Applemouse

by BigAwesomeWatermelon

Summary:

Charlie has a pattern of behavior that Vaggie is intimately familiar with.

Chapter 1

Notes:

So,
I rewrote Charlie and Vaggie's first meeting.
Also changed the dynamics of their relationship a bit, in a way that I hope 1) is believable for them and 2) makes them a little less boring than they are in canon.

Things are always chaotic after the Exterminations. People are screaming, sobbing, and cheering as the countdown resets. Fireworks crack across the sky just as Charlie opens the doors of her newest project. Checking to see how it held through.

It needs a lot of work, but she knew that when she bought it. It was an apartment complex, she thinks. It doesn't really matter, it was abandoned a long time ago. Its only residents have been squatters and applemice in the decades since. The whole third level needs the floor replaced. Along with the walls, wiring, and plumbing throughout.

People have already told Charlie it'll be more trouble than it's worth, that'd be easier to demolish and start over. But she doesn't let any of that dissuade her. This beautiful old building deserves care, easy has never been her goal, and she has plans for her Sinners and for Hell.

The air in the lobby is uncomfortably hot, stuffy, and thick with dust. It's dark. There are a lot of windows on the ground floor, but more than half of them are boarded or tarped up. It's enough to test the limits of Charlie's vision. Her phone flashlight doesn't light up much. She writes a note on her phone to bring a real  flashlight next time.

There's a broken table blocking the way to what may have been an old meeting room. Charlie isn't sure what it used to be actually, but she wants to check it out.

When she goes to move the table a bit to the side, her hand lands in something stuck under one of its legs.

She yanks her hand back. “What the shit?! ” It's a black, congealed mess. It barely releases her from the splintered wood when she pulls. It doesn't budge when she tries to shake it off, pulling heavily on her skin.

Yeah, fuck that , she's not going to be doing anything else here without help. And a light. And gloves .

Back outside, behind the hotel, about a block away in a narrow alley, Charlie crouches beside the first tap she finds. She turns the crank and cheers under her breath when the water starts spraying out. And starts trying to wash whatever this is  off.

It doesn't want to wash off. Instead it clings to her skin and hardens under the cool water. She sighs and settles for peeling the now-solid mass off. It takes a few pieces of skin with it. Stings l ike Here . But a good rub with her other hand heals up the cuts just fine.

Charlie looks down at the small river she's sent flowing down the pavement and spots a trail of blood. It's not the red blood of a Sinner, like she unfortunately has to expect after an Extermination. Not black hellblood, which would be normal any other day, but the political implications of that right now…

It's golden, Angelic ichor dripped across the pavement, soaking into the ground where it pooled, and leading up into an even narrower alleyway. Interesting.

But not unheard of. In the centuries since the War and the Fall, Heaven's thrown more of Her castoffs Hell's way. Not many, but a couple.

There haven't been any in the past couple hundred years, though. Charlie'd figured they changed their education program Upstairs or something.

But it's just efficient to throw one away after an Extermination, when they're already Here, right?

Charlie follows the trail and finds her.

The poor Angel sits on the ground, with her knees up and her face hidden as she cries silently, her shoulders shuddering. Gold covers the front of her body, soaking into her clothes and into the gravel she sits on. A concerning amount of it.

Charlie isn't sure if Angels can die of blood loss. It's not like they ever drained any of the Fallen to check, but she at least knows it isn't good for them.

Charlie calls out, “Hey there.” And the poor thing tries to curl further in on herself when she hears. Charlie takes a deep breath and gets down on the ground across from her. Puts them at the same height. The rough gravel digs into her legs uncomfortably. She can't imagine how the poor girl must feel, she has almost nothing on her  legs.

“Hey, it's okay.” Easy, soft, gentle. “I'm Charlie. Can you tell me your name?” The Angel looks up at her, slowly, covering the left side of her face with her hand. She says something, and Charlie's so caught off guard by it she repeats aloud, “ Vagy ?”

“No, Vag gie .” Charlie's pretty sure that's not what she said the first time, but she chooses to forget about it.

“Okay, Vaggie. You're bleeding a lot. Can you move your hand for me so I can have a look?”

“No.” Charlie was hoping Vaggie wouldn't say that, but she can't say it's that surprising.

She sighs. “I need to see it so I can help you.”

Vaggie glares at her with her uncovered eye, her left hand still cupped tightly to the left side of her face. Then she looks down, to the side, at…

Charlie tracks the gaze herself, spotting the spear half-buried in the gravel beside Vaggie.

They gave the poor girl a weapon to defend herself. How noble.

She tries again. “I don't want to hurt you. I just want to help.”

Vaggie keeps glaring. “It's ugly.”

Charlie nods. “I've seen worse, I promise.”

---

Vaggie ducks into an empty room to check her text message. Before Angel Dust has the chance to see and give her shit about her phone again. She's not interested in trying to explain it to him.

“Screens eat my self control” would make Vaggie sound like a child or an addict, whichever's worse. “It's what Charlie got me” or “I only use it to talk to Charlie anyway” would both be worse. They'd make Charlie sound controlling. She's not.

There's no good answer.

Vaggie stands across from the door, her right side pointed towards it, and flips her phone open.

• You can call me now.

Vaggie feels most of the tension leave her body. She hits the call button before thinking. As soon as Charlie answers the phone, before she can even say anything, Vaggie blurts out, “Are you on your way back?”

Charlie chuckles. “ Hi , Vaggie.” Right. Vaggie tries not to bristle at the correction. “Yes, I'm about to head back now. First I need to tell you what the situation is.”

Vaggie twitches hard. That doesn't sound good. She takes a breath, rolling her shoulders back the way Charlie taught her. “...Yeah?” Her eye tracks back to the door. No one's in the hallway, no one's coming in.

“Stolas is still awake and he's doing great,” Charlie says, “We just talked to his doctor, and he said if things keep going the way they are, they'll let him go home to heal in just a couple days.”

“That's great. I'm glad to hear it.” But that's too good to be…  “That's not all, is it?” Vaggie tries not to whine as she says it, but she's sure she doesn't succeed.

“No, it's not,” Charlie says, “Here's the thing. We still don't know exactly what happened to him. So Dad is pretty much staying glued to his side until we learn more.”

That doesn't sound much like the descriptions or the stories Charlie told Vaggie herself, but… “That makes sense.”

“We don't know who hurt him and we don't know if they're gonna go after Octavia. So we're not leaving her alone either. She's coming home with me and she's gonna stay with us for a while.”

Oh. That makes sense, too.

“Yeah, okay.” If Charlie says so… It's just another person for Vaggie to get used to sharing space with, right? “How old did you say she is?”

“She's seventeen.” Oh, not a little kid then. Maybe this won't be-- “But she's a bit, uh, young for her age, if that makes sense.”

It doesn't to Vaggie. “No, hold on, she's young for her age? What do you mean, is she, uhh…?” Vaggie trails off, trying to think of the nicest way to ask.

But Charlie “No, it's not like that, she's just… you'll understand what I mean when you meet her. We're grabbing some of her clothes and then we'll be there soon, okay?”

Vaggie sighs. “Soon.”  Charlie was going to be home “soon”  four hours ago.

Vaggie bites her lip. She knows she's just being difficult. Charlie had a fucking family emergency and Vaggie's acting like this. “Okay. I love you.” Always.

“I love you, too.” And then she's off. Charlie never likes staying on the phone very long.

Vaggie backs up to the wall, leaning only slightly against it. Just enough to regain her balance.

When did she lose her balance? She doesn't remember. Today has not been easy.

And now Charlie is bringing home some kid??  Really? Vaggie feels for her, of course she does, but that doesn't mean she's equipped to deal with her or that the Hotel's equipped, or that the Sinners will behave, or--

No, of course they won't. If any of them even knew how to behave, they wouldn't be Here, would they?

And Vaggie doesn't know what “Young for her age” is supposed to mean, but she's pretty sure it's a bigger deal than Charlie's making it out to be, and…

No, Vaggie just needs to stop. She's being a brat, that's all. Charlie's got this. She's got everything. Always does.

Vaggie takes her fingers out from under her eyepatch and sighs. Charlie's going to know she was messing with her bad eye again, and she's going to be upset.

Maybe she'll be upset enough not to leave Vaggie alone for so long again.

Vaggie takes just a moment longer to gather herself before she'll head back out to deal with the Sinners. Just a while longer. Just until Charlie gets home.

Charlie's on her way back now, if “soon” actually means soon this time.

 

Notes:

I could not reconcile this version of Charlie not knowing from the beginning that Vaggie is an Angel. But we'll talk more about that later.

Chapter 2

It's with Charlie's suit jacket over her shoulders that Vaggie follows her through the city. She's never been cold in Hell before.

“It must be the blood loss,” Charlie tells her. “Pride stays pretty warm. We usually only get frost a couple days a year. It's good for the apples.”

She keeps talking. She must just like to talk.

Adam likes to talk.

Vaggie doesn't know or care anything about apples or whether they like frost, or what varieties they come in or how cider is made. But this tall Hellborn girl did just tear a scrap from her undershirt for Vaggie's eye until they got to her kit. Vaggie will agree with whatever she says. She knows better than to test where kindness runs out.

She lets her talk.

Next thing Vaggie knows, she's sitting in the bathroom in Charlie's apartment. Charlie's got a med kit on the counter, digging through it, still talking. Vaggie realizes she spaced out.

“I'm sorry, what was that?” she asks.

Charlie doesn't seem bothered. “I just said we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” She pulls a vial out of the kit and pops the lid. “Look up for me? This is gonna be cold.”

Knuckles under Vaggie's chin tilt her face up slightly more. It's cold. She squeezes her eyelids tight and gets a gentle chuckle and a coo for it. “I know, I know,” Charlie says, “but I need you to stay open for me, okay?”

Vaggie forces her eyes open, only succeeding after a few hard blinks.

She looks up into red-gold eyes, gentle and focused. She feels warm breath on her cheeks and nose as Charlie works. Charlie chews her bottom lip, smearing matte black lipstick on her teeth. Honey blond hair has escaped her braids on the sides, framing her face, the ends dyed and faded violet.

Her hands are soft and gentle on Vaggie's chin and her cheek, wiping away blood and the cool wash. That touch doesn't come from Heaven. That face doesn't come from Heaven. That girl, a girl , even--

She must notice Vaggie staring, because she chuckles, then says, “So, you're new here, right?”

“Yeah. I just died.” Vaggie isn't sure why she says it, but it doesn't feel like a lie.

Charlie sighs, turning back to her med kit. “Right.” She picks up gauze and tape, saying, “Almost done now, just hold still for me.”

For her?

The sky outside has shifted in color from reds and smoky grays to some deep golden yellows Vaggie's never seen before. She looks out at them through the bedroom window.

Charlie's trying to settle her into a bed bigger than Adam's. And talking. Still talking.

“-and a fan, and, oh! let me just-” Without much warning, Charlie's bent over and across Vaggie's body on the bed. Vaggie tenses, her breath catches, but she's only pinned for a moment. Charlie grabs a small remote and hands it to Vaggie. “Here, this controls the fan and the light there, if you need it. I don't think you will, it doesn't look like it'll get too dark tonight.”

Vaggie nods. “Yeah, thank you.”

“And I think that's all. Try to get some rest. You need it to heal. I'll be right out here, you can call or come get me if you need anything, okay?” She's so sweet it leaves Vaggie feeling almost nauseous.

“I will.” Vaggie has no intention of doing that. She curls up on her side under too-soft covers.

It's strange.

There aren't two more girls in their own bunks that won't stop whispering to each other like children after lights out. And Adam isn't snoring beside her with his arm thrown across her, keeping her down next to him.

Charlie turns back to look at Vaggie again after stepping out, leaving the door cracked only slightly.

All of her patching up and cooing, for what? Everything in Hell is supposed to be transactional. Altruism is--

Charlie is soft and gentle and compassionate in ways that a Hellborn creature just can't be. It won't be long before she asks for something in return.

Vaggie curls tighter on herself, staring at the cracked door. Something about that though just doesn't seem right. She knows that it's a trick, but Charlie is so soft and perfect and pretty and feminine and kind that the stupid, foolish parts of Vaggie still hope that it isn't.

If kindness doesn't come from Heaven, where does it come from?

---

Vaggie tries to be a good patient. She sits still when Charlie works on what she's taken to calling Vaggie's “bad eye”. She tries to keep her grumbling about it to a minimum. She tries to rest when she's told.

Her head is ringing hard. Her knuckles are battered. She thinks she broke something in the apartment, but she's not sure what or where it is. Her face is hot and wet. Her eye hurts.

Vaggie keeps her knees up to her chest, sitting on Charlie's couch. Charlie's standing a few steps back, well without sight, talking about now that “it's okay”, and that the fit “wasn't her fault”.

Vaggie tries to be a good patient. But she's not.

With a shaking hand, she takes the popsicle Charlie gives her. She blinks away tears to get a better view of the brightly-colored frozen juice. She's still crying. Why is she crying?

The idea that this is supposed to help seems very silly to Vaggie, but Charlie seems so genuine, and she's still being nice. So she tries it. She sits up a little straighter on the couch, accidentally knocking Charlie's pillow to the floor.

It's cold, obviously, and a little more sour than Vaggie expected. And she knows she's imagining it, but her head doesn't hurt as much.

“Thank you, Princess.” She'd learned that tidbit of information on the second, maybe third day she was here, because apparently Charlie doesn't think it's important to lead with that. She still doesn't at know what to think about the Princess of Hell sleeping on a couch so Vaggie can have her bed.

---

The first time Charlie saw Vaggie looking at the kitchen, she asked her if she knew how to cook.

That's not a skill Exorcists need. Vaggie hadn't said that much, just a no. And Charlie'd chuckled that infuriating chuckle and said, “Yeah, me neither.”

They eat a lot of takeout.

Vaggie watches Charlie now, stirring some oatmeal on the stove. One of the few things she knows how to make, but still better than Vaggie. With apples, of course. She isn't sure Charlie knows the full implications of Pride's signature crop. But she also doesn't know how she couldn't.

Vaggie rubs the back of her hand. Still stings a bit from when Charlie caught her touching her bad eye. Again.

She's not a very good patient.

Charlie's long hair is loose and slightly tangled down her back. She wears a t-shirt of a band with a vulgar name. It's big, the hem reaching about halfway down her thighs.

It's that oversized on Charlie, as tall as she is, so Vaggie can only imagine herself swimming in it.

She doesn't know why she's thinking of Charlie's clothes like that.

Charlie hasn't been up for very long. It wouldn't be fair to call her a late riser, or to call this late morning, but she doesn't want to get up for a couple hours after Vaggie usually does. She doesn't wake up early, but she wakes up cheerful. She's singing along to a song playing on her phone, it sits, taking up some of the already limited counter space.

It's probably for the best that they mostly eat takeout, because the kitchen isn't really meant for cooking in. Just like the apartment itself isn't really meant for living in.

When Vaggie asked why the Princess of Hell would be staying in such a small apartment, Charlie just shrugged. And when Vaggie asked if it's a humility thing, she laughed way harder and meaner than that chuckle Vaggie's grown to like. Infuriating girl.

“Sit down, baby,” Charlie says. Vaggie blinks slowly. She wasn't expecting the name, and she isn't sure how it feels.

And Charlie's putting a bowl down on the table for her. Oh.

---

Vaggie sits, watching as Charlie brushes out her long, pretty blond hair. She's humming, looking at the mirror she's propped up on her dresser, picking up a pin and a ribbon to put her hair up with.  

It's been a couple weeks, Vaggie thinks, that she's been staying with Charlie. She isn't quite sure, though. She doesn't remember half of it, and most of what she does remember feels like a dream. She feels like she's lost most of her grasp on time. Charlie says it's because she's healing.  

It's probably because she's broken.  

“I don't like this.”  

Charlie turns around, holding a bobby pin between her lips, confused. “Hmm?”   

Vaggie hadn't realized she'd said it out loud. “Losing time.” Never before in her life had she been as inside her own head as she has the past couple weeks.

“Oh.” Charlie relaxes, finishing her braid and tying off the ribbon. “Yeah, I know it sucks, but don't worry about it too much. It'll get better. You're healing.”

She says it so confidently that Vaggie just has to believe her. That it will get better.

Vaggie watches Charlie pinning her perfect hair up and blurts out without thinking, “Can I have one?”

It takes Charlie a moment to process. Vaggie's fault for jumping between topics. “A ribbon?” Charlie guesses, “Sure.”

She's nice. Always just too nice, and it isn't a trap, it feels like a trap. Vaggie can't stand it. “No, no, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. I don't need one.”

Charlie clicks her tongue. “Don't be like that. I'm sorry. I'm over here doing my hair, I didn't even think-- come here, I'll do yours for you.”

“No, Princess, really, it's okay. I don't have enough to do anyway.”

Vaggie's protests prove to be in vain. Charlie's more stubborn than she is, and she doesn't put up with backtracking. She's combing through Vaggie's dull white hair with her fingers like it's as precious as her own. She adds her own hair-water, scented with herbs. She pins deliberately, hiding the uneven lengths where strands broke when Lute--

Vaggie hesitates to look at herself in Charlie's mirror, but she refuses to disappoint her like that.

She looks at the braided leather headband, the blue-violet ribbon tied and pinned, and for a moment, she even likes the way it looks.

She feels sick again.

Notes:

Boy, is Vaggie a perspective I find interesting to write from.
Two chapters in and I still haven't gotten to the applemouse, I know. I think Vaggie's head does things to me.

On another note, I had a birthday, and birthdays are rough.
Smash Mouth wasn't lying.

Chapter 3

Vaggie's sitting in the lobby when Charlie gets back. As close as she can be to the door without losing view of the room.

She knows she shouldn't be so clingy. That she shouldn't be so desperate right now. The Sinners weren't that bad today, not really. Sure, Angel Dust has been especially annoying, and Sir Pentious has been… himself...

Charlie finds him endearing at least, but that's her gift, isn't it? Finding things endearing when no one else could?

She loves Vaggie, after all.

And Alastor's still out causing problems for someone else. Vaggie's glad he's been out since Charlie left this morning. She has enough trouble with the rest of the damned, she doesn't think she could handle him without her.

She relaxes a little when Charlie comes in, carrying a couple bags, laughing and talking with what must be Octavia by her side. The girl's tall, she looks nearly twice Vaggie's height, there in the doorway. Her eyes, an infernal hue of not-pink, scan the lobby as she looks through everything and everyone in it. Nearly opaque and too big for her heart-shaped face.

Vaggie hadn't known to expect an avian demon.

She carries one bag, smaller and cylindrical, and a guitar case over her shoulder. Speaking a Hellish dialect that sounds similar enough to Angelic that, if Vaggie listened, she might understand every seventh word.

Vaggie's up and standing before the thought occurs to get to Charlie before the Sinners can get in the way. Her bad side in mind, the only way she can really get to Charlie is to put herself right between her and Octavia. So that's what she does.

She would feel bad. Octavia's only here because she needs Charlie. But she's had her all day, and Vaggie needs her too.

Charlie sets the bags down to return Vaggie's hug. She sweeps Vaggie up, but for only a moment, they can't really act like that in front of the Sinners. She puts Vaggie back on her feet. She chuckles, brushing Vaggie's hair behind an ear with a finger, then adjusts her ribbon. Kisses Vaggie's nose, the way that always makes Vaggie scrunch her face and pull back.

Charlie laughs at her, that mean chuckle, and Vaggie can't help but pout. “Missed you.” She doesn't whine.

“Awwh, don't look at me like that,” Charlie coos, then says, “I missed you too.”

Standing there awkwardly, Octavia looks between the two of them, then clears her throat. “Uhh… Charlie?”

Charlie smiles at her. “Right, right. Vaggie, this is Octavia. Via, this is my Vaggie.”

“It's nice to meet you,” Octavia says. Perfectly. And Vaggie returns the platitude.

Just as she suspected, she only gets a moment at the door to greet Charlie before it's ruined. Angel Dust continues today's annoyance streak. Manages to sniff out Charlie's arrival as soon as she's in the door.

“Charls, you're back!” He calls as if he's excited to see her, but he barely even looks up from his phone to do it. And Charlie, beautiful perfect Charlie, smiles at him, picking Octavia's bags back up.

“Glad to see you, too, Angel, if you'll let us through so-”

He interrupts her, coming in closer, on the other side of Charlie. Where Vaggie has to turn away from Octavia to see him. “I see you're busy, but can I just get in to talk to ya real quick? I need cash.” Some might consider the face he makes at Charlie cute or sexy.

Charlie keeps smiling, but shakes her head. “We can talk about it more in my office later, but you know why I'm not comfortable giving you money.” Calm, just like Vaggie's heard her rehearse in their bedroom mirror.

“Oh, you're killin me, sugs.” He says it as if her answer actually bothers him, or he's surprised by it, but it clearly doesn't, and he clearly isn't. Because he keeps going, turning his attention to Octavia. “Who's your friend? Hey, doll, how are-”

That's more than enough of that. Vaggie steps out in front of them. Her palm itches for her spear, but she stops herself from grabbing it. “Nope. Ease off the kid.”

He changes his tune immediately. “Oh, kid? My bad.” He steps back, four hands raised, one still wrapped around his phone.

“Yep,” Charlie says sweetly, “and you'll get to meet her later, okay? But let us through, please.”

He gives up for now. “Yeah, sure, whatever, we'll talk later, Princess.”

When they're just out of the lobby, heading into the elevator, Octavia says, “So, Angel Dust really is staying here?” Her voice is low and flat. Charlie just confirms, but something twists inside Vaggie. The odd girl must see it in the elevator's mirrored wall. “What? You know everyone knows who he is, right? He's everywhere.”

Vaggie sucks it up, pretending that's why.

Charlie tries to set Octavia up in the room right across the hall from their suite, but Octavia takes the bags from Charlie's hands. She says, “I don't need help. You can go.” No thanks for the offer, for carrying the bags, or for letting her stay here. Nothing.

But Charlie, graceful as always, just agrees, pretending that's fine. “Okay. You can settle in yourself,” she says. “Just find me if you want me, okay?”

That's when Octavia switches language again, back to that Hellish dialect. But Vaggie could understand enough to tell she's talking about her, even if she wasn't trying to subtly gesture towards her. Like she really thinks Vaggie wouldn't notice that.

Charlie nods and affirms whatever Octavia just said. Octavia closes the bedroom door.

---

It's not that Vaggie doesn't appreciate getting out of the apartment. She does. It's still pretty packed with the boxes in what's supposed to be Charlie's office. Where Charlie decided to sleep Vaggie, after Vaggie insisted on sleeping on the couch instead of Charlie's bed.

Charlie doesn't seem to realize that no more setting up is required. The bed in the corner is more than enough for Vaggie.

But it has gotten a bit stuffy in the apartment. For some reason, those damned goat-dragon-dog things that avoid Vaggie all day keep trying to climb in the bed with her at night. Locked doors don't stop them.

Charlie, wonderful Charlie, retrieves them each time without complaint.

It's nice to get out of the apartment, but the streets of Pentagram City are horrible. Hot, disgusting, and crowded. Charlie says it's the neighborhood. Vaggie isn't sure it's not the whole realm.

Adam and Lute used to “joke” about burning the whole place to the ground. And it's been seven weeks now since, well…

If it's still this trashed after they've had this much time to recover, maybe it would have been better to go through with that.

Vaggie shakes the thought out of her head. Where does she think she'd be now if they had? Her bad eye itches.

There's a pale purple scarf over Vaggie's hair, tied under his chin. The smog in this part of the city is too bad today to go without a hair covering. But Charlie sees value in walking, apparently. Her own blond braid is tightly wrapped in a black scarf, secured with pins decorated in apple-shaped beads. She's smiling, speaking happily. Completely unfazed by the way drivers veer towards the two of them on the sidewalk. Very little respect for pedestrians, and “Princess of Hell” doesn't mean anything to the damned.

“It's like I told you, Vaggie, it needs a lot of work, but it's still a beautiful place.” She's talking about her “Happy Hotel”. Her plan for “redeeming” Sinners. Because apparently no one's told her that's impossible and a ridiculous notion at that. And Vaggie doesn't think she has the heart to do it herself. Charlie's so cheerful, so hopeful. She has so much love and grace for… beings that not only don't return it, they-

Charlie's hand on Vaggie's shoulder yanks her further onto the sidewalk as a car runs through a puddle of oil and muck on the side of the road. The splash is tall enough that it would have coated Vaggie head to toe if Charlie hadn't pulled her back. The driver speeds off, laughing and yelling vulgarities at the two of them. Vaggie reaches behind her, grabs the handle of her spear strapped to her back, but she's stopped by Charlie firmly grabbing her by her wrist.

“No,” she says. “That is still a Human Soul. You need to behave.” Charlie lets go when Vaggie does, leaving her shaking just a bit. She's right, isn't she? That's not a good reaction. They're not fixable, but that doesn't make killing them…

That's guilt, and it feels like a hot stone in the pit of Vaggie's gut. She nods. “I'm sorry.”

Hell doesn't deserve Charlie.

The building is practically in pieces. Vaggie wants to believe Charlie that it can be fixed, but it has more holes and collapsed bricks than walls. The windows are all boarded up. The scraps of pipes and wires are visible in the open walls. Vaggie's no expert, but it looks like a lost cause. They make it up to the piles of broken glass against the walls. They sparkle in the low light. It's early afternoon, but one might not know it from the dark black sky. They come to a broken and chained basement door. Vaggie steps up to the tarped-up basement window. She nudges something with her foot as she walks.

A horrible little hellbeast lies in a little gray brown lump on the ground. “Umm, Charlie? What is that?”

Charlie squeals, diving down onto the pavement to scoop it up. She coos, kneeling, and opens her palms to show it off. “Oh, he's just beautiful, isn't he, Vaggie?”

No, it's an ugly little thing that she shows Vaggie, all wrong. It has a short, broad, snout, two ears too many, and two more eyes than that, all on a head too big for its body. Its fur is dull brown and ash white, thin over skin stretched thinner over membrane wings. Those short wings end in awkwardly oversized claws. It's limp in Charlie's hands.

“Uhh, what is it?”

“He's an applemouse.”

Vaggie can't help herself but say it. “Looks like a disfigured bat to me.”

Charlie smiles gently, not at Vaggie, but at the little creature in her hands. “He is a bat, but no, this is how he's supposed to look.”

Vaggie stares. “...Right. So, why are you holding a dead ‘applemouse’?”

“Oh, he's not dead. He's stunned.” She gestures to the basement entry. “The contractors just closed the door this morning. He probably just flew full speed into it thinking it was still open.” She strokes the applemouse with a thumb, looking tearful. “Poor little guy.”

Looking between Charlie and the beastling in her hands, Vaggie can't help but reconsider every decision that led her to this part of her existence. “So…” she says with a tap to Charlie's shoulder to get her attention, “You've picked it up. Unconscious. What happens when it wakes up?”

“Oh, you're right!” Charlie scrambles off the ground, hooves seem good for that, at least, holding the broken little applemouse close to her chest.

Notes:

It should go without saying that if you find an injured bat IRL, don't just pick it up.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Pieces