Sunset ^beta

Chapter Text

Cynthaeis left without informing anyone, without saying goodbye. Vaggie didn’t say goodbye, either, just watched her disappear through the portal. She stayed in the guest room for a long time, staring at the spot where the portal had been, a weak part of her hoping against hope that Cynthaeis would come back. Cynthaeis didn’t come back, and Vaggie was finally forced to get her shit together when Charlie came in. Vaggie kept the details of her talk with Cynthaeis to herself, so Charlie was free to ruminate on her anxieties about the smiths once she’d finished weeping with joy over Vaggie’s newly repaired body.

Charlie was plagued with doubts, but it sounded like her pitch had gone well. Mendrion had a lot to deal with—get the smiths settled in back home, get everyone together for a talk about a potential union, start drawing up plans for a new forge—but he said he’d consider her appeal.

Lucifer returned not long after Mendrion left. He claimed the meeting at the Embassy ran longer than anticipated, but Vaggie suspected he’d deliberately delayed his return to avoid seeing Mendrion. As he repaired the smashed furniture and the hole in the floor, he explained what happened at said meeting.

It was the most exciting one in years, he claimed. The ambassador he met with received continuous live updates on the situation in Heaven, including word of the smiths’ plans to unionize. Heaven didn’t use currency (although the souls up there had a long-running joke about “Heaven bucks”), so it was non-work hours rather than wages on the line. It was rumored that a handful of cherubs were considering a union of their own, and the cupids wanted to jump on the trend, too (“I don’t think the cupids understand what a union is—they’re not the smartest ducks in the pond,” Lucifer said, “but they want one anyway.”).

The political atmosphere in Heaven was already rocky, and Lucifer theorized that something else was going on up there that had nothing to do with labor unions, but the ambassador was careful not to slip any hints beyond what was relevant to the meeting.

When Charlie asked if he thought Mendrion would support her, he sighed and said, “I don’t know, sweetie. If he has to do it alone, without any other higher-ups backing him, he might cave. His influence isn’t what it used to be. He only spends five days a year in Heaven, for that Starlight Festival junk.”

“Do you think he said he’d consider it just to make me shut up?”

“I’m sure he will consider it, but he won’t follow through if he thinks it'll put the smiths at risk. They’re his main priority right now.”

“What do you mean, ‘at risk’? You don’t think the higher-ups would threaten them?”

“It’s not like they don’t have an excuse. You have to understand, Charlie, labor unions aren’t a thing up there. I don’t think the smiths realize how dangerous what they’re doing is. A lot of the older angels, when they hear ‘union’, are going to hear ‘rebellion’. Even if they do accept that all the smiths want is the occasional weekend off. . .”

“Would they actually hurt them, just to keep Mendrion in line? It’s Heaven, Dad! Do you really think they’d do something like that?”

“I think if it wasn’t a possibility, Mendrion wouldn’t have kept his head down for this long. Sure, he preached mercy for your me and mother, but that was before he had a dozen hundred kids to worry about. It was a brilliant move on Heaven’s part, honestly. Add to the population, strengthen the workforce, and shut up their highest-ranking dissenter, all in one fell swoop. If that’s not efficiency, I don’t know what is.”

Charlie found that take hard to believe, conspiratorial even, but Vaggie privately agreed with it. Had that very thing not also been done to Cynthaeis? Why would an angel who lacked a seraphim’s power be selected to give life to an army, if not to take her off the board?

When Charlie and Vaggie turned in that night, as a welcome distraction for both of them, Vaggie suggested they give her new corroborator a test drive. As they lay in bed together afterwards—Charlie with her head on Vaggie’s chest, Vaggie tracing invisible shapes on her pale shoulder—Charlie’s worries resurfaced.

“I don’t feel like I really accomplished anything. I just have more questions,” she lamented. “Why would the Vees want a war? Why can’t Mendrion just sit down and talk to the other seraphim? How many seraphim are there, anyway? Who are the 'higher-ups'? Why won’t Heaven just listen to me?”

Her voice cracked as she finished, “Why does it seem like everyone who had anything good to say about my parents got pushed to the fringes?”

Vaggie gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“You saved my life, Charlie, and you opened a door for the smiths that they didn’t even know was there. I think you accomplished a lot more than you realize. You’ll see. Just give it time, mi manzana.”

Charlie was quiet. Vaggie thought she’d fallen asleep until she asked, “What does ash-Lauren mean?”

Vaggie tensed.

“Ashlehren?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Mendrion said it to Cynthaeis. What does it mean?”

Vaggie recalled what Cynthaeis told her about her relationship with Mendrion.

“There was a time he expressed interest in courtship.”

Vaggie scoffed. That callous, crotchety bitch.

“It’s an old term, not used too much anymore. Back in the day, angels would form ‘exclusive companionships’ through courting. Nowadays, those courtships are associated with romance, but it’s a lot more than that. I wouldn’t call it platonic or romantic, exactly; those are modern terms. This bond is. . . sort of its own thing. An angel thing. Ashlehren is the official name for bonded companions, like 'partner' or 'spouse', but it can also be a casual term of endearment.”

“Like an old, old-timey pet name?”

“Yeah, kinda. There isn’t an exact translation for it, since it has such a specific context, but there is a rough, mostly agreed-upon translation.”

“What is it?”

“ ‘Beloved eternal’.”

“That’s really beautiful,” Charlie murmured. Vaggie gazed down at her, brushed a blond lock behind her ear. Charlie’s hair rustled happily and tangled itself around Vaggie’s hand.

“You’re beautiful,” Vaggie informed her. Charlie leaned up on her elbows, grinning, and pressed a kiss to her mouth.

Ashlehren, Vaggie thought as Charlie’s long, pale hands moved over her body. Ashlehren, ashlehren, ashlehren. Beloved eternal.

She kissed Charlie back, harder, because it was only way to stop herself from saying it aloud.

*****

Charlie awoke to a loud clatter downstairs, the noise of clinking bottles and breaking glass. She rolled over and found that she was alone in bed. She couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. She got up, put on her slippers, and followed the noise downstairs to the parlor.

Husk was a hard sleeper, she knew, and Alastor probably didn’t care enough to get up (assuming he slept), but Angel Dust was awake. He was in the parlor, wearing an oversized tee, booty shorts, and an askew sleeping mask. He was glaring at the bar, where Vaggie had consumed at least half of the available liquor.

She’d put on a pair of capris for modesty and an open cardigan over her nightie, and now sat on the floor, legs stretched out, wings hanging limply at her sides. Empty bottles rolled around her, and a broken one was scattered across the lacquered surface of the bar. She swayed slightly in place, bleary-eyed, and struggled to connect the lip of her current bottle to her mouth.

“Christ, Vags, how much have you had?” Angel groaned. Neither he nor Vaggie had noticed Charlie yet.

“What’s it to you? You drink. I can drink, too, can’t I? I’m in Hell,” Vaggie snapped, brandishing the bottle at him and sloshing alcohol onto her lap.

“I can hear your liver shriveling up from here.”

“So what if it is? Cynthaeis can just make me a new one.” Vaggie shrugged and chugged the rest of the bottle. When it was empty, she tossed it aside and reached for another one. She frowned when she saw that there were none left within reach. She struggled to her feet on unsteady legs, clambered over the bar, and pawed at the shelves.

“Alright, come on, that’s enough,” Angel said. He went behind the bar and attempted to drag her out by the arm.

Vaggie gave him a shove and slurred, “Don’t touch me, motherfucker.”

Charlie was so shocked by the scene, it took her a long time to gather her wits. She’d never seen Vaggie like this.

Vaggie had never been much of a drinker. She would have a glass or two at a party, but never seemed to particularly enjoy it. If Charlie wasn’t so worried for her, she might’ve been impressed at how much she could put away in one sitting.

“Vaggie?” she finally said, stepping into the room.

Vaggie whipped around, and the utter mortification on her face made Charlie’s heart ache for her.

“Oh, no, Charlie, you’re—fuck. Fuck.” Vaggie pushed past Angel, trying to leave the bar, only to stumble and fall on her face. Angel tried to help her up, but she shoved him away. “Shit, I didn’t—go back to bed, Charlie, it’s okay, I’m—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Charlie hurried towards her, but Vaggie retreated. She couldn’t, wouldn’t meet Charlie’s eyes, even for a moment.

“It’s okay, Vaggie. Just. . . just come back upstairs. We’ll get you cleaned up, and—”

“No, I didn’t—I didn’t want to wake you, you shouldn’t have to see—please, Charlie, don’t. . . don’t look at me. I don’t want you to—” She paused for a loud hiccup, “—to see me like this.”

“Vaggie, it’s really okay, you know I would never—”

Charlie’s reassurances fell on deaf ears. Vaggie staggered away and, before Angel or Charlie could move to stop her, threw open one of the windows and leaped out. She spread her wings and flapped through the open air, veering and tumbling wildly. Several times Charlie was afraid she’d crash, but she didn’t, flying up and onward until she faded from view.

Charlie and Angel shared a helpless look, knowing they had to find her, knowing they had no clue where to start looking.

*****

Vaggie wasn’t sure why she went where she did. All she knew was that she couldn’t stay in the hotel, couldn’t let Charlie see her fall apart like this.

She hadn’t meant to make so much noise. She hadn’t meant to get so carried away in the first place. She'd been unable to fall asleep and just wanted something to dull the edges.

Charlie had so much shit on her plate right now. Vaggie was supposed to help solve her problems, not add to them. If there was an award for creation’s most burdensome girlfriend, she’d earned it.

Breaking into the Carmine facility was laughably easy. Once inside, however, she realized she had no plan. She didn’t know what to do with herself, where to go, who to talk to.

Charlie had recounted Gladys’s confession, so Vaggie knew the destruction of the forge wasn’t Carmilla’s fault, but it didn't really matter whose fault it was. The net result was the same. There was no forge, which meant no fresh steel, which meant no deal and no weapons.

Vaggie snuck by the guards, slipped through a laser alarm system, and broke into Carmilla’s office. If she was here, she might as well continue doing what she’d woken up to do. There was nobody here whose opinion she cared about.

She found a stash of high-end whiskey behind Carmilla’s desk. She didn’t bother with a glass. She sat on one of the window ledges in case she needed to make a quick escape and started drinking. The crystal flagon was half empty when the door opened and a tall shadow filled the room.

“Vaggie,” Carmilla stated. She stood there, staring, like she was offended by the break-in but unsure how to handle it. It was strange to see her dressed for bed in a nightgown and a purple silk robe, with her hair tied in a long, loose braid.

“Hang on, I’m almost done,” Vaggie said. She wiped her mouth and muttered, “Just let me finish this, and then I’ll be out of your hair. This is good stuff, by the way. Really good stuff.”

“Why are you here?”

Vaggie shrugged.

“Had to get out of the hotel for a bit. Couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.”

One of Carmilla’s daughters appeared in the doorway, peering around her mother. Vaggie couldn’t remember which one this was.

“Mom, what’s—”

“Send someone to the Hazbin Hotel. Let the princess know we found her exorcist.”

Her daughter nodded and disappeared, but not without snatching one last curious glance at Vaggie. Carmilla stepped into her office and shut the door.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I shouldn’t be alive. I should never have been alive. My maker regrets ever making me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Vaggie snorted.

"It is. She told me so. She told me she regrets me, and she meant it. I could tell. I mean, I already knew it, but. . .” She took a long swig of whiskey. It burned, scoured her throat, but she needed it. She glared at Carmilla and grumbled, “ ‘Not true’. Easy for you to say. You weren’t a fucking replacement. You weren’t supposed to not exist. Your maker doesn’t hate you.”

Vaggie didn’t know why she let her guts spill like that. She had no reason to tell Carmilla about her personal problems, and Carmilla had no reason to care, but once she started, she couldn’t stop.

To her surprise, Carmilla’s features softened. The pity on her face was unbearable.

“I saw how she treated you. I’m sorry.”

“Why? She’s not sorry. I’m not sorry. I’m better off without her, honestly. She’s a dick, always has been. Mendrion can do way better. I can do better, too. I am doing better. I have Charlie, and the hotel, and. . .”

Vaggie’s voice cracked. She wiped her stinging eye on her sleeve and took another drink. Her face was hot with embarrassment. Carmilla Carmine was the last person she should be crying in front of.

“Have you talked about this with Charlie?”

“No.” Admitting that made Vaggie feel worse. “I could, and she’d listen, but. . . she wouldn’t underst—she doesn’t need that. She’s got enough of her own baggage to deal with.”

“Vaggie,” Carmilla said. Her voice was soft, almost tender. It was agony.

She crossed the room in slow, measured steps. Vaggie wondered if she meant to kill her, and thought that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Carmilla didn’t try to kill her. She placed her hands on Vaggie’s shoulders and repeated, “I’m sorry.”

Slowly, very slowly, she pulled her closer. Vaggie resisted for a moment, confused, before hesitantly leaning in. Her head came to rest on Carmilla’s shoulder, and Carmilla’s hands settled on her back.

Vaggie was not a hugger. Carmilla didn’t feel like much of a hugger, either. This embrace felt rehearsed, calculated, in a way that only a hug from a non-hugger could be. There was cautious tension in Carmilla’s body; she was very aware of what Vaggie was, and was ready to switch tactics if she reacted badly.

It didn’t feel like hugging Charlie, or Yris, or any of the few people Vaggie had embraced in her life. Carmilla was a virtual stranger, barely an ally, and yet. . .

In some emotional, enigmatic way, it felt the way Vaggie had always imagined a hug from her maker would feel. There was a warmth in it, a sense of safety that made her want to curl up under wings Carmilla didn’t have. She found herself pressing closer, burying her face in Carmilla’s robe. A choked sound escaped her, and a single tear dampened the purple silk.

“Shh. Lo siento. Estoy aquí. Lo muy siento.” Carmilla lifted a hand to stroke Vaggie’s hair. That felt better, felt worse, made Vaggie cry harder.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed in Carmilla’s office. Not once did Carmilla attempt to kick her out. She even let Vaggie finish her whiskey.

Vaggie instinctively knew she’d hit the blackout stage when the second hug happened, this time at her request. To Carmilla’s credit, she didn’t cringe when Vaggie mopped her damp eye and runny nose on her fine silk robe.

Charlie arrived. Vaggie heard her before she saw her. She made a break for the window, since she was in even worse shape than she’d been in the hotel and wasn’t ready to face Charlie, but she didn’t get far. Carmilla put a stop to the escape and half-dragged, half-carried her out of the office, taking advantage of how completely shitfaced she was. She handed her over to Charlie, who in turn brought Vaggie outside to where the limo was waiting.

Vaggie’s feet felt like lead weights, and her head swam. Her vision warped, shifting in and out of darkness. She couldn’t recall if she’d ever drunk so much in her life.

“Vaggie, what were you thinking?” Charlie groaned.

Vaggie couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking. She didn’t know what she was thinking now. She was barely even aware that she was laying down on the seat with her head in Charlie’s lap, Charlie's hands in her hair.

“It’s not fair,” she moaned, hiding her face against Charlie’s legs.

“What?”

Heaven. Her maker. How come she had to get the shitty one? How come hers had to be mortal and dying? Why couldn’t she have been made by someone else? Anyone else? Why not Mendrion? Why not Carmilla?

Why couldn’t she just not care? Why did she have to feel anything at all? It was agony, such agony.

She didn’t know how to say all of that, so she mumbled, “Everything.”

Charlie petted her hair, consoled her, but Vaggie didn’t hear any of it.

“No one can make you do anything.”

“If that was true, you wouldn’t exist.”

In her heart of hearts, a part of Vaggie wished it had been true. Everyone would be better off, she thought. Cynthaeis could age to death in peace, having sacrificed her immortality for offspring she actually gave a shit about, and Vaggie would never have had to know the unending agony of living, breathing, feeling.

But then, she never would’ve found Charlie.

That was her last coherent thought before she passed out with her ashlehren’s hands stroking her hair, the limo rocking her to sleep, and the high, clear voice that she loved so dearly singing her a lullaby, singing her off into oblivion.