Chapter Text
The mug looks innocuous. It’s Blitz’s favourite horse mug. Loona bought it for him as a farm set their first Sinsmas as a family and Octavia knows it because she took embarrassing pictures of Blitz’s crying. If the owlet wanted to poison him she wouldn’t use that mug. Or plain milk.
“You know,” he starts without taking the seat across the princess, “if you want to bribe me to keep your dirty laundry from your dad, iced coffee is the way to go, sweetheart. I’m not taking one for the team for less than that.”
“I want to ask you something.” Octavia rolls her eyes, impatient. “It’s kind of important.”
“Huh, the kind of important that requires milk and cookies?”
“Just sit,” she groans and drums her fingers against the polished surface of the breakfast table.
“Fine,” Blitz sighs dramatically before sitting across her. He suspects this is one of those conversations where she wants a practical advice instead of the diplomatic approach Stolas would suggest. “Spit it out.”
“You can’t tell dad.”
“Oh, no shit. I’m not getting caught in the crossfire between you two again. Last time…”
“It’s not like that,” Octavia waves a hand dismissively. “It was your fault, anyway. You were the one suggesting I used a disguise to sneak out of the palace and then forgot to distract dad. And we both got in trouble.”
“Yeah, but you are his kid. He was lenient on you.”
“Striker.”
The drastic drop in the atmosphere is visceral the moment the name is out in the open. Blitz presses his lips in a tight line, his hand moving instinctively to his holster, and his eyes acquire that calculating edge he has on the job when he is serious. When his family is in danger. He doesn’t immediately speak, but when he finds his voice, he talks to Octavia with a false calm that gives her goosebumps.
“Not a common name there, Via. Where did you hear it?”
“Research.”
“No. I need a proper answer, Octavia. Where did you hear that name?”
Octavia drums her talons on the table, a mannerism she picked from her mother to show irritation or impatience. She rests her cheek on her other hand, and suddenly her smug smirk and her face is all Stolas. “Will you give me answers?” she asks in the same way her father does when he’s being a brat. “An exchange of sorts.”
“Bless you birds and your fucking exchanges,” Blitz swears. “I’ll tell you what I can. This is actually a conversation you and Stolas should have.”
“A pity dad seems to think otherwise.”
“You already went to Stolas?”
“Of course not,” she rolls her eyes again. “Blitz, my parents have been divorced for three years. Lucifer issued a restraining order against my mother so she and my father can’t be in the same ring at the same time, and all I know about their divorce is that my mother is a bitch, and my dad is a cheater and a fetishist. Three years. The day either of them want to actually talk about the divorce I’ll gladly hear them out.”
It’s impossible to deny the edge of bitter resentment in Octavia’s voice. She is right, of course. Three years is a long time to keep secrets, but Stolas was schooled and bred to be Paimon’s mirror, to reflect the ideals of royalty, to serve in whatever fashion Lucifer or the Goetia needed without an opinion of his own. Stolas has been keeping secrets all his life. It was his way of survival and, even now, he continues to do so. Blitz hates Stolas’ Royal Mask, but he understands it isn’t personal.
Three years seem like so little time when placed on a balance. Stolas has progressed so much on a personal level, yet so many things still are mostly the same, the damage deep and slow to heal.
Out loud, Blitz doesn’t disparage Stolas to his daughter. He agrees that she should know. Stolas should have talked to her, told her a child-friendly version of ‘that’s the man your bitch mum sent to kill me’ if there is one. He also understands why he couldn’t, because Stolas has spent the last twenty years protecting that child’s innocence and ambitions at expense of himself, and even if he is better, old habits die hard. Blitzo is the same with Loona. He will never say out loud—or admit to anyone’s face—that his daughter is anything but perfect and a fucking sunshine to live with, but sometimes he wonders if his attempts at overcompensate her for a shit childhood won’t do her more harm than good. He wants to give her the world.
“Fucking Satan, I knew this would come to bite him in the ass, why he never listens?” Blitz grumbles. There’s a headache coming back. This is why he hates days off, but there’s little else he can do with M&M visiting family in Wrath, and Loona using their absence as an excuse to stay at Bee’s place down in Gluttony.
“Dad is better at giving out lectures than taking advice himself.”
Blitz fixes Octavia with a stern look. Stolas struggles with taking his own advice, true, and communicating effectively with Octavia, but that’s why they do their own therapy shit, isn’t it?
“I don’t mean it in a bad way, but it’s true. We’ve talked about it in therapy,” Octavia says out loud. “You two have talked about Striker, then.”
“Yes. He did consider telling you, but…”
“He decided to ‘protect’ me instead, and only to tell me when I am old enough to hear about this? Which, knowing him, is very likely to be never, just like the divorce, or the restraining order, or how mum and Uncle Andrealphus got supervised visitations, custody exchanges had to be done through official royal means, and how Uncle Andrealphus was removed from the Astronomy society and had to relinquish that domain because he isn’t allowed to work in any project with my father, so there’s no way he can perform astronomy duties?”
“Yeah I, huh, I didn’t know about that.”
“Didn’t you?”
Blitz tries very, very, hard to roll his eyes at the accusatory voice. Stolas and he aren’t joined by the hip, no matter what everyone seemed to think. Their therapist was adamant about boundaries (because apparently neither of them knew how those worked) and Blitz likes to think he and Stolas are decent at following her advises. Thank you very much. Back to the point, Stolas doesn’t spill every little thing to Blitz.
“He told me Andrealphus and he wouldn’t work together anymore, and I didn’t have to worry,” or carry a blessed bullet whenever he went to see him, “I just thought it was another order from ol’ Luce.”
“Huh. So, I’m not the only one he hides things from.”
Blitz massages his temples and hisses. “I’m not playing that game,” he won’t let a baby manipulate him. “He doesn’t hide things as a personal attack, Via. Some things are just hard to talk about. They’re emotionally charged and talking means going through the same emotions again, and he might not be ready for that. It’s not… about keeping you in the dark, it’s about him and how he processes things.”
Maybe therapy is also working for Blitz.
“…does Striker fall in this category?”
“Yeah,” Blitz says and shrinks. He feels as if he’s said too much. Unlike his and Loonie’s relationship, Octavia and Stolas can be quite… codependent. Loonie has some delicate issues where she can be sensitive and Blitz needs to thread carefully, but it’s nowhere as often as the mental gymnastics Stolas and Octavia do to reach a specific conclusion that feeds their own insecurities. “This is about him.”
Octavia looks a bit contrite as she nods. “Will you tell me about him, then?”
“You, first. I will tell you what I can. And I will tell your dad to talk to you.” This is really Blitz’s best compromise. He can’t force Stolas to open up to Octavia about the can of worms that was Stella and the clusterfuck and nightmare inducing marriage they had any more than Stolas can force Blitz to talk to Loona about Barbie.
But in Blitz defence, Loona doesn’t actually need to know about Barbie. Would it be nice to talk about her with Loona? Definitely. Nice, not necessary. Not like addressing a few issues with Via is. But it’s still ultimately Stolas’ decision and Blitz will support him.
Octavia seems to reach the seem conclusion because she acquiesces. “I overheard a conversation between Uncle Andrealphus and my mother. I don’t know the context, but she told him to get rid of ‘Striker’ since he no longer had a purpose now that she had exhausted all means to appeal Lucifer’s order. She said, word-by-word, ‘You shouldn’t have stopped me’. And whoever this Striker is has been living underneath my uncle’s palace for the last three years, apparently. Now, what do you know of him.”
Blitz swallows the bitter taste of bile. He has lost the ability to surprise himself with how deep and absolute his hate for Stella and her brother is. He forces the familia burn of anger and indignation aside, pushing it to the back of his head in order to address something far more terrifying. Octavia still doesn’t know that Stella made two attempts on Stolas’ life. She doesn’t know Stella is the reason behind Stolas’ hospitalisation. Octavia isn’t…as close to Stella as she is to Stolas, but she definitely likes her, and Blitz can’t help but wonder why Stella is openly talking about Striker as if trying to kill her husband was just another Sunday morning.
They are lucky Octavia hasn’t joined the dots yet with how bold Stella was.
“I will. Just, why did you assume I would know anything about this?”
“You convinced dad to ask for the restraining order. You did that odd job for Lucifer, too. Besides, unlike me, dad tells you things. I simply assumed it’d be easier asking you than playing twenty questions with him and still get nothing because he’s sneaky.”
“You’re his kid.”
“I’m twenty. He doesn’t need to protect me. He needs to trust me.”
“Fair enough,” Blitz concedes with a tired sigh. “I fought Strike in Wrath, when he went undercover at Millie’s farm. He is a charismatic daddy fucker. At least at first. Highly skilled and resilient. Slippery. Hurt M&M pretty bad the two times they encountered him. I fought him again in Greed, when he kidnapped me and Fizz. That was the last I heard of him. I was tracking him for a year and a half. I thought he was dead, but all this time he was locked in your uncle’s basement.”
“What does that have to do with dad? No offence, Blitz, but my mother doesn’t care about you. She dislikes you, but you’re not important in her worldview.”
“You will need to ask Stolas. He is bad news; I can’t tell you more than that.”
“You will make dad tell me, won’t you?” Octavia looks at him with a smidge of hope. “He listens to you. He never listens to me.”
“It’s different, Via. You’re his child. I’m his boyfriend. We tell each other shit we don’t tell you or Loona because even if you’re twenty and twenty-five, you are our girls, and we don’t want to burden you with things. It’s not a matter of trust.”
“You still will make him talk with me, right?”
Oh, Stolas will hate that. “Yes,” Blitz sighs. This changes things. This is important and better that Octavia learns from Stolas than from Stella. He doesn’t put it pass her to spin the tale around if Octavia confronts her. “He will, just…give me time to prepare him. And be patient. I hear you yelling at him and you’re not getting any more shooting lessons—and don’t even think about dragging Loona into this, I have more shit on her than you.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” Octavia groans and pretends to feel aggravated. “I won’t snap at him.”
Blitz gives her a last considering look before nodding his approval and taking the milk and cookies she offered him. He would normally try to get more conversation from her, and he knows he probably should ask her things about eavesdropping, but right now Blitz’s mind is running a marathon, forming, and discarding plans on how to breach the conversation with Stolas in the span of seconds.
Octavia doesn’t try to make conversation, accepting the silence falling between them for what it is: a negotiation gone well. She knows Blitz will go through with his threat if she loses her temper on her dad and that is a two-sided warning. It tells her that whoever Striker is, her dad will have a visceral reaction to him, and she should try and be understanding. She will try.
-.-.-.-.-.-
Stolas never wakes up early. In that regard, Blitz and he are complete opposites. Blitz usually wakes up early, goes through his exercise routine, has breakfast, and is at the office by seven sharp. Stolas’ work happens at night and can stretch into the early hours of the morning, so the prince usually sleeps until late in the afternoon the next day.
On the rare occasions when Stolas wakes up early, Blitz ends up being late to work because a certain spoiled bird demands cuddles and affection, and Blitz is weak when faced with Stolas’ pouting.
“Good morning, Blitzy,” Stolas murmurs, snuggling against Blitz’s head, letting one hand caress Blitz’s arm; the imp’s tail is wrapped around his thigh, as it is every morning. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to still be home, darling?” he asked sleepily.
Blitz is cuddled up against the soft feathers of Stolas’ chest, but his breathing is lighter, a clear sign that he’s already awake. With his right hand, he strokes the prince’s hip, gently scratching the skin beneath the feathers, careful not to hurt him. He likes Stolas’ scent in the morning—well, actually, he likes Stolas’ scent all the time—but in the mornings, it’s a mix of those expensive, fancy essential oils he uses to care for his feathers, combined with the keratin and biotin Blitz uses for his horns and hooves, and the cheap body shampoo that Stolas always complains about but is perfect for Blitz’s skin.
In the mornings, Stolas smells like him, and Blitz lets himself be enveloped by the comforting feeling that Stolas isn’t going anywhere.
He kisses the feathered chest—he’s become an expert at not swallowing feathers when he does this in the morning—and lets his hands wander a bit further down past Stolas’ hips, caressing his bird’s thigh and drawing out those cute chirps and trills of surprise that he enjoys so much. “No, you’re the one who woke up early today,” he says with amusement, adding mockingly, “Maybe it’s going to rain.”
Stolas gently pecks one of Blitz’s horns in retaliation. “Hey,” he says, and Blitz can hear the pout in his voice, “I don’t always wake up that late.”
“No, just all the time. Besides, you’re a heavy sleeper.”
“Not all of us have assassin reflexes, darling.”
Blitz laughs this time, pinching his thigh lightly. “Not even normal reflexes in your case, Stols.” He then rubs the area he pinched. He really likes that Stolas can sleep deeply now, with both pairs of eyes closed. It means the trauma is slowly healing, and that the marks and scars left by Stella are fading, her hold on Stolas less and less strong. A year and a half ago, Stolas was still sleeping with one pair of eyes open, and two years ago, he would wake up at any noise during the night, especially if Blitz wasn’t beside him.
“Well, that’s how you love me, isn’t it?” Stolas teases, rubbing his face against Blitz’s horn. “Seriously though, what time is it, darling? Not that I don’t appreciate waking up next to you, you know it’s my favourite thing after our nighttime activities,” he says with a mischievous and playful tone, laughing softly and pressing their bodies closer, “but aren’t you going to be late for work? I doubt I woke up before six.”
Blitz had talked to Octavia two days ago, and he’s been mulling over it longer than he should. Octavia isn’t a patient girl—only children rarely are—and despite everything that’s happened, Octavia is still used to being Stolas’ priority. Blitz doesn’t hold this against her; he doesn’t even see it as a bad thing, but he knows implicitly that Octavia tends to be impatient with her dad, and Stolas always needs at least a full workweek to process his emotions and put them into words. Apparently, his pretty bird is good at analysing his feelings, but not so much at feeling them. Who would’ve guessed, given the fine and eloquent way he speaks?
In moments like these, Blitz knows therapy is helping for all three of them, as much as he hates to admit it.
“Darling, is something wrong?”
Blitz sighs. “I took the day off,” he says as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t know how to talk to Stolas about fucking Striker without putting him on the defensive or scaring him, so he’ll be direct.
“Did something happen?”
“You could say that. Look, Stolas—Pretty bird,” he corrects, because using Stolas full name with no moniker usually means he is in trouble with Blitz, which he isn’t, although maybe he should be, “how about we have breakfast in bed and then talk about it? I know making you wait isn’t ideal, but I need food to deal with this. And you need your meds.”
Stolas remains silent for a while until Blitz finally feels him pull away. “Will you help me groom?” Stolas asks timidly, as if afraid Blitz might say no.
At least he didn’t flinch. At least, he isn’t overanalysing the use of his name. Blitz pulls him back close, gently holding his cheeks before kissing his forehead. “Go get your oils; I’ll go get you some water for your pills.”
Stolas nods, and Blitz relaxes momentarily. At least it’s not one of those days when Stolas can’t get out of bed because his body refuses to move, when his arms and legs feel so heavy that all he wants is to rip them off and leave his mind in stasis. At least it’s not one of those days when he can’t eat because everything tastes like ashes, and the greasy texture of cooked meat clings to his palate, turning it into something nauseating that makes him vomit again and again. At least it’s not one of those days when he asks Blitz to hurt him because he needs to feel something, anything, and pain is easy and safe.
No, it’s one of those days when Stolas can take his medication without his hands shaking, when his smiles are genuine and light up his face, when his nervousness doesn’t turn into anxiety and overanalysing every little detail of Blitz’s body language and expressions or tone of voice, jumping to conclusions that even Blitz’s mind can’t follow.
When Blitz returns, Stolas is lying on the bed on top of a towel, his favourite robe in a crumpled heap on the floor, and a soft tune fills the room—something about a little bird flying in winter over snow-covered treetops; it’s a language of whistles and hisses that Blitz doesn’t know, but Stolas has translated bits of the song for him, and now Blitz recognizes the sounds instantly—a sign that today will continue to be a good day.
“Here you go, Stols,” he hands him the glass of water and his medication. He waits for Stolas to take them, showing him under his tongue that he’s not hiding them like he used to when the bad days were frequent. Smiling, Blitz kisses his forehead again. “Good boy.”
Stolas chirps, his cheeks colour a dust pink, and he chirps happily at the easy praise. Praising Stolas has always been easy, even when Blitz only did it as a game, as part of their dynamic Praising him now has become another complex layer in the web they’ve designed to keep each other healthy and their bad thoughts away. Stolas accepts compliments easily, even if he’d never praise himself. Blitz praises himself easily, like just another mask, but he struggles believing those same words when Stolas whisper them to him at night, and even more so when Stolas declares them in public.
They are a work in progress.
Half an hour later, they are sharing a breakfast spread in Stolas’ garden. Blitz has just finished telling him all about that little town in the middle of the mountains where they killed a group of cultists—fucking cultists!—and the wicked souvenir he got for him but isn’t quite ready yet, and Stolas is half laughing with his talons covering his beak and his little hoot hoot laughter warming Blitz’s chest.
“What an exciting and charming little expedition, darling,” Stolas says. “I wish I had something marginally as interesting to tell you, but I spent my day reviewing an operation from some of my associates. There was a malfunction in a ritual that caught some nun’s attention and father I quite furious. It was a lot of paperwork.”
“Yikes. You can shove that down Mox’s throat. That’s what I do.”
“Hm. I do like the paperwork, I don’t like submitting reports to my father,” Stolas clarifies. “Luckily, I corrected the mistake, and I can go back to my plants today. Marquiss Sabnock asked for some poisons to be delivered to his place, and Naberius will host a tertulia later this week and wants some, huh, high-end appetisers to promote good relationships, if you know what I mean.”
Blitz makes a face of confusion that doesn’t vanish until Stolas mimics someone smoking. He laughs then, showing his fangs, and shakes his head. “Oh. That’s my kind of party. Why do you never get invited to the good kind of parties, huh?”
Stolas shrugs. “I don’t know, darling.”
“Well, fine. We can… do something later.”
When they finish breakfast, both adopt a more serious demeanour. Blitz still doesn’t know how on earth to approach the subject. Is there any non-dramatic way to tell your boyfriend that his daughter overheard her mother talking about her attempted murder against him? Three years, and Stella is still messing with their lives. Maybe the prenuptial agreement ruined her plans to live in luxury at Stolas' expense, but that fucking bitch certainly hasn’t stopped making their lives miserable through Octavia. If it weren’t for that promise he made his owl, Blitz would have arranged an "accident" for Stolas’ ex-wife a couple of years ago.
“Blitzy,” Stolas calls him anxiously, looking into his eyes with his small pupils visible. He’s fidgeting with his fingers and shifting his legs, barely containing himself in that small, uncomfortable chair. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Blitz inhales deeply and nods, looking at the familiar reddish sky. A couple of years ago, he would have grabbed his gun and gone hunting for that bastard daddy fucker. Stolas would have remained in complete ignorance—safe, as he always should have been if Blitz hadn’t failed him—until Blitz handed him a little souvenir made of snakeskin. But now things are different, and Blitz knows how risky it is to keep things from Stolas. They don’t do well with secrets.
“I know where Striker is,” he blurts out without hesitation. That’s the easy part, of course. Stolas looks at him without saying anything, waiting for him to continue, and that’s the hard part. “He’s been in your brother-in-law’s dungeons for the past three years.”
“Are you sure about that?” Stolas asks quietly, not because he really doubts Blitz, but because Blitz spent over a year searching under every rock in the Wrath and under every radioactive barrel in Greed, and all this time Striker has been in Pride. “How did you get this information, dear?”
There’s no easy way to say it, so Blitz grabs Stolas’ hands and gives him a serious look, one of those looks he uses when he needs Stolas to listen, one of those looks that usually come with risks and tragedy, and that they aren’t supposed to need anymore. Stolas squeezes his hands back and clenches his jaw, trying to present a strong front, knowing that the news he’s about to hear will shake the foundation of his peace of mind and stability.
‘I wish I could hide all of this from you, my pretty bird, but I really don’t have another choice,’ the assassin thinks to himself. “I’m very sure about this. I know your policy has always been to keep Via out of everything that happened between you and Stella, but the time has come to sit her down and talk to her like an adult, Stols.”
“What does Octavia have to do with this?”
Stolas knows. Blitz sees it in his troubled expression. Of course, he knows, but it has always been easier for him to deceive himself than to accept uncomfortable truths.
“Octavia overheard Stella telling Andrealphus to get rid of Striker since she hadn’t been able to use him to convince Lucifer to lift the restraining order. ‘You shouldn’t have stopped me,’ is what your ex-wife said. And you and I both know that Octavia will ask questions, and if you don’t give her an answer, she’ll go looking for them on her own because Via is no longer a little girl you can appease with platitudes and a promise to talk about it when she’s older and more mature. Your girl is twenty years old, and either you tell her the truth, or Stella and Andrealphus will have another chance to twist the truth and tell her their own version.”
There it is, said bluntly and without sugarcoating.
Blitz doesn’t lay the blame at his feet despite how easy it could be to use Stolas’ regret to force his hand. The prince is staring at him, and he looks haunted. The thing about skeletons in closets is that they eventually come out in the worst way.
“For now, she’s willing to wait for you. We were lucky she came to me first, but I didn’t tell her much. You need to talk to her. I convinced her to come to you, to ask, and I promised her that you would at least hear her out—and you need to listen to her, Stols.”
“That wasn’t your place,” Stolas flinches away from him, taking his hands as if they were burnt by Blitz’s touch. “She is my daughter! You shouldn’t… This isn’t… There is no way I can tell her what her mother has tried to do!”
Blitz doesn’t take his anger like a personal offence. Not this time. Not when he can see how desperate Stolas is. “I didn’t tell her Striker tried to kill you. I did tell her I knew him from the Pain Games in Wrath. Believe it or not, Stolas, I don’t break my promises intentionally. But you can’t keep information from Octavia and hope things go your way—you hate when I keep information from you.”
“That’s different!”
"No, it isn’t," Blitz says calmly.
He loves that owl, but he can’t coddle him on this. He will support him in any decision he makes, just like he told Octavia—they are a united front—but Blitz is going to make sure Stolas makes an informed decision. Stolas will be fully aware of the consequences and repercussions of his actions.
“Remember, we’re talking about Stella. Do you think Octavia won’t confront her mother for answers if you deny them? She’s an adult now, Stolas, and she’s fully free to seek out the information she needs or wants on her own. Asking you is just a courtesy. Think carefully about what will happen if Octavia goes to Stella, because that bitch won’t hesitate for a second to paint you as the villain. Have you forgotten how brutal was the custody battle or do you just enjoy letting that harpy and her brother mess with your mental health? Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen, and you know it,” Blitz says harshly, looking at him with unusual severity.
Stolas swallows and looks away, sniffling slightly. Blitz rubs his temple and sighs in frustration. Damn it.
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Stols. That’s exactly what I want to avoid, but you need to understand that you can’t just ignore Via or pretend nothing happened with Stella. It won’t work anymore. It hasn’t worked for a long time.”
“I’m not…I’m not doing that.”
“Not on purpose.”
“How do you propose I tell her? It will ruin her relationship with Stella!”
Most likely. Definitely. Blitz gets off his chair to go to Stolas and sit on his lap. “I don’t know, pretty bird. I can just tell you that isn’t your job to make Stella look good for Octavia. That’s her job. Let her deal with the consequences of her actions. Because keeping quiet is not going to shield Octavia, okay? You’ll just switch the person who’ll get blamed, and you deserve better. I’m not saying to tell her everything either. Just give her something.”
Stolas hugged him and hid his face, pressing his chin against Blitz’s shoulder. “Do I even have a choice?”
“Always. I just… Just remember choices have consequences. I know all about bad choices and terrible consequences. I think you do too, Stols. Think about it, talk to your doctor if you need to. Just…Via probably knows more than she lets on. Children normally do, especially children in broken families.”
“She was supposed to be happy.”
“I know, Stols. But children can’t always be happy. You did your best. You keep putting her first. This is putting her first. You’re not doing this to spite Stella. You’re doing this to protect Via. Stella will use her. You know she will.”
“I want to think about it. I don’t…I don’t even know what to say. I haven’t even unpacked this in therapy.”
“You can do that. Just don’t overanalyse things either, pretty bird. It won’t help.”
Stolas nods and his breathing is ragged. So much for a good day.