mimzy checks the clock over Al’s mantlepiece. “We should get down there.”

“You’re the one who’s late” Husk mutters. Bitch has a point though: They’ve only got a few minutes. So he adds, “Hey, Niff, time to go.”

“But I’m not done yet” Niffty replies, not glancing up from scrubbing the floor.

Husk sighs. Niffty does this every extermination even though she knows full well the exorcists are gonna trash the place if they come this way. Which they often do. Those fuckers get everywhere. But Niffty always makes sure the place is spotless when they arrive. It reminds Husk of a woman he knew in life whose house was demolished to make way for a freeway, and who insisted on cleaning it top to bottom first. Just for the principle of the thing.

Not all that different to how Mimzy dresses up for the occasion, come to think of it, or how Alastor has ordered him to protect Mimzy. Husk figures the principles come crawling to the surface on extermination day, like worms sensing rain. He sighs and gulps his beer down. “Niff, come on.”

Besides him, Mimzy checks the clock again and mutters, “Forget her. I’m going.” She hauls up her suitcase and stalks off. Husk gives her the finger as she leaves before turning back to Niffty. “Niffty, get a move on: You know Alastor wants you in the bunker before the…” and then he freezes as the sound rings out. “…Bell” he finishes. Shit. Shit, it’s starting.

Niffty glances up with a scowl. “But I not finished!”

Husk pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think Heaven cares.”

Niffty scowls and scrubs vigorously at the floor. When Husk snatches the brush from her little hands she yelps, “Hey!”

“Niffty the extermination has literally started already!”

“Oh, they won’t be here for ages yet. They waited two hours after the bell last year!”

At that moment, they hear the unmistakable sound of the angels descending. Niffty heaves a put upon sigh and adds, “Okay, so I spoke too soon.”

Husk drops the brush, hauling Niffty up and over his shoulder as he runs for the basement level of Alastor’s shack.

The bunker is at the far end of the building, cocooned by the iron supports that anchor the radio tower into Hell’s rocky earth and hidden behind a sliding panel in the basement wall. At the end of this inner passage, a big steel door is reinforced by coils of magic and shadow by the time Husk reaches it, but they part and let him pass.

The door itself is firmly sealed. Husk hammers on it. “Mimzy!” No response. Shit. Husk hammers harder. “Mimzy you bitch, let us in or I swear to fuck my last words will be telling some angel where you are!”

Finally there is a noise from the other side of the door, metal scraping against metal as Mimzy yells, “Alright already! Keep your fur on!”

The door opens with a heavy groan and Husk darts inside, then spins round to help Mimzy slam the door shut and reset all its complicated locks and bolts. They are intricate, crafted by a guy who was a master locksmith back in the days of impenetrable citadels and inescapable dungeons. A recommendation from Zestial, as Husk understands it. No Voxtech here.

Once it’s all finally done, Husk steps back to catch his breath. It takes longer than it should. Yeah, definitely overdoing it lately. Fucking figures that even death doesn’t save him from having to look after a body he doesn’t even like.

Breathing hard, he looks around for Niffty and spots her skulking off to one side. She tells him, “If you’d helped me carry everything down here, I’d have had more time to clean! Now if the angels come to the tower, they’ll think Mr Alastor lives in like slob!”

“I don’t think they’ll care, Niffty.” Husk sits down heavily in his armchair. They’ve done this enough times by now that they each have their preferred chair.

Not that Alastor stays put the whole twenty four hours. Mimzy does everything she can to guilt him into staying with them but, with his shadow magic letting him come and go, the overlord has a nasty habit of popping outside throughout the mayhem. Says he doesn’t like being cooped up, but Husk figures he just enjoys the carnage.

“I care!” says Niffty.

“Enough already!” says Mimzy. She glances around. “Shit, I left my coat up there. Husk, I don’t suppose you’d…”

“Nope.”

“Fine then.” Mimzy sits herself down in a huff. Then she brightens and asks, “How about some drinks?”

Husk nods vaguely. He left his beer upstairs, he realises. Which honestly? Way more of a tragedy than Mimzy’s damn coat. But the whiskey is down here. He gestures to it. Mimzy goes and pours herself one, and starts drinking it. When Husk coughs pointedly, she says, “Oh, right!” and pours for Husk and Niffty too.

Once he has a drink in one hand, Husk pulls his cards from his pocket with the other. Pointless to practise tricks when he doesn’t have a show anymore but it gives him something to do. Something to do is a necessity down here. Easy to freak out, if you think too hard about the mismatch between the cosy, retro furnished room and the icy knowledge of what’s happening outside.

Mimzy takes a seat in her own usual armchair and sips her drink. Niffty looks around longingly, like she’s itching to clean, but she’s under orders to stay still and quiet once she’s in the bunker, so she clambers into her armchair and takes up her knitting. Husk studies it a moment, trying to work out what it is she’s making. It’s wide in two places and seems to have three arms. Niff was obviously attempting a pattern at one point and got bored, leaving a splotchy row of clashing colours trailing into the red of the rest of the garment.

Husk yawns. He considers going to bed. It is past midnight, after all, and Alastor found it amusing years ago to provide each of them with a bedroom off the main area that, according to him, “perfectly matches your charming personalities”. Of course, Niffty and Mimzy thought that was sweet of him, but Husk saw through it: Al was just bored one extermination and decided to treat the bunker as a dollhouse and them as the dolls.

Husk doesn’t know why it’s just him and Niffty summoned here every extermination, out of all Al’s contracted souls. Alastor has plenty of other souls at his disposal, and, though he has some deal with Rosie to save them space in Cannibal Town’s relatively cushy public shelters, here they ain't. Just Husk and Niffty, year after year. Probably nothing personal, Husk tells himself. Obviously, Niffty is here because Al likes her. But that ain't how it is with him and thank fuck for that. As a former overlord, he is a status symbol for Alastor. A fucking conversation piece. That’s why Al wants to keep him around.

The bedroom Alastor thinks perfectly matches Husk’s personality is a glorified pigsty. Grey walls, a fancy looking drink cabinet that makes any booze put in it disappear – Alastor had a good laugh over that one – and all the other furniture basic and cheap looking. Worst of all, there’s a framed photograph of Husk’s old casino on the wall. Husk feels his fur rise every time he looks at the damn thing but it’s not like he can smash the frame open and rip up the photo in front of Alastor.

At least the bed is comfortable. Thing is though, Husk knows he won’t sleep. For one thing, the angels could burst in anytime. That’s why Niffty has to quietly knit instead of dash around cleaning. The bunker is pretty sound proof but there is a limit: If an angel is listening hard right in the basement and the three of them are yelling, they’ll be found out for sure. And if the angels realise the bunker’s down here, the door could only hold for so long. No guarantee that so long will be until the second bell tolls. The magic and the fancy locks are the last line of defence: Plan A is just escaping their notice. It makes for a tense wait, even without the sound.

But that’s the other thing; the sound. It takes a lot of decibels to get through the bunker walls but the exterminations aren’t quiet and plenty does reach them. Already Husk can hear sirens wail out there, muffled and distant, but still there. Won’t be long before there’re screams too. How’s he supposed to sleep through that? Mimzy is the only person he’s met so far who can and sure enough, she turns in soon. Husk stays awake.

He wonders briefly if Mimzy takes the whole glamourous ensemble off for her mid-slaughter naps. Probably not: If the angels get in and she’s in her pyjamas the whole dying while looking her best thing is out the window. Maybe she sleeps in those heels.

Car alarms get joined by fire alarms outside. The angels like to smoke sinners out.

Soon there are screams too. Husk shudders. It doesn’t feel right to do card tricks til they stop so he downs the whiskey instead, then pours himself another. Niffty tells him, “Don’t drink it all. Mimzy will be cross if there’s none left when she wakes up.”

“Mimzy shoulda brought her own” Husk mutters, but he stops, figuring if Mimzy reports back to Al that he had all the whiskey, Alastor might get it into his head to ban booze from the bunker all together. Husk would seriously consider chancing it outside.

Hours crawl past. Card tricks get old after the first two. After that, Husk drinks some more, careful to leave a bottle aside for Mimzy. He may not sleep down here but he gets enough booze in him this year that he sinks into a kind of stupor before the chain decides that even with a vague order he’s reach the too much mark and he finds himself physically incapable of swallowing more. He curses under his breath. After that, he just sits, listening to the occasional scream and feeling bad for whoever is making that noise, but in a distant sort of way. Let yourself care too much down here and it’s a one way ticket to crazy town. The threshold of too much is much lower for caring than it is for booze.

The stupor carries him through to what is technically the morning but feels the same as it did in the middle of the night and as it will later in the afternoon and evening. Another problem with sleeping down here: No natural light and dark transition, not even the dull red glare to duller redder glare that Husk has gotten used to in Hell. But he can tell it’s morning because Mimzy reappears, still looking put together in her cocktail dress, her hair perfectly coiffed. She sits herself down and starts fixing her make up. In case they all die, Husk notes bitterly. He greets her with, “Sleep well?” making no effort to keep the judgement out his voice.

Mimzy scowls at him. “Yeah, and what of it? I need my beauty sleep. We don’t all wanna stay up and listen to the screams.”

She’s snappish enough that Husk wonders if perhaps she didn’t sleep as well as she claims, but that ain't his problem. He growls softly and looks away. He’s hungover and it doesn’t help his mood.

Mimzy might have a point about the screams. Not like listening to people dying up there is gonna help them. But ignoring it don’t feel right either.

“How close’d they get so far?” asks Mimzy into her compact mirror.

Niffty shrugs. “I don’t think they’ve been inside the house yet. Let’s hope it stays that way what with how I didn’t have time to clean properly.”

“Yeah” grumbles Husk, “And because they want to kill us.”

Mimzy makes a noise that could be agreement or dismissal and opens her mouth to reapply her lipstick.

Niffty makes them breakfast, which is to say she distributes snack food from the stash she lugged down here. No way to have a kitchen down here without either suffocating themselves or having some sort of ventilation system connected to the surface, and that’d be hard to hide. Probably Alastor would find a way if he cared enough but this is the one day of the year he’s guaranteed not to cook because of the number of corpses outside he can help himself to. Even if he only pops up the once, he always brings something back. One thing Husk and Mimzy are agreed on is the need to retreat to their own rooms while Alastor has his annual extermination day feast.

Yeah, and there’s a memory to ruin his appetite. Not that he had much of one to begin with. The more he tries to eat, the more Husk realises he feels like shit. His head hurts. His fucking jaw hurts. How’d that happen? His back aches from sitting in the damn chair all night but at least that part’s fixable: He stands up. Then sits down again as a wave of dizziness passes through him.

Mimzy frowns at how little he’s eaten but says nothing and eats her own. Niffty knits with all the energy she wants to put into cleaning. The woolly chaos in her lap starts to overflow, trailing on the floor. Every time a crash of scream from outside penetrates the walls, she glances up crossly, like the extermination is a big inconvenience.

Mimzy checks her appearance again, touches up a trace of lipstick that smudged while she was eating and takes up a fashion magazine she must have brought with her in that big suitcase, along with all the valuables she wants kept safe from the destructive attention of the angels. After a while she asks, “Why don’t we have a drink?”

“Because it’s not midday yet” says Niffty, switching from red wool to a muddy brown yarn.

“So what? If ya can’t get drunk on extermination day, when can you?” Mimzy turns a false smile his way. “Husker? C’mon, pussy cat, you’re not gonna let a gal drink alone are ya? Go get us both a whiskey.”

Husk sighs and hauls himself up and pauses to let the dizziness pass. It doesn’t, completely, but it eases up enough that he can go over to the shelf the whiskey is waiting on and pour both Mimzy a generous helping. She might as well have it since he can’t.

“You not having any?” she asks in surprise as he hands it to her.

“I’m done” he says, trying to make it sound like his choice and not the chain cutting him off. Maybe he should drink water at least? The chain won’t care about that and it might help how awful he feels.

“Ha!” says Mimzy, “What is this, an extermination miracle?”

“Go fuck yourself.” Water can wait, Husk decides. He needs to sit down. He feels weirdly breathless, like the length of the room was a trek.

The screams outside drift closer again as the morning drags on. Husk runs a hand through his fur, trying to ignore it. Mimzy yawns and turns the pages of her magazine, then sets it aside in favour of doing her nails, filing them to points and painting a them with a fresh layer of red. Niffty switches from knitting to her sewing pile, selecting one of Al’s shirts to repair.

Husk catches his breath enough to get that water, from the glass pitcher of the stuff in the corner. Then he picks through the old classics, gothic novels and psychological thrillers on the bookshelf. Old fashioned, creepy and ready to mess with your brain? Husk can’t think who the collection reminds him of.

Going back to his armchair, Husk tries to shut out a fresh wave of screams from outside and focus on the book in his hand. Should have done all this time, actually. What was he thinking sat here all night doing nothing but listen? No wonder his stress levels are climbing.

He tries, but he was never enough of a read to get lost in it. He’s got himself worked up now, too on edge to concentrate, and the hangover isn’t helping. Hangover or illness, Husk has to admit to himself. Hangovers don’t usually make him sweat like his. When Niffty brings round lunch, Husk just shakes his head mutely.

While the others eat, he spends some time studying the door, reassuring himself that it’s as solid and magic shrouded as ever. Then tries to read again. His attention keeps wavering and Husk can’t tell if that’s because of stress, exhaustion or just that the screams keep interrupting.

A car alarm goes off somewhere up there, piercing through the screams. It sounds close, so when Husk starts coughing, he tries to do it quietly. Mimzy still gives him a dirty look.

Niffty lowers her sewing, her one big eye scrunched in a frown. “You look icky” she tells him.

“Thanks, Niff.” Husk manages then coughs some more.

“Shut up, kitty. I don’t wanna die because you’re unfit.”

Husk doesn’t want to die because he’s unfit either, but he’s starting to freak out here and comments like that ain't helping. He mutters, “I’m just coughing. If Al was here you couldn’t shut him up.” This is a fair point. Alastor doesn’t do quiet. Doesn’t stop chatting through the exterminations unless the damn angels are right inside the building. Bastard is literally singing in a bunker across town right now. Husk figures the overlord resents having to hide enough as it is, he’s not going to rein in the showmanship on top of that.

The ache in his back is growing. Husk finally catches his breath enough to stop coughing, and leans back with a groan.

Mimzy glares at him again, flips open her magazine and resumes flicking through its pages. Niffty looks at him too, a focused stare, before getting distracted picking a fresh shirt out her mending pile.

He might have stopped coughing, but Husk realises he hasn’t fully got his breath back. What the fuck is going on here?

“Husk?” Niffty has abandoned her sewing and is standing in front of him. “You’re all sweating and gross.”

Husk runs a hand through his admittedly pretty sweaty fur. “Thanks, kid. You really know what to say to make me feel better.”

“The little bug’s right, pussy cat. You look like crap.”

“See, I expect it more from you.”

Mimzy shrugs and goes back to her magazine. Husk lifts a hand to his chest. A dull ache is growing there, as well as in the rest of his torso.

“You’re breathing funny” Niffty tells him, hopping up on to the arm of his chair.

“I’m just outta breath.”

“Does your chest hurt?”

Husk grunts. “It’s nothing.”

“It better be” says Mimzy, “Or you’re screwed.”

“Don’t say that!” Niffty squeaks.

“What? It’s not like we can take him to the hospital in this!” Mimzy waves a hand at the ceiling, like the extermination is some sort of extreme weather event. Husk figures it might as well be. Storm incoming, batten down the hatches. “I’m fine” he says.

“But you’re rubbing your chest” Niffty points out.

Husk quickly stops. Then starts up again. The ache feels more like pressure than actual pain but it ain't comfortable and his back and jaw are hurting worse and his stomach has started to join the party. “I just don’t feel great” he admits. He glares at Mimzy. “It’s probably just the stress of being stuck down here with you.”

“Oh, boohoo, kitty. You don’t like it, leave. I won’t stop ya.”

A particularly loud crash sounds somewhere outside and they all freeze. Niffty breaks the silence with a whisper: “Was that inside the tower? Are they in here?”

Husk opens his mouth to reassure her and winds up hunching forward against the pain, rubbing harder at his chest. Niffty puts her little hands on his shoulders and strokes soothing circles in his fur.

The crashing outside pauses, then resumes, but it moves away. Husk, Niffty and Mimzy breath out together, Husk’s breath trailing off into a coughing fit. When it’s done, his chest hurts worse. He clutches at the fur of his front and mutters, “Fuck.”

Niffty pats him consolingly on the back. “Maybe it’s a heart attack” she tells him.

Husk frowns. “How the fuck would I be having a heart attack?”

“Well you do drink a lot.”

Husk growls and quickly suppresses an instinct to look around for some booze. He can’t even drink with Al’s stupid order powering the chain but he can’t deal with this sober. First the extermination now a heart attack? Nope. Not happening. Niffty’s just mistaken is all.

Then the pressure building in his chest and Husk thinks, or not. He growls. Of all the fucking times.

Mimzy must be on the same page for once because she says, “For fuck’s sake, Husk! Ya couldn’t have waited?”

“Hey don’t look at me! I didn’t ask for this!” Husk coughs again.

“Try not to talk” Niffty advises. She tugs at him til he’s leaning back in the chair, fighting the instinct to curl in on himself in distress. His breathing eases a little but not much.

There is an explosion outside. One of the fires must have reached something combustible. Then, more screams, close enough that the three of them freeze again. Niffty takes Husk’s hand and squeezes. Husk squeezes back, then closes his eyes and concentrates of breathing. He winces: The pressure in his chest is outweighing the pain but the pain is bad enough. He works his jaw, trying to shift the ache there.

A screech of tyres outside, some poor fucker trying to out run the exorcists. Or, well, out drive. Distantly, Husk hopes they’ll make it. And also that they don’t drive too close to the radio tower and lead the angels right to them. A selfish thought, sure, but no one got down here being selfless.

He leans forward again, curling around the growing pain in his belly. He could swear he’s breathing worse than a few minutes ago and noticing that sends a spike of anxiety through his already anxious brain.

Outside, there is a prolonged crash, followed by the roar of tearing metal and then more screams. So the poor bastards couldn’t outdrive Heaven then. After that the noise dies down a bit, enough that Husk risks talking: He says, “Fuck” because talking don’t have to mean anything profound. Then he draws a shaky breath in, wishing he hadn’t said anything. Talking uses breath he hasn’t got.

Niffty rubs his back. “I wish Alastor was here” she says in a little voice.

Mimzy shrugs. “He couldn’t fix do anything either” she says, “Husk would still be screwed. No offence, Husk.”

Privately, Husk agrees. All Alastor could do is provide running commentary.

Niffty makes a little noise of realisation and jumps off the chair. She rushes off into one of the little rooms and reappears with a first aid kit. “Aspirin” she announces, opening it and taking a pack out, “It thins the blood.”

“So does alcohol” says Husk hopefully. Maybe the chain will give him a break just this once. If he’s going to double die, at least he could go out drunk.

If he’s going to double die, at least the exorcists won’t get him, even if they find the bunker. Unless they decided to stab his corpse with angelic steel, he’d come back.

Mimzy wouldn’t. Husk can’t imagine Alastor would forgive him for that. So, hopefully the bunker will be overlooked, like it has so far at least. Husk will revive to find Alastor not too angry that he went and died and left Mimzy undefended.

It’s not like anyone choses to double die, anyway. It comes up in conversation every year as the extermination approaches. Sinners in the casinos and bars Husk frequents discuss it over games of cards, weighing up whether it’s worth doing themselves in so they miss the angels. Problem is, they’d only miss them for a few months once you factor in the time it takes to reform.

Problem is, the few who’ve tried it before warn everyone else not to. Double death hurts too much to be worth avoiding the extermination. Better to just hide and hope for the best. Hoping for the best in Hell: Talk about desperate.

Husk groans as the pain tightens its grip on his chest. Breathing is getting harder.

Fuck this. He doesn’t want to die. Not in the agonising, non permanent way or the horrifically permeant one. Why does everything, from Heaven to his own body, want him dead? 

No one takes his alcohol suggestion seriously. Niffty gives him water to wash down the aspirin while Mimzy watches, apparently interested despite herself. Once he’s taken more pills than he should probably have in one go, not that it probably matters in the circumstances, Husk staggers out the armchair and sits down on the floor by the bookshelf, his back against the wall. He’s starting to get dizzy enough that not having too far to fall if he passes out sounds like a good idea.

Who’s he kidding with if? When.

Niffty sits down beside him and holds one of his hands in both of hers. “Try to relax” she tells him. The idea of being able to do that is kinda funny so Husk laughs. It makes him cough again.

“For fuck’s sake, Husk!” says Mimzy, “She said relax!” She looks at him critically and asks Niffty, “Ya think we should put him to bed?”

Niffty shakes her head. “He shouldn’t move too much.” She turns to Husk and asks, “Will you lie down if I fetch your sheets and pillow?”

Husk shakes his head, worsening the dizziness. “No I…fuck. I, err…” He has to concentrate to speak, partly because speaking uses so much breath and partly because he’s starting to fall asleep here. “I need to sit up to breathe” he manages, then feels himself begin to pass out, and slide down the wall.

When he wakes, he is surrounded by vintage medical equipment that manages to be more creepy than reassuring. Speaking of which, Alastor is by the bed. He greets him with, “Ah, Husker, there you are. It’s good to see you, my friend: I was starting to get quite bored.”

“Happy to oblige” Husk mutters. He lifts a hand to his face. His jaw doesn’t hurt anymore but overall he feels like he’s been hit by a fucking truck. Sore and exhausted. At least he can breathe. For a while he lies back and just does that. Then he opens his eyes and looks around at the ominous tools on a desk across the room and the glass bottles on the shelves. “Tell me this ain't Cannibal Town.”

Alastor pats his shoulder consolingly. “If being told this isn’t Cannibal Town makes you feel better, Husker, I can absolutely tell you this isn’t Cannibal Town. Just be sure to brace for disappointment when the staff show up.”

Husk groans, and Alastor sits back laughing. Then he adds, “I must say, my dear fellow, you have impeccable timing. A heart attack on extermination day? You do keep us on our toes.”

“Sorry.” Husk frowns and adds, “Wait, no I’m not.” Sorry he had a heart attack, sure. Sorry to inconvenience Alastor? Fuck no.

A heart attack, huh. “So Niffty was right.”

“She often is.” Alastor frowns. “Apart from her insistence that cockroaches have some form of rudimentary democracy, of course.”

“Where is she now?”

“Cleaning up after the extermination.”

“They got the radio tower then?”

Static hisses through the air and Alastor’s smile twists into a grimace. Husk was an overlord once, he gets it. You claw your way to the top only to be just as vulnerable to the angelic legions as every other sucker? It stings. But Alastor only says, “They got your apartment too. That’s where Niffty is: Cleaning up so you can go home as soon as the doctors discharge you.”

“Thanks” says Husk, grudgingly. His apartment may not be much to speak of, but he’d rather be there than being poked and prodded by cannibals any day.

Al still looks pissed off about the tower so Husk tries to distract him by asking, “How was the show?”

“Oh, splendid. The audience seemed to thoroughly enjoy it and I had that lovely brass band for back up, plus an interesting cellist who died the same year as me, as it happens. I did miss my annual extermination day stroll though.”

“Yeah. Must suck to miss all that carnage and bloodshed.”

“Exactly. Rosie owes me quite a feast the next time we dine together.”

Husk shudders. Alastor catches the movement and laughs, reaching out to ruffle Husk’s ears like being squeamish about eating people is a cute quirk and not completely fucking normal. Then he adds, “But don’t think you can distract me, Husker. We need to talk about how you got into this state.”

“Hey, don’t blame me! Heaven are the ones who raise my fucking stress levels every year!”

“Unfortunately that is beyond even my control.” Alastor brightens and adds, “But your lifestyle is mine to mould, and the doctors tell me it was at least partly you neglecting your health that got you into this mess. Once you’re back on your feet you can expect orders to exercise regularly and maintain a healthy diet.”

Husk groans into his hands. “Kill me now!”

Alastor’s laugh track plays. “Ah ah ah, that would defeat the purpose entirely! You will look after yourself while I have need of you, Husker, and that includes reining in your drinking habit.”

“Boss, not the booze. Please, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane down here!”

“Calm down, I said reign in. You can cut back a little and still be sane.”

“Want a bet?”

Alastor laughs again. “My dear fellow, I won the last time we played!”

“Fuck you. I can exercise, fine. But I ain't being told what to eat and drink like I’m some fucking child. And you can fuck off with judging me for drinking when you literally eat people!”

“Judging has nothing to do with it, my man. Though if we are comparing, I’m not the one who just had a heart attack, so it seems cannibalism is healthier than the demon drink.”

“Demon drink? I am a demon!” Husk growls in frustration. “Al, we’re in Hell! I gotta be allowed to drink in Hell!”

“Allowed to drink, certainly. Allowed to drink yourself into ill health and wind up here when I might have required your services? Certainly not.” The humour leaves Alastor’s voice as he adds, “Don’t go forgetting who you belong to, Husker. You afterlife isn’t your own to throw away. You are mine, and I won’t have that.” With that, he stands, gives Husk a curt nod and walks out. Husk is left shaken and hopeless. Just like every extermination day really.

Chapter Text

Husk wakes in a series of painful flashes, noticing first of how much everything hurts, then becoming aware of specific pain in his head, his back, his stomach, his limbs. Then he goes full circle and feels the whole full body experience again. He groans.

“Husk?”

Reluctantly, Husk opens his eyes. Or, tries to. Whoever spoke tells him, “Now, don’t go forcing your eyes open. Your face is pretty swollen.”

“Rosie?” Husk realises.  

“Yes, dear. You’re in Cannibal Town. You’re safe.”

Safe isn’t something Husk is convinced goes in the same sentence as Cannibal Town, but right now, he does feel some relief. Anywhere is better than where he was when he lost consciousness. “Fuck” he mutters. He tries cautiously to move, then thinks better of it. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Hell, even thinking hurts but he still wastes thoughts on his overlord of all people, probably because, according to their contract, stopping shit like this from going down is the the one useful thing Alastor is supposed to do. “Where’s Al?”

“Gone to see to some business.” There is a noise like tea being sipped. “Probably hunting down the sinners who did this.” In an undertone, Rosie adds to herself, “I should preheat the oven in case he finds them…”

Husk tunes out at that, thinking nope, he ain't ready for cannibal talk right now. Rosie might be merciful enough not to attack him, but that don’t make being at her mercy fun. Husk has had enough of feeling helpless.

Time slips past and he drifts some. His grip on his consciousness isn’t much to speak of. He feels kinda high. To keep himself awake, he tries to open his eyes again, and again achieves nothing but them somehow feeling even sorer. Being without his vision is starting to freak him out here.

“Who was it?” Rosie asks, “Old contracts? Someone after Alastor?”

“I got no clue.” Husk isn’t sure if maybe it’ll come back to him when his head gets back down to normal size. All he remembers right now is flashes. A sudden blow to the back of his skull. Lying on the ground in foetal position while kicks pounded into his back and chest and head. He automatically shakes his head to banish the images, then cringes at the pain.

“Hold still, sweetheart. You’re badly hurt, you know.”

Yeah, Husk knows. This pain isn’t kinda hurt bad. This is relentless. “Don’t suppose you got any whiskey?”

“Dear, you’ve had enough laudanum to down a horse. I am not giving you alcohol.”

This is post laudanum? Fuck that. “It’s wearing off” Husk reasons. It has to be, to hurt this bad.

“No alcohol” says Rosie, in a tone of finality.

Husk groans again. There isn’t anything he wants to say after that, so he just lies there. Probably Rosie thinks he’s passed out again, but she doesn’t leave him to it. He can sense her sat beside him and hear the occasional clink of her teacup in its saucer. She gets to indulge her vice, he thinks bitterly. Not that tea is much of a vice. Maybe the cannibalism is to make up for being so straightlaced the rest of the time.

“This the emporium?” he asks after a while, wanting to at least pinpoint where in Freak Town he’s landed.

“That’s right. I would have taken you to the hospital but I didn’t want to move you, and since I own all the doctors’ souls I can just summon them here.”

This confuses Husk. “How’d I get here?” If Alastor saved him, why didn’t he just magic him to the hospital?

“You have darling Niffty to thank. When you didn’t come back from whatever errand you were running, she came to look for you, found you in that alley and brought you straight here. She figured it was the closest safe place.”

Again that word safe. Husk still ain't convinced. He tries to piece together the chain of events and mostly succeeds. “Where is she now?”

“Asleep upstairs. She sat up with you the last few nights but I insisted she take a break at last.”

Night? Last few? What the Hell? “How long’ve I been here?”

“This is day three” Rosie tells him. Then she adds, “Well, day four now, I suppose. It’s after midnight.”

Fuck. Husk feels kind of guilty at that. “You don’t have to wait up with me” he tells her.

“You said that the last two times you woke up as well. And if you don’t remember that, it just goes to show that do need somebody with you.” Rosie sighs and adds, “We almost lost you dear. You’ve got a concussion, broken ribs, at least one fractured arm and honestly, I don’t like the look of the other one either. You’re going to have to take it very easy.”

“Fuck” says Husk. What the Hell happened to keeping some of his power? He can’t take a gang of thugs in an alley now? “I should’ve fucking murdered those guys.”

“They got you from behind” says Rosie with an audible shrug. “A cudgel, the doctor reckons. Handy gadget, if a little archaic. And you can’t have gone down right away because you still got one or two. It was hard to tell how many for sure because it was just pieces and there’s such a range in numbers of limbs down here.” There is more clinking, hollow now, like she’s setting her empty cup aside. “And judging from the blood under your claws, you must’ve taken a good chunk out of at least one of the others.”

“Hm.” Husk feels mildly appeased, even though he honestly doesn’t remember fighting back. Probably because violence is pretty normal and being curled on the ground while blows rain down is a novel experience. And sure as fuck not one he wants to repeat.  

He goes back to sleep without noticing he’s going. It ain’t a restful sleep. It’s shallow and he keeps thinking he’s back in that alley. He finally wakes some indeterminant time later to Niffty’s voice: “Husk?”

Husk tries to move, then remembers why that’d be a Very Bad Idea. “Hey, kid.”

“You look gross” Niffty tells him. “I wanted to clean you but Miss Rosie said we’d done enough and a bit of dried blood never hurt anyone.”

Husk, grateful to Rosie for stepping in before Niffty could scrub him raw but not wanting to hurt Niffty’s feelings either, isn’t sure what to say to that. He settles for a non-comital grunt. Niffty asks, “Do you feel gross? If you do, I could wash you some more.”

“I’m fine.” Husk is, he decides, the least fine he’s been since he died. Parts of him he didn’t know could hurt are hurting. His whole body throbs. He tries to open his eyes and still can’t.

“You don’t look fine. You look icky.”

“Yeah, you’ve said.” Husk tries to reach for her and finds his arm won’t move. And that it’s in some sort of cast. When did that happen? “Rosie told me you…” and then Husk shuts up as a new voice sounds from a little way off. Alastor’s voice. The overlord asks, “Is he awake?”

Niffty replies, “Yes, sir”, her voice slipping a little away from Husk like she’s backing away from the bed.

“Excellent. Husker? Get ready to leave. We’ve trespassed on Rosie’s hospitality quite long enough.”

Leave? Husk ain't sure he can sit up. “What, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“But…Well, I need to thank Rosie for her hospitality.” This is true, and also might distract Alastor from dragging him out of bed.

“I’ve done that already” Alastor tells him, “And you can buy her some flowers once you’re back on your feet.”

“Right.” Flowers cost a fortune in Hell, what with being so rare down here, but Husk figures Rosie more than deserves it this time.

Alastor clicks his fingers and Husk feels shadow magic envelope him. Next thing he knows, he’s in a damp-smelling room, on a lumpy mattress, under a tattered duvet. “My place?” he guesses.

“Indeed.” There is a dip in the lumpy mattress as Alastor sits down beside him.

Husk only realises that Niffty got magicked here with them when she gasps, “Oh my gosh, this is even worse than last time! Husk, you live like this?!” and starts scrambling around like she doesn’t know where to start. Which honestly, is the same problem Husk has with managing this dump. Soon her frenzy carries her out the room: Husk can hear her moving off down the corridor, muttering as she goes. Left alone with Alastor, he asks, “Where the fuck were you, boss?”

“When you were attacked? I was broadcasting all day. Really Husker, I can’t be expected to be in two places at once.”

“What and your broadcast was more important than my afterlife? You’re supposed to deal with shit like this!”

There is a little drift of static, and Husk pictures Al narrowing his eyes. “Flattered as I am by your belief in my omniscience, Husker, dear fellow, I didn’t actually know what had happened to you until Niffty came to tell me.”

Part of Husk accepts this. After all, Al actually isn’t omniscient, and God help them all the day he is. The protection he offers Husk is mostly in his reputation which is usually enough. No one wants to touch the Radio Demon’s stuff. No one apart from those idiots in the alley, that is, and Husk wonders now if Maybe they didn’t know who he belongs to. It’s been long enough by now that some sinners are too young to have heard of the downfall of the Gambling Demon.

Part of him, though, is still mad at Alastor because he's got to be mad at something more tangible than the blurred memory of the alley and here Alastor is being Alastor. He swallows that back and asks, “You get the bastards at least?”

“Oh yes” says Alastor, with some relish.

Husk knows he should ask who the fuck they were. For safety if nothing else: He needs to know if someone else sent them or if they’ll try again, if Alastor killed them in the non permeant way. Of course, Alastor might have them in the line up for his next broadcast, and then who cares who they were because they won’t be coming back. Husk knows he should find out what type of death the overlord gave them. But right now, he’s too fucking tired to care. His head aches and he suspects he won’t remember all the details, even if he asked for them. Alastor doesn’t volunteer anything, so maybe he thinks the same. Or maybe he just doesn’t care that much now the job is done.

The mattress shifts and then Husk feels Alastor’s hand on his ear. Alastor is surprisingly gentle as he runs his hand over the appendage, maybe because of the row of stitches Husk only notices when Alastor’s hand brushes against them. The touch actually ain’t unpleasant, especially with the headache Husk has going on. He still growls on principle and tries to move his arm to push the overlord away, then flinches at the sharp pain that causes.

“Careful, Husker! You’ll undo the good work of Cannibal Town’s best doctors!”

“Careful? How ’bout you be careful, you bastard? I ain’t your fucking pet!”

“I’m going to assume your injuries are making you grouchy” says Alastor in a peeved voice, but he moves his hand and the mattress shifts as he sits back.

The distant muttering grows louder and Niffty darts back in. “Husk, you’re such a bad boy! Do you have any idea how many roaches could be living under all this mess?”

Alastor’s laugh track rings out. “Ah, it looks like you’ll have plenty to do here while Husker sleeps, Niffty, dear!”

“Wait” says Husk, “What?”

“Yes, I’m loaning you Niffty” Alastor tells him. “Until you recover enough to look after yourself, she can cook and change your bandages.”

“And give you alcohol” says Niffty.

Husk feels some relief. He is keenly aware that it weren’t for the alcohol in the laudanum, he’d be feeling the absence of his usual booze by now.

“Not too much” says Alastor. Husk resists the urge to growl again.

Niffty adds, “And I’ll give you painkillers, and tell you stories.”

Husk is well aware of the sort of stories Niffty tells: Short and not sweet. But for painkillers, he’ll take it. “Thanks, Niff.”

“And I’ll wipe your butt” says Niffty cheerfully.

“What?!” Husk feels his eyes try to widen against the swelling, and clenches his fists at the pain.

“Well someone’s got to! Your arms don’t work. And I’ll have to help you get to the bathroom until you can open your eyes, especially with all this mess to trip over.”

For the first time since passing out mid beating in that alley, Husk finds himself wishing those fuckheads had just killed him.

“Husker, if you’re not comfortable with the arrangement, I could hire a nurse.”

“Nope!” Husk is well aware that the sort of nurses that wind up in Hell aren’t the sort of nurses a person wants to fall asleep around. And that’s before he even gets into how Alastor is bound to hire someone from Cannibal Town. “No, it’s fine. Niffty can help.” At least Niffty won’t steal from him at best or try to poison, maim or eat him at worst. Worst Niffty will do is keep him awake cleaning and with how tired he is, Husk doesn’t think that will be a problem.

“Yay!” says Niffty, “This way I can kill all the roaches in your apartment! It’s kind of good you got hurt so bad, or I wouldn’t have time to find them all.”

Alastor laughs again, just with his voice this time. “Always a silver lining, eh, Niffty?”

“That’s right, sir!”

The mattress rises as Alastor stands up. “Well, now that’s settled, I must be going. Rosie and I have a dinner date.”

Husk figures that only Alastor could say dinner date with no apparent awareness of the connotations. And don’t it just say everything about how long he’s known the bastard that that’s the thing he thinks about, and not the fucking cannibalism? “See ya, boss. And thanks.” He has to say it, he thinks. Alastor paid for doctors and went off to get even on the bastards that did this. Even if he was just safeguarding his property, not all overlords would do it.

“Not at all, my good man. Though do try not to make a habit of fights you can’t win.”

“Fights? The fuckers jumped me! I…” Husk trails off as a subtle sound indicates that Alastor has disappeared off into the shadows. “That bastard!”

“He is very bad” says Niffty with relish. The mattress jostles as she climbs up to sit by Husk’s head, planting her little hands in his fur. “Oh, this bed is icky! I’ll change the sheets later. First I’ll get all the bottles and stuff off the floor.”

“Niffty, you don’t have to clean the apartment. Al only ordered you to take care of me.”

“But how I do that if I can’t clean for you?”

“You’ve done enough already. Rosie told me it was you who peeled me off the tarmac.”

Niffty goes quiet then and Husk figures she must have seen a roach and honed in on it like she does, until there is a muffled little sound next to his ear, a sort of sob. “Niffty?”

“It’s only kind of” she says with a little sigh.

“What?”

“It’s only kind of good you got hurt so bad. Mostly I don’t like it.”

Husk reaches for her awkwardly, using the arm that ain't in a sling this time. He's functionally blind here but he manages to pat her shoulder. “I don’t either” he says.

“And then it was worse when I got you to Rosie’s and the doctors arrived because they were helping.”

“And…that was a bad thing?” Understanding what passes for logic in Niffty’s brain is tough at the best of times. With a concussion Husk figures he doesn’t have much of a chance.

“It meant I couldn’t help” Niffty explains, “Not like with the heart attack in the bunker when at least I had to help so I couldn’t stop. When the doctors arrived, they were looking after you so I had to stop and feel things.”

“And you can’t do stuff and feel things at the same time?”

“Not usually.”

Husk tries not to think about what that implies about the amount of cleaning the kid does. Niffty adds, “I was scared you’d die and take ages to come back and I’d miss you, and then when you came back you’d be all broken because of the death and I wouldn’t be able to fix you!” Niffty’s voice wobbles and her fists tighten around Husk’s fur.

“Hey, no for that! I’m safe now, right?”

Niffty sniffs loudly. “I guess.”

“I’ll be okay, kid.” Husk squeezes her shoulder, ignoring the bolt of pain it sends up his arm. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Mr Alastor likes to have you in one piece.”

Husk draws his hand away, carefully letting it rest across his torso.

Niffty adds, “And I like to have you in one piece. Husk, don’t die, okay? Promise.”

Really that ain’t a promise anyone can make, even down here. Especially down here, what with the exterminations being an annual event. But Husk doesn’t want to open that can of worms with how fragile her voice sounds. So he just says, “’Course, Niff. I promise.”

Chapter Text

Husk never liked these overlord social gatherings, even when he was an overlord. For one thing, the social part comes with big inverted commas. Really these events are a chance to make shady deals at best. At worst they’re one big pissing contest. There’s a fair amount of spying too, everyone trying to size each other up while at the same time putting on their best façades because they know everyone else is doing the same thing. So yeah, Husk was never into it even back in the day. Now he’s just here as Alastor’s trophy, it’s even less fun. Alastor though, he’s made for shit like this, the fake smiles, the deal making, the veiled threats. It’s his jam. Right now he’s over in a quiet corner with Rosie, the two of them whispering together as they watch the other overlords, probably sharing scathing opinions on everyone.

Husk sighs and takes a measured gulp from his bottle. It has to last: Alastor has made it pretty clear he’s only allowed one drink tonight. Apparently he “doesn’t want to be embarrassed” and when Husk had pointed out he has plenty of less embarrassing souls he could drag here, Alastor had just laughed.

Probably just wants to remind Husk of what he once had, Husk thinks glumly. Well, joke’s on him ‘cause he don’t miss this part.

Fucking figures the part he don’t miss is the part he still gets dragged to. It don’t help his mood that Alastor used him as a dress up doll before they even arrived, studying his outfit for a moment before declaring, “No, no, no, no, this just won’t do!” and clicking his fingers to change Husk’s outfit into one Alastor insisted was far more stylish even though the changes were small and Alastor’s grasp of stylish is almost a century old at this point.

Husk looks around with a sigh. Other than his own demotion, the crowd hasn’t changed much since his overlord days. No Count or Estaroth any more, of course. Alastor has seen to them. But, thinking about it, that was a while back. Husk would wonder if Al is mellowing if he didn’t know that’s a fucking stupid thought. Got bored, more like. But whatever the reason for Alastor’s waning bloodlust, the number of guests at this shitshow hasn’t gone down recently.

It’s even gone up by one. The new kid is the latest Vee. Overlord of Social Media, whatever the fuck that is. Rosie asked her earlier, without the swearing, and the bitch had snapped, “I’m an influencer, obviously!” Husk was relieved that Rosie looked as confused as he felt. Then again, Rosie died before the Titanic went down, so maybe that’s not a reason for relief. Sometimes even Alastor’s references are too modern for her.

Yet here she is, ruler of arguably the most stable and prosperous district in Hell. Where they eat people of course. Always a drawback down here. But point is, Rosie’s making a success of it without knowing what an influencer is, and if social media makes people act like Velvette, Husk figures he can do without. One of the perks of not being an overlord he decides: He doesn’t have to go for one extreme or the other and be either a stalwart of his era like Zestial, making a show of being unsettlingly untouchable by earthly fads, or a move-with-the-times-type like Vox, always chasing after the next route to more power. Nope, Husk can just embrace the modern trends that make sense and ignore the rest.

He's not working the bar tonight. Like most of the contracted souls here he hasn’t been given any work to do. Which ain't great because, as he points out to Alastor when his boss saunters over, “What am I supposed to do all night if I ain't working and I ain't drinking?”

Alastor gestures widely to the room. They’re in a room vast enough to rival the kind of thing you might see at the palace. Husk figures half of an overlord’s job is rivalling the palace. Showing the absent king who’s really in charge. “Mingle” Alastor tells him, “Talk with these good people.”

Husk rolls his eyes. “Boss, we’re in Hell. There’s no good people here.”

“Figure of speech, Husker, dear fellow.” Alastor sips his own drink. No one to put any limits on what he puts away. Except his own caution, of course, and to be fair, Husk has never seen him so much as tipsy at an overlord gathering. Behind the smiles, everyone is on their guard.

Husk scowls. “I ain’t talking to these fucking bastards.”

Alastor pats his on the head, taking the opportunity to ruffle his fur. “Then you’ll just have to stand about and look pretty” he says, then hands Husk his empty glass. “See you later, chum!” He goes off into the crowd. Husk glares after him. Smug bastard.

Fine, stand about. Husk can do that. Look pretty, not so much, he thinks, but luckily that jibe didn’t have the power of an order. Husk figures even Alastor can’t command miracles.

Husk drinks and looks around the room. Or maybe chamber would be a better word, or great hall. Zestial’s castle doesn’t really have anything as ordinary as rooms. Dark red tapestries adorn the dark stone walls. Red pillar candles the size of Husk make the place feel more crowded than it actually is, flickering in groups and stirring the shadows. The place is big enough for plenty of shadows. Really, it’s too big for the number of people here and Husk figures that is why Zestial showed them to this room and not a smaller one: It draws attention to how there’s not many overlords left these days and he’s one of them.

Husk savours the drink. One drink, what a fucking joke. Actually he has cut back a bit these last few months, but still. One fucking drink.

Cutting back wasn’t on purpose. It’s just that Alastor’s post heart attack orders about taking care of himself already forced him some of the way and then Al sent him to work at Mimzy’s a lot lately. By rights, that should be an excuse to drink more, but Husk has found being a little closer to sober helps him navigate the soap opera levels of drama in the place. And, well, do the job. Not that he cares about that. But if he’s got to pour drinks he might as well pour good ones.

The problem with drinking less is that he feels more. Maybe he should give Niffty’s coping method a shot and clean his apartment more but Husk ain't sure he’s that desperate yet.

Some poor schmuck has managed to rig up a modern sound system in here and now a classical piece starts playing. Husk listens for a while, trying to work out if he knows the track from earth. He doesn’t but that doesn’t mean it’s not from earth, just that this fancy type of music has always gone over his head.

He finishes the bottle way too fast. Great. Now all he’s got to do is people watch, unless he decides to talk to them after all. Not that many of the overlords will want to talk to him even if he tried. After all, he used to be one of them and now he’s on the other end of the chain. It makes plenty of them uncomfortable. He’s a walking reminder of how far they could fall. As for the ones who would talk with him, they’d only do it to gloat. He lost everything, fucking hilarious. Vox and Valentino are particularly bad for that. Rosie is the only one who’s ever handled the situation with any grace, but Husk knows better than to bother her when she’s networking.   And what is he supposed to say to the other contracted souls in the room? Sorry you fucked up too?

The other chained souls in the place are as varied as the overlords. Katie Killjoy scowls into her cocktail glass over by a tall window, probably not enjoying the reminder that she only has her fame and influence for as long as Vox allows. A bored looking cannibal picks at the canapes at the buffet table. Husk amuses himself for a while figuring out who belongs to who. Some, like Killjoy, he knows and some, like the cannibal, are easy to figure out. Others are harder, including some he can’t match at all. Some are engaged in conversation with each other and perhaps even having fun, others are speaking reluctantly with the overlords, stilted and nervous. Husk can sympathise. Nothing like being on a chain for learning more than you wanted to know about the asshole on the other end of it. No one wants to fuck up and accidently spill secrets their overlord don’t want shared.

One time, Alastor had ordered Husk to pretend to fuck up and share information that was really a lie Al wanted spread to serve some convoluted plan. That worked out pretty well for Alastor and less well for everyone else. Husk has to hand it to his master, he’s a cunning bastard.

He finds a seat, one of the less comfy ones that run the length of a wall. Wouldn’t be a good idea to take one of the grander, throne-like chairs nearer the gaping fireplace. Ideas above his station and all that shit.

The music is eclectic to say the least. Something to suit everyone, which means everything from Medieval ballads to Al’s preferred jazz, all the way through to music from Husk’s time and after. Husk watches Alastor whirl Rosie about the dance floor when the jazz comes on.

A supermodel sits down next to him for a while. As in, an actual supermodel. Husk had heard Rosie point her out to Alastor as everyone arrived. Belongs to Velvette apparently (is influencer something to do with clothes, Husk wonders). She doesn’t talk to him, for which Husk is both grateful and unsurprised. Just checks her nails and moves off again.

Apart from the overlords and their favoured souls, everyone here is a free demon. That’s pretty standard at these events: If the host used their own souls for staffing, everyone else would feel like they could be ambushed. And, as a wise man once said, it ain't paranoia if everyone really is out to get you. So one of the conditions for hosting these events is agreeing to get demons you don’t own in to mix the drinks, guard the door, all that shit. Vetted, obviously, but not owned. Tonight there’s a good mix of hellborn species and sinners who’ve never signed contracts, smart bastards.

Or not so smart, because Husk suspects plenty will sign a contract in the coming days. A lot of the souls applying for these gigs are desperate. Desperate enough to be in a room full of Hell’s most powerful assholes, in fact, and no seasoned soul still unleashed would risk that unless they’ve got nothing to lose. Well, nothing ’cept that one last thing.

And of course some of them will be newly arrived. Some so green they don’t know what they’re risking walking through that door, others just learning that most people here end up signing a contract with someone and figuring they might as well bite the bullet. For some, tonight is a chance to size up potential “employers” and see what they’re like after a drink or two.

Another contracted soul plops down beside Husk. Valentino’s soul, the porn star whose face is plastered across every second billboard in Hell. Other body parts too. He’s nailing the looking pretty way better than Husk. Not just pretty really, Husk thinks, glancing out the corner of his eye. Striking and glamourous. But also off his pretty face on something, eyes unfocused and swaying in his chair. Reassured he won’t be expected to make any conversation, Husk tunes him out. He figures he’s watched the other sorry fuckers, he might as well watch the overlords again.

They are starting to mix more, not just sticking to allies like they were at the start. Probably moved on from the small talk by now and there’s a lull in the dancing. Knowing what he knows about the way these bastards do business, Husk wishes he had a drink in his hand.

“Heya, sugar.” The porn star leans sideways, invading Husk’s personal space Alastor style until Husk growls and pushes him off. The kid wobbles and Husk steadies him with a roll of his eyes. After that the porn star shuts up again and Husk is free to quietly freak out about whatever their masters are discussing.

It doesn’t help that there’s something going on between Alastor and Vox. They’ve been giving each other the side eye ever since they both got here, and riling each other up weeks before that. Bad mouthing each other over their different airwaves. They haven’t got on for longer than Husk has been down here, but it’s the worst it’s ever been. He was hoping they’d play nice when it actually came down to it but fat chance. Now they’re talking across the room and Husk can see the tension in both of them. The music is playing too loud for Husk to make out what they’re saying but no points for guessing the encounter is far from friendly. So much for Al getting bored of starting fights with his fellow overlords.

If it comes down to it, it wouldn’t be the first time a turf war has started at one of these events. There’s a reason they’re not an annual thing. Husk suppresses a sigh. Just when he was getting used to bar work. He’s got no interest in being a foot soldier again.

Anyway, a turf war with Vox? Bad idea. There’s no way the other two wouldn’t get involved and, as powerful as Alastor might be, three on one isn’t odds Husk likes.

The spider is shivering now, possibly coming down, possibly flying higher. Husk starts to wish he had a coat to drape around the guy.

Through the crowd he can see that Alastor’s smile is more a snarl now. Vox smirks and says something that has to be a provocation. Alastor steps menacingly closer.

Fuck. Husk don’t want to watch this but he can’t look away.

Whatever Alastor says has Vox’s smug grin slipping. He glares at Alastor, hostility etched into his body language as angry blue threads of electricity run over his face. Alastor is laughing because of fucking course he is.

“Hey, kitty” The porn star leans in “How’s about you and me go some place private?”

Husk grows and pushes the guy away, careful not to send him off his seat this time. The spider demon laughs. “You like it rough, huh? Why don’t you…” He trails off, his eyes losing focus. He clutches at his miniskirt, trying and failing to hide that his hands are shaking again.

Just then, a sinner passes with a tray of drinks and Husk snatches a glass of water up. “Here.” He pushes the glass into one of the spider’s trembling hands. The spider blinks at it like he can’t work out how it got there. Husk sighs heavily. “Drink it. It’ll help.”

The spider seems to decide to act grateful, putting on a smile as fake as Alastor’s. Except with flirtation in the mix, which never happens with Alastor, thank fuck. “Thanks, kitty.” He takes a dainty sip, then jerks his face away from the glass, which wobbles in his grasp, sloshing over Husk’s lap. “What the fuck?” he demands, “There’s no vodka in this!”

Husk brushes ineffectually at the wet patch down his front. “Who the fuck said anything about vodka?”

The spider waves a hand, spilling more. “I just assumed from how see through it is.”

“It’s water.”

“Ugh! Boring!” The porn star leans over and examines Husk’s lap. “Great” he says, “And now you’ve come.”

“I have not come!” snaps Husk, probably too loudly.

The spider considers this with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve…pissed yourself?”

“You spilt your drink on me!”

The spider crosses his lower set of arms. “I did not!”

“Yes you…Ugh, forget it. I’m going to find a dryer.” Husk stands up, taking a last look toward Alastor and Vox.

Who…are gone. Shit. Husk looks around. No sign of either of them.

Well, Alastor will just have to look after himself. Husk heads for the nearest exit off the cavernous room and finds himself in a winding corridor. Or, hallway, he figures. Corridor sounds too modern for this place. He can hardly hear the music here. Goes to show how thick the ancient stone must be. Tunnel, he thinks, there’s another apt word. Dark like one.

He heads deeper into it, looking for the men’s room. After a few strides into the shadows it occurs to him that the castle might not have indoor plumbing, let alone a hand dryer. Fuck that. But he can’t exactly go back to the party looking like he pissed himself. He’ll just have to keep looking for a men’s room and failing that, hang around here until he dries off.

Husk makes his way cautiously, trying not to think about all the traps Zestial might have set up here and all the dungeons he might throw someone into if they wind up where they shouldn’t be. Might be almost good if Alastor is off starting a war: It’ll distract Zestial if Husk ends up inadvertently trespassing on his way to the toilets.

He half expects a tug on the chain any moment, Alastor up against all three Vees and wanting back up. Nothing so far though.

It's not just worry for Alastor that’s got him nervous. Actually it’s not worry for Alastor, no just about it. The bastard can worry about himself. But the thing is, if Alastor gets permanently killed, his contracts will go to whoever took him out. So put it down to the devil you know principle. There are worse overlords than Alastor and Vox is one of them. Sure, he acts all smooth and polished but Husk ain't fooled. Half the gangsters in Vegas could put on the charm as well.

Husk has heard the rumours about how the bastard treats his staff. That’s how you tell, both life and death have taught him. You want to know what a man is really like, whether he’s a big shot in a casino or a higher up in the army, you look at how he treats the people below him. If half of what he’s heard is true, Husk doesn’t want to be below Vox. Or for Niffty to have to take his orders either. No, if Alastor is too much of an idiot to remember that his actions don’t just affect him – or, more likely, if he’s too much of a heartless bastard to care – Husk will just have to step in and do what he can to make sure the devil they know wins whatever stupid fight he gets into. Not that there’s much he can except hope for sheer dumb luck.

Course, he doesn’t even know if Alastor went the same way as Vox. Maybe the pair of them did the right thing and walked away from the fight.

Yeah right. And Hell will freeze over. Right now, if feels as hot as ever.  

Then Husk steps through an archway and there Vox is. Not right in front of him thank fuck. The overlord is metres away, at a bend in a second hallway. Overlords, in fact, because Velvette is there too.

No Alastor in sight. Good, so they didn’t take it outside like the immature fuckheads they are.

This new hallway seems to run along the outside wall of the castle. Through a window in a deep alcove, Husk can see across the light-studded mass of Pentagram City.

Vox and Velvette haven’t noticed him, so Husk risks slipping into the alcove to listen in. Just to check they aren’t planning to jump Alastor tonight. Alastor who hasn’t asked for and doesn’t deserve Husk’s help, of course, but, Husk figures, Hell fucks people up. One minute you’re an overlord, next you’re hoping your soul contract isn’t won by a worse overlord than the bastard who’s already got you. It’s a ride.

Judging by the way she’s dressing him down, Velvette is as unimpressed by the situation as Husk is. “What the fuck?” she demands, “Did you even stop and think how this makes us look? We’d need allies to take down the Radio Demon and that won’t happen if it’s that bloody obvious we brought it on ourselves!”

Vox tuts dismissively. In the reflection in the window, Husk can see him shaking his head. “We don’t need help to deal with one washed up mediocrity!”

“You sure about that?”

“Trust me, Velvette, I’ve got this. We can take him.” Slipping from self assured to sulky, Vox adds, “Anyway, he started it.”

Velvette makes a frustrated noise. “No one expects better from a chaos gremlin like him! We’re the ones who built our brand on being in control!”

There is a crackle, and the lights flicker. Vox snaps, “Letting him badmouth us isn’t control! You’ve heard what he’s been saying on his so-called show! Are we supposed to just let that lie?”

“We’re supposed to not start fights at an overlord convention like we’re fucking twelve!” Velvette sighs, putting a hand to her head. “Look since when the fuck am I having to calm you down? You’re supposed to be Mr Cool Calm and Collected but as soon as anyone mentions him, you’re like a school kid who can’t handle having a crush!”

Vox makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snarl. “Oh I’ll crush him, alright! He’s…” Vox turns his head sharply. “What are you looking at?”

Husk freezes, thinking he’s been caught. But then he realises Vox is staring past his alcove. A door at the end of the hallway has just swung open and a  young sinner woman has stopped short at the sight of the overlords. A waitress, Husk realises. She clutches a tray of empties.

Vox takes a step closer, making him practically level with the alcove. Husk presses himself back against the window and represses an urge to swish his tail worriedly.

Velvette gives another heavy sigh and turns away, typing rapidly on her phone.

Vox ignores her, glaring at the waitress. “Well?” he demands.

The sinner stammers, “I…I’m just taking these to the kitchen.” The empty glasses on her tray start to rattle as her hands shake.

“Taking these to the kitchen what?” asks Vox. Then, louder, “Is that how you address an overlord?”

The woman’s fox ears flatten against her head but she catches on. “S-sorry, I mean, s-s…”

“You gonna spit it out some time tonight?” Vox snaps and Husk flinches. Blame the lack of booze. Without enough alcohol in his system to put his mood on mute he feels for the trembling demon.

Of course, there is a little alcohol in his system. Enough to make him clench his fists. What Alastor don’t know is how one bottle in and he’s lairy. It takes more to push him into safely apathetic.

It also takes more than one bottle to make him think he can take Vox. Bad as he feels for the waitress, Husk stays hidden.

The sinner finally forces out the word, “…s-sir.” The glasses slide closer to her body as she tilts the tray defensively.

“Good” says Vox, voice dripping in patronising faux praise. “Now, how much did you hear?”

“N-n-nothing!” The fox woman finally loses a glass, flinching as it slides off the tray and shatters on the stone floor. She hastily rights the tray, then yelps as Vox steps closer, marching past Husk’s alcove and shoving the tray aside. Velvette hisses in displease as the sound of breaking glass fills the hallway. She turns her back, still typing furiously.

“Who do you work for?” Vox asks the sinner, “Who sent you here?”

“N-no one!”

“Lose the stutter. It isn’t cute.”

“I’m s-sorry.”

“Did the Radio Demon send you to spy on us?” Vox demands. When the sinner just blinks in confusion he adds, “Don’t play dumb.”

The sinner’s eyes flicker to Husk. She can see him from where she’s stood. Just like Vox will if he turns around. Lucky for Husk the overlord is fixated on the little fox demon. He yells, “Well?”

“I…I d-don’t…I don’t know who that is” the fox replies. When Vox tenses she quickly adds, “Sir!”

“Bullshit. Everyone knows him.”

From the other end of the hallway, Velvette yells, “Vox, quit making a scene!”

Vox turns round, thankfully swivelling away from Husk’s non-hidden hiding spot and not towards it. “She’s spying for Alastor!” he says.

“So take her back to the tower and have it out with her there.”

“No! Please!” The demon tries to take a step back but Vox shoots out a hand to stall her. She flinches. “Please s-sir I... I r-really don’t know who you’re talking about. I only died last month.”

Husk is done with this. Blame the booze or the lack of it. Blame how this whole fucked up situation is reminding him of times in his army days when soldiers lashed out at civilians and maybe he wouldn’t be down here if he’d stopped it. Blame his own stupid, wasted conscience, maybe, but he steps out the alcove. Even manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “Okay, you’ve made your point and you need to leave her alone now.” Distantly he feels some satisfaction at how Vox’s eye widen at his sudden appearance. Closer up, he’s very aware that this is one of the stupidest things he’s ever done and there’s some heavy competition.

The fox sinner takes the opportunity to pull herself from Vox’s grasp and run off. Husk thinks, You’re fucking welcome.

Vox rounds on Husk. “Huh. Looks like I had the wrong spy…”

“Yeah” says Velvette, lowering her phone at last, “And how the fuck did that happen? You’re supposed to have eyes everywhere!”

“I don’t waste cameras on nobodys like this.” Vox steps closer to Husk who automatically raises his hands in defence.

“Well maybe you should” says Velvette. She puts her phone in her pocket and marches over to eye Husk. “Alastor sent you” she says, more a statement that a question.

“He actually didn’t” says Husk, well aware he won’t be believed. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”

Vox laughs. “You couldn’t even be bothered to come up with an original excuse, huh? Guess we can’t expect better from a washed up drunk like you.”

This close, Husk can smell Vox’s breath well enough to know he’s not the only person drunk here. That explains why the overlord took so long to notice him. He opens his mouth to point this out, then freezes when Vox takes a step back, blue electricity shimmering in the palm of a raised hand. Husk switches whatever he was going to say to, “Hey, listen…”

Vox chuckles darkly. “Save it” he says, “We’re getting you to the tower and then we’ll see if the Radio Demon gives two shits about his pet.”

Being called Alastor’s pet pisses Husk off more than all the other humiliations and annoyances of the night. He growls and reaches for his cards but Vox is quicker. There is a flash of blue light and next thing Husk knows he’s on his back on the stone floor. His muscles quiver beyond his control as pain like nothing he’s ever felt courses through him.

Vox looms over him. The overlord’s hand still pulses with current and Husk cringes back at the sight of it. Or tries to. He can’t move. Fuck.

“Right” says Velvette briskly, “Let’s get him out of here.”

“Hold up” says Vox, “I want to have some fun first.”

Velvette sighs like this is all a big inconvenience. “Have your fun later. You shock him again and he’ll piss himself and stink the car out.”

Vox ignores her and raises his hand. Husk tries desperately move and can’t. Then, very distantly, he feels a tug on his chain. Shadows swallow him. Move over being called a pet because the worst part of this shitty night is how relieved he is that Alastor is summoning him, inadvertently dragging him out of danger in the process. Grateful to be on a chain! How messed up is that? Vox’s outraged protests are blurry through the pain and grow fainter as the magic carries Husk away.

The shadows dump him at Alastor’s feet. A different part of the castle judging by the unforgiving stone he lands on. “Ah, Husker” Alastor greets, “Glad you could join us. I was just…Husker?”

Husk is vaguely aware of Alastor bending over him, hand on his shoulder, but it’s all getting hard to follow and he gives up. Sinks into unconsciousness.

He comes round to the smell of damp. Home again then. Groggily, Husk opens his eyes. He’s alone. Or at least, there’s no one in his bedroom. He can hear Alastor in the next room, the one that pulls quadruple duty as Husk’s living space, kitchen, laundrette and storage area. No castle for him.

Everything hurts. Everything. Like bruises and poison never have.

Husk tries to distract himself by looking around some more. Lights from passing cars race across the walls. Still nighttime then. Through the open door he can see Alastor’s shadow out in the hall. The overlord must be standing level with the open doorway and his shadow, cast by the dingy light in there, spills out multipurpose room. Maybe Alastor has been waiting for him to wake, keeping an ear out for him, and Husk feels a grudging flicker of gratitude even though he knows Al probably just wants to see that his property is in one piece.

Maybe Alastor is even hoping Husk will recover enough quickly enough to help him go up against Vox. Husk doubts that from how fiercely every inch of him hurts. Actually, he kind of hopes his recovery is slow, if it saves him from facing Vox in combat. But hopefully seeing how he was almost zapped into the stonework will convince Alastor not to command that.

Alastor is talking to someone else in there. Husk can hardly hear the words but there are words, spoken low to someone who speaks even quieter. Weird: Quiet ain't a thing Husk associates with Alastor.

The other person is female. Husk can’t make out her words at all but can at least rule out male by the feminine tone of her murmur. Niffty perhaps. Husk hopes so. He could use her TLC right now. Not that Niffty goes in much for the T, the L or the C but she would at least bring him a beer. His throat is parched.

He lets himself drift a bit. Comes back to the room again as he registers that no, it can’t be Niffty, because Alastor sounds strained. Nervous even? No. Must just be the pain playing tricks. Alastor doesn’t get nervous. Still, Husk turns to watch the shadow on the wall out there.

It seems to be acting like a regular shadow, not slipping into creepy independent movement for once, just mirroring what Alastor is doing. From that, Husk can see that Al is just stood with his hands on his staff, a relaxed stance. Good. Husk was worried for a moment there.

Why though? He ain't fallen so low he’s about to worry about the bastard who chained him. Really, he ain't’.

“…one more” Alastor is saying, “You were all for me taking down overlords once upon a time.” He sounds jovial now but in a forced kind of way and Husk can see tension creeping into the shadow’s posture.

The female voice mummers something. Alastor must take a sharp step back because the shadow moves too and the staff magics away as if for safe keeping. Alastor says, “I will. Of course. But…”

Suddenly a shadowy chain appears around the shadow’s neck. The shadow startles back as the chain pulls it forward, dragging it to its knees. Husk only realises this ain't just some shadow show of Al’s or the strange woman’s when he hears a thud through the wall and realises holy shit, there’s a literal chain in there and it just pulled Alastor to his literal knees.

For a dizzying moment, Husk isn’t sure if he wants to shout with joy or horror. Part of him is thrilled that Alastor is getting his and part of him is horrified. And, weirdly, part of him feels betrayed. Alastor has always seemed so invincible. Slayer of overlords. Part of Husk has comforted himself over the years that he may be on a chain but at least the chain is held by someone everyone loses to in the end. No shame in being bested by the Radio Demon, plenty of tougher bastards than him have fallen to Alastor. Alastor who is supposed to be Husk’s protection. Right now, part of Husk wants to go in there and protect him.

Part of him thinks, how come Alastor gets to be this powerful on a leash? He gets to swan about at overlord conventions and Husk doesn’t get to keep his casino?

So many parts of Husk feeling so many different things, it’s amazing he don’t fall to pieces.

Souls owning souls owning souls. They’re all just feeding off each other down here.

The chain yanks at Alastor’s neck again, the shadow jolting from kneeling to all fours. Husk looks away automatically. He couldn’t say why. But he still hears Alastor’s voice, hoarse against the bonds around his throat as he forces out what sounds like an apology. Alastor apologising? What the fuck is going on?

The lighting changes a little and, looking back, Husk sees that the chain has disappeared. The shadow mirrors Alastor stumbling to his feet and brushing himself down. Husk looks away again, giving the overlord some privacy.

The woman is gone. Husk can tell from the lighting, from a shift in the air and, well, from how Alastor is allowed to get to his feet.

Then Alastor appears in the bedroom doorway. Smiling and spotless, like nothing happened. Before he can stop himself, Husk asks, “Boss, who was that in there?”

Alastor tenses. He is quiet for a long moment until he grits out, “What did you hear?” in a tone that reminds Husk of Vox. His heart hammers. “Enough” he replies.

Alastor’s tension grows more apparent and the shadows lengthen around him. Then he seems to rein it in. The shadows shrink and Alastor hitches up his smile. It’s a tired, strained thing. “Husker, I don’t think I need to tell you that this is strictly between us.”

“Understood.”

Alastor nods once, then comes into the room and sits down on the bed. Husk waits but Alastor doesn’t tell him who was in his living room just now. Since they are someone powerful enough to chain Alastor, Husk ain't sure he wants to know. He sure as Hell hopes they’re never in his apartment again but he can’t exactly ask Alastor to keep them away. Alastor won’t be able to control them anymore than Husk can control Alastor.

Alastor on a chain. It’s still crazy to think about.

Alastor holds himself rigid and stares off into the middle distance. His smile ain't connected to the rest of his face. Husk wants to tell him to just let it drop already but he values his skin, or what Vox left of it, and he suspects Alastor couldn’t anyway.

Husk considers reaching for the overlord, to do he don’t know what. Pat him on the shoulder? Fat chance. Shake him for starting shit with Vox? More tempting but a really bad idea. Doesn’t matter anyway because he finds he can’t move.

In the tone of someone determined to change the subject, Alastor tells him, “Zestial had his personal physician look you over. Given that the man trained before electricity was invented, I had my doubts over the good it would do you but it would be bad manners to refuse the offer and it seems the chap has kept his training up to date.”

Husk takes a moment to try to picture Alastor and Zestial working together to get him fixed up. Possibly he’s done his bit for diplomacy tonight just by getting fried and passing out.

Well, except that now Vox has attacked him, Alastor has even more excuse to challenge the Vees. Husk isn’t stupid, he knows Alastor isn’t some sentimental idiot who’ll start a war over him, but, well… Sentimental, no, idiot, yes. Alastor wants a war and Husk just gave him another pretext for one. Husk tries to say all this and what he comes up with is, “I really was just looking for the bathroom.”

Alastor laughs. “Ah, poor Husker, the scrapes you get into! Really, it’s a wonder you lived so long up on earth.” Then his brief humour dies away and he says, “You are lucky, you know.”

“Yeah. I feel real lucky that everything hurts like Hell.”

Alastor shrugs, as if pain isn’t here or there. Maybe for a sadistic freak like him it isn’t. He adds, “If the voltage had been any higher your heart would have stopped.”

Husk can’t think of anything to say to that so he says nothing. Alastor adds, “As it is, you have some electrical burns. External and internal.”

“That why I feel like crap?” Husk asks.

“I imagine the hangover can’t help either. You did down that bottle very quickly.”

“I can’t move” says Husk nervously. If that’s a permanent thing, what the fuck is he supposed to do down here?

Could it even be a permanent thing down here? He’s got forever to heal. Fuck, how much of forever is it gonna take?

“That will pass” says Alastor lightly and his lack of concern reassures Husk. If he was going to be out of action for a while, let alone forever, Alastor would have more to say about how useless to him Husk now is and how Vox damaged his property.

“Of course” says Alastor, “We’re going to have to keep a close eye on you. Apparently the damage from this type of injury sometimes only makes itself know months after the fact.”

“Fun little trick Vox has there.”

Static buzzes in the air at the mention of Vox. It sounds electrical and Husk shudders. Alastor says, “Yes, him. What a pity you found that jumped up boxhead before I did.”

“Yeah, I saw you fuckers squaring up. Not that I wish ya had, but why didn’t you start something then?”

“I was…called away.”

Yeah, thinks Husk. He knows what that kind of called away feels like. He feels the chain round his own neck itch at the thought of it.

Alastor adds, “And Velvette took Vox off before he could make a fool of himself. Well, more of.”

“Probably a good thing” says Husk, hoping Al will take the hint. “There is three of them, boss.”

Green magic flickers, making Husk flinch. Alastor asks, “Are you saying I can’t handle three self absorbed, petty little tyrants?”

“I’m saying they’re beneath you” says Husk hastily.

“They are indeed. And I want them further beneath me.”

So much for diplomacy, Husk thinks. Still he tries, “Don’t go avenging me if that’s what this is. I just want to let the whole thing blow over.”

Alastor ruffles his fur. The motion tugs at the burns and Husk bites back a gasp. Alastor switches to a gentler stroke but tells him, “Don’t flatter yourself, my fine feline. My disagreement with Vox runs far deeper than what he’s done to you.”

“Deep? That’s what you’re calling this dick measuring contest now?”

Alastor makes a scratched record sound and sits back. Husk adds, “Just don’t get Niffty and me caught up in your bullshit. I don’t wanna be stuck working for that bastard if you go dying on us.”

Alastor laughs. “Why, Husker, it’s almost as if you care!”

“Fuck off!” Look where caring got him tonight, Husk thinks.

Alastor’s static deepens again. “Go to sleep, Husker. This misadventure has put you out of temper.” With that, he leaves.

He doesn’t come back for seven years.

Chapter Text

It took a while to settle into the newly rebuilt hotel. Not only is the building different, both grander and more duck themed than it was before, but it was a few days before all the cannibals moved out and the journalists hung around a little longer than that, snapping photos of Charlie and Lucifer and hoping for an interview with Niffty. Alastor ordered Niffty not to talk to them, completely unnecessarily in Husk’s opinion since Niffty seems to freeze whenever there’s a camera in her face.

Just when things were getting back to normal, Al took Husk aside and casually revealed that he’d been, you know, almost sliced in fucking two by an angelic steel blade. Cue a whole lot of nursing on Husk’s part but he figured he owes Al that much at least. It’s not like the overlord hasn’t seen to Husk’s medical needs over the years. ’Course, Alastor did that by hiring people who actually knew what they were doing to some extent or another and surprise, surprise Alastor turned out to be a massive hypocrite because he flat out refused to see a doctor. Or a cannibal freak pretending to be a doctor or even Niffty. “It would only worry the little darling” he insisted, “You’ll just have to handle this yourself, Husker.”

Somehow, Husk had. He’d cleaned the wound, redone Al’s shit stitching job, applied dressings, changed them and harassed Alastor into resting whenever he could get away with it.

A few weeks on and Alastor, currently sat at the glitzy new bar, is looking pretty much back to normal. Husk refuses to see that as a good thing but can’t bring himself to see it as a bad thing either. It is what it is.

Alastor slides his glass across the bar and Husk tops it up. Alastor is venting about Vox. Since the last extermination, the TV Demon has stepped up his surveillance of the hotel and Alastor is about ready to murder someone over it. Literally, that is, and preferably Vox. Bad idea, given how the last attempt ended for both overlords.

Not that Al will listen to him, so Husk lets the rant wash over him, just glad that Al isn’t expecting a reply. He’s kind of out breath. He’s had a bitch of a cold all week and it ain't in a hurry to get better.

While he half listens, he keeps up with his ongoing inventory. The stock he has to work through is increasing every day at the moment because Alastor and Lucifer are trying to out do each other over who can furnish the bar with the fanciest drinks. It’s a contest Lucifer should win hands down what with being able to create literal champagne fountains at the flick of a wrist but Husk had to draw the line at that. He’s had to do some weird shit in his time but sitting the King of Hell down to gently explain that some things just ain’t practical is up there with the weirdest. With showy miracles like that off the table, Lucifer has had to fall back on his common sense, which it turns out is non existent. For one thing, the guy has zero general knowledge of alcohol. “Hey, can you blame me?” he asked when Angel expressed surprise at that, “I haven’t been up on earth since I was talking to that kid Jesus in the desert. Everyone was happy with this back then” and he’d gestured to the clay jug of strong smelling wine he’d magicked into existence. Turns out, Lucifer has been very select about the things he’s kept up to date with from earth. His clothes are a little more modern than Biblical times and he gets some references to music and movies Charlie likes, and the biggest historical events that sent slews of souls down here. And he can tell anyone more about rubber ducks than they wanted to know. Husk, being barman, has had to hear all of it. Lucifer knows about the Friendly Floatees spill and the Hofman sculptures but how modern humans consume alcohol when it isn’t coming out a fountain or flowing in a miraculous river of temptation? Not so much. Lucifer doesn’t drink much himself, he sits at the bar and goes off on duck lectures stone cold sober. So when it comes to making the booze he summons in any way normal he’s kind of flunking. Husk has tiny bottles of weak beer and massive barrels of bathtub gin like something off a pirate ship.

Alastor, meanwhile, knows his liquors from his liqueurs, his whiskey from his whisky and his Château de Beaucastel from his Château de Beaupré. He might have been away awhile – where and doing what, Husk still has no idea – but he’s still got enough connections to get fancy stuff smuggled in from earth and good deals from the distilleries you can bet Hell has. So between that and Lucifer making shit up as he goes along, Alastor is holding his own in their dumb bar stocking contest.

“It’s all very tiresome” Alastor is saying now, “And typical of the Vees. Mercenary opportunists, all the three of them.”

Husk makes a vaguely affirmative noise, focused on adding a keg of some kind of fruity alcopop to his list and looking around for somewhere to keep it. Finding a spot on a shelf, he hefts it up, then pauses to cough. He’s been doing that a lot the last few days, enough that Charlie has noticed and started bugging him to rest. Poor kid is paranoid about her friends right now. Overprotective after losing Pentious.

Behind him, Alastor adds, “Give it long enough and people will see that Vox is all talk.”

“All talk, huh?” And that’s coming from a walking radio. Husk leans back against a barrel of prosecco, feeling every bit as old as he was when he died. He brushes fur from his eyes and wonders why it’s so sweaty. Aside from a bit of lifting he’s not been doing much more than write stuff down in the ever growing inventory. Been too tired to, actually.

Alastor nods to the list now. “I take it Lucifer is still going for quantity over quality?”

Husk takes a deep breath for patience and winces at a sudden pain in his chest.

Lucky for him, Alastor doesn’t need an answer as an excuse to launch into bad mouthing Lucifer. Again. Between this and how much Vox-dissing Husk has had to listen to lately, he is beginning to suspect he’s taken Mimzy’s place as the person Alastor bitches to. A bad enough thought to make him tempted to call Mimzy and try to get her to patch things over with Al, until he remembers that no, then they’d both be at his bar shit talking whoever’s pissed them off.

Husk coughs again, then rubs at his chest as the pain flares up.

“Are you quite well, Husker?”

“Fine, boss.” Husk straightens up reluctantly and makes a show of being busy. Honestly he just wants to go to bed, but Angel is out at the studio, and Husk is determined to stay up until he’s home.

Home. Stupid how quickly the hotel, old or new version, has become that. Husk wasn’t best pleased when Alastor dragged him here. Over seven years, he’d gotten used to not being dragged. To the chain becoming a background thing, like a stone in his shoe. Something he was aware of distantly without it doing anything or causing him any pain. It was almost like he was free. He wasn’t, the chain was still there, but after the first few months of Al not coming back it dawned on him that, until the bastard showed his face again, he could do whatever he wanted.

So he drank and gambled. Of fucking course. But that’s not the point. It’s the principle of it. Husk got back control of his day to day existence is the point.

For ages he half expected Alastor to show up. Pull the chain, drag him off to fight for him or do bar work or fix his fucking cufflinks. But the more time passed, the less he worried about that.

Did he worry about Alator himself? Of course he fucking did. He tried not to but it just happened. Husk wishes he could be the sort of person who doesn’t give a fuck about anyone. Caring ain't an advantage down here. Caring for your overlord, the guy who keeps you on a chain, that’s the height of stupid. But Husk still lay awake on and off for seven damn years wondering where Alastor was. We’re going to have to keep an eye on you, Alastor had said when he left. Not you’re going to have to keep an eye on yourself. Not Niffty will have to keep an eye on you, though she did, especially in the first few days when he was stuck in bed. Little sweetheart in her twisted way. But Alastor said we. Like he was expecting to come right back.

He fought Vox, Husk knows that much. Pretty much right after he left Husk’s apartment. Differing accounts about who beat who but all agreed it was a close thing. After that? Nothing. Alastor was just gone.

But the chain was still there so the bastard was still alive. Damn thing became part promise, part threat. Alastor was still out there and could return anytime. But Husk stopped expecting it like the idiot he is.

And then it happened. Alastor summoned him and he found himself in the Hazbin Hotel of all fucking places. Husk was furious. Seven years of almost freedom had got him used to other people pouring the drinks. No one had been around to stop him drinking his feelings into comfortable faintness. And then Alastor wanted him to tend the bar at a hotel for sinners seeking redemption? Redemption in Hell?! Fucking stupid, Husk had thought. No point in moral growth down here, why did Alastor think he’d spent seven years drinking and gambling. Not that Alastor asked, of course. He just assumed that’s how Husk had been passing the time since they’d last seen each other and the fact he was right didn’t make it less annoying.

But the place grew on Husk. The people grew on him. Living with these idiots every day started to feel almost like having a family.

What Alastor is doing in this place is anyone’s guess. Must be something to do with his contract, Husk has figured that much out. But whether the overlord was sent here by his mistress or took himself here in some convoluted bid to escape her, Husk has no idea.

Alastor didn’t say where he’d been. He looks as poised and put together as ever but Husk has no clue if that’s just a front or not. Sometimes he thinks Alastor is all front anyway, all smiles and shadow magic and who the fuck knows what’s underneath it all. Not a heart, that’s for sure.

Niffty was over the moon about his return. She knew a little before Husk, as it turns out. He pulled her chain a few hours before he sauntered through the door of the hotel, let her “gush and make a fuss” as he later put it, and warned her to be ready to be summoned again for a job. He didn’t give Husk the luxury of a warning.

It took a while to get back to grips with dealing with Alastor. Easy to get used to not taking orders and Husk had had to regain that balance he’d struck before Al left of not pissing the overlord off on one hand but not being so subservient he doesn’t recognise himself on the other. A difficult balance to strike, especially as Husk was well aware Alastor’s tolerance for being bad mouthed and sworn at might have changed over the last seven years. And on top of all that, they’re living together now. Talk about a mind fuck, going from seven years of literal radio silence to seeing the fucker at breakfast. It didn’t help that Alastor acted like nothing had changed. Which makes sense, Husk figures. As far as Alastor is concerned, other people are props in the radio show of his life. Husk is the one with enough understanding that other people are, well, people, to wonder if they even fit together in the same way anymore.

Just when he thought he’d got it figured out, he overstepped by bringing up Alastor’s chain. Less said about that day the better.

Things are more settled now. Post Alastor needing to be literally stitched back together, Husk thinks they’ve more or less regained their old pattern of Alastor being the bastard he is and Husk putting up with it. So at least he knows where he stands.

Now, Alastor studies him closely for a moment, eyes narrowed above his smile. Husk ignores him and notes down the cans of manna flavoured tequila on his list. He looks around for somewhere to put them and gives up as the breathlessness overtakes him again. Fuck whatever this is, he thinks. Damn typical that he comes down with some hell bug just when everything was settling back to normal. He sighs and straightens up from where he’s leant against a shelf, then starts stacking the cans under the bar. Then he stops to cough again. The pain his chest is getting worse.

Wait, pain in his chest? Husk rubs at it as he finishes coughing and mentally runs through a list of symptoms: He’s worn out, he’s breathless, he’s sweating and coughing, he’s aching all over. Shit. “Boss…I don’t wanna worry you, but I think I’m having another heart attack.”

Alastor doesn’t look worried or even surprised. He just puts his glass down and says, “Mon dieu, Husker, again? You need to learn to control the old ticker.” He looks around, his gaze landing on one of the barstools. “Should you sit down?”

“Yeah, probably.” Husk comes around to the other side of the bar, and plants himself on the stool, then leans forward to rest his elbows on the bar and his face in his hands. So much for waiting up for Angel to come home. At this rate, he might not be alive when Angel comes home.

Now he’s acknowledged how shit he feels he feels even worse.

Alastor casually sips his drink, then clicks his fingers. Niffty appears, dressed in a fluffy dressing gown and a lacey little nightie. Husk feels a rush of guilt about her being dragged away from her bedtime routine, but if she minds, she doesn’t show it. “Hi, Mr Alastor!” she says, grinning widely.

Before Alastor can reply, another voice sounds from the bottom of the stairs. “What the fuck?” asks Vaggie, “Alastor, you summoned her when she was getting ready for bed?!” She’s dressed for bed too, must have popped down to get something, but she squares up to Alastor like she’s wielding her spear in full armour as she tells him, “I am so sick of this overlord shit! What are you gonna make her do, fetch something for you? You can’t get of your lazy ass and do it yourself?”

Usually Husk would be inwardly cheering her on. Right now, he’s sitting up straighter in case it helps him to breathe.

Alastor laughs and tells Vaggie, “Why, I was just going to ask Niffty to tend to Husker during a heart attack, but if you’d rather I sent her away…” He holds his fingers out like they’re poised to click. Vaggie’s eyes widen as she turns to Husk. “Shit. I’ll call an ambulance.” She reaches as if to put her hand in a non existent pocket, then stalls. “Fuck, my phone’s upstairs.” She turns to Alastor. “Can you summon me one?”

Alastor sighs deeply, like this is all a big inconvenience to him. Which, Husk thinks, to be fair, it probably is. Big fucking inconvenience to Husk too. Niffty hops across the bar and puts one hand on over his, the other to his face. Husk leans into the touch.

“Really, dear, weren’t you just saying one should fetch things for oneself?”

“What the fuck? Alastor, Husk needs help!”

Niffty pulls away from Husk and asks, “Wait, is fever a sign of a heart attack?”

“Fuck if I know” says Husk. Probably not, he realises, thinking about it.

Vaggie looks over. “I don’t think so.” She turns back to Alastor with a glare and adds, “But we’d need a doctor to know for sure.”

Alastor lowers his hand but says, “Niffty, dear, go call for help. Someone we can trust and who’s able arrive without any fanfare. Vox has been watching this place like a salivating wolf and I don’t want to give him any more drama to feast on.”

“Kay!” squeaks Niffty, jumping down from the bar and running off. Vaggie puts her hands on her hips. “Who cares what Vox sees? Husk’s health is the important thing here.” She turns to Husk, putting a hand to his shoulder. “How long have you felt bad?” she asks.

“I dunno, it just…” Husk makes a gesture to try to explain. “Flared up” he says. It didn’t flare up from zero, though, he thinks. All this sweaty, breathless pain is an extension of the cold he’s had all week. If it was a heart attack, wouldn’t it have killed by now? Or gone away? Can they go away? “Could be nothing. Maybe I am being dramatic.”

“Do decide which, Husker, dear fellow.” Alastor leans over to put a hand on Husk’s head. It’s a lot less welcome than Niffty’s hand. Alastor strokes Husk’s fur, taking the opportunity to scritch behind his ears. Husk jerks away with a growl that turns into a deep cough. Vaggie tightens her grip on his shoulder and glares at Alastor. “What the fuck, pendejo?”

“There is a fever” says Alastor, “And I’d bet good money that’s not a sign of a heart attack. You’ve probably just gone and caught flu, old chap.”

Husk doesn’t want to tell Alastor he’s probably right so he says nothing, just groans and puts his head in his hands again.

“Really” adds Alastor, “This is on you for working too hard.”

Husk lowers his hands to stare at the bastard. “Whose fault is that?” he demands. “You’re the one who orders me to work!”

Alastor takes up his drink again. “I don’t order you to wait up for that effeminate spider every night.”

Fuck. Angel. He still ain’t back yet and Husk will be damned all over again if he’s letting him come back to just Alastor at the bar. “If it’s just flu” he decides, “I’m still waiting up.”

“You’re proving my point, Husker. All these late nights worrying and drinking are wearing you down.”

“I hate to say it” says Vaggie, “But the cabrón has a point for once. You need to go to bed, Husk. There’s no such thing as “just” flu. If that’s even what this is.”

Nifty comes back in. “Dr Barnes is on his way” she announces.

Husk sighs, trying not to notice how the air catches audibly in his chest. “Am I the only one who remembers that fucker ain't a real doctor?” he demands.

Alastor waves a hand like this is a minor detail. “But he is trustworthy.”

“For a cannibal!” Husk coughs again. It don’t help the pain in his chest.

Vaggie pats him on the back and says, “Right, enough. I’m getting Charlie and we’re getting some actual medics here.”

“Really, dear, there’s no need. Barnes knows his stuff and he’ll tell me if any further help is required.”

“Cannibals might have been useful in battle, shitass, but I’m not about to trust them to heal people. I say we get some actual professionals on this.” Vaggie starts heading for the stairs. Alastor puts his glass down, glaring above a forced smile. “And I say there’s no need” he says, “And Husker is my soul, after all.”

“And he’s my friend!” snaps Vaggie, “And I’m getting him some proper care, not some cut rate cannibal freak.”

In the end, Husk gets both. Lucky him, he figures. Both of them, cut rate cannibal freak and the actual qualified doctor Charlie calls, examine him in his bedroom while Niffty darts about scooping his collection of empties into a big bin liner. Both of them spend a long time listening to his chest. Both reach the same conclusion. “Pneumonia?” asks Husk, “How?” He associates the word with cold climates back on earth. Hell is a lot of things and cold ain't one of them. 

“Is it serious?” asks Charlie from the doorway. This being as far away from Husk as anyone could get her. Husk’s memories of the wait for the doctors is surprisingly fuzzy, but he is aware that Charlie freaked out when she was told one of her friends was sick.

Whatever the doctors – or doctor and cannibal freak – say about pneumonia is lost on him, because the world goes out of tune again. Blame the fever or the way the cough that’s plagued him all week has grown teeth now, but he ain't really following what’s going on any more.

Next thing he knows, the doctors have gone and Niffty is levering him from resting against the headboard to lying down in his bed. “I won’t go to sleep” Husk warns her, “I have to wait up for Angel.”

“Husker, don’t be a martyr to this silly infatuation of yours.”

“Boss, when did you get here?”

Alastor gives him a look that mixes annoyance at not being noticed before with something that can’t possibly be concern. Possibly Al is just worried his property’s brain is getting fried. A valid concern, Husk thinks. He puts a hand to his head.

“Go to sleep” Alastor tells him, “And that is an order.”

Husk glares at Alastor while Niffty tucks him in.

When he wakes, he aches all over. A bone deep ache that has him rolling over with a miserable groan. The groan turns into a cough. It doesn’t stop this time, just carries on and on. Husk doubles over, straining to breathe, distantly aware of a hand on his back, stroking him soothingly. Niffty, he assumes. Finally, he catches his breath and stops coughing but only after he’s hacked up a fistful of mucus. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, Husk, I’ve done enough of that today and you ain't exactly your normal sexy self.”

“Angel?!” Husk makes an effort to sit up, stalling when Angel puts a hand to his shoulder and gently forces him back down. “Didn’t know you were here” he adds.

“Yeah, you’ve been pretty much out of it” says Angel. He pulls a tissue from a box someone’s left by the bed and wipes Husk’s hand. Husk inwardly cringes at that. Then he looks around, taking in the state of his room. Niffty might have cleaned up the bottles but the place is still a tip. “You don’t have to wait up with me” he says.

“You wait up for me all the time” Angel replies.

“But I’m fine. And you’ve had a long day at the studio.”

“Eh, I’ve eaten, I’ve showered, what more do ya want?”

“For you to go to bed maybe?”

“And miss all the exciting coughing?” Angel grins, then slips into concern when Husk’s lungs surprise him with another coughing fit. He pats Husk’s back with one hand and passes him a tissue to press to his mouth with the other. His other set of arms, Husk notices, are wrapped anxiously around his own body.

The coughing finally stops and Husk lies back, wheezing. He only realises he’s gobbed up another unsexy load of mucus when he sees Angel discreetly put the clump of tissue in a trash can. “Where’s everyone else?” Husk asks, wanting to focus attention away from how disgusting he is.

“Vaggie finally dragged Charlie back to their room and I told Niffty to go take a break. Poor kid was trying to clean in here and no offence, but I know a lost cause when I see one.”

Husk shifts. “Yeah. Sorry it’s a shithole.” No mention of Alastor in that list of where everyone is, he notices. Bastard probably waltzed off as soon as he heard Husk ain't actively dying. Still, at least he let a doctor examine him. Even provided one, kind of. Since hearing first hand about Valentino, Husk is aware he could do a lot worse overlord-wise. He reaches for Angel’s hand. “I really am fine. Go to bed, Angel.”
“Sorry, babe, you’re stuck with me.” Angel runs a hand through Husk’s fur. He’s the third person to do that today and definitely the most welcome. Husk has to focus to hold back a purr.

Angel frowns. “You’re burning up, kitty. You’re the one that needs ta sleep.”

Husk wants to offer Angel space in his bed. It’s a double, no reason they can’t share. But the words catch in his throat along with his breath. For one thing, he’s a sweaty mess. About the last person anyone would want to share a bed with. For another, how would it come across? Angel has enough people inviting him to join them in bed. So Husk says nothing, just drifts off to sleep himself.

When he wakes, the reddish light glinting from behind the closed curtains tell him it’s morning. Charlie is by the bed, bending anxiously over him. “Husk?” She smiles shakily. “Hi there.” She says it in a whisper, like he’s some kinda invalid. Which, to be fair, he feels like. He asks, “Where’s Angel?”

“Catching up on some sleep. He was with you all night.”

Husk closes his eyes against a wave of guilt. All night and now he’ll have to get up for group activities? “Can you let him have a lie in just this once?”

Charlie blinks, then seems to catch on. “Oh, you mean instead of group therapy? Husk, no one’s doing any therapy today, we’re just going to be focusing on getting you better. How do you feel?”

Honestly, Husk feels like garbage. The fever seems to have been joined by some fun chills that make him shiver even while he sweats and he can hear his breathing, rattling in and rattling out. He tries to clear his throat and winds up coughing. Cue more back patting and mucus. Charlie looks ready to cry when he’s done and Husk might just join her. Instead he lies back, closing his eyes. Only been awake a minute but he’s so fucking tired. “Sorry” he mutters.

“Don’t be sorry” Charlie says and yeah, she’s definitely tearful. Husk feels guilty all over again. “Just rest” Charlie adds, “And let me know if you need anything.”

Husk tries to think of how to reassure her and falls asleep before he comes up with anything convincing.

He is aware of the rest of the day in snatches, waking briefly for short stretches, then sleeping for longer. Every time he wakes, it’s because he’s started coughing in his sleep. Every time he’s done, it takes him longer to catch his breath.

He’s never alone. Charlie and Vaggie take turns bringing him drinks and some soup that he doesn’t want to eat but tries to. Niffty cleans his room some more, chattering as she crashes about, until Angel tells her she might wanna stop so he can sleep. Not a problem, Husk thinks, an exorcist invasion couldn’t stop him sleeping right now, never mind a bit of cleaning. But when he tries to say that, he starts coughing and can’t stop until long after Niffty’s put her broom aside and climbed onto his bed to hold his hand.

Angel is there basically the whole time. Stroking Husk’s back when he coughs, talking softly to him about nothing in particular whenever he’s awake enough to listen. He clears away the gross, mucus stained tissues that build up around Husk and rolls his eyes when Husk tries to stop him. “Will ya just relax already? This is not the worst bodily fluid I’ve handled this week.”

Husk does persuade Angel to go and eat at least. He keeps the request vague because he ain't sure if it’s lunchtime or dinner time and he suspects Angel wouldn’t leave him alone if he knew that. Well, alone apart from Niffty, who takes over Husk duty, stabbing at her knitting while she sits by his bed and regales him with a story about a cockroach empire she just crushed, or maybe Husk just dreams that part. He’s getting pretty out of it by now. Niffty obviously agrees, because she tells him, “You still look all icky.”

“Yep. Feel icky too.” Actually, Husk could swear he feels worse now than he did a few hours ago, but that’s probably the fever talking. Charlie’s taken his temperature a few times today even though each time seems to reassure her less.

Niffty says, “I was gonna wait until you’re done sweating to change the sheets but I think maybe I should just do it now or you’ll drown in them.”

Husk cannot face getting out of bed while she does that. He tells her, “Let’s wait.”

Niffty don’t look happy about that, but she resumes her knitting and doesn’t argue.

Husk sleeps some more and wakes to Niffty gone and Angel bending over him with a steaming mug. “Hot toddy” says Angel. “I thought you could use a pick me up.”

Hearing that makes Husk realise how badly he needed a drink, and not the herbal teas and hot squashes Charlie’s been giving him all day. He sits up and takes the mug. “You’re a saint. Literally.”

Angel snickers, sitting down on the bed. “Yeah, an actual saint from Heaven. Just down here for shits and giggles.”

“I mean it. I could kiss you.”

Angel perks up way too much at that given how gross Husk feels and must look. Then Husk starts coughing again and Angel’s smile fades. He strokes Husk’s back and coaxes him to drink the steaming liquid. “Shit, Husk” he murmurs, running his hand over Husk’s back, “I swear you’re getting hotter. And not in a sexy way.”

“I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

Angel tugs at the pillows, building them into a pile so Husk can sleep propped up, although they’re pretty piled up already. Niffty brought in a load from neighbouring rooms earlier. Husk is almost vertical and he still ain't breathing right.

It doesn’t help that it hurts to breathe deeply. He could swear the pain is getting worse.

The fever must be getting worse too because when he sleeps again and wakes up, Husk is distantly aware that the waking up part didn’t quite hit the mark. He’s awake and not awake.

Angel and Charlie are by the bed. Husk reaches for Angel, who takes his hand and stokes it, telling Charlie, “I’m getting kind of worried about his breathing.”

Husk realises he’s drawing in rapid, shallow breaths like he’s been running. He makes an effort to slow and deepen his breathing, then bites back a groan when that hurts without even working. Fuck this. He squeezes Angel’s hand instead and Angel squeezes back, hard.

Charlie says something but Husk doesn’t take it in. He sleeps again.

When he wakes, Alastor is by the bed. Which figures. Husk was starting to think this evening couldn’t get any worse so it was about time Al showed up. Niffty is here too, standing on the bed, her big eye staring at Husk in concern.

Husk realises he still can’t catch his breath. His lungs whistle and strain but not enough air’s getting in. He grips the covers hard, trying not to panic.

Alastor is saying, “…might be time for a third opinion.”

“Someone else who won’t make a scene?” Niffty asks.

“Actually, dear, I’m starting to think we may just have to accept a scene. Regrettable to give Vox a show but if that’s what it takes to get Husker back on his feet, needs must.”

Husk tries to ask where Angel is and winds up coughing. This time he finds he can’t sit up to clear his lungs. He coughs lying down. Niffty hand him a tissue. Alastor tilts his head, considering. Finally he says, “Call Carmilla, see if we can borrow that lady physician she swears by. Tell her I’ll consider any reasonable terms.”

Niffty nods once and jumps off the bed.

“Where’s Angel?” Husk manages at last. His voice sounds wrecked.

“Don’t worry, my friend, your little spider hasn’t gone far.” Alastor plays a few notes of some cheesy love song from his mic. “He’s just outside with Charlie and Vaggie, panicking about you.”

Husk wants to ask Al to send Angel in but he’s coughing again. This time he has to force himself to struggle upright, scared he’ll stop breathing altogether if he doesn’t. Alastor pats his shoulder absently while he chokes and heaves.

“Fuck” Husk groans when he finally gets his breath back. Or, some of his breath. His wheezing is louder than Alastor’s static, even though, Husk realises, the static is louder than normal. Weird, but Husk has no energy to wonder why.

Alastor moves his hand from Husk’s shoulder to his back, saying, “Dear me, Husker, what are we going to do with you?” Coming from anyone else, that would sound like a rhetorical question. When Alastor says it, it’s like he’s considering ideas.

“Fuck if I know” Husk mutters.

“Best save your breath” Alastor tells him, pushing him back onto the mound of pillows. Husk tries again to ask for Angel but he’s tiring fast and if he does ask, he don’t remember by the time he wakes up.

It doesn’t matter though, because Angel is here. Here looking tense and tearful, staring at Husk with a frightened expression but at least he’s here. Husk can’t speak. Can’t breathe if he’s honest. Not properly. Just gasps. He just holds Angel’s hand and drifts off again.

Angel is still by his bed when he wakes again, not sure if he’s hot or cold but shaking either way. Alastor, Charlie and Vaggie must be somewhere in the room as well, because Husk can hear them. Charlie is saying, “He’s my friend! And a hotel guest! Or…guest staff combo. My point is, I don’t mind paying.”

“Charlie dear, as Husker’s soul owner, it is my contractual duty to protect him and I take that seriously. I must insist you let me pay for his care.”

“Of course that’s why you’re doing it” says Vaggie, “Not the goodness of your heart or anything.”

Alastor’s laugh track plays. By the bed, Angel scowls and glances over to where the others must be.

“Vaggie” murmurs Charlie, “Please let’s not fight. Not now.”

“Fine” mutters Vaggie, “Whoever pays…and why” She pauses and Husk pictures her glaring at Alastor “Let’s make sure we’re paying for something that actually works. That’s the fourth doctor we’ve tried and he’s no better.”

Poor bastard, thinks Husk, whoever he is. Angel has turned back to the bed and is stroking the fur of his face very gently.

“Maybe he needs a hospital?” Charlie’s voice again.

“Unfortunately, dear, the hospital in Cannibal Town is busy with the casualties from the extermination, and I’ve asked enough favours of Rosie recently.”

“So we’ll go somewhere else” says Charlie.

“Nowhere else is secure enough” says Alastor, “But of course, if Vox uses our moment of weakness to attack, I can always kill him. Husker may have just provided the perfect pretext.”

“No!” Vaggie sighs. “I hate to say it, hon, but Alastor has a point.”

Alastor has a point? Nope, thinks Husks, he’s listened in enough. Anyway, it’s getting too cold to focus. If he’s this chilled under the covers, Angel must be freezing. Husk figures he should invite him under the blankets but he still can’t talk. Instead, he tugs vaguely on Angel’s arm and pats the bed beside him. Angel giggles. “Oh, now you ask!”

Not like that, Husk wants to tell him. Just to keep warm. Forcing himself to speak he explains, “…Cold.”

Angel’s smile vanishes. “I know you are, baby. There’s help on the way. Just hold on.”

He must sleep again after that because the rest of the night is a confusion of sensations, most of them unpleasant. Distantly, Husk is aware of voices, some calm, some scared-seeming. He aches and sweats and shivers. He’s awake enough to feel all of that. Just not awake enough to know for sure who’s with him and who he’s just dreaming about. Each cough scrapes agonisingly through his chest but his lungs won’t let him rest. When he isn’t coughing, he’s wheezing, straining to get enough air in and failing. It don’t help that someone keeps putting a plastic mask over his face. Husk pushes it off and whoever the bastard is keeps pushing it back on, until he can’t find the energy to fight it anymore.

The only good thing left in this mess of an existence are the hands. Hands stroking the fur of his neck and back, soothing away the fever. Hands holding his. Sometimes, Husk can see Angel’s face attached to them, or Niffty’s or Charlie’s, but they blur and distort. Only the hands stay.

When Husk wakes properly again, a hand is still in his. Angel’s hand. Angel himself is bent forward from the chair he’s sat in and sprawled across Husk’s bed, apparently asleep. But when Husk squeezes his hand, he stirs, then sits up grinning. “Hey, look who’s awake! How ya feelin’, handsome?”

Like shit, is the answer. But not like shit that’s been mashed up and set on fire, so, an improvement. “I’m alright” Husk says.

“You’re a terrible liar, Whiskas.”

Actually, Husk is a brilliant liar. Sixty years of poker playing even before he ran a casino in Hell taught him well. But Angel sees right through it. Husk ain't sure if that’s down to him being sick or Angel being smart.

Or possibly it’s just Angel knowing him well. That’s a nice thought. He says, “Okay, you caught me. But I’m getting better.”

“I hope so” says Angel, putting a hand to Husk’s face, “Because getting worse from how you were last night was only going to end one way.”

Husk opens his mouth to say it can’t have been that bad, then notices the oxygen cylinder in the corner and the IV still attached to his arm, and thinks okay, maybe it was.

Just then his lungs wake up enough to confirm that with another round of coughing. When Husk is done he sees anxiety in Angel’s face that can’t be allowed to stay there, so he goes for distraction, gesturing to the medical equipment. “What’s all this crap?”

“Antibiotics” Angel says, nodding to the IV. “It took them awhile to find the right combo and then another while to source it from earth ’cause it turns out antibiotics are not a Hell thing. They can’t make ’em down here.” He indicates the oxygen and adds, “And you were on that for hours too. Didn’t help yourself by pushing it off every time you were half awake.”

“Sounds like an eventful night.”

“It was. It sucked.” Angel looks down at their hands and Husk realises their fingers are still entwined. Angel adds, “I thought you were going to die on me.”

Husk can’t resist saying, “Over my dead body would I do that.” Maybe he’s hung out with Alastor too long.

Angel raises an eyebrow. “Ha fucking ha. I mean it, Husk: I was scared.”

“I really am getting better. Not going anywhere.”

A new voice from the shadows lingering in the corners of the room says, “I’m glad to hear it after the fuss you caused last night.” Alastor materialises on the other side of the bed. “Really, Husker, I’d be most displeased if you died after Vox spent all this morning speculating on the picture box about what might be going on in here.”

“Sorry boss” says Husk.

“Yeah” says Angel, “Just when you were thinking he was going back to base level creep.”

Alastor narrows his eyes at the implication that Vox might be getting to him in any way and his static flares and wavers. “As it is” he says, turning back to Husk, “You’re going to be quite useless for the next few weeks.”

Next few weeks? That tracks, Husk figures. He’s pretty sure he’s still got a fever even if it isn’t as bad as last night, and his energy levels are on the floor.

Alastor goes on, “The doctors have all prescribed bed rest for a ridiculous length of time and I’m sure Niffty is prepared to stab anyone who doesn’t comply with their advice, including you and me. Contractually, she can’t hurt me but I’m sure she’d find a way.”

Angel gives Husk a little smile, a sort of hang in there and let him rant smile. Alastor adds, “And Charlie has insisted I give you sick leave on top of that! As if I wouldn’t! I gave you time off when you had that heart attack didn’t I?”

“Well” says Husk, “You didn’t summon me for a week I guess.” And then, he has to admit, it had been a small, stupid thing, just Alastor wanting a cocktail done just right. Husk had been caught between relieved it wasn’t a big chore and pissed he was being dragged to Al’s place at all. Part of him had wondered if Alastor just wanted to see how he was and didn’t know how to drop by and ask, but that was probably giving the bastard too much credit.

“Wait” says Angel, “You had a heart attack?”

Alastor waves a dismissive hand. “He brought it on himself with his drinking” he says, “And actually, Husker, this latest ailment would be another occasion when drinking less would have been to your advantage.”

Husk shakes his head. “Nope. No way. My liver hates me, fine. My heart ain't keen on me either. But no way does drinking effect my lungs.”

“Doctor Barnes tells me otherwise.”

“He ain't a real doctor!”

“So did Zestial’s physician.”

“He died in the twelve hundreds, boss.” And, wait, Alastor called Zestial over him? How bad was it? “Okay, let’s get this straight: How many doctors were there?”

“Five” Angel tells him. He takes his phone out and starts scrolling, biting his lower lip anxiously.

“From five different eras” Alastor adds, “And all of them took a dim view of your drinking.”

Husk folds his arms, his ears pinning back. “Well they can fuck off.”

The static around Alastor builds briefly, then fades. “Curse all you want, Husker. I don’t need to convince you and nor do the doctors. I can just order you to drink less.”

Angel glances up worriedly, then studies the floor, slipping his phone back in his pocket. 

“Again” adds Alastor.

Husk sighs, wincing at the pain that causes and biting back a snide comment. Push Alastor too far and he might ban drinking altogether. Husk can’t face that right now. “Fine” he says, like he has any choice. It’s a nice illusion at least.

Alastor, thankfully, doesn’t shatter the illusion. He just nods and says, “Well, rest up, my good man. I’ll be busy finding someone to cover the bar.”

As Alastor leaves, Angel glances up to say, “Hey, Smiles, can ya tell Charlie he’s awake?” but if Alastor hears this, he doesn’t show it.

“He don’t like taking orders” Husk explains when Al is gone.

“It was a request” Angel huffs. He gets his phone out. “I’ll just tell her myself” he says, but then he pauses. “Hey, about the drinking thing…”

Husk feels himself tense. Not Angel too. Alastor can disapprove of him for all eternity for all Husk cares, but not Angel.

“It’s true about heavy drinkers being more likely to get pneumonia” Angel says. He gestures to his phone. “The internet says so. And, you know, all those doctors.”

“Look, I know, okay! I’m a shitty person who drinks too much and I brought this on myself.”

Angel makes a dismissive little noise. “Don’t listen to Creepy Face. He don’t know what addiction is like. And he has you working at a fucking bar.”

This is getting too much for Husk. It’s almost a relief when he starts coughing again. Angel strokes his back til he’s done then says, “You didn’t bring anything on yourself, Husk. But maybe cutting back ain't such a bad idea.”

Husk tries to get his breath back enough to swear. Angel adds, “I’ll help. We can hang out places other than the bar for a change.”

“That sounds nice” Husk admits. Maybe Alastor will find him non-bar work if he asks. Not that Husk is about to quit completely. But like Angel says, cutting back might be a good move.

Angel gives him an encouraging smile, then climbs on to the bed. “I figure I can give it a while before I message Charlie” he says.  “It’s not like ya going anywhere and I kinda want you to myself for a bit.”

“…For what?” Husk is up for anything in theory. In practice, not so much.

“Get your mind outta the gutter!” Angel giggles, “I’m only looking for some cuddling.” With that, he gently pulls Husk in to rest against his side.

Cuddling? Huh. Husk tenses in sheer surprise. Then, as Angel strokes his arms, and trails a gentle hand through the feathers of one wing, he melts into the touch.

He can’t remember the last time he was cuddled. Pathetic as that sounds. Sure, Niffty holds his hand now and then, and uses him as her personal climbing frame and, sure, Alastor pets him like the housecat he’s not, but none of that is actual cuddling. Going further back, there were pretty people he shared his bed with back in his overlord days, but those were empty, loveless encounters. No cuddling involved. He must have been alive, Husk thinks, last time this happened. He wishes he could remember it.

That thought makes him burrow closer into Angel’s side, trying to memorise every detail. The soft fluff on Angel’s chest, the surprising strength in his arms, the scent of him. Weird how normal this feels, even though it’s been so long. Funny how quickly a guy can get used to being cared about.

Chapter Text

Recovery from pneumonia turns out to be a bitch. It’s a month before Husk is back behind the bar and even then, he’s on reduced hours and Charlie insists on dragging a barstool behind the bar for him to sit most of the time he’s working. Even with all that he still gets tired out too quick.

Angel is taking the whole hanging out away from the bar thing to heart. Mostly, given how exhausted Husk gets, they hang out in his room. His clean room, by the time Niffty finished with it and Husk is determined to keep it that way now Angel’s spending so much time in it. Sometimes he puts on a one man show for Angel, amazing him with magic tricks and even teaching him a few. Not all though: Husk likes to keep some of the mystery going. Angel has so little magic in his afterlife. They watch movies as well, or play cards or sit and chat. They cuddle.

One thing they don’t do much of is get outside, even though the creepy doctor Alastor is paying to get Husk back on his feet has prescribed light exercise. Husk mostly takes care of that side of things himself because being seen in public with Angel too often is a bad idea. Valentino would freak out if he thought Angel had a relationship inside the hotel that went beyond a roommate set up and who knows what he’d do then. Bastard makes Alastor look stable. Hell, the bastard makes Alastor look moral and that takes some doing. So Husk and Angel are careful, never spending any time on the hotel’s balconies and only treating themselves to a date beyond the hotel walls on very rare occasions.

This is one of them. They bus into the centre of Pentagram City, careful to buy some supplies for the hotel to make it look like a regular chore if Vox’s drones are honed in one them. But then, instead of going straight back, they have lunch together in a little diner that’s enough of a dive that it don’t look like a date, but not so bad that it can’t be a fun place to be. Or maybe any place can be fun with Angel in tow.

They walk back the scenic way. Or, the kind of scenic way. It is Hell. The park is a stubby wasteland heavy on the loitering lowlifes, but they find some flowers too. They also find a little market selling…well, okay, mostly selling weapons. Again, Hell. But it’s still nice to look around together at the arrows, axes and knives. Husk spots a few angelic blades in the mix, a more common sight since the last extermination, even outside Carmilla’s business empire.

There’s one food stall in the mix, and Husk buys Angel a cupcake to eat as they head back to the hotel.

As they get closer, they notice more drones. Figures: Vox went overboard on hotel surveillance after the extermination and still hasn’t gotten completely back to normal. Or, normal for Vox. But as they get in sight of the hill to the hotel, Angel says, “Okay, what the fuck? This is like the day after the extermination, I can see twelve of ’em!”

Husk counts the drones crowding the red sky. Yep, twelve. He and Angel start walking further apart without discussing it, so all the footage of them just shows two roommates back from a shopping trip. Damn, he hates having to hide like this. It reminds him of being alive in the days before the gay liberation movement, when dates with men had to be all cloak and dagger.

It reminds him of Angel’s chain.

As they start up the hill, the reason for the extra drones becomes obvious: The place is under attack. Loan sharks again, only this time enough of them have shown up that even Alastor in full kaiju mode can’t take them all out at once. Instead the overlord is sweeping at them with half his shadow tentacles, while the other half form a kind of writhing shield that shifts around him to deflect bullets from the sharks stupid enough not to run for it. The drones buzz like flies above it all.

“Welp” says Angel, “Looks like my new movie just got bumped from first slot on the news.”

“I’m guessing Mimzy’s shown up” says Husk, scanning the front entrance for any sign of her.

“Yeah? I thought they fell out?”

“Pfft, like that was gonna last. Mimzy was always going to find trouble and come running to Al to fix it eventually.” Husk spots a blond head half hidden behind one of the pillars at the front entrance. “Yep: There she is.” He puts their shopping on the ground. No point trying to get past this mess to reach the hotel.

“Yeah” says Angel, watching, “Maybe we should go find a bar til it’s over.” Then his eyes widen and he adds, “Or not.”

“I’d behave myself” Husk grumbles, “You don’t gotta worry about me drinking you under the table.”

“I just mean it ain't good for ya.”

Husk rolls his eyes. “I haven’t quit completely. But wherever, we need to find somewhere to wait outta the way.”

“Sure.” Angel eyes the battle for a moment. “Unless we should help?”

“Nope. Alastor can handle it. ’Bout time the bastard did something useful.” Plus, thinks Husk, he does not want to get in the way of those tentacles. Being sent into battle by the Radio Demon is bad enough. Jumping in when the asshole isn’t expecting it sounds like a good way to get skewered.

He and Angel head back down the hill, hopefully unnoticed by the drones what with all this violence to film. Maybe with a distraction in full swing, thinks Husk, he and Angel could make this date more date like once they’re safely under cover.

Behind them, the battle seems to be turning, shouts giving way to screams. Alastor’s laughing all along, of course, but now it sounds more gleeful.

A loan shark runs past them, knocking into Husk in his hurry. Husk pulls on Angel’s arm, aware that Al ain’t about to let this one get away. Just as he does, the loan shark turns, aiming desperately, and when Husk sees what it is he’s aiming, he shoves Angel out of range.

Next think he knows, he’s looking at the sky. It doesn’t feel like he’s fallen. It feels like Hell tilted around him until the ground was at his back.

There is a beat of blissful numbness and then the agony hits. Pain slices through him, front to back.

Angel: Where’s Angel? Husk tries to call for him but it comes out as a gasp.

There’s something wrong with his chest. He feels for the wrongness, struggling to move his arm. When he manages to lift his hand to his front, it comes away bloody. Yeah, thinks Husk, he’s been here before. Bullets and him are old friends. Friends the way Alastor uses the word, all danger and pain.

“Husk!? Shit, Husk, don’t try to move.” Angel is beside him, kneeling and putting his hands in the mess of Husk’s chest. “Shit, shit, okay, just hang on…” Angel’s third set of arms appear, two more hands to press to Husk’s chest in an attempt to stem the blood. It don’t seem to be working.

The loan shark is gone. Good. That means Angel is safe. Or, safe right now, this second, which is about all you can hope for in Hell.

Husk closes his eyes, suddenly lightheaded and cold. Bleeding cold. He’s been hurt enough times to tell.

A horrible thought shivers through him, forcing his eyes open: What if that bullet was angelic steel? More of it around these days. More chance. How could he tell? It’s supposed to hurt like nothing else but so does being shot whatever the fuck the bullet is made of. If he dies, is he going to come back?

If, who is he kidding? When.

Angel tugs at his clothing. “I need something to stop the bleeding…Shit, why am I not wearing more clothes?!” He glances to the side frantically. “Al? Al, give me your jacket!”

Alastor appears in Husk’s narrowing line of vision, back to normal size. Must have finished off the other dumb fucks. Husk didn’t hear the battle end. Alastor’s smile is still in place. Figures, Husk thinks. Every last demon in Hell could be shot and Alastor wouldn’t let his smile slip.

Alastor looks from Angel to Husk and his eyes widen very slightly. He clicks his fingers and a blanket appears over Husk, while rolls of bandages and a thick wad of gauze appear in Angel’s lap. Angel is a skinny thing, and his lap don’t hold it all. He scrambles to pick up tumbling rolls. “Just hang on, Husk, okay? You’ll be okay.” He unfurls the bandages and places them over Husk’s chest. Husk feels a deepening weight as they quickly become saturated.

Another click of Al’s finger’s and Niffty is with them. She gives a little shriek when she sees Husk. Alastor tells her, “Call for help, Niffty, dear.” No word about calling someone who’ll be discreet, Husk notes. That ain't a good sign.

Niffty doesn’t move right away. She stays frozen in place, hands over her mouth, staring at Husk while her pupil gets smaller. Then she flinches sharply and is suddenly all action. Alastor must have used the chain, Husk realises. He’s never seen him do that to Niffty before.

“Wait!” says Angel as Niffty charges past him. He reaches in his pocket for his phone and unlocks it in a practiced motion. “Use this.”

Niffty catches it and glances at Alastor for permission. Alastor nods. Another bad sign. Usually he won’t let his contracted souls touch those things. Niffty steps away, out of Husk’s line of sight, dialling and putting the phone to her ear with one hand, biting the nails of the other anxiously.

Alastor kneels in the widening pool of blood and Husk, aware that Niffty will have to clean his clothes later, wants to swat at the overlord to make him stand up. He can’t move to do it.

Angel’s hands are pressing the gauze to his chest now. Husk can see his blood on Angel’s wrists.

A damn bullet. He should have known. Stupid that he didn’t die this way the first time round. Half the people he knew in life did, some in war, some in fucked up civilian situations that might as well have been wars.

“Shit” Angel is still muttering, “Shit, shit.”

Husk wants to tell him it’ll be alright but he don’t know that it will be. For him, at least. He knows it’ll be alright for Angel in the end.

Just when he really cares if he lives or dies, that’s when he’s shot. It’s almost funny.

A new voice sounds over Angel’s muttered cursing and Niffty’s frantic words somewhere off to the side. “Whatcha all hanging round here f…Oh.” Mimzy steps closer, gawping for a moment. Then she squeezes Al’s shoulder and moves quietly away, stepping daintily out the pool of blood. Husk figures he should’ve known she’d be the death of him.

Angel is crying now. Husk tunes out Niffty’s rapid directions, whatever Mimzy starts yelling as Charlie and Vaggie rush over, and Alastor’s silent stare. He focuses solely on Angel, putting all his effort into lifting his hand to grip one of Angel’s. “It’s okay” he says, “You’re going to be okay.” If the bullet was angelic steel, he realises, he’ll have to make this count. He draws a shuddering, painful breath but before he can speak again, Charlie and Vaggie appear. Charlie moans in horror and sinks to her knees, lifting Husk’s head onto her lap. Vaggie just stares. Doesn’t try to help, which Husk understands. She can tell there’s nothing they can do.

Siens sound in the background and Niffty runs to meet the ambulance. But Husk can see the wound now his head’s propped up and he agrees with Vaggie’s unspoken assessment. No getting out of it this time. He’s finally run out of luck. He turns back to Angel, gripping his hand hard, and tells him, “You’re going to keep working on redemption. You’re a good person, Angel, you just gotta believe in yourself. Be yourself. You don’t belong down here. You just keep letting that good heart show and you’ll be off to Heaven before you know it. You’ll be fine.”

Angel blinks, tears falling past his cheeks. “Husk, shut the fuck up. You’re gonna be okay.”

Husk turns to Alastor. “And Al, you’ll…Carry on enjoying yourself down here I guess.”

“Husker, you’re being ridiculous.”

Husk shifts his gaze to Charlie who is shaking with suppressed tears. A few escape and fall on his face. He wants to tell her to look after Angel and Niffty. He wants to say thanks for making him care. But all that comes out is a spray of blood. Then, nothing.

Nothing except pain. Pain and darkness. Husk is awake but he isn’t. He is in agony with no body to fix to ease it. A wordless existential dread hovers about him, a deep horror that seeps into every aspect of his being until he becomes horror. Horror and pain. He is weightless. Not really there but there enough to feel.

Like a war, it is a self contained unit of time. It’s own thing. Brief in some ways and eternal in others. Empty but intense. Endless. And it hurts.

And then he is lying on something soft. He gradually becomes aware of that, and then of a hand in his.

He has a hand? Huh.

He has eyes too, he realises. He opens them. Light is an unfamiliar thing after all the dark and for a moment he can’t process it at all.

“Husk?!” The voice sounds overjoyed. He must have ears, Husk realises, to hear it.

Then someone is hugging him and shrieking, “Husk, Husk! Oh my God, Husk! You’re back!”

“Charlie?” Husk recognises the voice belatedly. Then his eyes adjust enough to register her hair. The colour of it and the way it falls across his face. He has a face.

“Yes! It’s me! Oh, Husk, I’m so happy you’re back!”

“Me too, kid.” Husk pats her back with the hand he is so relieved to have. “Back from where?”

Charlie sits back, her smile fading. “You were dead” she explains. The smile grows again. “And now you’re back and I’m so happy!” She stands up from what Husk realises is a bed he’s lying on. “I’ve got to go get everyone! Wait there! Don’t go anywhere.”

“Not a problem” says Husk as she runs out the room. He is in a room, he notices, instead of nowhere. That’s nice.

Then shadows and green magic fill the room and Husk notices something else he has beside eyes and ears: A chain. Less welcome than the rest, that. “Hi, boss.”

“Ah, Husker! About time you returned. Charlie and Angel’s vigil tag team was becoming rather tiresome.” Alastor sits down on the spot Charlie just vacated, crossing a leg and regarding Husk with an easy smile that looks surprisingly genuine. Husk asks, “How long was I gone?”

“Almost three months.”

That seems simultaneously like an impossibly long time and no time at all. It felt like longer.

Alastor goes on, “Angel and Charlie would have quite happily sat with your corpse the whole time but I insisted we put you in the freezer for hyenine purposes.” He polishes his stupid monocle and adds, “Then you started to show signs of life yesterday so we moved you here.”

Husk wonders what signs of life then decides he doesn’t want to know. He’s already forgetting the pain, thank fuck. Like being stabbed or shot in the living world, he figures. The pain is too much to remember so the brain erases it. Double death hurts worse than that, so it makes sense the brain performs the same magic trick. Husk feels shaken and fragile but he’s pretty confident he hasn’t wound up traumatised like some poor fuckers do. Maybe cause he had so many practice runs. Hard thing to know for sure, though. He knows trauma can sneak up on a guy.

What about his body at least? Husk checks his limbs: All still in place. He feels his face next.

“Don’t worry, Husker, you still look the same.” Alastor reaches out to ruffle Husk’s fur. “Still fluffy.”

Husk growls on principle. Really he’s just relieved.

“You didn’t miss much” Alastor adds conversationally. “Angel Dust is still chasing redemption with no proof it even works.” He plays his laugh track. “And we have a few new redemption seeking fools to add to the collection ever since rumours started to circulate that the idiot snake showed up in Heaven.”

“Pentious?”  asks Husk, stunned, “He…It worked?”

Alastor waves this away. “All gossip and hearsay, no proof whatsoever. Heaven has neither confirmed or denied. About as chatty as they ever were. Oh!” Alastor clicks his fingers as if remembering the important part “And Mimzy and I are on speaking terms again!”

“Are you shitting me? That bitch got me killed!”

“A loan shark killed you, Husker, and then I killed him so I’d say that’s the end of the matter, wouldn’t you?” It’s phrased as a question but Alastor clearly means it as a warning. Husk shuts up. He’s too tired to deal with this bullshit. Realising that makes him examine his chest: It’s bandaged.

“Yes” says Alastor, watching him, “You still have a bit of healing to do.”

Husk nods. That makes sense. Sinners don’t return to life all fixed, that’d be way too simple.

Alastor tilts his head. “Does double death hurt as much as people say?”

“That and worse” Husk mutters.

Alastor ruffles his fur again, gently this time. “Poor Husker.” Then Al’s ears twitch as he registers distant footsteps hurrying closer. “Ah. That’ll be your effeminate spider. I’ll make myself scarce before he can nauseate me with his lovestruck ramblings.”

“You can stay if you want, boss.” The words are out of Husk’s mouth before he realises he’s gonna say them. He wonders where the hell they came from.

Thankfully, Alastor just laughs. “Thanks, old pal, but I have a broadcast to plan.” He strolls towards the door, then pauses. “I’m glad you’re back” he says, before he leaves, a jazzy tune playing in his wake.

Angel appears a moment later. “Husk!” He throws himself onto the bed, causing Husk to grunt in pain. Angel pulls away. “Sorry!”

“I’m okay.”

Angel hugs him again, more carefully this time. Still hard, just careful. Husk hugs back with the arms he’s happy to still have. Finding his wings, he adds those to the embrace for good measure.

“Are you okay?” Angel whispers.

“Never better.” Husk finds he actually means it. He glances up to see Charlie and Vaggie in the doorway. Charlie is crying again, happy tears this time, and Vaggie is smiling wider than he knew she could. Niffty pushes past them and bounds on to the bed, and Husk opens his wing a little to let her in to the pile-on.

“I missed you” Angel tells him.

“Don’t worry” says Husk, “I’m home now.”