Chapter Text
Alastor listened more than he spoke, as was his way when a subject tugged at the old, tangled skein of responsibility and feeling.
They had gathered in the lounge by Alastor’s tower—Charlie perched on the arm of a chair with her calves crossed with Vaggie sitting squished beside her, Husk leaning against the bookshelf with one boot propped, Velvette wringing a tea towel into neat spirals, and Vox hunched forward on the sofa, screen-face tight with worry.
The light slanted through the curtains and made the dust motes look like little, drifting confidences.
“Fat Nuggets,” Charlie had said without preamble, and everyone’s attention snapped to her. “Angel’s pig. He gave him to me the day he moved back into Valentino’s place. He didn’t think he could take care of him.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “He was proud of that pig. He made Angel laugh. He misses laughing.”
The name landed in the room between them like an offered hand.
Alastor felt the familiar tickle in his chest—protective, territorial, and something softer underneath.
“We could bring Fat Nuggets to the tower,” Husk grunted, a practical tone underlining his suggestions. “Let Angel have him for a while. Pets do good for folks—responsibility, routine, something to care for that isn’t people.” He shrugged and tossed a paperback at nobody, an ill fit for the moment but earnest.
Vox’s hand tightened on the armrest. “I want him to have it,” he said quickly, almost too quickly, voice raw. “I think it’d mean a lot. Angel loved that pig. But—” He glanced at Alastor, then at Charlie. “We shouldn’t force it. He should know it’s there and be able to decide.”
Vaggie’s mouth pressed into a line. “We have to be careful. Pets can be anchors, yes—but they can also be responsibilities that return a person to patterns we’re trying to break.”
She folded the towel with methodical calm. “If Angel thinks he has to be worthy of the pig—if he ties caretaking to worth—then we’re back where we started. We have to make sure it’s offered without strings.
Alastor’s shadow stirred, coiling at the base of the chair like a sleeping hound.
He tugged at his cuffs, the motion almost nervous in its precision. “He gave the pig away,” he said at last, each word chosen carefully. “That was his decision. He chose charity over possession because he believed he was not worth the care.”
The sentence felt like a blade to both sides.
It was fact, yes, but the way Alastor said it carried the small, private accusation that had been their thorn for weeks: Angel did not see himself as worthy of good things. Alastor had been on the receiving end of that belief long enough now to taste its bitterness.
Charlie’s eyes flashed.
“He didn’t give it away because he wanted to lose it—he gave it away because he was scared. He gave Nugget to me because he thought I’d keep him safe while he tried to be safe.” Her voice shook a little with the memory.
He’s never wanted to lose a thing he actually loves. He protected the pig from Valentino by giving it away. That’s not the same as not wanting it.”
Alastor folded his fingers together until the knuckles showed white.
He thought of Angel’s hands, the blisters from scrubbing, the way the spider had flinched from physical touch even after they washed and bandaged him.
He thought about the day the spider had tried to offer himself to them, the way he’d collapsed after being refused—how fragile the boy had been, how desperately he’d wanted to be chosen.
The pig was not a toy.
It was a small, living rope back to something ordinary and good. If Angel wanted to hold that rope, Alastor felt an instinct like a blade shifting to protect it.
“And yet,” Alastor said, slowly, his voice a well-tempered instrument, “we cannot perform another theft under the guise of charity. I must not be a surprise that binds him. We will not give him an object and call it freedom. We will offer him a choice.”
His eyes met Vox’s, and for a heartbeat there was the private socket of their lives—Vox fragile, raw; Alastor steady, iron. “If we bring Fat Nuggets here, we bring him with the knowledge that the pig may stay with Charlie if decides he isn’t ready. We cannot romanticize it.”
Vox swallowed, static fluttering softly. “I don’t want to take away his agency,” he murmured. “I just—”
He paused, glancing at Charlie. “Maybe if Charlie brings Nugget for a visit and Angel chooses? He can have him for a bit, see how it feels. We’ll make sure someone’s with him at all times.” His hands sketched the boundaries in the air—practical, protective.
Husk made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Fine. Bring the damn pig. But schedule it. Make it a proper thing—no surprise ambush. Let him know. If he backs out, that’s fine. Don’t dramatize. If he takes to him, great. If not, nugget goes right back to Charlie. End of story.”
Velvette dipped her chin, considering. “And we watch for signs. If Angel starts equating caretaking with self-worth—if he uses Nugget as a measure of whether he should exist—then we step in. We make sure the pig never becomes a ledger.”
Alastor’s smile—rare and small—returned, edged with a kind of fierce amusement. “We shall be the accountants of affection, then. Dull but vigilant.” The joke was brittle, and everyone softened a little around it.
He felt the knot in his chest ease marginally. They were aligned on the principle: choice first, support constant, boundaries explicit.
He pushed further, because such things required procedure. “We will not make this ceremony for our pride. No speeches, no proclamations. Charlie will bring Nugget down for a visit tomorrow at mid-afternoon. Angel will be told two hours before, in private, so he may prepare. If he said no—no wrangling, no guilt. If he says yes, we will arrange for supervised time, and he may decide after that whether Nugget returns to Charlie or stays in a more permanent capacity.”
Charlie’s face lit with a small, mischievous grin. “I can bring Nugget’s favorite blanket and those peanuts he likes. He’ll snort, and Angel will laugh.”
Vox’s shoulders eased into a less taut line. He reached out and covered Alastor’s hand with his own—an automatic, grounding gesture Alastor answered with the tiniest inclination of his chin. “And if he wants Nugget because it makes him feel needed,” Vox added quietly, “we remind him that feeling needed doesn’t make someone less loved. It makes them human.”
Alastor found himself thinking of Angel’s little, stubborn acts of care—the way he’d fussed over the sunflower, the gentle concentration he’d given to trivial tasks.
If the pig could be a scaffold for that growth, perhaps it was worth the risk. There would be moments where the ledger would appear again and he would need to be merciless in removing it.
He would have to watch for the shadow of obligation in Angel’s eyes and snuff it out before it caught.
“Very well,” Alastor said at last, the resolution in his voice like a bell. “We will bring Fat Nuggets to Angel. But we do so only if Angel consents. We watch. We protect. We make sure that nothing about this becomes transactional.”
Charlie clapped once, delighted, the sound like a small, bright thing. Husk grunted in approval. Velvette nodded, relieved.
Vox let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, and the tiny network of hands—literal and shadowed—tightened in a pact.
Alastor allowed himself one private indulgence: a flash of a grin aimed at Vox, quick and warm, unguarded.
My spark, he thought, fingers brushing against Vox’s hand. The thought in itself was a small rebellion against the old habits; he would be better at this, he told himself. He would not let control be an excuse to withhold what might help the spider heal.
“All of you,” he added, formally and with the faintest theatricality that was almost a smile, “prepare for a pig.”
They all laughed—soft, conspiratorial, the kind of noise that felt like real work being done.
Alastor felt the room close around them in a way that made his chest ache with something like gratitude. They had a plan. It was cautious and imperfect and utterly theirs.
And quietly, beneath it all, he vowed to watch Angel the way a sentinel watched the horizon: Always.
The sunlight felt obscene at first—too bright, too honest after so many days spent under the thin, humming light of the hotel.
Angel stood at the hotel steps with his hands curled tight around the railing, the spider-blanket draped over his shoulders like a shy armor.
He had rehearsed what he would do a dozen times with Vox and Alastor: breathe, take two steps, look at the world like it wasn’t a threat.
They had told him it would be fine. They had told him Fat Nuggets would be here. That didn’t stop his stomach from knotting.
It had been five months.
Five months since he’d folded the pig into his arms and passed him to Charlie with the shaky laugh that meant he was trying not to cry.
The memory lived in him like a bruise—part protection, part proof that he wasn’t allowed the things he loved.
The thought that the pig might not remember him, or might prefer the life Charlie gave him, made something cold and small crawl along his ribs.
Charlie stood a little off to the side, hands tucked into the pockets of her apron, eyes bright but careful. She had promised this would be gentle.
Vox’s hand rested warm at Angel’s lower back, steady. Alastor’s silhouette, sharp and composed, framed the doorway; he was watching like a hawk with a fondness that made Angel dizzy.
They had all given him space, and now the space felt like a chasm he had to cross.
He had asked them a hundred questions the night before. Would Fat Nuggets know him? Would the pig be afraid? Would Charlie be annoyed if Nugget ran off?
Vox answered in the calm, practical way that soothed and didn’t overpromise. Alastor had made it a plan—nothing dramatic, just a visit, a choice.
That alone had felt like mercy: choice, not presentation.
Angel took a breath and let it shudder out. He stepped down off the top stair.
At first there was nothing but a patch of courtyard—potted plants, a sagging bench, wind-bent trash that the cleaning crew never quite got to.
Then something low and delighted cut the air: a snort, a throaty little sound like laughter.
Angel froze. His heart slammed against his ribs as if it wanted to wedge itself out and run.
Fat Nuggets was already there.
The pig’s coat was still a mess—Charlie laughed and called it character—flecks of straw and a smear of mud along his flank.
He was fatter in all the ways that made Angel remember the ridiculous tenderness of him: a belly that rolled when he walked, stubby legs that moved too fast, a curly tail that wagged like a promise.
For a second Angel couldn’t breathe because he hadn’t expected how small and thoroughly alive the pig would look.
Then Fat Nuggets saw him.
Recognition flashed in that piggy face like the click of a switch.
The snort became an excited squeal; the pig lurched forward, trotting at first, then breaking into a clumsy, joyous run.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t sniff the air as if checking whether a stranger was safe—only eyes, only the particular fix of a small animal who remembered his human.
Angel’s breath broke into a laugh that was wet and startled without being wholly unhappy.
The blanket slipped off one shoulder as he moved forward, because the world had narrowed to the fat little body bounding toward him.
He’d worried that Nugget wouldn’t come, that maybe Charlie had trained him into a new routine, that five months would be long enough for loyalty to fray.
Seeing the pig barrel toward him—snout out, ears flopping—dislodged something in Angel that had been jammed too long.
The pig hit him with a wet, enthusiastic bump, sending a shower of straw and the faint smell of carrots against Angel’s shins.
Nugget planted all four hooves against him, like a small, piggy hug, and pressed his nose into Angel’s palm. The contact was absurdly simple and overwhelmingly real: warm, a little scratchy, insistently affectionate.
Angel’s hands went to the pig’s head without his permission. He stroked the bristled neck, laughed into the crook of Nugget’s ear and then spat out a small, choked sob because it all felt so ridiculous and so unbearably necessary.
“Hey, you,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You—you came.”
Charlie hovered, face flushed with gladness. “Told you he’d remember,” she said, but she sounded like she was trying to hold in a sob too.
Vox steadied Angel from behind, thumb rubbing the small of his back, grounding him without smothering.
Alastor’s eyes were soft in that way Angel had started to learn meant everything: fierce, watchful, private.
For a breathless moment Angel forgot all the ledger-thoughts—the calculations that had run his life for years.
Regal, ruined, expendable—these words tumbled out of his mind like loose coins.
Fat Nuggets lived in the ridiculous now, in the immediate: a snort, a loll of the tongue, the shudder of delight when Angel scratched behind his ear.
The pig pressed harder, nudged up into his chest, and Angel surrendered to the simple gravity of need.
He slid down onto the step, Nugget’s belly settling against his thighs, and let his forehead rest against the pig’s warm flank.
Tears came without ceremony—hot, sudden.
They were not only grief but relief and fierce, shameful joy. He had not expected this—had not trusted himself to expect it—but the animal’s unambiguous affection was a kind of permission he hadn’t known he wanted.
“Is he… can he come back?” Angel asked finally, voice muffled into bristles and belly.
Charlie’s smile was immediate and absolutely free of judgement. “If you want him, sunshine, he’s yours for as long as you can handle. He’s a silly, messy thing, but he loves you. He’ll choose you if you let him.” She looked to Alastor and Vox for confirmation and found only nods—slow, solemn.
Vox’s hand tightened at Angel’s back with a small, protective squeeze. “Only if you want him,” he repeated, and the word choice hovered like a benediction. “No pressure. You say the word, and we’ll help make it work. If you want to try, we’ll do it slow.”
Angel looked down at Fat Nuggets, at the tiny, contented pig whose breath warmed his palm.
The ledger in his head still whispered—what if he ruined it, what if he failed to feed him, what if he hurt him or was revealed unfit? —but those voices felt thinner now, thinned by the weight of a living creature that had come running to him.
He wrapped both arms around the pig’s bulbous body and then, clumsily, like someone relearning to breathe, he let himself say it aloud. “I want him,” he said, and the words were quieter than he expected and truer than anything he’d given them in a long time. “I’ll try. I’ll try to take care of him. I’ll try.”
Vox’s mouth curved into a real smile—the one that reached his eyes—while Alastor’s expression softened into something proud and fierce, like a sentinel finally permitted to lower his guard.
Charlie’s laugh was a little triumphant. Fat Nuggets sorted and wiggled, as if in approval.
Angel leaned back against Vox, pig in his lap and blanket slipping down but forgotten, and for the first time in months the city beyond the hotel didn’t feel like an army of watchers.
It felt possible, flawed and ordinary and his to step into, with people who had promised to stay and a small, absurd creature who had chosen him back.
Angel lingered in the courtyard, his hands still buried in the bristly warmth of Fat Nuggets’ fur as the pig sprawled contentedly across his lap.
The bustle of the hotel moved faintly in the background—footsteps, a door creaking open, voices drifting from the lobby—but out here, in the sun with Nugget, it felt like there was no one but them.
His nerves buzzed, sharp and uneven, but the little pig’s weight pressed it down, smoothing the edges of the fear until it was just a soft hum.
Charlie stepped closer, her voice gentle, like she was careful not to break the fragile moment. “He’s yours, Angel. He knows it. If I tried to take him now, he’d riot.” She smiled, crouching just far enough away so Nugget wouldn’t abandon Angel for her. “Trust me, I’ve seen him throw tantrums. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”
Angel’s throat tightened.
He rubbed a hand over the pig’s round belly, feeling the way Nugget squirmed and kicked his stubby legs at just the right spot.
His body remembered the motions before his head caught up—the rhythms of rubbing behind his ears, scratching the little spot under his chin that made him snort like an old man laughing.
It was second nature. Familiar. And yet, beneath the motions, doubt gnawed.
Could he still be good at this? Could he keep the pig safe now, when he’d failed at so many other things? He had spent months convinced he didn’t deserve Nugget, had convinced himself that Charlie was better, kinder, more capable.
But here the pig was, rooting into his chest like Angel had never left, squealing when Angel’s fingers paused, making his choice clear.
Angel bent down and pressed his face into Nugget’s side, muffling his breath against the pig’s fur. “You really missed me, huh? Dumb little thing,” he whispered, but his voice shook, thick with something that made his eyes sting.
Nugget grunted and shoved back with his snout, stubborn as ever. Angel let out a laugh that cracked in the middle and swiped at his face with his sleeve.
He let the pig slide down onto the grass, watching as Nugget immediately began rooting around, snuffling into a patch of dirt.
Angel shifted, awkward at first, then crouched low, tapping the ground like he used to.
Nugget perked, squealed, and barreled back toward him.
Angel braced, let himself be bowled over, the pig’s stubby hooves climbing onto his chest. The laughter came easier this time, unsteady but real, carried on the simple game they had always played.
Charlie stayed back, her expression soft, pride and relief mixing in her eyes. “He never forgot,” she murmured, mostly to herself, but Angel caught it anyway.
He lay there in the grass with the pig perched triumphantly on top of him, sunlight warming his skin, his blanket trailing off to the side, and for the first time in months Angel didn’t feel like a ghost or a burden.
He felt like himself—just Angel, with his ridiculous little pig, exactly where he was supposed to be.
Fat Nuggets snorted, demanding attention again, and Angel gave it freely, his hands moving with the confidence of memory.
For once, the voices of doubt were quiet, drowned out by the squeals of a tiny creature who had chosen him without hesitation.
Velvette’s shadow fell across the grass like a warm hand, and Angel looked up, blinking in the sun, Nugget squirming happily against his knees.
She had a wooden spoon tucked into the pocket of her apron and a grin that always made mischief feel like a promise.
“You want to come inside and help me make dinner?” she asked, voice breezy but gentle. “We can do something simple. You can pick the playlist.”
Angel’s throat tightened—half from contentment, half from the old, reflexive scrape of anxiety.
The idea of going inside, of being with someone alone without Alastor or Vox hovering at shoulder distance, felt both like a tiny liberty and like stepping off a cliff.
He turned automatically toward the tower doorway where Alastor leaned, one hand in a pocket, the other resting on the rail.
Vox was beside him, palm flat against the post, watching with that steady glow in his display.
They’d said yesterday about choices. This was a choice.
“Can I take Nugget?” Angel asked, eyes flicked between them.
His voice was small but brittle with hope. “I… I don’t want him to be lonely out here, and I—” He stopped because the sentence felt childish and necessary at once.
Vox’s answer was immediate, soft: “Of course, sweetheart. Take him.” He stepped forward and gave Angel’s shoulder a squeeze that was both permission and a little rock to steady the spider.
There was no performative drama, only the quiet of someone trusting someone else to try. “You’ll be careful, yeah? And come back if anything feels off. We’ll be right here.”
Alastor’s grin—genuine and gentle—came next, and for once it lacked the usual razor. “Go, darling.” He folded his hands as if composing a promise.
“Spend time with Velvette. That is the sort of small, ordinary thing that helps stitch a life back together. We’ll remain. We’ll clean up here and keep watch. Take as long as you like, but phone if you feel unsure.” His shadows relaxed, making the doorway more like a guardian rather than a gate.
Angel let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and found himself smiling first at Velvette, then at Nugget who snuffled impatiently for motion.
“I’ll be careful,” he said, and the words landed truer than they would have a month ago.
He slung the little pig’s leash—Charlie had been firm about a leash for the first few outings—and stood.
Vox looped a hand at the small of his back, guiding him forward with a casual, confident pressure that felt like a handrail.
Alastor stepped beside them, shadowed and watchful, not hovering but present.
As they walked toward the kitchen, Angel kept stealing glances back.
Vox mouthed, almost theatrically, “We’ll be boring and annoying,” and Alastor snorted, a quick, warming sound that made Angel laugh, the laugh clean and surprised.
The sound of it was small and bright, it felt, in the chest, like permission.
He took Nugget’s warm head in his arms for a second and whispered, “Be good, okay?”
Then he let Velvette steer him inside, feeling both terrified and strangely light—like a person making a decision that belonged entirely to himself.
The kitchen was warm, the smell of onions and peppers already filling the air as Velvette hummed to herself, a wooden spoon tapping the edge of the pan like it was part of her song.
Angel stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, trying to keep his hands busy with chopping while Nugget snuffled happily in a basket tucked near the door.
The quiet between them wasn’t heavy—it was the sort of silence that came from familiarity, like the old nights when Velvette would crash in his room with takeout and movies until they both fell asleep mid-conversation.
But after a while, she turned, leaning against the counter with that sly little half-smile that softened when it was just for him. “
“Honey,” she said gently, voice lower than her usual teasing tone, “what do you actually remember… about when you were taken?”
Angel froze, knife paused mid-slice.
His hands trembled, the blade clattering softly against the cutting board.
For a second, his mind blanked—fight or flight screaming through his head.
Then he glanced at Velvette, and something about the way her eyes stayed steady on him—no judgement, no pressure, just waiting—let him breathe again.
She wasn’t Valentino. She wasn’t going to hurt him.
“I… I don’t remember all of it,” Angel admitted, voice shaky. “I was sleeping. That’s all it was, just sleeping, and then there was this knock. Over and over, loud as hell.”
He swallowed, the words scraping out of him. “I opened the door, ‘cause… ‘cause who else would it be? And it was him.”
Velvette stayed quiet, stirring the pan slowly, letting the sound fill the space instead of cutting him off.
Angel’s shoulders hunched.
“He started yelling, real bad. ‘Why’d you lock the door?’ like I’d done somethin’ horrible. I told him I didn’t mean anything by it, but he just—” Angel’s hands clenched, knuckles pale.
“He grabbed me. Threw me around like I was nothing. I hit the wall, the bed. Then he dragged me down the hall, straight to his office. I couldn’t stop him.”
Velvette’s spoon stilled. She didn’t look away, but her jaw was tight, the smile gone. “Honey…” she whispered, but Angel shook his head quickly.
“I ain’t done,” he rasped, voice breaking.
His chest felt too small, too hollow for the air. “When he got me in there, he—he showed me somethin’. He showed me Vox and Alastor, together again. Like it was some kinda… punishment, or proof that I wasn’t worth the time.” His throat closed around the memory, shame gnawing in sharp little bites.
Velvette reached over, hand brushing the edge of his wrist. Not grabbing, just grounding.
“Then he drugged me. I woke up in a cell, tied to a chair, and—” Angel stopped, biting his lip enough to taste blood.
He couldn’t push past that part, not right now. His body shook, the rest of the words pressing but refusing to leave.
Velvette nodded slowly, not asking for more.
She moved closer, sliding the knife away from his shaking fingers, and instead placed a warm dish towel in his hands.
“You don’t have to tell me everything, Honey. Not unless you want to. But I need to know what you remember… so I can remember it with you. So you don’t carry it alone.”
Angel’s breath caught.
He stared at her, eyes glassy, then down at the towel. It was stupid, but the weight of it grounded him.
He let out a choked little laugh, watery and fragile. “Ya always know how to make me feel less like a mess.”
Velvette smiled faintly, brushing his arm. “That’s because you’re not a mess, Angel. You’re my Honey. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Angel’s heart twisted—painful, but not in the way Valentino had left it. This pain was soft, something almost healing.
He nodded, shoulders trembling, and held onto the towel like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Angel kept the towel clutched in his hands, fingers twisting it until it wrung tight, his shoulders curling forward as though he could make himself small enough to disappear.
Velvette leaned back against the counter, her spoon tapping absently against the rim of the pan, though her eyes never left him.
Her voice softened in that way she only reserved for him—no sharp edges, no teasing bite. “You know,” she said after a long pause, “I wasn’t even gone ten minutes.”
Angel blinked, lifting his head just enough to glance at her through his lashes. His brows drew together, confusion faintly tugging at his expression.
Velvette let out a shaky sigh, setting the spoon aside and crossing her arms as though bracing herself.
“I stayed the night in your room, remember? We had one of our sleepovers. I only left ‘cause I wanted to get dressed real quick, grab my charger. Thought I’d be back before you even noticed I was gone.” Her voice wavered, breaking through that steady mask she always wore.
“When I came back… your door was busted in. The whole room was tore apart. And you—” She swallowed, eyes glinting wet. “You were gone.”
Angel froze, chest rising and falling fast.
He hadn’t known that part. He’d never thought about what came after.
To him, there was only the door opening, Valentino’s rage, the drugs, the cell. He hadn’t pictured Velvette finding the aftermath.
She sniffed and gave a small, humorless laugh. “I tore the tower apart looking for him. For you. Screamed until my throat bled. Valentino was nowhere. It was like he vanished into thin air, like he’d been planning it all along.” Her hands gripped her arms tightly, nails digging into the fabric.
Angel’s throat tightened painfully. “Vel…” His voice was hoarse, his words tangled with guilt. “I didn’t know…”
Velvette shook her head quickly. “You weren’t supposed to. You had enough to survive without worrying about what I was doing. But, Honey—” She reached out, brushing a trembling hand against his shoulder. “I ran straight to the hotel. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Her eyes grew distant, replaying it. “When I got there, I found Vox and Charlie in the kitchen. One of his drones was smashed on the floor. He must’ve broken it himself, because he was shaking so badly, like he couldn’t stand to be around it.”
Her voice cracked now, tears spilling as she let the memory out. “Charlie was crying. Vox looked like—like a wreck I didn’t recognize. He kept pacing, muttering that it was his fault, that he should’ve stopped it before it happened.”
Angel’s hands clenched tighter around the towel, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through his chest.
He hadn’t been there to see it, hadn’t thought about what his disappearance had done to them.
His mind screamed that they shouldn’t have cared that much about him, that it wasn’t worth their tears—but hearing Velvette’s voice tremble under the weight of it made those thoughts feel weaker, hollow.
Velvette swiped at her eyes, forcing a steadier tone. “I thought if we all looked together, we’d find you fast. But Valentino had you hidden too well. We didn’t stop, Angel. Not for a second. Two months we hunted for you.”
Angel’s breathing stuttered, his body trembling as he absorbed the truth.
For so long he’d convinced himself no one cared enough to come after him.
But now, piece by piece, he was seeing how wrong he;d been—and it made his chest ache in a way that wasn’t just pain.
Velvette reached up, cupping his cheek gently. “Honey, you were never alone. Not really. You were stolen from us. And we would’ve torn Hell apart to bring you back.”
Angel’s vision blurred, his tears spilling freely now.
He leaned into her touch, clutching the towel tighter against him as though it were the only way to hold himself together.
His voice cracked when he whispered, “Why? Why’d you all care so much?”
Velvette gave a trembling smile through her tears. “Because we love you, Angel. That’s all there is to it.”
Angel sat quietly, his fingers running absently along Fat Nuggets’ back as the little pig rooted against his side, demanding attention.
His voice was quieter now, steadier than it had been a few minutes earlier, though it still trembled with uncertainty.
“Vel…” He lashes lowered, his throat working around the question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.
“Where was Alastor? When—when it happened. How did he…” His voice cracked, his chest tightening. “How did he react?”
Velvette froze for a moment, her hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask, not because she wanted to hide it from him, but because the memory of that day still weighed heavy on all of them.
Slowly, she exhaled and crouched down so she was eye-level with him, her expression gentling.
“He wasn’t here, Honey,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “That morning, Alastor had gone to Cannibal Town to see Lucifer and Rosie. He was desperate to find a way to help you with Valentino, some kind of leverage to protect you. He thought… he thought he had more time.”
Angel’s breath hitched, guilt slamming into his chest. The thought that Alastor had left specifically for his sake twisted inside him. He didn’t deserve that kind of effort.
Not from anyone.
Velvette squeezed his shoulder, grounding him before the spiral could drag him under. “By the time he got back, you were already gone. And no one was okay, Angel. None of us.”
Her voice dipped lower, almost breaking. “Vox looked like he’d been split in half. Charlie was barely holding it together. And Alastor…” She shook her head, eyes unfocused as she relived it.
“He shut down. Not in the way people normally do, not outward panic or tears. Just—this terrifying kind of stillness. His smile was there, but it was brittle, and his shadows moved like they were searching for something to tear apart.”
Angel swallowed hard, hugging Fat Nuggets closer. The pig squealed softly but didn’t struggle, almost sensing the tension rippling off his owner.
“He only stopped once,” Velvette went on quietly, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “When Vox nearly collapsed. Alastor caught him, steadied him, said something soft I didn’t hear. That was the only time I saw his mask crack, just for a moment. Then it was gone, and he grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me straight back to V tower.”
Her fingers tightened around Angel’s arm, her voice gaining a sharp edge of conviction. “We searched every inch of that place for you. Every floor, every locked room, every shadow. We thought maybe you were hidden there, because where else would he keep you? But there was nothing. Not even a trace.”
She shook her head, voice breaking. “Alastor didn’t stop until I physically pulled him out. He would’ve torn the tower down brick by brick if I hadn’t.”
Angel’s chest ached, his thoughts a storm of disbelief and guilt. He’d convinced himself for so long that no one cared enough to come for him, that his suffering was something invisible to the world.
But now—now Velvette was handing him proof, piece by painful piece, that he’d been wrong.
That Alastor had moved mountains for him, Vox had shattered over him, and Charlie had wept until her voice broke.
Tears welled in his eyes, slipping hot down his cheeks as he clutched Fat Nuggets like a lifeline.
His voice was rough when he whispered, “I don’t get it, Vel. I’m not worth all that. I’m not worth him shutting down or Vox breaking apart. I’m just… me. Broken. Nothing special.”
Velvette’s hand came up, cupping his face firmly, forcing him to look at her. “Honey, you are the most wrong you’ve ever been in your life. You were worth every second of that search. You were worth every tear, every sleepless night, every risk we took. Don’t you dare think otherwise.”
Angel blinked through the tears, her fierce tone cutting through the fog in his mind.
He wasn't ready to believe it—not fully—but the certainty in her voice, the conviction blazing in her eyes, planted something small and fragile in his chest.
A seed of doubt against the cruel thoughts that had ruled him for so long.
For the first time in months, Angel let himself lean forward, pressing his forehead lightly against Velvette’s shoulder.
His voice a whisper, small and vulnerable. “Then why does it hurt so bad to hear it?”
Velvette’s arms wrapped around him, her chin resting atop his hair as she whispered back, “Because you’ve been hurt too much to see the truth. But we’re here now. And we’re not letting you go again.”
The smell of dinner filled the room as Velvette and Angel carried the last of the dishes to the table.
Angel wiped at his face one last time, hoping no one would notice the redness around his eyes, but he could already feel the heaviness still lingering in them.
Velvette gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before raising her voice and calling the others in.
One by one, the hotel’s residents gathered—Charlie all bright smiles though her eyes flickered with curiosity, Husk grumbling as he shuffled in with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Nifty buzzing around trying to set extra forks, and finally Alastor and Vox arriving side by side.
The two men exchanged quiet words before seating themselves, though their attention immediately shifted to Angel.
He sat across from them, Fat Nuggets nestled in his lap chewing happily on a carrot stick Velvette had slipped him.
Angel busied himself with adjusting the pig, but when he finally looked up, his gaze caught theirs.
Vox’s eyes softened instantly, concern flashing like static in the dark likes of his face. Alastor’s grin didn’t falter, but the intensity behind his eyes sharpened, fixated on Angel with a quiet suspicion.
Velvette opened her mouth, about to say something, but Angel beat her to it. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried across the table all the same.
“Before you ask… yeah. I was crying.” His hands tightened a little in Fat Nuggets’ fur, but he kept going, his throat working hard to stay steady. “Velvette told me some things. About… what happened when I was gone. How you all… reacted. How you searched. How much you cared.”
The table went still.
Charlie’s hand froze on her fork, her eyes filling immediately. Husk’s cigarette hung forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling up lazily into the ceiling. Even Nifty stopped her frantic movement, her little face going serious.
Angel swallowed thickly, staring down at the table. “I don’t—I don’t really get it, why you’d all go that far for me. But… I just wanted to say thank you. For not giving up on me. For… caring, when I didn’t think anybody did.”
His voice cracked, and he rushed to finish before it could break entirely. “I don’t remember much about being gone, not really. Just bits and pieces. But knowing what I know now—it—it makes me feel like maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought.”
Vox leaned forward instantly, one hand pressing against the table as though he was holding himself back from crossing the distance between them. His eyes flickered briefly to Velvette, and then back to Angel, electricity humming faintly at his fingertips.
Alastor’s smile softened at the edges, and for a fleeting moment, his posture lost its usual rigidity, his shoulders lowering ever so slightly.
Charlie sniffled, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “Angel… we didn’t just care. We were terrified. You’re family. Of course we were going to do everything we could to get you back.”
Angel let out a shaky laugh, though it was watery around the edges. “Family, huh? Guess I’ve never really had that before.”
Vox’s voice broke through, low and steady, meant only for Angel though everyone heard it. “You’ve got it now. And you’re never losing it again.”
For once, Angel didn’t flinch at the weight of the words. Instead, he let them settle over him, heavy and comforting all at once, as he picked up his fork and whispered, “Then I’m really damn lucky.”
The walk back to the radio tower was quiet, the kind of silence that felt deliberate.
The night air pressed cool against Angel’s skin, making him clutch the blanket Alastor had made him tighter around his shoulders.
Vox walked on one side of him, his tall frame casting long shadows across the ground, while Alastor paced on the other, cane clicking softly with every step.
None of them said it aloud, but the thought lingered between them—tonight, they wouldn’t part ways.
Tonight, none of them wanted to risk being away from each other.
When they reached the tower, the lobby was dim, the faint hum of Vox’s machinery serving as background noise.
Alastor hesitated for a moment, glancing at the familiar hallways, then looked down at Vox and Alastor.
He felt the words tangling in his throat, unsure how to admit he was terrified of sleeping by himself after everything he’d remembered that day.
But he didn’t even have to say it.
Vox’s hand settled lightly on his back, steady and grounding. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get you upstairs,” he said softly, static threading his voice.
Alastor tilted his head, grin sharp but eyes calm, and gestured toward the elevator. “We’ve already made our decision, darling. You won’t be alone tonight.”
Angel blinked, a lump forming in his throat as he followed them in. His body still wanted to tense, still wanted to expect the worst, but as the elevator hummed upward, sandwiched between the two of them, that fear felt… smaller.
Their bedroom wasn't grand or cold—it was lived in, warm.
The big bed in the center stood out, covered in heavy blankets.
Vox’s familiar lightning-stitched blanket laid neatly at the foot, and next to it, folded with care, was Angel’s own.
Seeing the two of them side by side made Angel’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t quite describe.
He shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “You two are really serious about this, huh? One big bed, all three of us?”
Vox smirked, already undoing his tie. “Dead serious.”
Alastor let out a soft chuckle as he set his cane against the wall. “Well, unless you’d prefer one of us to sleep on the floor—though I daresay that would hardly be as comforting.”
Angel’s face heated at the thought.
He shook his head quickly. “No! No, I—uh—I don’t want that.” His voice dropped softer. “I just… didn't think you’d really wanna.”
Vox’s hand brushed against his again, deliberately this time. “We want to, Angel. Not because we have to. Because we want to.”
The words made his throat tighten. He swallowed hard and nodded, trying not to look like he was on the verge of tearing up again.
As they climbed into bed—Vox on one side, Alastor on the other, Angel tucked carefully between them—he could feel the tension in his body fighting to unwind.
The steady presence of Vox’s arm draped loosely over his waist, the gentle warmth of Alastor’s blanket pulled around his shoulders, the quiet hum of both their breathing… it was overwhelming in the safest way.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Angel didn’t dread closing his eyes.
He nestled closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for not letting me be alone tonight.”
Alastor’s reply was low and certain, his grin audible even in the dark. “You never will be, darling.”
Vox pressed a kiss to his temple, static buzzing faintly against his skin. “Not as long as we’re breathing.”
Angel smiled into the blanket, clutching it tight. For once, the weight of the world didn’t feel so heavy—because he wasn’t carrying it alone anymore.
Angel shifted restlessly between them, the room dim except for the faint glow of Vox’s circuits and the red tint of Alastor’s ever-present aura.
He wasn’t used to this kind of quiet, not when every corner of his mind still echoed with noise. The blanket was warm, the bed was softer than he expected, but sleep didn’t come easy.
“...Hey, Vox?” Angel whispered, his voice cracking slightly in the dark.
“Mhm?” Vox answered, his hand still draped loosely over Angel’s waist. His tone was groggy but gently, the static in his chest humming like a lullaby.
Angel hesitated, chewing at his lip. “Your… your soulmate mark. On your wrist. I’ve seen it before but, uh—what’s the deal with it? Looks like it’s… not finished or somethin’.”
There was a long pause.
Vox lifted his arm, letting the faint glow of his circuitry highlight the mark.
Dark red deer antlers stretched across his skin, fine lines of light-blue lightning bolts threaded around them. But there was empty space, obvious even in the low light, like the design wasn’t whole yet.
Alastor chuckled softly from Angel’s other side, his voice smooth as ever but edged with something quieter, more thoughtful. “Curious, are we? Very well… perhaps it’s time you knew, darling.”
Vox turned his wrist so Angel could see, brushing a thumb over the mark absentmindedly. “It’s not that it’s broken. It’s just… unfinished. The antlers are Alastor’s, the lightning is mine. When we sealed what was between us again, this mark appeared. But…”
He trailed off, exhaling static like a sigh. “It looks empty because there’s space for more. For the rest of the bond that never fully set.”
Angel blinked, uncertain. “So… it’s like it’s waitin’ on somethin’? Or someone?”
Alastor’s grin softened in the dark, though his eyes stayed sharp. He tilted his arm, letting the faint shadows in the room fall across the soulmate mark on his own wrist—matching antlers, dark red, curling elegantly along his skin.
“When I spoke with Rosie and Lucifer, they told me something rather fascinating. That a soulmark doesn’t merely appear when two are destined. It grows. It evolves. They themselves had marks once, and yet, when they fell in love beyond what the mark had first shown them, their souls fused together. Their marks… transformed, intertwined into something new.”
Angel felt his throat tighten. He stared at the space life of Vox’s wrist, the place where more lines could still etch themselves into permanence.
“So you’re sayin’...” His voice cracked, unsure if he wanted to ask. “That the two of you… you’re not… finished?”
Vox shifted closer, his static hum grounding. “That’s one way of putin’ it, sweetheart. Alastor and I… we’re tied, sure. But it doesn’t mean there isn’t room for more. Doesn’t mean the bond can’t change.”
His gaze flicked between Angel’s wide eyes and Alastor’s calm expression. “We didn’t really get it at first either, but it’s not about being incomplete. It’s about bein’ open. About letting what’s real decide how deep it goes.”
Alastor chuckled, his voice a low melody. “Precisely, my spark. A soul mark is only a signpost, not a cage. The rest… is up to us.”
Angel swallowed hard, heart thudding as the weight of their words sank in.
He looked between them—the grin that, for once, wasn’t sharp but warm, the static pulse that made him feel steady even when his head was a mess—and he wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was space for him too.
Angel tucked his face against the blanket, voice barely a whisper. “...That’s a lot.”
Vox smirked faintly, leaning down to press another kiss against his temple. “Yeah, sweetheart. But it’s a good ‘lot’.”
Alastor let out a soft hum of agreement, the kind that carried more comfort than menace. “Indeed. And you’d find, darling, that sometimes… the unexpected pieces make the most beautiful designs.”
Angel’s chest tightened, not with fear this time, but with something warmer, deeper, and harder to push away.
He closed his eyes, gripping the blanket Alastor had made him just a little tighter, and for the first time in years, the idea of a future didn’t scare him half to death.