offer me that deathless death (good god, let me give you my life)

by Rennajade

Summary:

Vaggie spares a child and is cast from the Heavens for it. Missing an eye and her wings, she finds her way to an alley to await her inevitable, permanent demise. What good is an angel without wings, without a deity to serve? What does it matter if she survives when she's been ripped from her family, her home, for the barest of empathy? She may have spared a child, but this is still Hell and demons are still heartless monsters.

But then she's found by a woman, a demon herself, and her conviction wavers further. As they grow closer, the secret she holds so close threatens to destroy everything she's found. Everything that she never knew she wanted.

When Charlie finds a woman with her eye cut out on Extermination day, she's confused but not surprised. But as she nurses Vaggie back to health, her suspicions grow. An angel spear so close by? Suspiciously convenient scars on her shoulders? She has a feeling Vaggie isn't just a sinner, but whatever she is, she needs help. She needs support. Whatever happened in her past, it's in the past. What sinner hasn't made awful choices, after all?

---
or; slight canon-divergence where Charlie figures out Vaggie's an angel way earlier.

Chapter 1: i aim true, the ground's where i go

It all happens so fast.

Vaggie is good at what she does. She has the training, the knowledge, the dexterity. Sparring has done her good, and her skill is, technically, perfect. Perhaps not as brutal as Lute or Adam’s, but well above adequate. Well above advanced, even. Her numbers are great.

What she doesn’t have, however, is the bloodlust that courses through her fellow Exorcists’ veins. She can fake it well enough — keep the fire in her eyes, tremble with seeming excitement before the portals open to Hell. It feels like a sin to lie like that, but if it keeps her in Heaven’s best graces and keeps her doing good work, it can’t be all that bad. She keeps her head down and cuts methodically through demons, and she takes none of the pleasure in it that her fellow angels seem to. She catches Lute across the street, the grin across her mask unhinged, and a pang of longing hits her. She wants to have that sort of fire. But she just… doesn’t. Never has.

Perhaps that is why, when she corners that cannibal boy in the alley, she balks. If she had that rage, that fire, maybe she wouldn’t hesitate. She’d have an easier time slicing his head from his body if she saw this as a game, like the rest of them.

But she makes the mistake of looking into his huge, terrified eyes, and she doesn’t see a demon. She sees a child, and demon or no, she can’t bring herself to do it. She lowers her spear and nods to her side. Tells him to run. And as he’s scrambling away, she hears Lute behind her and the hair on the back of her neck lifts.

Sinful filth like you has no place in Heaven.

It's over in a blink. She cries out in fear at first, and the pain only hits a moment later, after Lute has left her Hellbound, bleeding and broken and half-blind. The world tilts dangerously as the Extermination carries on, and she has just enough strength left to crawl further into the alley. She discards the top layer of her uniform —Lute must have taken her mask— and sits against a dumpster to await her fate.

The pain comes in waves, her awareness oscillating between numbness and agony. Her vision flickers, mind desperately trying to make sense of this new world where her depth perception has been so thoroughly altered. It makes her dizzy.

Regret sinks into her bones like an old friend. Was her mercy worth it? Did the child even escape? Lute may well have hunted them down the moment she finished with Vaggie; she’s proudest of her kill count, which is impressive, but she’s been known to cheat her way into more, and Vaggie all but handed her that one. Still… it might be blasphemy, but she hopes the kid got away. Ran to their parents or guardian and found safety somewhere far from all the violence.

She tries to take a breath. It sticks in her throat, raw and aching from her screams —when had she screamed? Was it when her wings were ripped away from her?— and coughs up gold. It’s just a matter of time, now.

Sooner or later, a sinner or demon or some other terrible thing will find her. She won’t fight it. There is nothing left for her without Heaven. What good is an angel without someone to serve? What purpose could she possibly have in this world? No, it’s best this way.

God is no longer listening to her, but her last prayer is one for a swift end.

Chapter 2: hold you bloody while i'm dressed in white

Summary:

Gold is an odd color for a sinner to bleed and angels don't usually leave their weapons laying around, but none of that matters. What matters is the half-dead woman Charlie is determined to help.

The portals are still open when Charlie charges out the door, into the permadeath and decay that waits out on the streets. They’re slick with blood and gore, bodies strewn across the pavement like discarded dolls, and while she’s seen it all before, it still turns her stomach. She tries not to look too closely at the vacant eyes and deep wounds littering the bodies.

This is the fourth year in a row since she started searching for survivors, and in that time, she hasn’t found a single person. Well, that she could help, anyway. She’s found a few still conscious but battered beyond repair; ones who would spit in her face for trying to help them, trying to bring them a few moments of peace before the end. She gets it, kind of. They didn’t expect anything when they got to Hell, and being released from it must be some kind of twisted blessing, to a lot of them. She just… she believes in Hell and its ability to bring people together. She’s seen it in the Overlords, in the common people, in everyday bonds forged between folks who would have no reason to like each other if not for common goals.

Granted, she’s yet to forge any of those herself. She’s too peppy, too dreamy, too naive for most people, and that’s fine. It is.

It’d just be nice to share things with someone, is all.

A low groan to her right catches her attention. It’s a dark alley, barely wide enough to squeeze past, but — there, a person. An alive person! Or, well, as alive as sinners get, at least. Her heart thunders as she shuffles over, hoping against hope that this one is salvageable, savable. That she can help someone, anyone, just this once.

She can make out more details as she gets closer. Lilac-gray skin and silver hair cropped short against her chin, a pale outfit smeared with dirt and blood and whatever other grime is on the streets of Pride. And she’s pretty, despite it all.

Then the woman turns her head and Charlie has to fight down a scream, because her eye is missing. Her eye. A thousand questions crash over her, but the loudest one is, why was she left like this? Eyes are… well, they’re not hard to cut out if you get the upper hand. She’s seen it happen before. But if they cut out her eye, and it looks like they did, why wouldn’t they just kill her like the rest? The Exterminations are a necessity, a way to keep the population low enough to afford some kind of life to the sinners, but this seems… cruel.

The woman’s head lolls, her gaze vacant and faraway, and Charlie drops to her knees right there in the gross alley. She flinches away from Charlie and, yeah, fair, she looks delirious and confused. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” she says softly. She’s babbling, she knows she is, but hopefully if she just talks while she does this, she’ll scare the woman a little less. Turf wars are going to start any minute, as soon as the portals close, and she needs to get this woman off the street before that happens. She won’t survive it.

She wraps her head, careful not to trap any hair between her empty eye socket and the bandage. “That’s a little better. You must be in so much pain…”

And the words die in her mouth, because yeah, she looks like she’s five seconds from passing out about the pain, but she’s also giving Charlie this soft, appreciative smile that hits her square in the chest. Her throat goes dry. She’s pretty, so pretty, even like this, and —

Nope. No. This is an injured sinner and she is not going to be some kind of creep about it. Even if she’s never seen hair such a pretty silver or eyes such a gorgeous shade of peach-and-gold before.

“C’mon. We need to get you somewhere safe before the portals close. Can you stand?” The woman hesitates, eye fluttering like she’s trying to fight off sleep. Right. Impaled eye. Probably not.

Charlie looks around frantically for anything that could help her and — huh. Weird. Angels don’t usually leave their shit just laying around, but a spear is as good a makeshift cane as any. She grabs it and holds it out to the woman, whose hand recoils from it like she’s been shocked. Oh. Right. That… was probably the kind of thing that took out her eye. Makes sense she wouldn’t want to touch it.

Still, it’s dangerous to have it out on the street like this. The portals are closing, which means they’re leaving, which means that she needs to get this mystery woman out of here now. She’s also fighting unconsciousness even harder now, her eye barely cracked as her head falls forward, then snaps up again.

“Okay. Here we go. I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. They don’t have the time for it. She slides her hand behind the woman’s back —something slick coats it; blood?— and another under her legs. Her heart cracks at the pained, sad little noise it pulls from her, but the alternative is leaving her here to die, really die, and that’s not an option. “I know, I know, I’m sorry,” she says anyway, soft and hushed.

The woman settles against her chest, her cheek against Charlie’s shoulder, shallow breath against her neck as Charlie shuffles to carry her more securely. Her eyes catch her hands, absolutely covered in gold, and… yeah. Definitely blood. Weird, because she’s never seen gold before, but blood nonetheless. She grimaces. This poor fucking girl.

Her foot kicks something and — right. The spear. Charlie frowns down at the woman in her arms, whose breathing has evened out now, and sighs. She doesn’t have enough hands for this.

Well, a tail is as good a hand as any. She toes the spear into the air and wraps her tail around it, makes sure she has a secure grasp on both it and the woman in her arms, and sets off toward the Hotel.

It’s so soft she almost misses it, but against her neck, the woman whispers, “Thank you.”

Charlie melts.

Yeah. She’s fucked.

Chapter 3: hell is forever?

Summary:

Hell is forever and so are Vaggie's nightmares... right? Surely there isn't a bubbly demon princess who wants to console her through them -- oh, wait.

Fear. Lute’s voice echoing in her ear, disapproval and shame sinking into her bones. Blood. Pain. Screaming and acceptance and—

“Shit, hey, you’re okay! It’s just a dream! I think. I’m guessing it’s a dream—” a frantic voice frets near her head. The bed —when did she get on a bed?— dips on one side and alarms go off in her head, memories snapping back into place and reorganizing themselves in her head. It’s still fuzzy and convoluted, but she remembers enough. She’s in Hell, she’s been abandoned, and she’s in danger. The voice is still babbling, high and feminine and… and actually kind of soothing.

She needs to go. Staying here is going to get her killed, actually killed, because no demon is going to offer her mercy once she’s discovered. Agony screams through her shoulders, down her arms, as she struggles to prop herself up on her elbows. She grits her teeth, swallows the whimper of pain on her tongue. She’s tougher than this. If she can just—

Warm fingers press against her collar, soft and hesitant. “Easy there. You’re still really hurt. What do you need?”

The pressure is so light that she should be able to overpower it easily. Before this, she could have. But she’s hurt, muscles severed when her wings were ripped off, and the woman hardly has to push for her arms to crumple under her again. A yelp of pain escapes her as she falls back against the mattress.

She cracks her eye open just in time to watch pale hands fly up to cover the demon’s mouth as she gasps. Her eyes are huge, ruby irises glowing against the pretty gold around them. They look even brighter against the deep lines of black around them. Yup, definitely a demon.

“Oh fuck, I am so so sorry! I didn’t think — shit, are you okay? I mean, I know you aren’t okay okay, but are you…” the woman fades off, bites her lips with her brow furrowed in concern. “You’re still really hurt. Can I get you… something?”

Vaggie groans, tries to rub her forehead and gives up when the action sends even more pain down her arm.  “Water,” she croaks, which wasn’t what she meant to say at all. She meant to tell this woman that she’s fine, that she doesn’t need help. That she can just set her back outside where she found her until her demise meets her on the street, thank you very much.

The woman hesitates, but nods. “Don’t move. Okay?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before she darts out of the room, oddly light on her feet. Vaggie inhales deep, exhaling as she stares up at the canopy of the four-poster she’s been laid in. Who’s bed is this? Is it… is it the demon’s? Her brow furrows —she ignores the pain pulling at what must be scar tissue along her missing eye— as she thinks, brain sluggish and tired.

This feels like some kind of joke, being doted on by a sinner. A demon. Maybe she’s Hellborn, even. It’s impossible to tell without knowing. She looks familiar, somehow, like Vaggie’s seen her face before in a book or a briefing, but that can’t be true. She’d remember someone with such pretty eyes.

Ugh. She must be really fucking out of it to be thinking like that.

There’s a knock on the door a few minutes later and the demon shoulders the door open, then kicks it closed behind her, balancing a tray in her hands. Vaggie arches a brow as she teeters closer and finally sets the tray beside her on the bed.

“I, uh,” she says, flashing a sheepish smile as she gestures to the tray. “I grabbed some other stuff, too. Some snacks and painkillers and, uh, there’s tea? I don’t know if you like tea, but your voice was a little scratchy and honey is great for sore throats.”

Her attitude feels like a trap, but she’s so earnest that Vaggie can’t see anything dishonest about it. She frowns and glances at the tray. “… Thanks.”

Might as well take advantage of this while she can. If she’s lucky, she’ll be able to heal and leave before the demon suspects anything. Is that luck, though? Or is she just prolonging her suffering? Does it matter?

She winces as she tries to push herself up again, that same pain screaming through her. She thought she knew pain, once; tired muscles and soreness from training, the sting of rejection when the rest of the Exorcists gathered. Vaggie had always been too standoffish for them.

Ironic, given how abrasive Lute was. The difference was that Lute commanded respect. No, that isn’t right — she commanded fear. Vaggie commanded, at best, pity.

This, though. This is true pain. She isn’t even sure where it starts; whether it’s the deep ache of abandonment in her heart or the shame of defying her only purpose, or the much more tangible throb of her empty eye socket and her shoulder stitching themselves back together. They both feel equally bad.

“Hang on, let me help you,” the demon says as she comes around the side of the bed. Her palm slides behind Vaggie’s back, grazing the empty scars of her wings, and she hisses in pain.

“You don’t have to—” she starts, but doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence.

How can a demon’s smile be so bright? “I know. I want to help you.”

Between the two of them —the demon, mostly, because Vaggie is little help like this— they get Vaggie into a sitting position. The tray isn’t just a few snacks. No, it looks like there’s an entire fridge’s worth of food piled up on in. Some things, Vaggie recognizes… and others, she wishes she didn’t. Her stomach rolls as she points to one. “Is that a…?”

“Finger, yeah. I figured since you were near Cannibal Town you might be from there…” She takes one look at Vaggie’s probably-sick face and screws her nose up. “I’m getting the feeling that you aren’t from Cannibal Town now.”

“Cannibal… Town.” An entire town. Of cannibals. Well, at least Hell isn’t entirely different from what she’s been told. Perhaps this demon is just… weird. She narrows her eye. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Oh. Um.” She fidgets, crossing her leg under her as she sits on the edge of the bed. “This is kind of my… thing? I guess?” With a flourishing hand gesture, she sweeps her arm toward the room and clears her throat, pastes a smile on her lips that doesn’t reach her eyes, and says in a commercial-chipper voice, “Welcome to the Happy Hotel, a rehabilitation facility for sinners!”

The words take a minute to process. That too-wide smile sticks to the demon’s mouth like taffy, but it wanes as the silence between them stretches. And then the words register fully, and Vaggie barks out a laugh, because there is no fucking way she’s serious. Sinners can’t be rehabbed. That’s the entire point of Hell. Laughing hurts, but wow, what a joke. At least there’s some humor to be had here.

The demon’s smile falls instantly, her eyes suddenly too shiny as she folds her hands into her lap and stares down at them. Her voice is so quiet, so defeated, when she says, “Yeah. That’s the reaction I usually get.”

Vaggie’s laugh cuts off abruptly. She blinks, takes in the way the demon has hunched over herself protectively, the way she refuses to look at Vaggie, and her heart drops.

“Oh, fuck, you’re serious?” The idea still sounds insane. There’s no redemption from Hell. But she still feels bad for laughing, because this woman has welcomed her into her home (hotel, whatever) and been nothing but nice to her so far. Vaggie may not have the best manners, but she can at least try not to be an asshole. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s just, uh. Certainly an idea.” No reply. Fuck. She swallows hard, holds her hand out as far as her shoulder will let it go, and wiggles her leg to get the demon’s attention. “I shouldn’t have laughed. I’m Vaggie.”

She says it with a hard g and surprises herself, but offering up her name is apparently enough to pull the demon out of her wallowing. A little, at least, because her smile is still tight and her eyes are still dim when she extends her own hand to Vaggie’s.

“Charlie,” she says as she clasps their hands together and — holy shit, had she just entirely missed how tall this woman is? Her hand dwarfs Vaggie’s, palms warm and soft and feeling a lot like safety. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

The fact that she’s had this idea for what appears to be a while, and been shot down multiple times over it, doesn’t sit right with her. It might be ridiculous, but she isn’t hurting anyone with it.

“I mean, it’s… I don’t know how that would work, but it’s an admirable idea,” she says, slowly. Charlie blinks at her furiously —oh, thank fuck, she’s not crying— and smiles. Hesitantly, but better than the crestfallen look she’d given Vaggie earlier.

“You think so?”

Hell is forever. Hell is awful. Hell is where sinners go to rot, and eventually face a final death at the end of angelic spears. Hell is—

Well. Right now, Hell is a demon named Charlie staring at her with wet eyes like glowing gemstones and a hopeful little tilt to her lips. Right now, Hell is being welcomed into someone’s home without any questions. Without even knowing what she’s done to end up here.

She nods, slowly. Carefully extricates her hand from Charlie’s and grabs the cup with that same hand. Her fingers tremble furiously and Charlie scoots forward to steady the cup. It’s such a small thing, but it brings her so much closer to Vaggie.

Maybe… maybe Hell is a little different than she thought.

“Yeah,” she whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from Charlie’s. “Yeah, I do.”

Charlie absolutely beams at her, megawatt-bright and hopeful, the sparkle popping back into her eyes cautiously, but surely. She helps Vaggie finish her tea and get some food down, insists she take some painkillers for her back and eye along with some antibiotics (“Can you even get infections in Hell?” “Um, yeah, it’s actually way more likely here than on Earth. Because, you know. Hell.”) and when she finally stands to leave with the tray, she pauses.

“Hey,” she says to Vaggie, already laying back down. She’s so fucking tired. “Thanks. Nobody’s ever — I usually just get the first reaction. Nobody’s ever said what you said to me.”

Vaggie grumbles under her breath. “Bunch of assholes, then,” she grouses.

Charlie’s laugh is high and bright, and Vaggie would wrap herself in it like a blanket if she could.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess they kind of are.” The door opens, hinge rusted and squeaky. “Good night, Vaggie.”

The warmth that blooms in her chest is definitely just Hell’s naturally hotter climate getting to her. It has nothing to do with this flaxen-haired demon and her obnoxiously bright smile.

Notes:

listen we all know charlie can't shut up about the hotel ok, she wouldn't told vaggie even earlier if she wasn't, y'know. unconscious and whatnot.

Chapter 4: in the middle of the night

Summary:

Vaggie is healing steadily -- on the outside. There's a lot more going on internally that she won't tell Charlie, but that's okay.

Charlie learns a lot about Vaggie in those first couple of weeks.

She is not, in fact, from Cannibal Town. She’s not from anywhere, actually, because she manifested during the extermination and it’s a miracle she survived long enough for Charlie to find her.

She has nightmares. It’s not every night, but they’re often enough that Charlie has moved herself back into her room to sleep on the couch. Which is way too small for her, but she can’t handle the idea of Vaggie waking up scared and confused and alone, so here she is.

That’s how she discovers two other very important things. The first is that Vaggie snores very softly, and it’s the cutest fucking thing Charlie has ever heard (Razzle and Dazzle both take offense to this).

She learns the second thing after they’ve gone to bed for the night, exchanging comfortable well-wishes before tucking in. A storm rolls through, probably an acid one, which dims the already-moderate red light of Hell even further. It’s comforting to Charlie, who’s always loved the rain even if it can melt flesh. There’s something so soothing about the sound of it pattering on the windows, and a dim afternoon is the perfect time to cozy up with some cocoa and a book or three.

But something feels… off… about it tonight. Charlie stares at the ceiling, hooves dangling over the opposite arm of the couch because she’s too damn tall for it, for a solid twenty minutes before she realizes why.

She’s gotten used to Vaggie’s soft snores, but they’re absent. She can’t hear Vaggie at all, actually. It’s probably nothing. It’s probably fine. She sits up anyway.

“Vaggie?” she asks, her voice soft, just in case she actually is asleep.

The blankets rustle. She hears a very faint, “Hm?”

“Oh, you’re still awake.” She fidgets for a minute, tugging her sleeve, before she finally asks, “Everything okay?”

A beat of silence. Two. Three. But still no soft snores or breath or thrashing to get comfortable, and Charlie’s curiosity eventually gets the better of her. She pries herself out of the couch —silently swearing at how sore her back is from it— to cross to the bed. Vaggie is probably just thinking, or maybe she fell back asleep, or something. It’s ridiculous to worry like this just because she’s not snoring. Some people don’t snore at all. Charlie’s pretty sure she doesn’t.

She almost turns back to the couch, but then she catches a glimpse of Vaggie’s face and everything grinds to a halt.

She’s not asleep. Not by a long shot. She’s staring blankly up at the ceiling with her eye wide in terror. Sleep paralysis demons? Charlie looks up and checks for them in the canopy — once in a while they sneak in through the windows, and they’re always a pain in the ass to get rid of. There aren’t any in the room, though, so when she turns her attention back to Vaggie, she’s a little confused.

“You okay?” she asks again, hoping for an answer this time. It’s starting to worry her, honestly, how still and silent Vaggie is. When she still doesn’t get a verbal answer, she perches on the edge of the bed and, very gently, touches Vaggie’s shoulder.

Oh, fuck, she’s shaking like a leaf. The touch snaps her out of it a little, though; just enough for her to be truly startled when she whips her head toward Charlie, and then immediately grimaces as the world spins. That happens, sometimes; her body still isn’t used to compensating for her vision.

“Sorry,” Charlie says quietly. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”

Vaggie is kind of a mystery. She doesn’t talk about her past or the future, and when Charlie does get her to open up about herself, it’s still pretty cryptic. Which is fine! The point of the hotel is rehabilitation, and what better rehab than literally nursing someone back to health? She’s still so curious, though. What kind of life did she lead before this? Was she like, a really bad person, or just kind of bad, bad enough not to make it to Heaven but still be okay-ish? Everyone has their flaws and she wouldn’t blame Vaggie for whatever she had done before.

Okay, that’s not true. She has a few hard no’s. But for the most part, most people in Hell are redeemable. She believes that with ever fiber of her soul.

“Dark.” She blinks, and Vaggie repeats, “It’s dark.”

“Y…es?” Charlie affirms, brow furrowed. There’s a storm outside and it’s night, of course it’s dark. Hell has always been that way; ever since Charlie was born, anyway. She grew up here bathed in red light and—

Oh. Of course. She grew up here, of course the dark wouldn’t bother her. It doesn’t bother most sinners, actually, but most sinners have faced a lot of shit or been here long enough to adjust. But for someone brand new, who had been used to light before this?

“I have a night light somewhere,” she says as she shifts, planning to go hunt it down. Another gift from her dad. She doesn’t get far, though, before a surprisingly firm grip snatches her wrist. Vaggie doesn’t say a word, but the question on her face is so clear that it’s basically a blinking neon sign. She doesn’t want to be alone. Charlie’s heart squeezes, a reassuring smile on her lips. “Okay.”

She’s still tired, though, so she extricates her hand just for a moment while she clambers onto the opposite side of the bed. Then she scoots closer, turning to face Vaggie, and fuck that was a bad idea. Because Vaggie has also rolled onto her side to face Charlie, and she’s so gorgeous that for a long, long moment Charlie just… stares.

Vaggie’s hand creeps toward hers. She doesn’t reach all the way over, but she leaves her hand between them, palm up, asking without asking. Charlie covers it with her own, their fingers slotting together perfectly. She’s so screwed.

“Wanna talk about it?” she asks, surprised by how quiet her voice is.

“I’m just…” Vaggie swallows hard, biting her lip. Charlie stubbornly keeps both of her eyes trained squarely on Vaggie’s. “I grew up somewhere brighter. A lot more light. There wasn’t ever really…” she fades off, helplessly, and Charlie squeezes her hand.

A thunderclap strikes outside and Vaggie jumps. “Fuck!”

Charlie learns that Vaggie is absolutely terrified of the dark, and she wants so, so badly to make it better. She opens her arms wordlessly, nodding in invitation, and she doesn’t expect Vaggie to move toward her, but she wants to at least offer a gesture of kindness and—

She’s surprisingly fast for an injured woman. Charlie doesn’t even have time to get the words out before Vaggie has wrapped herself around Charlie, arm draped over her waist and her knees curled into Charlie’s, her face buried in Charlie’s chest. She’s still trembling, her fingertips shaky against the slip of skin exposed on Charlie’s side, and that’s all it takes for Charlie to wrap her arms around her to press her close.

Her mom used to sing lullabies when Charlie got night terrors. She finds herself doing the same thing, humming softly under her breath as she holds Vaggie. Her hand settles in the curve of Vaggie’s hip, but as they lay there, she starts rubbing in slow, soothing circles. She drifts higher, and it’s only when her hand brushes over Vaggie’s shoulders that she tenses. The scars must be healing well, though, because she doesn’t flinch away like she did before.

As Vaggie stops shaking and settles into the touch, her hand falling more fully onto the exposed skin of Charlie’s side, her pulse picks up. She can’t handle being this close, at all. She is the total opposite of cool. Vaggie’s touch feels like fire and salvation, and she cannot under any circumstances make that obvious.

Eventually, finally, Vaggie’s breathing evens out, and shortly after that, those precious soft snores start up. It’s maddening to have her breath against Charlie’s neck, but if it means soothing her, it’s worth a little discomfort. Her hand stills on Vaggie’s back, just over her scars. The shirt is light, so thin that she can feel the edges of the raised tissue through it. She traces them with her fingertips, trying to puzzle out what could have done that to her.

She stores “scared of the dark” in a corner of her brain that she’s been calling the Evidence Corner, right alongside Vaggie’s golden blood, the spear, and the oddly symmetrical scars on her back.

Notes:

shhh i wanted an excuse for them to cuddle ok
vaggie: if i tell her i'm an angel she's going to literally murder me
charlie, casually putting the pieces together: ... not great but there's probably a worse sinner around here somewhere

Chapter 5: natural born sinner

Summary:

Bonding via bathtime and also, Vaggie finds out who Charlie actually is.

This was actually finished yesterday but I wanted to wait to post it until I had the art piece I was working on for the later scene finished, and now it is <3

https://www.tumblr.com/tiny-feisty-gay/749098804885716992/princess-of-hell-and-her-goat-boy-guards?source=share

---

i stayed up all night doing this. chaggie brainrot is real

also help i'm running out of song titles for chapters

Vaggie decides that enough is enough at the end of her second week in the Hotel. It can’t be avoided any longer: she needs a shower. Charlie’s supplied her with bath wipes and dry shampoo galore, but even that is barely helping now. She doesn’t even want to move her hair out of her face, because the feel of shampoo powder mingling with scalp grease is genuinely awful.

Her skin itches, too.

Which is how she finds herself sitting in a warm bath, Charlie humming under her breath just outside the door as she pretends to be busy cleaning. She’s not subtle; it took a lot of convincing for her to leave Vaggie alone, worried she’d trip or pass out, and she hasn’t really moved since.

Vaggie scrubs herself as best she can, dirt and dead skin (ew) sloughing off into the bath. She was, in fact, disgusting and it feels so, so good to clean off properly. But after working a lather through her hair and clearing most of her body, her arms give up. Her shoulders are still healing and everything that connects to them gets tired quickly — and, honestly, she wasn’t sure how she was going to wash her back, anyway. It’s not like she can reach it herself.

She frowns and addresses her options. She could leave it alone. She’s soaked long enough in the bath that some of the dirt has probably worked itself off her skin, and she can try again later. But it also feels like a secret eighth sin to have the rest of herself scrubbed clean and her back still gross.

And it would probably do her healing scars some good to be properly cleaned. They’ve started to scab over and while Charlie’s done her best to clean them, this would be better.

Vaggie pointedly does not think about Charlie’s hands on her naked skin in any detail, and makes up her mind.

“Hey, Charlie?” she calls hesitantly. The humming stops.

“What’s up?”

“Can you…” Fuck, she’s really asking this? Ugh. “I can’t reach my back.” A beat of silence; so quiet she could probably hear a pin drop. “Do you… mind helping?”

The door nudges, just a little, just a crack. Vaggie curls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. Her flexibility’s starting to come back, at least. Being able to stretch feels good. Charlie pokes her head in questioningly, hand close to her head as if she’s prepared to shield her eyes, and it might just be the glow of Hell’s usual light but it seems like she has the faintest touch of pink on her cheeks.

“Not at all,” Charlie finally croaks, strangled, and — nope, Vaggie’s definitely reading into it. She doesn’t need to entertain salacious thoughts about her host. She pins her eyes to the floor, seeking a distraction, and blinks.

“Are those… hooves?”

Charlie glances down, then back to Vaggie, and then promptly away again as she grabs a towel off the rack. She sets that on the ground by the bathtub to kneel on. “Oh, uh. Yeah. They’re usually glamoured and invisible,” she says, sheepishly. Vaggie makes the mistake of turning her head and fuck she’s really close.

Leave it to her to get a crush on the first demon she encountered properly.

“Neat,” she manages, and then promptly wants to die of embarrassment.

But Charlie takes it in stride and laughs, breaking the tension as she reaches across the bathtub for soap. She plucks the washcloth from Vaggie’s hand and gestures. “Alright, turn,” she says, and then inhales sharply when Vaggie complies. She jumps a little when Charlie’s bare hand traces the outer edge of her left wi— what used to be her left wing base. “Fuck. These are healing well but…”

She’s so soft, so worried, and suddenly all Vaggie wants is to tell her. About the Extermination, about her past, about what happened and what she’s lost. The way her wings were ripped off and how sometimes, she’s convinced she can still feel them if she just tries hard enough. That, maybe, she could call them back. But she doesn’t. She stays quiet and rests her chin on her knees, and Charlie doesn’t say anything else.

The first touch of the cloth jolts her, but after that, it’s actually pretty smooth. Charlie is careful with the sensitive new skin, moving in long, slow strokes that are only a little uncomfortable. She’s so gentle, so considerate, and for what must be the thousandth time, Vaggie wonders, how? How does she exist? How does this demon have such a kind demeanor? The Hell Vaggie knows is brutal and ruthless and has no patience for someone so kind and generous.

Then again, she’s been wrong once. Assuming she would be spared banishment for sparing a child had felt like such an obvious answer, but here she is, missing an eye and her wings and her fucking halo, which Lute probably hung up like a scarecrow to warn the other Exorcists off of doing the same. Did she keep Vaggie’s wings, too? Are they mounted over her mantle like a trophy, an example?

Charlie’s bare palm touches her back, right between her scars, and Vaggie freezes. She says nothing —neither of them do— but the touch is reassuring by itself. It soothes something deep in her bones that balks at the idea of being truly alone. She’s just some woman Charlie rescued off the street, nothing special, but for a moment she almost feels… safe.

Her breath stutters and halts when fingertips trace the outer edge of the scars. The tissue there is somehow too sensitive and lacking sensation, but Charlie is so gentle that she toes the line between them like she’s walking a tightrope. Vaggie lets her touch and sinks into it like a blanket, and Charlie traces until she’s satisfied her curiosity.

“If you ever want to talk about it…” she murmurs, pulling Vaggie out of her reverie. She catches an unreadable expression in Charlie’s eyes when she turns, but it’s gone the moment she tries to make sense of it, replaced with that jovial smile Vaggie’s come to see as her signature. “No worries if not, though. Seems like it’s pretty sore.”

She’s never going to tell Charlie, but she nods anyway. “Thanks. I think I’m about as clean as I’m going to get.”

Charlie hands her the towel, unplugs the drain, and turns away respectfully while Vaggie towels off and slips on clean pajamas. It feels so good she could weep. The material of them is so soft that it might well be made with the blood of infants or unicorn tears or something, but it feels so nice against her skin that Vaggie can’t bring herself to care what it is, only that it’s comfy. She takes Charlie’s offered elbow for support, and the smile she gives Vaggie is downright unfair.

Maybe she can petition for Charlie’s beauty to be made illegal, because fuck.

No. Nope. Bad angel — ex-angel? Whatever.

And, luckily, her stomach distracts her from wherever that train of thought was going. By growling. Loudly. “… I didn’t think I was that hungry.”

Charlie laughs. “Yeah, clearly,” she grins. “Alright. Back to bed, I’ll find something and bring it up.”

The bed is comfy. It is. But Vaggie is also going absolutely stir crazy being confined to a single room, and she hasn’t even seen the rest of the hotel because she’s been resting and healing. Charlie has been nothing but a perfect host and perfect nurse, but she needs to do something else.

And, if she’s being honest with herself… she wants to spend more time with Charlie. She gets a lot of it already, but what does she look like when she’s doing mundane things? Dishes, cooking? Lounging in the common area? The Hotel doesn’t have any residents, or even any interest, but Charlie still attends to it as if it’s going to be full any minute.

“Actually,” she says, slowing, which forces Charlie to stop, too. “Maybe I could… help?” She railroads past whatever Charlie is about to say, caution already clouding her eyes. “I can sit. Chop things or — whatever.”

There’s a pause, Charlie watching her intently, before she nods.

And then, before Vaggie can protest, she bends… and hoists Vaggie into her arms. “Okay,” she says. “But I’m not risking you falling down a flight of stairs.”

Vaggie tries to avoid blushing. She also tries not to think about how fucking strong Charlie is, because she lifted Vaggie like she weighed absolutely nothing. And she fails on both accounts; her face flushes warm, and her brain zeroes in on the ridiculous muscle in Charlie’s biceps because holy shit. By the time Charlie sets her gently on her feet at the foot of the stairs, she’s all but forgotten how words work.

The demon has the audacity to grin down at her as she guides Vaggie over to the sofa. Vaggie might actually die.

She’s snapped out of it instantly by babbling from voices she doesn’t recognize, though, and her hand reaches instinctively for her spear, which she left upstairs. She tenses, every muscle preparing to fight in spite of her weakness.

Two red-and-black, very short demons burst through the door, chatting together in some language Vaggie can’t begin to comprehend. Their eyes lock on Charlie at the same time, they make excited bleeting sounds —bizarrely throaty ones, which is… appropriate, probably, for demons— and launch themselves toward Charlie.

Every instinct Vaggie has for self-preservation flies straight out the window, decades of training flooding into her bones and sore muscles as she bolts to her feet in front of Charlie. She’s unarmed and at a major disadvantage, but there is no fucking way she’s letting these little hellspawn hurt the only friend she has. She scowls hard at them.

The two little demons grind to a halt, look at each other, and turn back to her with fierce snarls across their faces, eyes glowing and ruffled red manes puffed out. Their tails lash angrily, the growls in their throat surprisingly deep for their size. Vaggie crouches —ow— as she makes twin fists and the two small goat-demons approach—

“Whoa, whoa, hold it!” Charlie yells, putting herself in the middle of them.

“Are you insane? Get behind me!” Vaggie snaps, at the same time the two little demons let out a string of what have to be swear words toward Charlie.

Who rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know, thank you. Stand down.” She says it to the goat demons — but she also gives Vaggie a pointed look. All three of them, hesitantly, relax. Charlie arches a brow at Vaggie’s still-closed fists, and with a grumble, she unclenches them. “I kind of forgot you guys haven’t met.”

Vaggie eyes them suspiciously; they do the same in turn, but there’s also something… else there? The lighter one tips his head thoughtfully, like he’s assessing her, and turns to the darker one, babbling something else. They’re nearly identical. The darker goat-demon narrows his eyes at her but eventually nods, apparently agreeing with whatever the first said.

“This is Vaggie,” Charlie says to them as she stands next to Vaggie, her hand falling to Vaggie’s shoulder. “I told you guys about her, right?” They nod. “I told you she’s nice, right?” They nod again, more hesitantly, and she grins. “Please don’t try to kill her next time.”

They have the good sense to look properly chastened. Vaggie narrows her eyes. “I thought you said nobody else lives here.”

“I said no other sinners live here,” Charlie corrects as she drops to the ground, holding her arms open. The two demons rush into them, and even she has to admit, that’s a really fucking cute group hug. Charlie shuffles around to sit cross-legged on the floor as the two of them perch on her shoulder, her hands holding them steady as she grins. “This is Razzle,” she nods to the one on her right, “And Dazzle! They’re Hellborn, actually; they’ve known me since I was born and they’re my bodyguards.”

The first thought Vaggie has, with the two goat-demons grinning on their mistress’s shoulder and Charlie beaming up at her, is that this is the cutest fucking thing she’s ever seen, and her heart needs to fucking chill because wow. Holy shit. Charlie hugs them both a little closer, her sharp teeth just adding extra charm to her wide grin. Razzle and Dazzle bump their heads against hers affectionately, going along with her antics good-naturally as she kisses them each on the cheek.

Then the haze of affection clears, just a little, and Vaggie frowns.

“Bodyguards?”

Charlie’s smile freezes. Razzle and Dazzle clamber down from her, and she gives them a tight look. “Can you guys handle dinner?”

They nod, and then they’re off to the kitchen. Bummer. Vaggie had kind of been looking forward to helping Charlie cook. Charlie lifts herself off the ground, holding her hand out to Vaggie, who takes it like it’s second nature as they both sit on the couch, and — oh, her face is actually serious. That can’t be a good sign.

“I kind of — forgot to tell you, I think?” Charlie starts, hesitantly. If Razzle and Dazzle knew her since she was born, and they’re Hellborn, then that means Charlie must also be Hellborn. Shit, who is she actually dealing with here? It was a fifty-fifty chance that she was Hellborn, Vaggie already knew that, but the fact that she has bodyguards just screams trouble. Charlie winces. “It’s not… bad…”

That doesn’t help.

Charlie is quiet for a weirdly long time. It’s unlike her to be anything other than loud and exuberant, and while it worries Vaggie… it also worries Vaggie. It’s something serious and fuck, is Charlie one of the… one of the Overlords, or something? No, she can’t be. Vaggie would’ve remembered that, especially with a face that pretty and — stop.

“I’m. Um. Kind of — so, Razzle and Dazzle have been around almost as long as my dad has been,” Charlie finally gets out. Her knee bounces anxiously, her eyes everywhere except Vaggie, her fingers twisting over themselves. Vaggie has the sudden desire to reach out, comfort her somehow, and it takes all her willpower to resist doing it.

“Which is…?” Vaggie prompts, suspicious, when Charlie is quiet.

She’s shaking. Vaggie can see her hands trembling, her shoulders quivering, when she finally makes eye contact with her. “The uh — the Fall.”

The Fall. The Fall. The — the fucking Fall? Vaggie repeats it mentally three times before it finally sticks, before she catches up to what Charlie said, and then all she can do is stare, unblinking, disbelieving, at Charlie. She can’t have heard that right. Or maybe she misinterpreted, somehow, because Charlie is definitely not telling her that her father is as old as Hell itself.

Because that would mean—

But Charlie gives her a hesitant, shaky, fragile smile full of hope and tenderness and so much fear, and she holds her hand out. “Princess Morningstar, at your service.”

That’s why she seemed familiar. Because she’s heard a whole fucking lot about the Princess Of Hell, all of it emphasizing the insane amount of raw power she possesses and the fact that she is fully exempt from the Exorcists’ blades, and the fact that she could wipe the fucking floor with any of the angels — all of them, probably. WARNING: DO NOT ENGAGE flashes bright red across her brain, a holdover from training.

She stares at Charlie’s hand. And then back up to Charlie’s face, which is tight and pained and her lips are drawn in a thin line, and she — she looks like the same Charlie that Vaggie has come to really, really like over the last weeks. The same one who pulled her out of an alley, bloody and bruised and half-dead. The same one who just washed her back for her.

Vaggie has always had a strong constitution. She’s witnessed horrors beyond comprehension and been unfazed by them. But this, combined with her lack of food, is just a little too much to handle.

She’s never passed out from shock before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Charlie’s “Oh, shit!” hits her right before the world blacks out.

Notes:

vaggie squaring up to the goat boys is hilarious to me lmao

p sure she earned their respect trying to protect charlie tho, once they realized she's not going to hurt their princess

also idk i feel like passing out is a reasonable response to "hi i'm the princess of hell" while still being in pain, exhausted and malnourished lmao

Chapter 6: love, you're not alone

Summary:

Vaggie learns what started Charlie's passion project, and Charlie reveals maybe a little more about herself than she meant to.

also, hey, we passed 10k!

People’s reactions to learning who Charlie is have, historically, been pretty predictable. Apathy is the most common, especially from any sinner who’s been in Hell longer than a few days. They have better things to worry about than fangirling —or even wariness— over their Princess. She’s still a celebrity, of course, and tabloids and paparazzi both follow her, especially outside the Pride ring. But for the most part, she gets a once-over, a noncommittal grunt at best, and then the person moves on. If she’s pushed far enough to use any of her power she might get a frightened look or two, but even that isn’t much.

Rarely, a new soul regards her with a mix of reverence and fear. That’s her least favorite. She’s spent most of her life trying to appeal to the common sinners; the last thing she wants is hero worship. It fades fast, thankfully, once they realize that she won’t use her power to force anyone’s hand, but it still stings at first.

After a couple centuries of it, she’s run the gamut of reactions. She thought she’d seen them all.

Fainting has never happened before.

To be fair, Vaggie’s had a Hell of a time — literally. She only just arrived on Extermination day, and since then all her energy and thought has gone into healing. She’s given Charlie a few odd glances here and there, but that’s easily attributed to the fact that Charlie is… well, herself. She’s not exactly the pinnacle of sin and depravity that folks expect when they encounter a demon. Not outwardly, at least.

Something about the look in Vaggie’s eye just before she lost consciousness haunts her. She can’t place it, not exactly, but it almost looked like… recognition? Like she’d heard something and the dawning realization that she was in front of it made her balk. It’s unclear whether Charlie’s existence has made it to human mythos, yet, but in the event it has… it’s probably been twisted. Perhaps a guardian angel or other heavenly being slipped up, mentioned her? Heaven, at least, knows she exists. But even then, humans are rarely devout nowadays — it’s part of why Hell is so overpopulated, the Hellborns notwithstanding.

She shakes off the nerves as best she can. It’s fine. She told Vaggie who she is and she can’t take it back, so whatever she says when she wakes up is… fine. Totally. It’s not like she went completely still and terrified, not like she stares at Charlie as if expecting her to tear out her throat. It’s — it’s fine. She’s seen that expression before. The fear. It shouldn’t bother her. It doesn’t bother her.

Maybe… maybe it’s just the shock. Learning who she is can be surprising to even the most seasoned sinners because she’s so far removed from what people assume Hell’s Princess should be. Maybe she was just caught off-guard and still malnourished and tired, and it wasn’t…

Charlie swallows and tips her head back to stare at the ceiling, trying desperately not to think about Vaggie’s expression, and makes her way toward the kitchen. Probably best to give her some space — she doesn’t need Charlie hovering over her when she wakes up, as much as that is exactly what Charlie wants to do. Razzle and Dazzle babble to each other as they navigate the kitchen, working seamlessly as a team.

“You guys need any help?” she asks. Dazzle shakes his head and she sighs. “Yeah, you look like you have it handled.”

She ruffles Razzle’s hair as she passes by —much to his annoyance when he grumbles at her as he fixes it— and circles back. She keeps her distance from the chaise (and Vaggie) but there’s more room to pace out here and if she doesn’t move, she’s going to explode. The last thing the dilapidated carpet needs are burn marks, but at least out here, she can make wide, sweeping circles to keep herself in check. The last thing she wants is to frighten Vaggie with her full demon form.

The clock ticks on. Charlie tracks her laps around the living room by it; a minute, two, three. Her worry ramps up with each; the longer Vaggie is out, the more concerning it feels. They’re heading into minute five when she makes a sound, grimaces, and her eye flutters open.

She doesn’t move. Charlie also stops, wringing her hands together anxiously. She can’t tell what Vaggie’s thinking from here, can’t see her face, but she stays put, unwilling to move closer until she’s invited. She just dropped a bomb of knowledge on the poor woman; the least she can do is give her some space to process it.

Vaggie sits up, takes one look at her, and frowns, eye narrowing suspiciously. Charlie’s heart sinks and she takes a hasty step back, then two, holding her hands up innocently.

“Hey, uh, welcome back,” she says, voice a little too high and hovering on the edge of panic. The concern is still present, though, when she forces back the anxiety to ask, “Do you… feel okay?”

Vaggie isn’t as chatty as she is, not by a long shot, but the silence between them is absolutely deafening. Even Razzle and Dazzle stop, the kitchen going quiet as they wait. Charlie’s fidgeting has them on edge, too; their job is to protect her, and she loves them for it, but they’ve been known to take it too far. Like now, when Dazzle takes a few steps forward with a determined set of his mouth, eyes on Vaggie for daring to make her anxious.

Charlie shakes her head at him, trying for subtle, but Vaggie notices anyway. She glances over her shoulder to see the smaller goat demons both watching her suspiciously, and scoffs.

“I’m not going to hurt your Princess,” she mutters, and maybe Charlie is just looking for it, maybe her anxiety has taken root a little too deeply, but there’s something venomous in the way she says it. Charlie flinches, teeth digging into her lower lip to avoid saying something stupid as she looks anywhere but Vaggie. The pattern on the walls is pretty; she’s always thought so, from the first time she stepped foot into the admittedly-crumbling building. It’s held up by determination and good vibes alone, which won’t be enough forever.

The sounds from the kitchen pick up again, a little louder than strictly necessary. Razzle and Dazzle are irritated that they can’t do anything, and they’re not hiding it well. She waits until they’ve popped whatever they’re making in the oven and set the timer, and then clears her throat.

“Give us a minute?” she asks, and they exchange glances warily. Charlie smiles, trying to act nonchalant to placate them. “C’mon. Her first instinct was to protect me.”

And wow, what an instinct that was from an injured woman. Dazzle snorts, Razzle sighs, and they both eye Vaggie on their way past —who, surprisingly, gives them a tight smile— before they disappear upstairs, Razzle summoning a deck of cards from the table on their way.

Silence falls again. Charlie isn’t… good at confrontation. It makes her a lousy demon, honestly. She can pull it out to defend other people, but herself? Never.

Honestly, she hasn’t had much experience dealing with friends, either.

She hasn’t had many friends, period.

There’s a groan from across the room as Vaggie sits up. Charlie’s eyes snap to her, her hands itching to help, but she stays where she is as if rooted to the place, watches as Vaggie grimaces and presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose, her other hand drumming against her knee. Charlie is… pretty sure she’s shaking, and she beats back the urge to go to her, comfort her.

“Princess of Hell,” she says flatly, and finally, finally, looks at Charlie. Some of that fear lingers at the edge of her voice, pitching higher at the end. Charlie clasps her hands behind her back and shifts uneasily on her hooves. “Who just—” Vaggie waves her hand. “Wanders around on Extermination day in search of the injured?”

Something she can focus on. Something that she cares about, thank fuck. “Well, yeah?” she starts hesitantly. “I — Hellborn have an immunity. To the Exterminations. And, uh, as Lucifer’s daughter I… have even more leeway, kind of?” Her feelings about that are… conflicting. It’s a privilege not afforded to the Earthly sinners — wouldn’t be afforded to Vaggie. Wasn’t afforded to Vaggie. She got lucky.

Or — well, she has other thoughts, too. Half-formed ones. But this is a bad time for speculation when Vaggie is staring expectantly at her, golden iris almost glowing under the light. Sins and temptations, she’s beautiful.

Also not the time for that. Charlie shakes her head again.

“I know it’s not fair,” she continues, straightening her spine. Shit, she should probably slouch, she’s less intimidating when she slouches — there’s a spark of something in Vaggie’s eye. It almost looks like admiration. “And my father is the reason they happen in the first place. But I just — I don’t like seeing people suffer. My people. It’s why I want this,” she gestures to the hotel around them, picking up speed. She’s told Vaggie bits and pieces; now it’s time to tell her the rest. “I went out into the Rings for the first time, alone, on an Extermination Day. I was still a teenager.” Pacing. She needs to move. Vaggie’s watches her, gaze unreadable, lip set in a line. “It was after this — Overlord party. Stolas’s birthday, I think? Can’t remember. But a group of the teenagers got bored and snuck away, and I went with them because — I mean, most of them didn’t like me, but they tolerated me for my status.”

It’s… complicated. She’s always been a bit of a bleeding heart. “They wanted to see the Extermination in person. Thought of it like a — a sport, no regard for the souls. Didn’t matter to them since we were all immune. By chance, we ended up near the portal the Exterminators dropped into on Pride. And there was…”

Blood. So much blood — which isn’t an unusual sight for Hell, wasn’t an unusual sight then, but it was so much more, so much worse, so… senseless. At least turf wars and soul deals she can understand, but that? A slaughter intended for maximum violence?

She chances a glance at Vaggie, who stares back, wide-eyed, breath quiet, spine straight. Maybe she’s warming up to the idea? If Charlie can just convince her that she’s not… whatever Vaggie thought she was, initially, maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe she won’t lose someone, again, for being something other than what they expected.

“There was a family,” she says slowly. “Parents. Three kids. Out getting groceries. Why they went out during the Extermination, I don’t know. But they were trying to stay in the shadows. And the Exorcist—” she reins in the growl at the edge of her voice, forces her fists to unclench. Vaggie winces. “She saw them. But she didn’t make it swift, oh no. I watched her stalk them. Duck behind things when they’d look back on a hunch. Until they bolted, and then she blocked them.”

She hates this fucking memory. She has a lot of them that she hates, but this one is up there for worst, right alongside the day her mother left. “We’re immune, but we’re not supposed to intervene. But I just — I couldn’t let them die. They didn’t do anything and they were trying to get away. They were terrified, Vaggie. And the kids I was with just… laughed.” A deep breath. Two. “The exorcist was faster than me. By the time I stepped in it was just the two younger kids. The Exorcist told me to back off, but…” she shrugs. “Long story short, they were fine. I came away with a scratch,” she rolls up her sleeves to reveal her singular scar, a slash across her shoulder. “But she couldn’t do more than that and it was worth it. I’m sure she got a reprimand in Heaven, but eh. I took the kids back to the party with us —which the other heirs were not happy about— and one of the Hellhounds adopted them, I think? Who knows if they’re still — if they—” she shrugs again, helplessly. She hasn’t checked up on them because she’s afraid of the answer.

There’s something new in Vaggie’s eyes. She’s frowning, but it looks like it’s concentration more than anything else. Broody and pensive, but not outright hostile.

“Anyway. That’s where all this came from,” Charlie finishes.

“Couldn’t you have just killed her?” Vaggie asks.

“Um.” Charlie blinks, brow furrowed. “… Yes? I didn’t want to.”

“Even after all that? Even after — after watching her kill your people?”

It’s a fair question, one she’s thought about many times, herself. “Killing one angel wouldn’t stop the Exterminations. It wouldn’t help those kids. And I don’t think…” she chews her lip, crossing her arms in front of her as she meets Vaggie’s gaze. She’s leaned forward, full focus on Charlie, and something… relieved?… in her epression. “I don’t think I would’ve felt any better, honestly. I was angry —Wrath is one of my stronger Sins— but more than that I just wanted to protect those kids. And I couldn’t focus on them if I was busy reaping vengeance.”

Vaggie’s face softens, and Charlie almost weeps with relief. “And your dad was just… fine with that?”

She barks a laugh, some of the tension dissipating. “Ha! No. I was grounded for a decade.”

And she doesn’t believe in miracles, but the chuckle she gets out of Vaggie might as well be one. “Yeah, sounds about right.” She sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. “You’re still the Princess of Hell.”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t…” Vaggie stops, searching for the words, and then gestures toward Charlie. Runs her eyes up and down, almost appraisingly. “… This isn’t an act? You’re just… like this?”

“Uh… yes?” She blinks. “I mean — I’ve thought of, you know. Masking it. Putting on an act. Something scarier. More Hellish.” When she laughs, it’s involuntary and self-deprecating, and fuck she hates when that creeps in. She’s spent enough time leaning into the happy and jovial attitude that it feels like a betrayal to feel anything else. “Enough for people to take me seriously, for once.”

She spreads her hands helplessly and takes a step toward Vaggie, hesitantly, but there is no alarm in Vaggie’s eyes. Some wariness, yes, but the genuine fear from before has faded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, before. The reactions I’ve gotten are historically not… great.”

Vaggie snorts. “Oh, and passing out on you was so good?”

“Weirdly enough, not the worst I’ve gotten,” Charlie grins as she takes another step forward. When she says the next part, she says it quietly and tries to keep the despair out of it. “But I still should’ve mentioned it. I wouldn’t blame you for not being comfortable here anymore. I can find you somewhere else to stay if you want, somewhere safe—”

“No.”

Charlie stops, processes, and tilts her head. “No?”

A beat. And then Vaggie gets to her feet —Charlie exercises a lot of restraint by remaining still, even when Vaggie grimaces against the pain of movement— and crosses the room to her. When she stops, she’s close enough that she has to look up at Charlie. “Princess of Hell or not, you saved my life,” Vaggie says, finally, holding her hand out. Charlie takes it hesitantly, half-convinced this is some very bizarre dream. Her hands are so soft.

Maybe she was the one who passed out, and maybe she hit her head on the way down. Vaggie narrows her eye, searching Charlie’s face for … something.  She must find whatever it is, because the corners of her mouth tip upward. “Besides,” she squeezes Charlie’s hand and sways on her feet a little, and this time, Charlie can’t refrain from catching her elbow to steady her. “You can’t run a hotel alone, can you?”

Every single thought in Charlie’s brain evaporates, replaces by static noises and disbelief, and she thinks her jaw falls open, maybe. She stands there, staring down at Vaggie, trying to make sense of what she just said because did she really say that long enough that Vaggie asks, “… Charlie?”

She does a really good job of keeping her emotions under control, considering how many of them she has at any given moment, but occasionally they get the best of her. Occasionally, she bursts into song or talks to fast or gets too excited.

And, sometimes, she just bursts into tears.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to—” Vaggie starts, panicked, but doesn’t get to finish before Charlie drags her into a hug, burying her face in Vaggie’s neck and crying, embarrassingly the entire time. She’s careful not to squeeze too hard, since Vaggie is still healing, and keeps her arms as low on Vaggie’s waist as she can with their height difference. And, miraculously —lots of those, today— feels Vaggie’s arms around her waist. She presses one hand into Charlie’s back, rubbing circles, and her voice is so, so soft when she says, “Alright, Demon Princess, it’s okay.”

They stand like that, Charlie desperately trying to reel herself back in and Vaggie letting her have her feelings, until the timer on the oven goes back. Her face is probably a mess when she pulls back; Charlie wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand and coughs.

“I am so sorry,” she mutters, holding Vaggie at arm’s length. “We haven’t talked about physical boundaries at all.”

Vaggie half-splutters a snort, her mouth pressed into a thin line and her eye bright, and finally, she just laughs. “It’s okay. Really.” And then she rolls her eye and smiles. “Who would’ve thought the Princess Of Hell is such a big baby?”

“Hey!”

“It’s a good thing,” Vaggie pats her arm as Razzle and Dazzle barrel past them for the oven. “Just not at all what I was expecting.” And then, with a groan, she drops her head back to stare at the ceiling. It doesn’t make her dizzy, for once, which must be progress. “I asked Lucifer’s daughter to wash my back.”

Charlie’s laugh escapes her like a shot, the warmth in her cheeks definitely a blush. One that Vaggie, hopefully, doesn’t notice — because she has thoughts about how pretty Vaggie is, even scarred, even like this, and they’re the opposite of wholesome. And her heart has feelings about everything else; about how sweet and kind Vaggie is, about how she’s already accepted that Charlie is royalty with far more grace —minus one fainting spell— than anyone else ever has. The way that she listens, actually listens, when Charlie talks about the hotel, about her plans, about far-fetched possibilities.
Just… Vaggie, accepting her. Choosing to stay here. Choosing to stay with her— 

She’s saved from following that train of thought further by Vaggie’s stomach snarling ferociously, and they both giggle as Razzle and Dazzle plate up their food. Lasagna, apparently. “Thanks, fellas.”

They both puff up, pleased with themselves, as they join Charlie and Vaggie at the table.

And, for once, Charlie feels a little less alone.

Notes:

i went through like four drafts of this scene because i could not for the life of me pin down what exactly i was doing with it. i'm still not convinced it's *right* but it fits well so it's staying, and i do like a lot about it.

i also fully intended this to be vaggie's pov but NOPE charlie it is

vaggie panicked significantly less than i thought she would tho lmao

Chapter 7: wings and secrets

Summary:

vaggie and charlie go shopping and charlie puts the pieces together

---

“Okay, three more steps – good, good, just watch for the–”

“Charlie.” Vaggie pauses, one hand on the railing and the other gripping her spear like a lifeline, and lifts a brow. Charlie stares back, eyes wide and worried, hovering near Vaggie’s elbow like a fretful hummingbird, and Vaggie feels her lips curve upward involuntarily. “I’m not going to heal right if you keep carrying me everywhere.”

Probably, at least. She’s never been this injured before, and she’s kind of basing her own healing on what she knows of humans, but it makes sense that she needs to start working the muscles to keep any semblance of flexibility in them. 

She rolls her shoulders, flexing the muscles under them, the stretch uncomfortable and tight and almost painful. If she really tries, she can almost imagine it’s the result of an especially difficult training session; that there isn’t a piece of her very soul missing, torn from her for daring to show mercy. 

Charlie chews her lip and sighs, the faintest flush of pink in her cheeks when she rocks back on one foot and folds her arms. “I know, I know, I just – I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

The words warm her heart as much as they exasperate her. Maybe Charlie doesn’t know it, and Vaggie won’t be telling her anytime soon, but she was a literal warrior at one point and she can handle a little pain. 

She rolls her eyes, taking the last two steps faster than Charlie wants her to, and turns with as much flourish as she can manage, one arm spread wide and the other planting her spear into the carpet. There is a twinge in her back again, but she hides it with a smirk. “See? Fine.”

Charlie’s sigh of relief is so loud that Razzle and Dazzle both make puzzled, startled bleating sounds. “Okay, fine, you did great but please be more careful.” The words tumble out as she rushes forward to offer Vaggie her arm.

She watches Charlie, her brows creased in concern and her mouth set in a line, the remnant of a blush still touching her cheeks, and thinks about the image she had in her head before. She knew the name, of course; Charlotte Morningstar, Princess of Hell. Every Exorcist did. It was their job to know the difference between the targets and the immune, and that went doubly for the royals. Harm to the princess would have meant an all-out war. 

Most of her information on Charlie had come from Lute, when she came back from an Extermination fuming that the princess had cost her numbers. That she’d dared to interfere; claimed that she had toyed with Lute and taunted her with failure, and had claimed injury at her claws. Painted a big, scary picture of a monster. 

Hearing the other side was sobering. 

Charlie blinks down at her, eyes wide and innocent, and then that too-soft smile curves her lips and she takes a breath. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, though.” And then she nods to the door. “Ready to go?”

Vaggie grips the spear a little tighter. The fear of recognition coils low in her belly, but Charlie wants to start exposing her to Hell, and for better or worse, she’s quickly finding that she would do just about anything to see Charlie smile. 

“Ready.”

The glint in Charlie’s eye might just do her in. “So… how would you feel about teleporting?” she asks, and Vaggie blinks. “We don’t have to! But it’d be faster. And less security,” she grimaces. 

This woman can fucking teleport?  

“Uh. Sure?” is what she manages, and Charlie beams. 

“Hang on tight!”

“Wha–” she squeaks, just before the world swirls around them. Whatever she was about to say dies on her tongue as she stares up at Charlie, and her heart feels like it might just stop working entirely because holy shit . 

Blonde hair billows around them, kicked up by a gust of what must be raw energy, warm and wild with potential. Horns, deep crimson and gnarled, curl back from her forehead, her eyes shut against the rush of power, a kind of deep concentration on her face that Vaggie has only seen late at night when she’s planning out the Hotel. 

She looks every bit the Princess of Hell, and Vaggie is absolutely enamored. It takes a concentrated effort to hold herself back from reaching for the spectral ribbons twisting around them, or Charlie’s horns, or something equally inane. She’s devastatingly pretty, and Vaggie wants to– Vaggie wants.

A rush of power streaks through her veins, and then for a moment, everything stills. Discorporation feels approximately as bizarre as she could have assumed, but also a lot less uncomfortable. The deep, aching knowledge of Charlie, close, secure hits her with all the force of the sun, and then she’s back in her own body, the street roaring to life around them.

Charlie’s hands hold her steady, her eyes fading back to their usual colors just as Vaggie’s vision clears enough to make sense of things. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbles, shaking her head to drag herself into the present. They’re so close; close enough that Vaggie can pick out the individual reds of Charlie’s eyes, deep rubies and garnets, bright crimson, the faintest flecks of gold.

Pride itself graces her lips when she smiles, cocky and confident, warmth in her eyes. She doesn’t speak; neither does Vaggie, lost in the moment, and this is dangerous but then again, what isn’t in Hell? Something unseen directs her chin up, her free hand tightening on Charlie’s arm where it’s found a new home. 

If Charlie can tell how fast her heart beats, she says nothing. Her breath might stall like Vaggie’s, even; soft and shallow, dark lips parted just enough to see her sharp canines.

Charlie dips her head a fraction of an inch, testing, waiting, her eyes half-lidded and her lips far, far too tempting. It would be so easy to blame the pull Vaggie feels on Charlie’s very nature as the daughter of the first succubus, but this sin is Vaggie’s alone. 

It’s a terrible idea; she’d hate Vaggie if she knew what she truly is, and the guilt of that should be enough to wrangle her impulses. But she’s weak, soft, and Charlie’s kindness has taken root somewhere deep in her soul. She’s magnetic, ethereal, and Vaggie is drawn to her like a moth to flame.

It’s a terrible idea, and she pops up on her toes before she can think better of it–

–and careens directly into Charlie’s chest as someone shoves past them, yelling, “Get outta the sidewalk!” 

Vaggie jumps back, face burning warm, and Charlie looks away and swallows hard, her throat bobbing with the effort. For a moment they’re both quiet, adamantly avoiding the other’s gaze. She focuses on everything except Charlie, taking in the city lights as she tries desperately to calm her nerves and fluttering pulse. 

But she can’t resist a glance when Charlie clears her throat, pink staining her cheeks and a nervous smile curving her mouth. “Gluttony can get, uh, a little testy when you’re in the way.” She nods in the direction the stranger ran, and then, with one palm against Vaggie’s upper back – just above her scars – she turns them toward the storefront. And laughs. “Ooh, I got us closer than I thought I would!”

“What?”

“It wasn’t dangerous!” Charlie defends. “Just, it’s been a while since I teleported and I’m a little rusty. I had the general vicinity.”

This girl. Vaggie finds herself laughing despite the terror invoked by the fact that she’s just been discorporated and thrown into a different ring of Hell. 

Charlie smiles and holds the door open with an exaggerated, sweeping bow. “After you?”

It’s just clothes shopping. That’s all. Nothing special; if she really stretches it, she can say she’s shopping with a friend. It doesn’t matter that this feels oddly datelike, or that Charlie seems like she lights up when she catches Vaggie’s eye. 

“Charlotte, my favorite princess!” calls a voice from further inside the store. A Hellhound, tall and dark with tan eyebrows and floppy ears, grins at them. “And you brought a guest! Tell me, how ya been? It’s been ages since I saw you – are you taller? Ya look taller.”

She reaches out to ruffle Charlie’s hair and Vaggie refrains –barely– from knocking her hand away. Even if she wasn’t royalty, it’s rude as fuck to manhandle someone like that. 

But Charlie just laughs good-naturedly and wraps her arm around Vaggie’s shoulders. “Darla, this is Vaggie! She’s – uh, I found her on Extermination day.”

Darla’s tan brow lifts and she gives Vaggie a judgmental once-over, then her eyes slide back to Charlie. “You’re still out there dragging people off the streets?” Vaggie grips her spear tighter at the tone in her voice, disbelief and doubt dripping from it. Charlie tenses next to her.

“She is,” Vaggie cuts in, a little harsher than necessary. Darla blinks at her. “She saved my life.”

A beat of silence, then two, and then Darla’s mouth breaks into a sharp-toothed grin. “Well, far be it for me to stop a passion project,” she says as she shrugs, then tilts her head. “Now, what can I get you girls? You need a suit tailored?"

“Nah,” Charlie waves off, and is that gratitude in her voice? No, must be something else. “We’re just here for Vaggie, actually.”

Darla hums in consideration, tilts her head to the other side, and then points toward the back of the store. “There’s some fun stuff thataway. And you know tailoring’s free for my favorite customer.” She turns to Vaggie. “Charlie’s got a great eye for fashion. If you let her pick for you, you’ll walk out of here flawless. If y’all need me just holler, I’ll be in the back.”

The moment Darla is out of earshot, Charlie heaves a relieved sigh. She’s quiet for a moment, still tense enough to worry Vaggie, before she steps back. 

Her smile is a little too tight when she grabs Vaggie’s hand and says, “C’mon. Let’s find you some clothes!”

⁂

Charlie does most of the selecting. By the time they grab Vaggie a dressing room to try everything on, she’s shoved at least six outfits into Vaggie’s arms, and the only one that Vaggie has chosen herself is a deep burgundy sundress with a flared skirt that looks like it’ll fall just above the knees. A dress which Charlie is achingly curious about, and which she is definitely not mentally envisioning before Vaggie even tries it on. No. Nope. That would be weird, obviously. 

She hovers outside the door just in case she’s needed, scrolling through social media and making notes to herself about both the hotel and sinners in general, while Vaggie tries on the first few outfits. One and two she didn’t even bother asking opinions on, just sloughed them off and told Charlie she hated them. They both agreed the third one just didn’t work well, although Vaggie did keep the pants from it. 

She’s midway through trying on the fourth when she makes an annoyed groan and the door creaks. Charlie glances up from her phone to see one perfect golden eye staring back. 

“Hey, uh. Can you help with the zipper on this one?”

Logically, it’s a perfectly innocent request. This is literally what Charlie signed up for when she decided to take Vaggie shopping. But after that near-kiss on the sidewalk (and it definitely was a near-kiss, no denying it) she still feels a little… keyed up, for lack of a better word. 

Horny, her brain supplies helpfully, and she suppresses the urge to scoop it out from her skull and throw it into the horizon. 

Her voice strains higher when she bolts to her feet with a, “Yeah, sure!”

She closes and locks the dressing room behind her, some random fact about Hell on the tip of her tongue to keep herself from spiraling, when she turns. And stops. And stares, because it’s the fucking dress , the one Vaggie chose for herself. She’s gotten the zipper roughly halfway down, and when Charlie reaches out to help, she hopes against hope that Vaggie doesn’t feel how shaky her hands are. 

Vaggie coughs awkwardly and catches Charlie’s eye over her shoulder. “Um. Up, not down.”

“Shit. Right. Yep. Of course, my bad, I didn’t realize – uh, here.”

She yanks the damn zipper up so fast that it startles them both and is a miracle she doesn’t break it completely. 

And, because it’d be weird to just leave now that Vaggie is fully clothed, she leans against the wall and watches Vaggie twirl in front of the mirror, checking the fit and flare. The pleased little smile on her lips is worth a little more of Charlie’s embarrassment. 

“What do you think?” she asks, and it takes a good thirty seconds for Charlie’s brain to process that as a question. 

Unfortunately, it takes far less than that for her mouth to take over, and the strangled way she says, “Gorgeous,” feels like waving a neon sign that says Hey, hot stuff! In technicolor bold print. But Vaggie says nothing; she just grins, a faint gold flush across her cheeks, and spins one more time before she turns her back to Charlie again. 

“Um, do you mind…?”

This time, at least, Charlie knows what to expect. When the back of her knuckles brush Vaggie’s unfairly soft skin she doesn’t jump away and barely freezes. Her scars are healing well, too. The top layer has closed, and anything underneath probably won’t take more than a few weeks to stitch itself back together. 

Will Vaggie stay with her once she’s fully healed? She mentioned offhand helping around the Hotel, but was she serious, or was she just sparing Charlie’s feelings? It would be fine if she left, really, but it would also feel so… lonely. Razzle and Dazzle are wonderful, but they’re not the same. 

Her fingertips brush the scarred skin on Vaggie’s shoulders and she jumps, but doesn’t pull away. A lot of things could’ve caused such extensive wounds, but none that would be this symmetrical.

“Charlie?” Vaggie asks, looking behind her to catch her eye, and Charlie snaps out of her thoughts. “All good?”

“All good,” she nearly squeaks, and she’s out of the room like a rocket.

They’re in a particularly weird spot, too. It’s such a familiar area, one she’s definitely seen before during turf wars. A remnant of what used to be, scars on moth and butterfly sinners who’ve had wings ripped off during gang fights. 

All of her thoughts screech to a halt just outside the dressing room door. Wings. Because of course, it’s so obvious now that she’s seen it; those are the wounds of phantom wings. They’re in the exact same spot that her own father’s middle set are. 

Oh, fuck.

Notes:

this chapter gave me SO MUCH trouble i swear, it was like pulling teeth to get it out. i'm still not thrilled with it but it's doing its job so it can stay

i've also been half-asleep pretty much the whole time i was writing this. probably coming down with a cold idk lmao. anyway charlie has Connected The Dots and now she just has to figure out what to do with em

i *am* please with the almost-kiss tho. that was good. think i did a solid job there lmao

Chapter 8: i'd rather save an angel down

Summary:

Charlie makes a more startling realization and confronts Vaggie (confront is probably too strong a word)

So.

Charlie might have an angel in her house.

But jumping to conclusions is bad, and she’s done it enough times that she knows better… sort of. She at least knows better than to act on her suspicions before she’s mapped them out, so she does what she always does when something stumps her.

She starts pinning things to the wall.

She waits for Vaggie to head to bed, sends Razzle and Dazzle out for groceries with some extra money to go gambling (they’re both hesitant to leave her fully alone, but she is the Princess of Hell and she is more than capable of defending herself) and commandeers one of the rooms down the hall. And then, with enough stationary to write to the entirety of Hell, she settles in for a night of theorizing.

A few observations aren’t undeniable proof, but they’re something, so she starts there. She scrawls EVIDENCE: in barely-legible handwriting and puts all of her points underneath it.

One: The spear. Not particularly weird by itself, especially since technically Charlie found and brought it home, but Vaggie seems awfully comfortable with the weapon. Especially since she must have faced off against an Exorcist to come away in such bad shape, who likely injured her with a similar weapon since her eye hasn’t regenerated — but maybe she didn’t? Charlie hasn’t actually asked what happened because, well… it was clearly traumatic. It could’ve been a sinner with Blessed weapons for all Charlie knows.

Charlie tacks a post-it to the wall and connects a thread to it with an arrow, leading to the next point.

Two: golden blood. Again, not damning on its own, but weird. Sinners… don’t have golden blood. Not any sinner Charlie’s seen, anyway, and she’s seen a lot. Tried to help a lot. Their blood is as red as it was when they were human, with some variation; the strangest she’s seen in person was black. And even that was, maybe, just a really dark red, because the lighting wasn’t exactly ideal for accurate color-picking. But she’s never seen an angel bleed, either, and they could bleed red, too.

Which leads to Three: The scars. This is the most glaring and obvious, because seriously, what else would leave that kind of scarring? But she has to leave other options open, because there are plenty of demons with wings, even feathered ones. Maybe, when she arrived, she had wings but they were torn off in a scuffle — probably the same one that took her eye? Speaking of…

Four: her eye. Lackthereof, actually, because it was clearly cut out of her head by something. The wound itself was fresh when Charlie found her, still flayed open in a distinct, intentional X. Which is… that’s pretty ominous, honestly. Because—

The pen in her hand stills from where she’d been spinning it and she frowns at the wall. Angel was her leading suspicion, and it still is, but another possibility blends into it. What if… she frowns, slaps another piece of paper to the wall, and pulls up Voxtagram, grimaces, and searches #Extermination. Reels and photos pop up, especially ones from other Hellborn taking selfies with the Exorcists in the background. She’ll hand it to them: while the sinners are targets, the rest of Hell makes it their personal mission to annoy the absolute fuck out of Heaven every year. Which means there are a plethora of photos of Exorcists to rifle through and — yep.

She sketches a quick doodle of one, with an X marked over the… wait. She checks again; yeah, it’s definitely the right eye, not the left, in every single picture.

Except one.

Dated just last month, during the most recent Extermination, is a selfie of a few succubi with an Exorcist in the background. And it’s impossible to know —all the Exorcists look the same in uniform— but her blood chills and her hand freezes, thumb still on the photo. This one has an X over the left eye, horns curved up and back, a mockery of demons in a way only Heaven can accomplish. And when she looks at the surroundings, at buildings on the street behind them… it’s not far from where she found Vaggie.

Pain erupts from her lip and she yelps, hand flying to her mouth and coming away wet and red. Oh. When did she start biting her lip? Doesn’t matter. She steps back, one hand on her hip and the other still clutching her phone, and takes in the evidence before her.

Fallen angel Vaggie has crossed her mind a few times, fleetingly and with increasing substance, for the past week. But this…

She groans, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling. How hadn’t she connected the dots sooner? How had she missed it? All the pieces are here, everything that could have lead her to this conclusion —that Vaggie is an Exorcist— so much sooner. But she’d been so preoccupied with helping her heal and staving off her own growing feelings that she hadn’t put much thought into it.

And now, she just feels stupid.

Where the fuck do they go from here?

Is she supposed to just… forget about it? Pretend she hasn’t made the connection, pretend she still thinks Vaggie is just a sinner with the misfortune of arriving on Extermination Day? Pretend, even, that this doesn’t feel like a massive betrayal?

She doesn’t even have proof. Not real proof, anyway; nothing she could point to with certainty and say I know what you are. But she has some pretty fucking solid evidence and a healthy suspicion — but what if she’s wrong? What if it’s all circumstantial, what if—

Something explodes downstairs and Charlie nearly jumps out of her own skin.

And then there’s yelling.

She hesitates at the door, just for a second; she’s untouchable, but what if… what if Vaggie was placed here deliberately to knock her off guard? If she dies to angelic steel, that doesn’t mean much for Heaven. After all, the Carmines have a flourishing business as arms dealers specializing in it. It could easily be attributed to assassination by one of the Hellborn. She’s never feared for her life before, but…

Her jaw tightens and she makes her choice. This is her Hotel, her project, and she’ll be damned (well, extra-damned) if anyone is going to take that without a fight.

As it turns out, she’s not fighting alone.

By the time she makes it down the stairs, Vaggie is already there, the point of her spear pressed against the throat of some sinner. The wall has been blown clean open, but Vaggie has made enough of an impression on this that none of his goons have dared rush forward.

She catches the very tail end of Vaggie’s snarled words to him.

“—and unless you’re interested in redemption you can fucking get lost.”

The apparent leader catches Charlie’s eye over Vaggie’s shoulder and nods to her, slight enough to avoid cutting himself on the spear, and rolls his eyes. “Can you call off your fucking guard dog? Don’t want your stupid hotel anyway.”

Charlie blinks.

He’s not even injured, just immobilized. The group behind him looks nervous, but unharmed. Vaggie has a deadly weapon in her hand, one she clearly knows how to use for maximum damage, and she… hasn’t? Even with a clear threat, one that Charlie wouldn’t even be able to fault her for using more robust methods on… all she’s done is incapacitate him.

“I uh — I think we can let them go, if they’ve learned their lesson?” she manages, finally.

The leader hmphs, but his group nods furiously.

Vaggie hesitates, waiting for any sign that they’ll pursue an attack anyway. Her posture is impeccable, spine straight and movement fluid, and when she steps back, she falls a stance Charlie can only describe as militaristic. Something polished by years of training; something she may well have learned on a murder squad.

Her voice is a low, angry rumble the likes of which Charlie has never heard when she points with her spear down the street. “Go.”

The group salutes her and their leader smacks the closest one on the back of the head as he rejoins them, muttering insults at Vaggie the entire time. But they do as they’re told, lumbering up the driveway and past the gates until they disappear from sight.

A lot of conflicting emotions hit Charlie square in the chest, and all of them dissipate when Vaggie sags hard against her spear, her knuckles white with the effort of holding herself up.

“Shit, you’re okay,” she says quietly as she rushes forward support her. She’s been so adamant that she’s fine that Charlie half expects her to refuse the help, but instead, she leans into Charlie’s side instead and slides her arm around Charlie’s waist to steady herself. “Easy. C’mon.”

“Sorry,” Vaggie mutters as they head for the couch. “I might’ve overdone it.”

“You fought off bandits, of course you overdid it,” Charlie snorts, and for a moment, she can set aside her worries about… everything else.

“Fuckers blew up your wall.”

Charlie glances over her shoulder as the two of them sink onto the sofa. Sure enough, there’s a hole where the front of the building should be. That’s going to be a huge pain in the ass to fix, but it’s the least of her worries. “And you’re barely healed enough to move properly, much less fight.”

Vaggie is quiet for a minute, and her voice is soft when she says, “No, that wasn’t a fight.”

The words sound hollow, haunted, and all of Charlie’s questions —all of her suspicions— come slamming right back to the surface. This is Vaggie. Beautiful, sweet, surprisingly funny Vaggie, who stumbled into her life and is quickly stealing her heart — and she decides, right then, that she needs answers. And she needs them now.

They’re both quiet for a long moment, Charlie’s arm around Vaggie’s shoulders and Vaggie’s arm around her waist. It feels so natural. So normal, and she knows immediately that she won’t be able to have this conversation while she’s touching Vaggie. Everything inside her wants to forget everything she suspects, let herself sink into the moment and follow her impulses.

“I’m gonna grab some tea. You want any?” she asks, because she needs a minute to collect her thoughts, a minute where she knows Vaggie is safe, a minute to let the feel of her body against Charlie’s fade.

Vaggie looks up at her, quiet for another moment as she searches Charlie’s face. The look in her eye is unreadable but serious; if Charlie’s lucky, she also suspects where this is leading. She nods, wordlessly, and Charlie nods.

There is no right way to ask her about her past. No blueprint Charlie can think of for, Hey, did you kill like, a lot of my people? She checks in with herself; is this even something she can handle right now? She frowns, checks her pulse; steady, mostly, along with her breathing. She doesn’t feel shaky. Her head feels clear.

There is a tiny flicker of warmth in her chest, too. Something like hope. If Vaggie is an Exorcist —and there’s very little question about that, now— then why didn’t she kill the sinner who trespassed? Why did she let them go with a warning, let Charlie make the final call?

And… does it matter? Charlie loves her people. She goes out of her way to help them after Exterminations, and she certainly doesn’t know all of their histories. If she can help, can forgive, the sinners of Pride for their transgressions —if she wants them to succeed and be redeemed… well. Vaggie isn’t exactly a sinner, but perhaps she’s close enough.

Vaggie takes her tea with both hands. She doesn’t drink it; she just holds it, savoring the warmth as she stares down at it.

Charlie sits beside her, one leg tucked under the other, facing her, and she lets the air still between them. A moment of reverence for the peace here, before she cracks it open with strife. A moment to watch Vaggie, the sparkling silver of her hair and the soft lilac of her skin, the way she drums her fingernails against her mug. By the time Charlie is ready to speak, Vaggie has turned toward her, mirroring her posture as she rests her elbow on the back of the sofa.

“I um,” she starts, too quiet, and clears her throat. When she continues, she attempts to sound firm, and misses the mark entirely; it comes out soft, careful, and Vaggie’s face softens right along with it. “I have some questions. And it’s really important to me that you answer them honestly.”

There’s a bolt of panic; Vaggie’s eye widens, just a touch, barely noticeable if she weren’t looking for it. Her grip on her tea tightens, but she nods. “Shoot.”

Charlie realizes, with startling clarity, that she has no idea exactly what question she’s asking. Nor how to ask it. She stalls for time by taking a sip, holding the drink as if savoring it, and she still isn’t sure what to say. The words seem more like they escape her than she consciously speaks them.

“Why are you here?”

Vaggie blinks, tilts her head. Her brow furrows, just a little —don’t play confused, please don’t make this harder— and then her face clears. “Oh.” She chews her cheek, looks down at her hands, then up again. “Are you—” she pauses, regroups, tries again. There is fear in her eye when she asks, softer, “… How honest do you want me to be?”

Well, shit. That’s almost confirmation enough, by itself. “Fully.”

Vaggie takes a deep breath, sets her tea off to the side, and begins.

Notes:

that wall isn't safe even in fanfics

Chapter 9: good god, let me give you my life

Summary:

the ConversationTM

If Vaggie has ever been this frightened, she can’t remember it. Even the trauma of her banishment feels as if it pales in comparison to this — to Charlie’s wide-eyed, cautious stare. The demon, the woman she’s only known to watch her openly now watching her with guarded, careful interest. As if whatever she says next will cement her opinion of Vaggie, permanently.

And it well might. She knew it was too good to be true — that this wouldn’t, couldn’t, last forever. That eventually, the truth would come out. She can only be grateful that Charlie is giving her the opportunity to explain herself, because if she’s right —if Charlie suspects, knows, who she is— then that is more grace and far more mercy than she’s obligated to show.

Then again, Charlie has done nothing but surprise her.

“When I said I got here during the Extermination, I wasn’t lying,” she starts, reaching for something, anything to make it easier to speak. Her tongue feels like it may as well be held captive by her own body, leaden with the desire to keep things exactly as they are. Charlie scoffs, but it otherwise silent. Right. Of course that was a shitty way to begin. But now that she’s started, the words flow a little easier. What exactly is the best way to address this? Slowly? Rip off the band-aid? She’s clearly not going to say anything Charlie doesn’t expect, so… “I am —was— an Exorcist.”

She lets the words sink in, forces herself to hold Charlie’s gaze. She owes her a proper explanation and the ability to judge Vaggie’s sincerity for herself.

Charlie gives her a tight smile. “I assumed as much. What I want to hear is why.”

“Why…?” Vaggie furrows her brow, confusion seeping into her voice. “Why… what?”

Charlie spreads her arms, a frustrated noise escaping her, and Vaggie flinches. Just a little. Just enough that Charlie pauses and readjusts, her movements far more controlled and precise when she waves her hand — much gentler than Vaggie deserves. “Why you’re here. Why you aren’t up there,” she points, as if Vaggie doesn’t understand, and it would be funny if there weren’t a twinge of desperation in her voice.

Well, at least that’s an easy question to answer. “I don’t belong up there.” It’s hard to gather the words, but she takes one look at Charlie, brow furrowed, giving her the space to explain herself, and the rest tumble out of her mouth before she can think them through properly. “I have —had— one purpose, and that purpose was to — to eradicate sinners. For the good of both Heaven and Hell.”

“A load of shit,” Charlie mutters, and Vaggie almost smiles. After the last month… she’s inclined to agree. She still doesn’t believe in the sinners, no, but she believes far less in Heaven, too.

“Maybe. It wasn’t my place to question orders. It wasn’t my place to spare anyone.” That gets Charlie’s attention. “There was a child.”

“A child,” she repeats, incredulous, gaze softening, and Vaggie can almost hear the gears turning in her head. And then she repeats, “A child?” with so much more anger than Vaggie has heard before that she, instinctively, scoots back. Vaggie nods quickly.

“A little cannibal kid,” she confirms. “I don’t — Sinners are here for a reason. He did something to end up here. But I looked at him, and he was — Charlie, he was so scared, and I just—” she cuts herself off, draws in a breath. Emotion will do her no good, here. Charlie wants facts, not feelings. “Regardless. It wasn’t my place. I hesitated, and I had enough time to… dispatch… him. I told him to run instead.” She turns, gesturing to her back, where the scars peek out from under her sleep tank. “I’m here because I can’t go back up.” Because I can’t fly. Because I’m missing my wings. Because I lost them, of my own foolish accord, and I… Lord help me, I think I’d make the same choice again.

There is a low rumble, so deep and thunderous that it reverberates in the air around them, the air heating alongside it, and Vaggie knows without turning that Charlie is wearing horns. The thrum of her growl digs deep into some primordial thing that Vaggie can’t name, something soul-deep forged alongside existence itself, and in spite of herself, she wants to succumb to it. Sink into it, let it consume her. Charlie did say Wrath is one of her stronger Sins, and if this isn’t Wrath, Vaggie hasn’t a clue what is.

Can a demon kill an angel without Blessed steel? It’s a question Vaggie has never asked before, but with the heat of Wrath upon her — now seems as good a time as any to question it. Charlie’s fury is justified, faced with the embodiment, the very figurehead of the thing she’s fighting against. Vaggie will not fight her.

“Charlie, I’m sorry,” she says, hoping that at least she can make her amends before she is rightfully executed. “One child is nothing compared to—”

“I’m going to hug you,” says Charlie, and then there are arms around her and Vaggie’s mouth is still open, still formed around the words she was going to say, the apologies she was about to make. The words die on her tongue as Charlie, warm and careful as Charlie, still rumbling like a wild storm, tugs Vaggie into her lap and curls protectively into her.

It’s less a hug and more an engulfment, if Vaggie’s being honest. Charlie is taller than her, a fact that she’s been keenly aware of for weeks, but right now Vaggie feels tiny in her grasp. Her mouth presses against Vaggie’s temple, almost a kiss but not quite, and her voice is low and gravelly when she finally says, “You spared a child and you were banished for it.”

What… exactly is she supposed to say to that? She swallows hard and squirms, her hands pressing against Charlie’s shoulders to push away, just enough to look up at her and fucking Hell she’s pretty like this, eyes crimson and gold, horns twisting dangerously back from her temple, black lips set deep into a frown.

Vaggie isn’t sure what she’s trying to accomplish when she says, “One child in comparison to thousands of souls.”

That brings Charlie down a tick. She takes a deep, annoyed breath through her nose, lets it out like a gunshot through her mouth, her fangs longer than usual. Behind the rage, behind the offense on Vaggie’s behalf, she can see morals warring against each other.

“You showed mercy,” Charlie says, slowly, her voice a touch less Wrath and a bit more Charlie. “And…?”

Vaggie hesitates. Does she… really want to make Charlie angrier? Will it make her angrier? Because, frankly, she… kind of deserved it. If anything, her loss of wings and eye is a pale, pale comparison to the souls she’s killed.

But Charlie did ask for honesty.

She gestures to her face. “Lute — my superior — cut out my eye.” Charlie’s breath escapes her nose in — is that smoke? Vaggie swallows and gestures to her back. “And. Uh. Ripped out my wings.”

It hurts, still. She has phantom pains frequently, and as it turns out, when she’s fighting… she might know they’re gone, but her body doesn’t. It only knows how to fight with wings, so it tries to pull them up, to bring forth them forth, to battle with everything it’s got. Vaggie has never known a life beyond that of a weapon, and now she’s a broken one, and her body doesn’t know what to do with that. The pain in her shoulders, the ache of her scars, is the scream of a weapon that remembers.

And it still doesn’t compare —won’t ever compare— to what she’s done.

Charlie’s palm flattens across her back, over her scars, the press of her hand insistent and purposeful. She’s warm, so warm, eyes still blazing red and gold, and Vaggie can’t help but sink into the soothing heat of her touch. If she’s destined to meet her fate this way, then there are worse ways to go.

“I can’t do much,” Charlie murmurs. “But I’m still the daughter of an angel.”

Never, in her life, has Vaggie felt such a pure outpouring of energy. And certainly not into herself. For a moment, she sees stars and supernovas, galaxies, entire lifetimes and worlds that she’ll never comprehend, all in the blink of an eye. And then it’s gone, and her back feels… better?

She stretches her shoulders. Rolls them, testing, and her brow furrows.

“Did—did you heal me?”

Charlie blinks and, finally, her eyes flicker back to their usual color. The horns stay; she must not feel like suppressing them. “Uh. Did it work?”

Vaggie’s head spins. By all accounts, she should be dead. She should be vaporized, because what demon, what Princess of Hell, learns that she’s been deceived and decides anything but execution is the correct answer? Why is she—what—

“I’ve killed so many of your people,” she says, because maybe if she says it plainly, if she spells it out, Charlie will get it. There is no way she’s this… this… about Vaggie if she fully understands. “I—there is so much blood on my hands, Charlie. I murdered—”

“I know.” It’s soft, so soft. Vaggie’s mouth snaps shut. Does she? “I can’t forgive that. Not… yet.” Not yet? As if there is some future point in time where she can? But Charlie is earnest, watching her with cautious determination as she continues. “But… I’d be a hypocrite, wouldn’t I, if I believed sinners can be reformed but not angels?”

“An Exorcist is hardly an angel,” Vaggie murmurs, something she has thought many times over the years but never dared say out loud. What kind of angel, what beacon of light, rains terror and agony on others?

Charlie’s mouth quirks. “Even closer to a sinner, then.” She pauses, her hand still stroking Vaggie’s back. “Did you… did you enjoy it?”

“No. Never. There’s no excuse for what I’ve done, but I… did it because I believed it was the right thing. My duty. My purpose. I was told that I was helping secure Heaven’s safety. That I was cutting off the potential for rebellion.” She hesitates; there is more to say, but at what point does explanation become manipulation? Honesty. She holds onto that and charges forward. “I… don’t know how many. Souls. I stopped counting, at some point. It made it easier to continue if I didn’t know…” It feels like cowardice, now. It must be. “But my count is in the thousands.”

She hums her acknowledgment but says nothing else for a while. When she speaks again, it’s a question, small and sad. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Vaggie falters. That’s… a valid, if complicated, question. It feels obvious to say things like, Charlie was a stranger, or a demon, or anything else. All of those are half-truths; of course she didn’t know Charlie very well, and a demon —a royal demon— might give anyone pause. But the truth of it is far, far more selfish.

She bares her heart when she says, “I didn’t want to lose you.” She waits a beat to see if Charlie will say anything to that. When she doesn’t, Vaggie continues. “Nobody has ever accepted me the way that you have. It was selfish but I just…” She waves helplessly, letting the sentence fade, and sighs.

Charlie is quiet for a long, long moment. She hums approvingly but says nothing, and the demon piece of her settles further, her horns slowly receding and her voice and breath returning to normal. The deep rumble in her chest fades to something softer; almost a purr, if she’s capable of such a thing. But she doesn’t move, only settles further into the sofa with Vaggie’s legs over her lap and her shoulder against Charlie’s chest, staring off into the distance in thoughtful contemplation. It might be the quietest Vaggie has ever seen her.

“Were you serious when you said you’d help out?”

Vaggie blinks. “Uh?”

“With the hotel,” Charlie clarifies, finally looking down at her, eyes brighter now, and wow she missed that sparkle. “Did you mean it? That you’d stay and help me?”

Is she…? No, she can’t be asking if Vaggie will stay. Because that would mean she’s… they’re… okay. That this, whatever it is between them, isn’t lost forever. That Charlie… accepts her. Just as she is. Her past bloody and her future uncertain, and no, she doesn’t dare hope for that. Hope is fragile, and Vaggie has never been good with fragile things.

In spite of herself, she breathes, “Yeah,” so softly it’s hardly a whisper and a terror she didn’t know she possessed lacing her voice.

Silence, again, for a few seconds. One beat. Two. And then Charlie smiles at her, soft and hopeful and gorgeous. “Well,” she murmurs, Vaggie’s breath stopping as Charlie presses their foreheads together affectionately, her hand cupping Vaggie’s cheek. “You’ll have some time to repent then, huh?”

That fragile, breakable hope blooms in her chest, drowning out everything she’s ever been and sowing the seeds for whatever she might become, and in the silence between them, Vaggie makes a silent, solemn vow. Heaven had their chance at her. They took everything she was and twisted it into something she never wanted to be. Whatever is left of her now belongs to Charlie. Her blade, her protection, the essence of herself. Her soul, should Charlie want it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, afraid that if she speaks too loudly she’ll break the spell between them and, maybe, wake up from this dream. She searches Charlie’s eyes, content and calm. They’re so close that it wouldn’t take much for her to lean up and pull Charlie down to claim that kiss they’d been rudely interrupted from before.

But they’ve only just laid everything out, and as much as she wants, Vaggie knows it’s best to let things settle, avoid pushing it. She’s lucky to have Charlie as a friend; she’s lucky to have anything at all after this conversation.

“If anyone can reform sinners, it’s you.”

Charlie beams at her, and she opens her mouth to say something when a confused, “Baa?” comes from the entrance. Razzle and Dazzle stand in what used to be the archway; Dazzle gestures to the now-caved-in wall with annoyed eyebrows and a more emphatic, “Baa?” and Charlie hisses in sympathy.

“Yeah, we uh… had an incident. We’re gonna have to fix that later.”

Razzle gives Vaggie a questioning look —one with a hefty innuendo there, since she’s still half sitting in Charlie’s lap— and she blushes. But she says nothing, and soon Charlie, Razzle and Dazzle’s conversation devolves into bickering, and the tension over them dissipates.

Heaven may not want her, but Vaggie has found it anew in Charlie.

Notes:

surprise! you get two chapters in one night. some kind of writing fiend overtook me here idk, this is like 5k done in roughly 3 hours. -shrug-

also, vaggie's religious trauma go brrrr

oh! i'm working on another couple fics c: one a proposal/wedding fic that may or may not include carmilla walking vaggie down the aisle as substitute mother (it definitely does) and the other an assassin!vaggie au (still set in Hellverse, just a little tweaked) c: currently still drafting/brainstorming but we're getting there

me: i'm sure this will take longer for them to work through
vaggie and charlie, fighting me every step of the way: shut up and let us KISS

Chapter 10: if we're sinners, it feels like heaven to me

Summary:

-drops this and runs- c:

i'm not dead but i *am* chronically ill and it's kicked my ass for the past ~week. i also used up all my energy going to a book event, meeting my fav author, and going to the beach and i am *paying for it* with pain and fatigue now 🫠

Vaggie answers all of her questions honestly, if a little uncomfortable. Most of Charlie’s questions are about her; how she was raised, was she ever a kid (yes, but in a child-soldier way, which makes Charlie want to set something on fire because how dare they), did she have pets (no — but there are angelic cats with too many eyes around, so she’d hang out with them sometimes). If she asked about Heaven itself, she’s fairly certain that Vaggie would answer those, too, but she just… doesn’t want to. She wants to know about Vaggie, not Heaven.

“What’re your wings like?” she asks one night, Vaggie settled into the opposite side of the couch with a book —one of the many, many encyclopedias Charlie has about Hell’s history— and Charlie facing her with one leg up. It’s useless to pretend she hasn’t been staring, but Vaggie is just — she’s so pretty.

She realizes her mistake a second later when Vaggie goes still. Sure, she’s never as animated as Charlie is, but they’ve been around each other long enough that Charlie can tell the difference between her usual, relaxed self and this… tension.

The anxiety kicks into overdrive before she can stop it, her mouth already running away with apologies. “Shit. I’m so sorry, that was so insensitive of me. Forget I asked — actually, forget I said anything, period. Do you want me to go? I can—”

Vaggie rolls her eye, dog-ears the book (which Charlie pointedly looks away from, because who does that) and snaps it shut. “Big.”

There’s the tiniest smile on her face, though, so… maybe this wasn’t the worst thing to ask. Hesitantly, she prods, “Like… arms-width big?”

Another beat of silence, and then Vaggie tilts her head, considering Charlie with a serious look in her eye. “Get up,” she says as she sets the book aside, the militaristic edge to her voice popping out. Something she hasn’t learned to soften yet, but that’s okay. It’ll be okay if she never does learn to soften it, because Charlie is, frankly, whipped. She scrambles to her hooves and when she crosses the lounge, she stops several feet back so that Vaggie doesn’t have to crane her neck to look up at her.

Only for Vaggie to half-snort, half-laugh and cross the distance herself. Charlie swallows hard; this close, she can see all the unique shades of gold in Vaggie’s eye. Liquid Heaven, if such a thing exists, and for this one blessed moment, Charlie has it all to herself.

She jumps a little when Vaggie nudges her wrists away from her body, but she lets Vaggie manipulate her arms into position, spread out entirely from her body. She doesn’t dare breathe. If she does, she’s much too close to avoid inhaling Vaggie’s scent, and there is some feral little beast inside her that already has a hard time with that. She sleeps facing the opposite direction now, specifically because of it, unless Vaggie has nightmares — because Charlie isn’t going to force her to sit with those by herself, even if she does stay up all night distracted by Vaggie’s breath on her neck as a result.

Vaggie takes a single step back, assesses Charlie’s arm span, and then steps in again. Her fingertips barely reach Charlie’s wrists.

Everything in Charlie positively hums with the closeness, her skin alight where Vaggie’s hands hover over the pulse points of her wrists. She should be ashamed of herself —they’re not even touching for fuck’s sake— but any ability to feel shame has vanished right along with the rest of Charlie’s brain.

“Yeah, this is about right,” she says with that quiet little smile Charlie has seen a few times now, always when it’s just the two of them, always directed at her. They must look ridiculous like this, face-to-face (well… sort of) with their arms out like they’re trying to intimidate each other, but all Charlie can see is the softness of Vaggie’s skin and her shimmery silver hair and her perfect nose — and the feral little beast finally wins.

She drops her arms, hands hovering awkwardly, and she has just enough restraint left to use her words, but not nearly enough to maintain any composure doing so. Her voice is strangled and raw, desperate, when she asks, “Can I kiss you?”

For a beat, the air between them stills and for one horrifying second, she thinks that maybe she overstepped, or read everything wrong, or something, because Vaggie’s smile drops. But then her hands slide from Charlie’s wrists all the way up, over her forearms and shoulders, under her hair to clasp just behind her neck. And then she tugs and pops up onto her toes, just like she did last week in front of the shop, and that’s all the answer Charlie needs.

Her hands settle on Vaggie’s waist like they’ve always belonged there, like they were made just to hold her, and when Charlie dips her head and Vaggie meets her halfway, she thinks that maybe her lips were made for Vaggie’s, too. Her mind goes blissfully quiet for the first time in a long time, nothing but sensation and affection and smiles into mouths. It’s languid, decadent almost, kissing for enjoyment’s sake, and at some point Vaggie has not only freed her hair from its ties but buried her hands in it, and Charlie could die happy right then.

When they finally pull away, foreheads pressed together, Charlie can’t resist pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose. Because she’s so fucking cute, a sentiment only amplified by the way her nose scrunches with the gesture.

Charlie’s mind never stays quiet for long. Particularly not when she finally has the chance to plan, to think, to— wait, does she? She might not kiss without purpose, but some people do, and it would be all kinds of awkward to go assuming it’s something more if it’s not.

She opens her mouth to clarify at the same time Vaggie whispers, “Go on a date with me,” into the space between their lips. It’s so quiet, and in that quietness Charlie can hear how fragile that hope is. How meaningful it is that Vaggie has asked at all, which just fuels the affection that’s been blooming in her chest since — probably since she found Vaggie, honestly.

“Yeah,” she breathes, nodding, and then adds, “I’d love to,” a moment later when she realizes that yeah might not convey just how badly she wants that.

She needs to see Vaggie’s face. Just to be sure, just so she knows it’s not her projection, not just her taking things in ways they shouldn’t be. Any doubts she might have fly straight out the window, though, because nobody has ever looked at her the way Vaggie is looking at her right now. Like she’s the center of the universe, like she could hang the stars in the sky if she tried. She can only hope her own expression reflects the same, because fuck is she starstruck by Vaggie.

They don’t say much else about it, but when they curl up on the sofa again, Vaggie settles into her arms to cuddle while she reads.

Notes:

charlie is either going to go balls to the wall over-the-top spoil-the-girl or very simple for that date and i have no idea which one is more likely yet lmfao. it's gonna be a surprise for all of us

this was another chapter that needed multiple drafts, because the first one had vaggie running off into hell bc of GuiltTM to get drunk at a bar and i just stared at it like ???? no.

sometimes u gotta rein the characters back in lmao

(that said, i'm absolutely storing that scene for future possibilities, because it's not particularly ooc but it *is* the wrong fit for this story)

Chapter 11: i'll be your armor

Summary:

Vaggie, briefly, attempts to plan a date. Turns out Charlie had every intention of doing the planning!

Vaggie spends the following day privately freaking out, because fuck, she asked the princess of Hell on a date, and she’s been down here all of six weeks and has no idea where to start looking. What a date looks like – she barely knows what Charlie likes to do. Shopping seemed to make her happy. And… cooking, although she isn’t great at it. She’s cute when she tries, though.

That’s not entirely true. She knows Charlie likes music; she hums under her breath more often than not, sings in the shower, and sometimes narrates whatever she’s doing lyrically. She likes dancing, arts and crafts, and connecting with people. 

But that doesn’t help her much, because she’s barely stepped foot outside the Hotel since she got here, and while she’s fully capable of dance —and reasonably good at it— she doesn’t like connecting with people. Doesn’t like trying, at least. Charlie has a resilience for rejection that Vaggie has never been able to stomach.

She’s lamenting her lack of options when Charlie plops down on the couch beside her, beams, and says, “Pick a number between one and five.”

Vaggie blinks, but plays along. “Three. Why?”

“Ooh, good choice,” Charlie nods, tapping something into her phone, and pauses. “We need to get you your own phone, huh? And it’s for date reasons!”

God, she’s cute, with her eyes bright gold and glimmering ruby, the corners of her mouth tipped up. Her hair catches the light and Vaggie swears it looks a bit like a halo. But… “Wait. I asked you out.”

“You did,” Charlie nods, not lifting her eyes from the screen. 

“And you agreed.”

“Mhm.”

“... Why are you doing the planning?”

Charlie does look at her, then, smiling brightly with a touch of confusion in her eyes when she tilts her head. Like a puppy. An adorable, royal, likely-dangerous-if-provoked puppy. “Because I want to?” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Vaggie can almost hear the gears turning in her head when she adds, “Unless you had something else you really wanted to do?”

Vaggie flounders for a minute. It feels ridiculous that she doesn’t have anything else planned, because she knows nothing about Hell beyond what she learned in Heaven, and she’s quickly discovered that some of that isn’t especially accurate. But she still hasn’t had the courage to go out alone to scout the area, learn anything by herself, and it feels like she should have had something prepared. Even if it was just dinner and a movie. She could have sent Razzle and Dazzle out – well, one of them; they’ve been hesitant to leave Vaggie and Charlie alone since the break-in– for supplies and done something simple. 

Charlie deserves more, though. Something fun and bright and flashy, something she’d really love. A musical, maybe. Are there musicals in Hell? There must be. There are musicals everywhere, and if Charlie exists down here, so must theatre nerds.

“... I didn’t,” she sighs, ashamed of herself. She’s already taken so much from Charlie; her time, her energy, her hospitality, her money. She’s hardly dated, but there are unspoken rules; things like equal effort and that the one who asks is the one who plans. They haven’t even had a first date yet, and she’s already failing miserably at this.

But Charlie just grins at her, bumping her knee against Vaggie’s affectionately, and in that moment, she’d move Heaven, Hell and Earth alike to just keep witnessing that grin. “Great! Because I have so many ideas!”

Between the sparkle in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks, her excitement melts some of Vaggie’s embarrassment, a fond smile making its way to her lips. “And do I get to know any of them?” she asks.

Charlie’s eyes flick down to her lips, the points of her canines showing when she bites her own, and then shakes her head to clear it. She looks like she has to actively restrain herself from staring at Vaggie’s lips again; she’s too cute. “How do you feel about surprises?”

Vaggie’s brow arches. Historically, surprises have been… less than great. Her most recent one cost her limbs and an eye, and even before that, most of them were unpleasant; surprise performance reviews, scathing critique of her form from Lute despite scoring record numbers of kills — she flinches internally at that; she doesn’t want to think about murder while staring into Charlie’s eyes.

She surprises herself when she says, “I don’t mind them.”

Whatever possessed her to say that, when Charlie’s eyes crinkle at the corners and she lets out a quiet little squeal, practically vibrating with fresh enthusiasm, she knows it’s true. A surprise from Charlie won’t leave her mortally wounded or doubting herself. Trust doesn’t come easy to her, but she trusts Charlie.

Charlie’s hands settle on her shoulders, eyes sparkly. “Then, no, you don’t get to know. You’ll just have to trust me.”

She honest-to-God winks, and it’s so fucking charming that Vaggie has to look away before she does something reckless like pounce on her. What is this girl doing to her? She coughs awkwardly, fist pressed against her mouth, and knows by the heat in her cheeks that she’s blushing something furious. She shoves Charlie with her foot and rolls her eyes. 

“Brat.”

It does her no favors. Charlie’s excited smile flashes wicked for a second, and Vaggie may not be the swooning sort but fuck. “Maybe,” she shrugs, winks again, and then she’s gone, bounding up the stairs, presumably to do more planning.

Vaggie forces down a few deep breaths and rubs the bridge of her nose with her fingers, mumbling a prayer to whoever is still listening that she doesn’t make an ass of herself. That she doesn’t ruin this fragile, new thing between them. Charlie is good and sweet and kind, and Vaggie doesn’t deserve her, but fuck if she won’t try to prove herself worthy anyway. 

 

⁂

 

Charlie springs more questions on her over the next few days –busy or quiet, night or day, formal or casual– but never anything specific enough to piece out what she’s planning. Vaggie finds that while she’s neutral to surprises in general, this one gives her the chance to exercise her intel skills. Puzzling through things, developing strategies, had been one of her favorite parts of… well. Before. 

She could likely find all of those answers easily by just looking at Charlie’s pinboard; she’s pored over it for the past several days and there’s no doubt in her mind that Charlie is using it to plan out the date, but that feels like cheating. 

Besides, she thinks as Charlie hums along to some unknown melody beside her, this is more fun.

“So,” she drawls, resting her cheek against Charlie’s shoulder, who freezes at the contact. Vaggie suppresses a smile; maybe it’s a little evil to distract her like this. “Are we going out for our date?”

“Mm…” Charlie hums, considering, before she glances down. Vaggie flutters her eyelashes innocently and gets a laugh in return, a pretty pink blush deepening the circles on her cheeks. “Depends on what you define as going out.”

Vaggie rolls her eye. “Are we leaving the building?”

There’s that ridiculous, cocky grin. “Yes and no.”

Vaggie groans. “It’s a yes or no question!”

“No, it’s a yes and no question.”

She narrows her eye; Charlie’s grin turns sweet and innocent. Vaggie chucks a throw pillow at her. “You’re the worst.”

Charlie gasps, affronted, hand on her chest, and turns toward Vaggie, her other arm draped over the back of the sofa. Even sitting, she’s so much taller that she still has to look down to catch Vaggie’s eye. There’s a flash of a memory —Adam settled next to her, absolutely dwarfing her as he loomed over her, and the flutter of her heartbeat when she tried to avoid looking up at him— and she blinks.

Her pulse is steady, and when she looks up, she isn’t afraid to meet Charlie’s gaze. There’s mirth in it, but there is no cruelty wrapped in her soft chuckle. There is a demon towering over her, and she feels safer here than she ever did with an angel.

“You must have terrible taste, then, since you asked me out,” Charlie says, reaching forward to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, and Vaggie’s breath catches. She must take it as concern, though, because she withdraws her hand immediately. “Sorry. Still haven’t had that boundaries talk and—” she chews her lip, pale teeth stark against her black lip, and looks down as she fidgets with her hands.

She’s so warm. It must be a byproduct of her heritage, of being Hellborne; growing up here must require its own adaptations, but she’s so warm and Vaggie has always run a little cold, and if she could burrow into Charlie’s soul she might just do it. She clears her throat.

“No, no, that’s — that’s okay.” Christ, her eyelashes are so long when she glances at Vaggie through them, her head ducked. They’ve danced awkwardly around each other since the kiss, the air charged with want and nerves. She has no idea what Charlie’s reasoning for it is, but Vaggie is trying to be respectful. To take things slow.

And, maybe, she’s a little scared. “I mean,” she continued, licking her lips nervously. “I did kiss you.”

“Well—yeah,” Charlie nods, a little too quickly, searching her face. “But—” A huff, a sigh, and she rubs the back of her neck to dispel some of her own nerves. It’s cute as fuck. “I haven’t… dated anyone in a while. And when I did — Hell isn’t as strict as Earth ever was, but customs still trickle down, you know? I haven’t courted anyone seriously since…” Her brow furrows and she glances down, counting on her fingers as she thinks, and all Vaggie can focus on is how she says courted like she’s from the fifteenth century. “The fifties? Probably? And if you asked sinners of the time, this—” Charlie gestures to the inches of space between them. “Would be scandalous. Never mind that we kissed before the first date.”

Vaggie blinks. That was… not what she expected. “You haven’t been on a date in sixty years?”

“Oh, no, I’ve been on dates,” she waves her hand and sighs. “Nothing ever stuck. A lot of them were…” She trails off, thinking, and her tone feels a bit too polite when she says, “… Political.”

Ah. Right. Princess of Hell. “And here I thought nobody cared about your status.”

“For the most part, nobody does,” she shrugs, her voice pitching lower, and that ever-present smile falters a little. Vaggie resists the urge to reach out, distract her from whatever she’s thinking about, because this feels important. “Not worth entertaining a naive dreamer just for a shot at a status boost. But occasionally, someone would be willing to… tolerate it. Ignore it, really. They’d put up with my antics for a few dates but, inevitably, they’d get sick of me.” She doesn’t look at Vaggie when she says the last part: “A couple of them fooled me into thinking they thought otherwise.”

There’s a heaviness in it that feels significant. Charlie is rarely serious and it doesn’t suit her, but if she’s learned anything about Charlie over the last month, it’s that she is far more complex than anyone gives her credit for. And the idea that anyone —everyone, apparently— has thought otherwise leaves a bitterness in her mouth and a spark of rage in her veins. When she reaches out to grasp Charlie’s hand, she startles, just a little, and her eyes snap to Vaggie’s.

“You deserve more than someone who tolerates you,” she says, imploring Charlie to believe her with her eyes, to see that she likes Charlie’s earnestness as she laces their fingers together. Charlie’s eyes go doe-wide, soft and sweet and a little startled. “Being able to see the positives in things isn’t a — a weakness. Fuck, if anything that’s a strength down here. You grew up in literal Hell and you can still find the good in things.”

For a moment, they’re both quiet, Charlie staring at her in utter stillness; she might have stopped breathing. Vaggie isn’t sure. And then she bites down hard on her lip and her eyes go watery, and Vaggie gets roughly three seconds of warning there before she’s crying, actually crying, different from the tears she shed when Vaggie told her she’d help her run the hotel but so, so similar.

She sits there, squeezing Vaggie’s hand like a lifeline, her other hand pressed to her mouth in what looks like a desperate attempt to maintain some of her composure, and Vaggie tugs her in.

That’s all it takes for the dam to break. God only knows how long Charlie has held onto this, but she collapses into Vaggie and wraps herself up in her, as if holding her is all that’s anchoring her to the world, and buries her face in the crook of Vaggie’s neck.

Vaggie lets her cry and cards her fingers through Charlie’s hair, presses her lips to the top of her head and murmurs reassurances to her, and it takes every scrap of self-restraint she has to keep herself from plotting murder against the fucks who broke Charlie like this. She’s resilient, yes, but it’s still haunting her and that is unacceptable.

She’s not sure how long they stay like that. At some point they shift into a more comfortable position, Charlie’s cheek against her shoulder, her breath against Vaggie’s neck and one leg over Vaggie’s. The sofa definitely isn’t meant for two people, but it still feels comfortable. And if she can give Charlie even a fraction of the safety she’s bestowed on Vaggie, she can deal with her arm falling asleep.

Charlie eventually quiets, breath evening out and tears drying up, and she’s silent for a long time. She traces patterns absently in the strip of skin exposed by Vaggie’s shirt riding up.

When she shifts, she presses her face against Vaggie’s throat and heaves a deep, deep sigh; the sort that Vaggie has breathed when she’s trying to let some deep-seeded emotional turmoil go.

“I’m going to take you on the best date,” she finally says, soft in the silence between them.

And it’s so ridiculous and so Charlie that Vaggie can’t help but giggle. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Notes:

me, staring at charlie: oh it's adorable
charlie: -starts sobbing-
me: OH IT'S TRAUMATIZED

charlie baby i'm so sorry i promise i love u T.T

Chapter 12: you want to guide the believer? (yes)

Summary:

Charlie and Vaggie's first date! They talk about a lot of things; Vaggie gets a better look behind the cracks in Charlie's optimism.

cw: implied prior coercion/being shamed into intimacy. nothing graphic or even specifically detailed but take care of yourself <3

⁂

She wakes the following morning to a note on the pillow next to her.

Five o ’clock sharp, tonight! Wear something comfy <3

P.S.: There ’s a surprise for you on my desk! <3 <3 <3

- Your Not-So-Secret Admirer

 

Vaggie is not a morning person, but the note is enough to force her out of bed within minutes of waking up. She’s half-asleep and bleary-eyed still as she shuffles down the hall toward Charlie’s room. The nightmares have slowed down enough that she’s started sleeping in her own room, and while it’s a good thing —and Charlie likely appreciates having her own space back— she still doesn’t love it. The dark isn’t quite as terrifying anymore, and she’s getting used to sleeping fully alone, but…

She knocks and waits a moment, and when there’s no answer, she turns the handle. The door still creaks when she pushes it open, and she makes a mental note to oil the hinges. There has to be something for them somewhere in the Hotel. Maybe there’s a storeroom.

A small, neatly-wrapped box sits on the corner of Charlie’s desk, wrapped in garishly bright colors that only she would have come up with. She’s also doodled herself on the top of it making a hear with her hands, and Vaggie melts. Who gave her the right to be so precious? How is she even real?

Vaggie pulls the wrapping paper apart carefully, cutting the drawing out of the wrapper to save. No way is that going in the trash; if she can find one, she’s going to frame it. Until then it can live in her nightstand’s drawer where it will be safe. She sets it aside to examine the box; it looks expensive, like one of those nice gift boxes fancy jewelers use in Heaven. There must be some down here in Hell, too, and they must have some quality things. She ignores the bolt of alarm at the back of her head; the one that tells her she’s still just taking.

Another note greets her when she opens the box. This one is shorter.

 

Your hair ’s getting longer. I thought you might like this! <3

- C

 

Vaggie frowns and reaches up to touch it. Huh. It is getting longer; it’s well past her jaw now. It hadn’t grown in Heaven… was that by design? A sort of stasis?

… Is she… turning into something else down here?

She holds the card in one hand and looks at Charlie’s pretty, looping cursive and exclamation point dotted with a heart, and decides it’s not worth dwelling on today.

The surprise in the box is a hair bow, shimmering off-red silk that feels seamless and smooth. She almost drops it back into the box; she’s never bought anything of this quality, but it must have been pricey. It feels like a luxury, one that Vaggie has never afforded herself and hadn’t expected to be given in Hell. For a single, brief, panicked moment, the sickening thought that perhaps Charlie is trying to buy her affection knocks the breath out of her lungs.

But then she thinks of last night, with a devastated princess sobbing into her neck, and with a harsh breath she shakes it off. The guilt lingers —she’d like to spoil Charlie the way she’s being spoiled— but the doubt dissipates, and that’s good enough.

She puts the lid back on the box, grabs the note and the cute little drawing, and brings them both back to her room.

The rest of the day is spent fixing odd small things around the Hotel. Dazzle shows her where the cleaning closet is, and she does find some oil in it. It’s roughly as old as time and the spray mechanism is rusted over, but she eventually gets it to work with only a minor stain to the carpet. Once the door is silent again, she moves on to other odd jobs; she reorganizes the spice rack, tosses some old food in the fridge, dusts some of the lower surfaces —her shoulders complain about that— and even musters the courage to venture outside. It’s just up the driveway to check the mail, and Dazzle accompanies her, but it’s a start.

She gets ready around four, and there is a single, obvious choice for her outfit.

The dress is a looser fit than she’s used to — skirts are part of the Exorcist uniform, but they’re tight enough not to get stuck on things and most of them wore shorts underneath. She considers the same, then promptly dismisses the idea and consults the rest of her wardrobe. Since their trip, she’s amassed enough clothes to have some variety, a couple pairs of shoes, and a very basic makeup kit.

She adjusts a few things, checks the mirror, adjusts again, and eventually settles on the sundress —a dark, cool gray with some red trim, which isn’t exactly sundress-colored, but whatever—, a black choker she picked up from a booth on the street, and a bracelet. And then it’s between socks or… stockings. She stands in front of the two pairs, debating for far longer than she should have to, and finally grabs the stockings.

It’s a date. She can afford to dress up — and, truthfully… she’d bought both the dress and stockings because, whether she admitted it at the time or not, she had hoped she might get to dress up for Charlie someday.

As it turned out, someday was closer than she thought.

She consults the mirror again with five minutes left until five o’clock and stands there, hands on her hips, feeling like she’s forgotten something.

The bow.

When she checks the mirror for the last time, it finally feels right. The bow actually ties everything together nicely, and it is helping her keep some of her newly-long loose strands out of her face. It’s just casual enough to be comfortable, but still leaps and bounds dressier than Charlie’s seen her yet.

She makes her way down the stairs just as the door opens, Charlie chattering about something with Razzle, who sees Vaggie first, stops, bleats, and tugs Charlie’s pant leg while pointing.

And fuck does Charlie look good. She’s swapped out her usual suit for a loose, burgundy silk shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows and —Lord save Vaggie— a neckline deep enough that she can just see the clasp of Charlie’s bra under it, tucked into black-and-gray pinstriped slacks. And her hair — her hair is down. Fucking Hell.

At least Charlie seems similarly starstruck; she’s staring at Vaggie with wide, adoring eyes, and that’s enough to draw her back into the moment. “You — you look nice,” she manages hands clasped in front of her. What is wrong with her? It feels like all the breath has been knocked out of her lungs.

Charlie clears her throat, nodding as she gestures to Vaggie and bites her lip. “You look amazing,” she breathes, and then beams. “You’re wearing the bow!”

Heat climbs up Vaggie’s neck. She must be all but glowing gold. “Well, yeah, you seemed so excited about it,” she laughs, stubbornly not looking at Charlie’s exposed chest. She probably could —there’s a very good chance Charlie wore this specifically for that reason— but this is a first date and she is going to be respectful, damn it.

That said…

“You got this from the same place, didn’t you?” she asks, brow quirked as she tugs Charlie’s sleeve gently. It feels exactly the same as the bow in her hair. Charlie flushes and rubs the back of her neck, looking down at the ground as she scuffs her hoof, and it’s the cutest goddamn thing Vaggie has seen. She’s quickly realizing that everything Charlie does is the cutest.

“I can change if you want,” she says quickly, glancing at Vaggie through her too-thick, too-dark lashes, words already spilling out in that nervous rambling tone she gets. “But I saw the bow and then I saw the shirt and they were advertised as kind of a pair, which is a little bizarre, but the bow reminded me of you because you’re so sweet and soft and I just thought… it’d be kinda cute to match?”

She says it so hopefully, biting her lip with a deep blush across her cheeks, that even if Vaggie did mind, she wouldn’t be able to say no. But she hadn’t minded to begin with, and all it does is send her pulse galloping and butterflies straight to her stomach.

“I don’t mind at all.” They still haven’t actually talked about boundaries — but they’ve kissed, and Charlie spent a good chunk of last night crying on her, so it doesn’t feel particularly risky when she steps forward and pops up on her toes, one hand on the back of Charlie’s neck to pull her down, so that she can kiss her cheek. “I love it, and you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

Charlie’s blush turns scarlet. “Oh. Um — good. I’m glad. You too.” Maybe it’s a little mean to short-circuit her date like this, but it’s so fucking cute. After a moment, Charlie clears her throat again and, finally, properly looks at her, megawatt smile back with her pointy, gleaming teeth on full display. It should be frightening. It’s not. Actually, Vaggie might be… a little more than excited about those teeth. “Ready to go?”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” she retorts, but tucks her hand into Charlie’s offered elbow anyway.

Charlie grins. “Do you trust me?”

She’s never trusted anyone more in her life. “Yeah.”

“You’re gonna like it. I hope.” She glances down at Razzle. “Ready?”

Vaggie is given roughly one minute to be confused when Razzle nods and darts out the door. Vaggie watches in half-horror, half-fascination as he sheds his tux, shakes off like a dog, and starts to… change. His goatish features disappear and his wings grow, and suddenly there is a fucking dragon standing in the driveway. A huge, off-red dragon with a pale face and gleaming yellow eyes.

Charlie reaches over and, very gently, closes Vaggie’s mouth for her with one finger under her chin.

“They turn into dragons?” she asks, incredulous, impressed, and just the tiniest bit freaked out.

“Yeah!” Charlie chirps, briefly slipping her arm out of Vaggie’s to grab a… basket? “Why do you think they’re my bodyguards?”

“I…” Honestly, she had assumed they were mostly for show. “… guess I thought they had guns?”

“Oh.” Charlie’s brow furrows. “Well, they do, but this is their full form. C’mon.” She sets the basket down in front of Razzle, who picks it up in his mouth before bowing low enough for Charlie to hop up onto his back. When she holds her hand out to Vaggie, Vaggie hesitates, and her smile softens. “I used to go flying with them all the time as a kid. It’s safe, I promise. And most demons can’t fly, so air traffic is minimal.”

That isn’t what she’s afraid of. Some part of her is scared of what it will feel like to be in the air again. She’s afraid that she’ll miss it, and she’s equally afraid that she won’t.

She grabs Charlie’s hand.

Charlie hoists her up like she weighs nothing and lets her get settled, then wraps her arms around Vaggie’s waist, her warmth seeping into Vaggie’s bones like a bonfire. Her breath fans across Vaggie’s ear when she rests her chin on her shoulder, and Vaggie shivers.

“Alright, we’re good!” she says to Razzle, just loud enough for him to hear but considerate of her voice in Vaggie’s ear.

There’s a moment, right before takeoff, that the world slows. Vaggie knows it well; a clean takeoff takes a bit of calculation and a good gust of wind. There is an instant, right after, where everything feels weightless. Where the world melts away and there is only air under wings and the current’s guidance. Razzle’s wings are leathery, not feathered, and his wingstrokes are both louder and different than her own were, but… if she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend.

They’re quiet for a few moments as Razzle climbs higher, until he finds a good current —Vaggie feels it too, some deep instinctual knowledge pulling her toward it— and swaps active flight for soaring. It’s impressive that he can manage it without feathers; some of the Exorcists even struggled with it.

Charlie nudges her, cheek-to-cheek, and Vaggie opens her eyes. “Look.”

She follows where Charlie is pointing. Pentagram city passes underneath them; Vaggie finally understands where it got its name. And, from up here, it looks so much different. The sky is still red and the city lights still sparkle, but it’s almost…

“I wanted to show you what I see,” Charlie says, softly, her voice holding that rare somberness. “How pretty it can be. It’s not Heaven —far from it— but… this is my home. I grew up in Hell, but Pride specifically is…” she trails off, thinking. “It’s mine, you know?”

Vaggie thought she knew. She thought she understood what ‘home’ meant, what ‘hers’ meant.

Hell is starting to feel like home. Charlie is starting to feel like home.

“It’s nice,” she agrees, placing her hand over Charlie’s on her stomach. “Being up this high without wings is weird.”

“Shit,” Charlie mutters. “I should’ve asked. I thought about it, and then I got so wrapped up in planning that it slipped my mind, and—”

Vaggie smiles, turning her head so that she can kiss Charlie’s cheek again. “No, it’s nice. I missed it. Flying was like breathing, and it’s been hard adjusting to a life without it.” She chews her lip, squeezing Charlie’s hand again. “Thank you.”

Charlie makes an odd, please trill, nuzzles the curve of her shoulder, and they’re quiet the rest of the flight.

Razzle sets them down on a cliff edge with deep burgundy grass, which is a bit jarring, since grass everywhere else is green, but she shouldn’t be surprised. Everything in Hell seems to be shades of red, and there’s so little light down here that it makes sense for any plants to have adapted.

“This is the highest peak in Hell,” Charlie says as she helps Vaggie down from Razzle, and then takes the basket from him. “I used to come up here a lot.”

There’s more to it than she’s saying. Vaggie waits patiently and helps her unfold the blanket she brought. “A picnic?”

“Yeah!” Charlie grins. “I brought a bunch of snacks and my laptop. There’s a few movies on it, mortal and Hellmade, if we want to watch something. Or we can just talk.” When she turns back to Razzle, she scratches his cheek. “Thanks, bud. We’ll see you at home. Guard the house for me.”

He nods, gives Vaggie his best approximation of a smile in this form, and then takes off back toward the Hotel. “And we’re getting back…?”

“Teleporting.” Charlie glances at her. “If that’s okay? Or I can text Razzle to pick us up later.”

Charlie with blood-red eyes and horns and a tail, the embodiment of raw power, pops up in her mind and she shakes her head. “No, no. That’s good. I’m — yeah. That’s fine.” She just might be uncomfortably turned on by the time they get back.

When she looks out from the cliff, Pentagram City is a blip on the horizon. From here, though, a few more towns pop up; smaller things, clusters of light with a few twisting roads to connect them. She had never realized how big the Pride ring really is. It’s beautiful, in its own way, like Charlie said.

“You said you came up here a lot before?”

“Mhm.” Charlie sets the basket down and produces a couple of pillows and an additional blanket, patting the spot next to her when she sits down. Vaggie follows her, knees tucked under herself. Charlie looks so… soft. She often does, but more often than not, it comes with a lot of excitement. Which she adores, but there’s something special in getting to see her relaxed like this. “When I had a lot on my mind or just—” she waves her hand vaguely. “—needed a break.”

“I had a spot like that,” Vaggie says, slowly, watching Charlie for any indication she doesn’t want to hear about… that. About Heaven. But she only tilts her head, silently urging Vaggie to continue. “It’s hard to explain, but there are these… pocket dimensions, I guess? They’re scattered across Heaven. They’re supposed to be inaccessible, but I was upset one day —can’t remember why, probably a bad critique during training— and while I was out, I got sucked into one accidentally.” Charlie’s brows lift, but she says nothing. She’s just curious, eager to learn. “It was nice, though. Knowing that nobody would be able to find me there. It was easy enough to get back out, but it became a safe space. I’d go there sometimes to write, or dance, or—”

“You write?” Charlie interrupts, flushes and smiles apologetically. “Sorry. Continue.”

Vaggie laughs. “Sometimes. Haven’t lately.” Hell is so goddamn warm. “Is there anything to drink in there?”

“Um, obviously?” Charlie grins, handing her a bottle of water. “I have like… six different things in there. I couldn’t remember your favorite.”

It’s sweet of her, but Vaggie’s favorite beverage probably doesn’t exist down here. Cloud sprinkles aren’t exactly common in Hell. She drinks, and feels a little less dehydrated, and has just capped the bottle when Charlie asks —so softly, so hesitantly— “Do you… miss it?”

It takes a minute for her to understand. And it takes longer to come up with an answer, because with Charlie watching her like that, like she wants the best for Vaggie and wants what would make her happy, but a clear hesitation in her eyes as if she wants to hear the opposite… she isn’t sure.

There is a spot in Hell’s sky that the portal opens into for the Exterminations. If she squints, she can almost see it.

“Sometimes,” she says, finally. “I miss… knowing I had a purpose.”

It isn’t what she meant to say. She meant to say something superficial, like that she missed the clouds or the light or hell, the cleanliness. Something that wouldn’t expose the empty, broken pieces of her existence to the girl she’s quickly falling for. She covers it with a laugh, fakes a smile. “And the rainbows, obviously.”

But when she looks over, Charlie isn’t laughing with her. She’s just watching, studying Vaggie, as if she’s a puzzle to be pieced together. She feels all at once seen and understood, open and raw and aching in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Charlie sighs and lays down, staring up at the red sky. “Would you ever want to go back?”

And that is the million-soul question, isn’t it? One she’s kicked around her own mind, trying to figure the answer out for herself. She had a purpose in Heaven, yes, but… was it a good one? It doesn’t seem like it; she hurt people. She killed people. And when she dared show mercy, that was enough to strip her of everything she’d ever been and cast her down to suffering and, presumably, her doom.

And then, she met a bubbly demon who makes her heart sing and is unlike anyone she’s ever met. Who doesn’t mind that sometimes she’s more withdrawn than others, that she can be a bit abrasive, and accepts that her past is soaked in blood.

Maybe she doesn’t have a purpose anymore, but would she even want it now?

“I don’t think so,” she says, finally, tasting the words for the first time. “I miss it, but… I don’t think I was happy.” She joins Charlie on the blanket to stare at the sky.

Charlie hums beside her. “You can’t be much happier here. I love this place and I love my people, but it’s objectively pretty bad,” she laughs.

And then Charlie grabs her hand and turns toward her, and Vaggie does the same — and right there in Charlie’s eyes, she finds it. The very happiness and sense of belonging that she’s chased for decades and never caught.

Her voice is barely a whisper when she says, “I think I am.” It sounds so goddamn sappy in her head, but her heart talks before she can tell it otherwise. “You make me happy.”

She rubs her thumb over the back of Charlie’s hand in small circles, watching the way her eyes flicker, her pupils dilating. God, she’s pretty, golden hair splayed out behind her like strands of sunlight and eyes bright and intense.

She doesn’t know who moves first, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that kissing Charlie feels so right; the way she sighs happily into Vaggie’s mouth and cups her jaw with her hand, the way she falters and then kisses a little harder when Vaggie buries one hand in her hair and grazes her throat with the other. And when she tugs, just slightly, just testing on that glorious golden mane, the sound Charlie makes —a deep, guttural groan in the back of her throat— feels like it could ruin her. Particularly when Charlie rolls her onto her back, propping herself up half-over Vaggie with her elbow to box her in, and that kiss turns almost feverish.

Charlie pulls away just long enough to whisper against her lips, “You make me happy, too,” and for Vaggie to grab a sip of air before she dips her head again. It’s more teeth and tongue this time, sharp canines nipping Vaggie’s lower lip, the slight sting of it sending shockwaves of pleasure through her, and fuck, she can’t think but she needs to feel skin, now. Her hands are shaky as she tugs Charlie’s shirt free of her pants, her fingertips finally settling on warm —hot— skin, skin so soft it feels unreal as she traces up the curve of Charlie’s waist, her spine, her shoulders.

Charlie gives her mouth a break to trail her lips down Vaggie’s jaw, pressing softer kisses there, dragging small sounds out of her, all the way down the column of her throat until she finds the spot where her neck and shoulder meet — and she bites.

It isn’t particularly hard, more of a nip, teeth holding skin, but the sound it tears out of Vaggie is obscene. Whatever control she’s maintained on her own impulses snaps as she cranes her head back to give Charlie better access, nails clawing at Charlie’s back like an animal.

“Fuck,” Charlie mutters against her throat, voice a low rumble so unlike her usual tone, the vibration of it just intensifying the feeling. She drags her lips up slightly, to a spot just under Vaggie’s ear, and — teeth, again, a little harder, and Christ, she didn’t know she had a thing for biting but holy shit does she ever, and that one will definitely leave a mark but she can’t bring herself to care. Her hands rake down Charlie’s back —distantly, she thinks she should feel bad about marring such perfect skin— and Charlie makes that same sound against her throat again.

She’s going to fucking combust just from making out at this rate, and while nobody has ever kissed her the way Charlie kisses her, that feels unacceptable. She drags her hands away from Charlie’s back —an incredibly difficult feat, considering Charlie is still nipping the soft parts of her throat— to slide them over her front instead, over the soft plane of her stomach and up.

Charlie freezes. It takes a second for her brain to catch up, her breathing to restore some functionality of reasoning, but she pauses too, her palms flat against Charlie’s ribs. She’s so soft.

And so quiet.

Her voice is a little hoarse when she turns her head, Charlie’s mouth still resting against her neck — just resting. “You okay?”

A beat of silence, of stillness, just long enough for Vaggie to start wondering if she fucked up badly, and then Charlie pulls back, far enough to look down at her. Her brows are furrowed, her teeth sunk into her lips. Vaggie is distracted by them, briefly, until she puts those separate features together; Charlie is worried. Anxious? And — oh. Her eyes, blood red with golden irises, and her horns — Vaggie removes her hands from under Charlie’s shirt, settles one on her waist and traces her finger along one of those glorious horns with her other.

Charlie swallows, hard, eyes flickering red-yellow-red-yellow. When they solidify back to their normal color, she gives Vaggie a small, apologetic smile.

“Um,” she starts, voice small. Scared. Shit, did Vaggie actually fuck up here? “Is it—do you mind if—” She cuts off, makes a frustrated sound, and tries again. “I just—”

“Charlie,” Vaggie says, softly enough that she can keep talking if she wants to. But she snaps her mouth shut, almost… ashamed? And looks away. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“No, believe me, I want to,” Charlie sighs. “But…” Her horns have started to recede. They’re pretty; maybe she can encourage Charlie to let them out a little more often, if she doesn’t have a strong preference either way. Maybe when it’s just the two of them. “Can we just… take things a little slow?”

She asks like she’s afraid of the answer. Like she’s had a reason to be afraid of the answer, and Vaggie’s blood boils.

“Of course.” She cups Charlie’s cheek and coaxes her down, so that Charlie can see her face when she speaks. So that she knows she means it when she says, “As slow as you want.”

Charlie searches her face, looking for something. Vaggie hopes she finds it, but she still sighs and rests her forehead against Vaggie’s collarbone. “I’m sorry. I just—”

There’s a story here, and Vaggie wants nothing more than to listen if Charlie wants her to. But… “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I meant it. I don’t mind. Like, yes, you’re incredibly hot and I’m sure it’ll be good, but I can wait.” She shrugs. “And if it never happens, that’s fine too.”

That gets Charlie’s attention. Her head shoots up, brow furrowed even deeper. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I’ll end up with an arsenal of sex toys, but yes.” Charlie snorts a laugh at that. “I like you. I like spending time with you. I—” She pauses, chews her lip, and says fuck it, because if Charlie’s being vulnerable then she has no excuse not to be. “You make me feel like I’m worth something. That’s more important than sex, to me.” A beat. Two. Charlie’s eyes go watery.

“You’re amazing,” she breathes, and kisses Vaggie again. Softer, just a brush of her lips. It’s chaste, sweet. “For the record, I really do want to. I just have,” she mutters something Vaggie doesn’t catch, and shifts off of Vaggie to lay on her stomach, head turned toward her. “—stuff.”

Vaggie joins her, turning over to bump her head against Charlie’s shoulder before she lays down to rest her chin on her crossed arms. “Well, I’m happy to wait.”

When she glances up, Charlie’s eyes are a little less haunted, and her brow is a little smoother. Vaggie hopes she never finds whoever put those doubts on her, because she’s not sure she’d be able to hold herself back from eviscerating them.

“The sun sets over there,” Charlie says after a moment, nodding to the direction they’re facing. “It’s part of why I loved coming here. Nothing like a nice sunset to make you and your problems feel a little smaller.”

And she’s right; the sun sets, and the usual bright blood-red of the sky mellows into something almost orange, and then deep burgundy, splashing the sky with vibrancy. When Vaggie glances over at Charlie, the warm tones reflecting in her eyes, she sees how much love and wonder she still has for this place.

And, maybe, Vaggie starts to love it a little bit more, too.

Notes:

so i originally wrote this and ch 11 together and then very quickly realized 7k words dumped into a single chapter was too many. and this is 4.5k by itself so it's still *chonky* but this was the best i could do for a split lol.

anyway. prime example of "i'm literally just here to type the words but they're steering the story." my girls got TRAUMA.

idk man i just -- i think most of charlie's optimism is who she is, but some of it is just... coping. i love her and i think she's also been very hurt in the past and deserves someone who won't hurt her any more (vaggie <3)