Chapter Text
Her flight is a little staggered from just a single sip of wine… curse being a lightweight.
Emily tries to go to bed, her head pounding, stomach in knots from the encounter she just had. The creepy elk doll is still on her bed, something she covers up with a pillow.
“Emily?”
It isn’t long until Sera checks on her. It seemed her awkward flight pattern and bright red face left fellow angels concerned. Saint Peter is probably the one who tipped Sera off about it.
“Are you alright? Did something happen during your… part-time job?” Sera had no good way of wording Emily’s help at the Hazbin Hotel. She didn’t entirely approve of it, but considering circumstances, the most she could do was let go and support Emily’s wishes.
“I got invited out,” Emily confesses, trying to hide her face. It’s pointless though, as Sera lifts her and feels her warm forehead. “I drank something weird by accident. It’s not poisonous, or anything, it’s just…”
Sera sighs, gently stroking her younger sister’s hair. “What in God’s name made you do that?”
“It was getting a little awkward, so I distracted myself and wasn’t paying attention!” Emily explains. “I… I didn’t expect a sinner down there to be so grateful and inspired by me. I think he wants me to come back, so others can thank me too. I want to try to be like Charlie and redeem him, but he also says it isn’t possible, and I just… I’m not used to it!”
It’s normal for Sera to be protective and sternly forbid such a thing. She already was so upset that Emily had injured herself trying to save others, but the younger sister kept wanting to help Charlie’s vision.
“What do I do? I’ve never felt so unsure of myself. I know I should be happy about this development and just go, but…”
… She should stop this. This sinner could be using Emily. But the way it’s worded makes it sound like something else is going on.
“You should… try and go. Support Charlie’s dream.” Sera must try her hardest, believe in the dream that Charlie and Emily have. “Surely if anyone can help bring a sinner to the light, it’s you. But if you feel uncomfortable, you come straight home. I’ll make sure you have an escort.”
An escort?
“Next week though. So you can mentally prepare for it.” Sera suggests. “You’re clearly overwhelmed, not to mention intoxicated.” She then pulls the bed covers over Emily’s body. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure not to pick Lute for the job. I haven’t forgotten her stunt last month.”
That’s a relief at least.
Maybe her clouded, drunken mind was making things worse than they really were. Anxiety certainly was a… naughty word that Emily liked avoiding. Waiting for Sera to leave, Emily attempts to fall back asleep. But not before overturning the pillow hiding the elk doll.
She runs her fingers across its rather frightening face. Hollow eyes made of white beads, a burn mark on the side of its face. Long-legged with a fluffy tail, and a slit for its nose. Kind of cute, but not a pangolin or koala.
Before long, Emily drifts off to sleep. But even in her dreams, the image of the doll is imprinted in her mind.
“She didn’t even touch the food,” Maître scoffs. “That’s the last time I prepare a meal for an angelic guest. At least Dominique will have leftovers that last them a month.”
Maestro, perplexed, swishes around his own wine glass. “Did I say something to frighten the girl, you think?”
“Think? You absolutely did, sir.” Maître begins finishing off the abandoned wine bottle, chugging it down. “I mean, no sane angel would react to a murderous overlord sharing his borderline romantic confession with smiles and rainbows.”
“Romantic?” Maestro’s eyes widened, going between that and how Emily referred to Dominique as a partner, he realizes how things seem. “No, no, my intentions were not…”
“Sir? Do you like her?” Dominique nervously interrupts him. “If so, she probably got scared ‘cause of me. Maybe I stared too much by accident.”
“I don’t—” Maestro keeps stammering, irritated as the flames on his head expand. “I was simply showing my gratitude, nothing more! Trying to be pleasant, especially since I’ve been such a rut! A musical art block! That and at least humor her on some of that redemption, even if I know my chances are zero!”
The servant and the artist just glance at each other in silence. Neither of them seem to be buying it.
Frustrated, Maestro takes the napkin off of his lap, burns it before throwing the ashes down, and storms off to his quarters to be alone. He’s so literally burned up over the matter that he doesn’t even think to lock his door.
Straight to the list of compositions he’s made recently. He reviews them over, checking each note and the lyrical lines that go with it.
“Preposterous,” Maestro growls. “I am not…”
Squinting, he clenches his fists, crumpling and tearing the lyric sheet upon examination before burning the remnants with the lit candle on his work desk. He then takes out a new lyric sheet and starts over, pulling a feather pen and ink well out of the drawer.
He refuses to have the other overlords twist this into him being… in love.
…
Briefly the tattered mask which covers his skull, Maestro’s fingers trail on the tenderness underneath.
Even if he were, even if that angel believed in redemption so much that someone like him could change for another, there’s a permanent scar that tells him he can never undo what had been done in his life. It’s not possible.
Should he hide his compositions of passion? Or revel in them as he always had in life, and burn whoever gave him backlash? No! He did not fear judgement from those other fools!
He would invite them to the next overlord meeting, and show his compositions! Lyrics? Whatever. Emily most likely won’t come back after that if what the servant said is true—
Oh. Never mind. There’s no more ink in the well.
Sighing and getting up from his chair, Maestro gives up for now. Undressing himself of his suit and preparing to slide into a fancy robe so he could go to bed. Getting worked up like that exhausts him, mentally and physically.
Just as he starts to pull the bed sheets back and climb in, the door opens.
“Hey, sir—”
Dominique stands there, wincing at the sight of Maestro and his open robe, nothing else underneath it.
“Ah! Sorry!” She stutters, turning her head but not fully looking away.
“Dominique… is there something else you needed from me?” Maestro growls.
“I uh, wanted to apologize for what happened back there earlier. I think it was my fault that Emily girl scampered off and got spooked.” Dominique begins scratching her arms nervously. “I know that even dolling me up to look nice, I kinda can’t change… me. So I’ll just, visit my friend during your next overlord meeting, if Emily decides to—”
“Stop blaming yourself.” Maestro scolds. “What did I tell you about the self-loathing and pitying behavior?”
She fidget, her overbite tugging her lower lip. “Right, sorry. I’ll just hide either way.”
“Whether you hide or decide to join us, is up to you. All I ask is that if you attend,” he notes the stain of paint on the chemise dress. “That we find something else nice for you. I see you vomited on that one.”
“I freaked out after you left, sir!” Dominique retorts.
More paint is leaking from where her nose would be. Maestro hesitates, then suddenly reaches his left hand for Dominique’s chin, lifting it just an inch before his thumb presses against her overbite.
“I ran out of ink, my dear.” Maestro says, taking the inkwell bottle in his right. “May I have some of yours?”
“Ah… sure.”
Black ink begins pooling from Dominique’s mouth, slowly cascading into the ink bottle. Dominique’s tongue briefly protrudes, brushy, covered in bristles in appearance.
“That enough, sir?” She treats it like a normal routine for the two of them.
But this time it wasn’t so normal, because Maestro continued holding her there, seemingly lost in thought.
“Sir?”
He begins to imagine someone else’s face in his hands. Someone… softer, with longer hair.
Dominique doesn’t try to stop it or snap him out of it, as if anticipating something. A full two minutes pass before Maestro feels the paint on his thumb, remembering who is really in his grasp.
Maestro pulls his hands away. There seemed to be a near hopeful glimmer in Dominique’s eyes, but it’s gone now.
“Thank you. Good night, Dominique.”
She doesn’t respond, slowly trudging toward the door and leaving.