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It’s around two in the morning when Lute comes knocking at Vaggie’s door.
Vaggie has to force herself awake, exhausted from the previous day’s training - and the day before that’s training, and the day before that’s, and so on. She’s motivated well enough by her panic, though. Worrying reasons there would be someone knocking on her door at this hour race through her mind. Is there an emergency? Is she in trouble?
But when she opens the door to her room and sees the lieutenant of the exorcist army standing before her, looking like shit, everything makes sense.
She’s been waiting for this.
Lute’s bright white hair - which is usually perfectly straightened and arranged in its razor-like layered style - is thoroughly disheveled, with bits and pieces sticking out all over. Her uniform is rumpled, askew; a far cry from its pristine status quo. Her makeup is fading and smudged where it isn’t.
But the most serious evidence that something is wrong with Lute is in her eyes, and the deep bags under them. Vaggie would guess she hasn’t slept in days. Despite this, Lute’s shining golden eyes stare intensely at her, into her, through her.
“Is something wrong, Lieutenant?” she asks, the fear she’s meant to be feeling inexplicably absent.
Lute scowls, narrowing her bloodshot eyes. “Shut up.” She gestures sharply. “Come with me.”
Vaggie follows along - not that she has much choice in the matter. Protesting a command from Lute at any normal time, on any normal day, is a death wish. Right now - with the air pounding from the weight of whatever is happening, whatever is going on in Lute’s mind - it’s unthinkable.
There’s a foreboding sureness in it, walking with Lute down the dim, empty halls of the exorcists’ dormitory. There’s a morbid thrill in it, being entirely at Lute’s mercy like this. There’s a dangerous satisfaction in it, knowing that Lute will have no mercy for her.
Lute leads her down stairs, takes her outside - to the training grounds.
This was inevitable. Vaggie had known it was coming for weeks, for months, for years. Every time Lute’s gaze had lingered on her just a little too long, every time Lute had berated her for stepping ever so slightly out of line, every time Lute had chosen her specifically for a combat demonstration, as a training partner - all those moments were leading up to the present, walking with Lute through the gentle, glowing dark of Heaven at night across the training grounds Vaggie has spent so, so many years on.
Of course, there is still the mystery of why the lieutenant would let Vaggie bother her so much in the first place. Vaggie is hardly anyone special, simply another soldier in the army Lute co-leads. She just…does what she’s supposed to. Mostly because she doesn’t know what else she even wants to do. She trains to kill sinners; kills sinners. Tries to avoid being noticed but fails.
She supposes Adam does refer to her as one of his “top girls”, and seems to hold… something reminiscent of affection for her, which makes her wonder if Lute is just jealous. Lute is unhealthily attached to him - practically worships him - and if she’s made up some false reality in her head where Adam is beginning to prefer Vaggie over her, or is even just giving Vaggie too much attention…That could be the source of her hatred. Desperate, pathetic jealousy.
But no. When Lute looks at her, there is something more. Something that makes Vaggie’s heart skip a beat from just how unnervingly mangled it is by the time it makes it out of Lute because, as she’s come to learn, Lute’s mind is nothing more than a blade that dutifully cuts up any emotions she feels until all that is left of them is their butchered remains.
And, whatever its cause, that something more has brought Lute to find Vaggie in the middle of the night, to take her out to the exorcist training grounds, to do…what?
Lute will hurt her, the sword sheathed at Lute’s side tells her that much. But what excuse will she come up with for it? Training? Punishment? Warning?
Lute stops at the center of the grounds, where they stand in an open area surrounded by equipment and obstacles for training. Her intense glare as hostile as ever, she turns to look directly at Vaggie. “I noticed,” she begins, “that you weren’t very enthusiastic during training today.”
That simultaneously wasn’t what Vaggie thought she would say and exactly what she was expecting. Regardless, her response comes naturally: “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Lute snaps, probably just because she wants to snap at her. “Tell me why.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Lute begins to pace, slowly, around Vaggie. Vaggie doesn’t turn to follow her gaze, opting instead to stand still in the way she always does when Adam or Lute decide she’s worth paying attention to. In the way she’s been trained to. Back straight, arms at her sides, staring ahead at nothing in front of her as she waits for orders - or punishment. A soldier at attention. “There’s no point in playing innocent with me. I know there’s something wrong. Tell me what it is.”
If she’d phrased it a little differently, and her voice wasn’t dripping with venom, and Lute hadn’t forced her outside in the middle of the night to say it, she might have sounded concerned. But this - this is an interrogation, no doubt about it. Vaggie has done something wrong - or rather, there is something wrong with her - and to Lute those are both the same thing. “I’ve obeyed every order you’ve ever given me. What more do you want?”
Lute growls, short and sharp, at that. Then she takes a calming breath, and then another, and says: “I want to know I can trust you.” Her voice is deceptively neutral.
“Have I done anything to make you think you can’t?”
“I told you. Today - you were apathetic. Every day, you’re apathetic. Every extermination, you’re apathetic.” She leans in closer, tightens the circle she’s pacing ever so slightly. Vaggie wishes it made her want to step away. That would be reasonable, understandable, normal . Instead, it just makes her want to step closer. “It makes me wonder if you’re committed. ”
Maybe not everyone is as stab-happy as you are, you sadistic bitch, she wants to say. But she shouldn’t. Or maybe she just can’t bring herself to. “Then I’ll…try to do better.”
Lute ignores her. “Do you know how important the exterminations are?” she asks.
“Yes, I do.” It’s an instinctive, unconscious answer, yet true. She has been reminded of it constantly every day she has spent serving in Heaven’s brutal excuse for an army. She has reminded herself of it every time she finds herself painfully aware of the blood on her hands.
Lute stops in front of her, brings her face up inches away from Vaggie’s. Vaggie can see just how bloodshot her eyes are from this distance, the thin golden lines covering her sclera forming an intricate web. Harshly, she breathes: “Then tell me.”
“They control overpopulation in Hell.”
“And?”
“Quell rebellion.”
“To?”
“Protect Heaven.”
Lute nods slowly, pulls back. “Good,” she says. Something in her eyes shifts and she smiles crookedly. “Good.” Vaggie’s insides twist as Lute’s eyes travel up and down her, examining her like a hunter preparing to gut a kill. It’s unnerving. Worse, it’s exciting. Lute continues, “It’s important to remember that. Never forget it.” There’s a threat there. It’s emphasized by the fact that Lute is digging her nails into the palms of her hands so hard she’s drawing several drops of golden blood. “Now. Prove it to me.”
And there it is. Lute’s excuse for hurting her. Accepting her fate, Vaggie asks, “How?”
Lute’s hands are on Vaggie’s shoulders then, the force of the sudden motion it took to get them there shaking Vaggie slightly. “Train with me.”
“I…” Vaggie can’t respond for a moment. She can’t remember how. She is too deep in the moment, in the sick light of Lute’s eyes, in the jagged upward curve of her lips, in the ragged irregularity of her breathing. “Right now?” She glances down at herself - still in the thin, gray, X-marked dress she wears under her uniform every day and to sleep every night.
Some rational thought breaks through in Lute’s mind. From the frown she makes, she even doubts herself for a moment. Then she focuses in on Vaggie again and there is just whatever emotion is five fucked-up shades away from hatred left. “Don’t fucking question me,” she hisses, her hands dropping from Vaggie’s shoulders. “Go get your spear.”
A simple, direct order. Vaggie is moving before she realizes it. To the armory, situated at the edge of the training grounds. Every exorcist’s blade is stored there, and despite the intimidating number of weapons inside, Vaggie can find her spear easily. She puts it in the same place every night. She takes it from the same place every morning.
When she returns to Lute, the lieutenant is rigidly swinging her sword through the air in practiced motions and routines. She stares ahead at nothing with acute fervor as she does so. Vaggie wonders what Lute imagines she is striking with every cut. Nameless sinners? Her own heart? Vaggie?
The moment Lute sees Vaggie has her spear and is coming towards her she freezes for a split second, trembling with tension, staring at Vaggie. This split second is Vaggie’s only warning before she strikes.
Only thanks to pure instinct, instilled by years and years of training, does she manage to get her spear up in time to stop the downward drive of Lute’s sword. She holds her there for only an instant, Lute’s blade digging into the wood of her spear as they press against each other. Then Lute wrenches her sword back, and the real fight begins.
Vaggie learns, as Lute swings rapidly and she parries, only occasionally getting a jab in, that Lute had been holding back every time they’d sparred before. Only using little more than half of her strength. And it begs the question: why? Why go easy on her all of those times, but attack her with everything she’s got now? And she realizes, with a sinking heart, the answer is simple: right now, there are no witnesses.
With the thud of every blow she blocks, she gradually comes to terms with the fact that she cannot keep this up forever. Eventually, she will slip up, and Lute’s sword will hit her with enough force to sever a limb. She has to do something, fast, if she wants to escape only somewhat scathed. But what can she do? Vaggie may be one of the best in the army, but Lute is the best. She’s earned her title as Lieutenant.
“Is this really all you’ve got, Vaggie?” Lute spits out between panting breaths. “You’re weak . I knew you were weak.”
Vaggie can’t come up with an answer. Her mind is too busy racing through ways to get out of whatever this is to think of one
She’s right, anyway, and Vaggie knows it. She’s almost certain she’s the only exorcist who’s ever had doubts about killing sinners, and she’s absolutely certain she’s the only one who’s ever felt guilty about it. Not that she’s told Lute - or anyone else - that. But Lute certainly suspects it.
Some of Lute’s strikes manage to graze Vaggie before she can successfully block them. Several golden cuts, varying in depth, end up scattered over her skin.
“Pathetic…” Lute mutters the word absentmindedly. “ Soft …”
Oh.
Interesting.
One blow, even stronger than the others. Lute holds against Vaggie’s spear for a long moment. In the pause, she looks at Vaggie even more piercingly than she has yet. It stings more than any cut her sword has given Vaggie.
Vaggie loves it.
“You’re so fucking breakable ,” Lute says, still holding her there. “I could break you without my sword. I could rip you apart with my bare hands.”
Vaggie knows what she needs to say instantly: “Then do it.”
“What?” Lute eases her attack.
“Put down your sword. Break me. Rip me apart with your bare hands.”
Lute considers this tempting option in a drawn out pause of contemplation. Then she pulls her sword back, and then she throws it to the side. Vaggie watches it skid across the ground from the force of the throw. She takes the cue to drop her own weapon.
Lute has her on the ground as soon as her spear is out of her hands. Vaggie finds, mind racing to comprehend the sudden shift, that Lute is situated on top of her, straddling her waist with her hands pressing her shoulders into the ground. She will start her work soon. Vaggie does not doubt that she can break every bone in her body. She does not doubt that she will. It is simply a matter of when .
“That was too easy,” Lute says.
Vaggie notes, in a moment of strange mental calm, that Lute is rather beautiful, looking down on her as she is. With her wild eyes, with her deep grimace, with her sweat sliding down her face. The perfect picture of a starving, barely restrained animal.
Lute pushes Vaggie harder into the ground. “I watch you train. You never put in any real effort . If you did, you might - ”
It is that strange moment of mental calm that makes Vaggie brace her hands against the ground, push herself up, and kiss Lute.
Lute is stiff at first. Shocked. Despite everything, she was not prepared for this. Then something inside her thaws, and she is returning the kiss with overwhelming hunger.
She moves her hands from Vaggie’s shoulders to wrap her hands around the back of Vaggie’s head and pull her up, pressing Vaggie’s mouth harder onto hers. The kiss becomes open-mouthed sometime in the process. And it is Lute who is driving it now, moving her tongue across every part of Vaggie’s lips, every part of her mouth she can reach, and biting at her with a familiar yet now so much different sting. Vaggie can’t help but moan from the rush of it all, can’t help but reach forward and wrap her arms Lute’s waist to pull her closer even as the other angel sits, knees against the ground, on her lap, because fuck, fuck, fuck -
It’s impressive how quickly Lute disengages. One moment they’re making out, and the next Lute is shoving her away, jumping up to her feet. She stays standing in front of Vaggie after that, breathing so rapidly and desperately she’s practically hyperventilating.
Vaggie can do nothing but stare at her in bewilderment, still reeling from the kiss.
“What was that ?!” Lute exclaims, wings twitching.
Vaggie sighs. “I thought that was what you wanted,” she murmurs. “Apologies, Lieutenant.”
“I didn’t - I don’t - ” Lute shakes her head, not only for Vaggie but also for herself. “Never - never say anything about this to anyone . If you do, I’ll tear your fucking jaw off . Understood, soldier?”
Vaggie hesitates to answer.
Almost screaming, Lute repeats, “ Understood , soldier?”
“Understood, Lieutenant.”
Lute relaxes at that, exhaling with a shudder. “Go back to your room,” she orders.
Vaggie has no problem with that order. In fact, she’s happy about it. Or - she would be if she wasn’t exhausted.
She goes to put her spear away, and by the time she emerges from the armory, Lute is gone. Maybe she flew off somewhere to be alone. Maybe she made her way back to her own room. Maybe she went to find Adam. Wherever she went, Vaggie doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to.
She doesn’t even want to think about Lute at the moment. She just wants to go back to bed and maybe get even just a bit more sleep before the morning comes and she has to train again. Training, training, always training…
When she finally crawls into her bed after trekking back across the compound, she quickly realizes she will not be able to fall back asleep.
She simply cannot get her still fresh and burning memories of Lute’s eyes, of Lute’s sword, of Lute’s lips, of Lute , out of her head. She hates it. She hates that she wants her. Because it’s unbelievably stupid that she wants her when it’s obvious Lute sees her as nothing more than a stress toy to take her disturbingly complex frustrations out on, and is revolted by the mere idea of being romantically or sexually involved with Vaggie, and is dedicated to making Vaggie suffer in every way she can; when Lute will always be devoted to the exterminations first, and even then, Adam second. It’s so unbelievably stupid it’s funny. Really, it makes Vaggie laugh just thinking about it.
No, she’s not laughing, she’s crying. She’s crying like a fucking baby in her bed alone because there’s something so tragically wrong with her that she loves a sadistic bitch who hates her. It’s…everything Lute would expect of her. Weak. Pathetic. Soft.
Lute was right about everything, wasn’t she?
Lute’s probably already forgotten everything that happened. That, or repressed it thoroughly enough to have the same effect. It would be best for Vaggie to do the same.
If only she could.