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Pain.
It was the only thing loud enough to fill the silence.
It had gone past the point of the sharp, biting sting of a fresh wound, which would actually have been easier to endure. This was different. It was a dull, heavy throb that burning from the hollow where her left eye used to be, a constant, chaotic noise that refused to fade into the background.
There was no escaping it. Sleep was just a series of shallow drifts, interrupted whenever the throbbing spiked.
Two weeks.
It had been about fourteen days since she was discarded in the alleyway filth, yet the timeline felt wrong. The days bled together as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Her body felt foreign, the phantom weight of wings that had been ripped away still ghosted against her back, twitching with phantom nerves that had nowhere to go. And the left side of her face... it was just waves of the never stopping throbbing ache.
She could handle the pain, though just barely, but that wasn't even the worst part. Whenever she forced her remaining eye open, the world was violently sliced in half. To her left, there was no darkness, no light, just an abrupt, terrifying absence of... things. The depth was gone, the room flattened into a singular, two-dimensional plane like a poorly drawn map. She felt her world was permanently tilted, like a ship that had lost its anchor.
She couldn't even cross the room without her left side catching the sharp edge of a chair. She would reach for the medicine bottle on the table, only for her hand to stall in mid-air, her fingers closing on nothing while the bottle remained an inch further than she expected. Every missed grab, every stumble against something she hadn't seen coming felt like a quiet insult to the person she used to be. A reminder of just how helpless she was now. She was a stranger in her own skin, fumbling through a life that had suddenly become too difficult to touch.
She shouldn't be here. She should be a stain on the ground, another piece of debris left behind by the Extermination. But she wasn't. She was in a bed that was softer than the clouds in Heaven, in a room that wasn't a barracks.
Tonight, sleep was a lost cause. The pain made it impossible. The constant dull ache kept her wide awake, staring helplessly into the dark. Lying still only gave her mind space to wander, dragging up memories she didn't want to face. She couldn't just lie there with her thoughts anymore.
Vaggie's single eye drifted to the corner of the room. There, curled up on a cramped, velvet couch that was far too small for her limbs, was the Princess of Hell—she figured that out shortly after Charlie took her in, it was not like she was really hiding it. Charlie was asleep, one arm dangling off the edge, guarding a broken soul as if she were something precious.
It made no sense. None of it did.
She owed this girl her life, a fact that hung so heavy in her chest. But the gratitude was tangled with confusion. Why would the Princess go this far? This was way harder than housing a stray, she was looking after her with a patience Vaggie knew she didn't deserve.
Over the last two weeks, it was Charlie's hands that had gently peeled away the blood-soaked gauze when Vaggie couldn't even bear to look at her own reflection. It was Charlie who offered a steady shoulder when Vaggie was too dizzy to stand, who sat patiently by the bed with a glass of water while Vaggie snapped and hissed from all the pain and anger like a cornered animal. Vaggie knew she was a terrible patient. But somehow, Charlie never left even when the nighrmares took hold. She had even dragged that ridiculous, uncomfortable couch into the bedroom by herself, just to be close enough to be there for Vaggie when the screaming started.
She never asked for anything in return. Not even about the blood. Vaggie had caught her staring at the gold stains on the bandages more than once, curiosity shining behind her eyes, but she never asked why.
Vaggie shifted, even the friction of the soft sheets against her skin felt abrasive. Her throat felt like it was coated in ash. Dry, scratchy, and tight. She needed water.
Slowly, gritting her teeth against the wave of vertigo that came with the movement, she pushed herself up into a sitting position. The room was pitch black, barely illuminated by the faint red glow from the windows as she turned her head toward where she remembered the nightstand being.
She could see the silhouette of the water kettle. But the image was flat, she didn't trust her eye to tell her how far away it was. Vaggie simply didn't trust her depth perception anymore, she couldn't afford to. So she let her fingers do the work her eye couldn't.
She reached out, her hand hovering in the dim air. She swiped at the space where the handle should be, her fingers closing on emptiness once. She gritted her teeth, moved her hand an inch forward, and patted the air again until her knuckles finally grazed something cold. There.
She traced the curve up to the handle, gripping it tight. Her wrist felt weak, the weight of the water straining her trembling muscles. She used her other hand to locate the glass, keeping a finger on the rim to mark the spot.
Just align the spout. She thought to herself. Tilt. Pour. Simple as that.
It looked right. To her eye, the spout was hovering directly over the glass.
She tilted the kettle.
For a second, there was only the sound of liquid moving. But the noise was wrong, she wasn't hearing the sound of a cup filling, but the harsh, wet splatter of liquid hitting flat wood. Then, something buring hot touched her skin.
"Fuck!"
It had missed. The stream was pouring inches to the left of the glass, pooling on the nightstand.
The curse ripped out of her throat as the steaming water splashed over her hand and wrist. Her arm jerked back violently to get away from the heat.
But she moved too fast. Her knuckles slammed hard into the glass she had been trying to fill. It flew off the edge of the nightstand and crashed onto the floor.
The sound of shattering glass was deafening in the silent room. Vaggie froze. She held her burned hand against her chest, water dripping from her fingers, but she didn't dare move. She just stared at the jagged shards glinting in the dark, her heart hammering against her ribs. Stupid, she cursed at herself. Fucking useless.
"Vaggie?!"
The girl on the couch scrambled upright by the sudden noise, tangling for a moment in the blanket before stumbling off the couch. There was a rustle of fabric, the heavy thud of bare hooves hitting the floor, and the sound of her rushing blindly toward the bed.
Click.
The bedside lamp flared to life. White, blinding light suddenly flooded the room, hitting Vaggie's single, unadjusted eye like a blow. She let out a painful gasp, squeezing her eye shut and turning her face away, her good hand coming up to shield herself from the light.
"Fuck, the light—" she gritted out, her voice raw.
"Oh my gosh! I'm sorry!"
There was a fumble of hands, a gasp of realization, and the light clicked off instantly, plunging the room back into the heavy dim dark.
"Are you okay? I heard glass—did you cut yourself?"
Charlie was kneeling by the bed now, ignoring the water soaking into the knees of her pajamas and the jagged shards that must have been dangerously close to her bare legs.
"I'm fine," Vaggie lied, the words grating against her dry throat. She tried to curl into herself, to hide the scalded hand against her chest. The smell of hot water soaking into the old wood filling the air was suffocating. "Just... go back to sleep, Charlie. I'll clean it."
Charlie didn't listen. Of course she didn't. She reached out, her hands hovering for a split second before gently finding Vaggie's arm in the dark. Her touch was hesitant, sliding down gently from the elbow to the wrist. When her cool fingers brushed against the angry, burned skin of Vaggie's hand, Vaggie couldn't help the sharp hiss out of her.
Charlie froze.
"You burned yourself."
Her voice cracked with worry that made Vaggie's stomach turn. With sympathy.
That was worse.
Vaggie felt the heat rise in her cheeks, hot enough to rival the burn on her hand. She didn't want this. She didn't want the soft, pitying touches or the worried gasps. She wanted to be left alone to clean up her own mess, to bandage her own wounds like she had done a thousand times before. But she couldn't even do something easy without turning it into a mess. She was a soldier who had survived the fall of Heaven, yet here she was, defeated by a goddamn water kettle.
"It's nothing," Vaggie muttered, trying to pull her hand back, but Charlie held on.
"It's not nothing. It'll blister if we don't attend to it," Charlie whispered, her voice thick with guilt, as if she were the one who had spilled the water. "Stay still. Please. I'm going to get a wet towel. Don't move, okay?"
Vaggie slumped against the headboard, defeated. She listened to Charlie picking her way across the floor, stepping carefully to avoid the unseen shards.
Fucking useless, can't even pour a fucking glass right.
She felt like a joke. A broken tool that had lost its edge and was too stubborn to realize it belonged in the scrap heap. She was a burden here, not a guest. A liability with a pulse. And the worst part was knowing that while she sat here pitying herself, someone else had to clean up the mess that she caused.
"I'm sorry," Vaggie whispered into the dark, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for, the shards, the noise that woke Charlie up, or her own uselessness.
"Please don't be," Charlie called back softly from the bathroom. "It's nothing! Really, don't worry about it."
A moment later, a shadow emerged from the bathroom doorway. Charlie returned, carrying a bowl of cool water and the scent of lavender soap. She knelt beside the bed again, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight, bringing her face level with Vaggie's hand.
"Here," Charlie whispered.
Slowly, she reached out and wrapped a cold, damp towel around Vaggie's throbbing hand. The sudden cold and sharp, biting sting made Vaggie flinch. She tried to jerk her hand away, but Charlie held on, just firm enough to anchor her.
"I know, I know, sorry." Charlie's voice was a low, steady hum in the quiet room. "It hurts. But please just breathe."
So Vaggie stayed still, staring at the blurry outline of the girl kneeling on the floor. In the faint red glow from the window, she couldn't see Charlie's expression, but she could feel the intense, but gentle focus in her touch.
Why wasn't she angry?
Vaggie had woken her up, broken her things, ruined her sleep, and now she was sitting here making Charlie play nursemaid in the middle of the night. Anyone would be annoyed. A commanding superior would have punished her for smaller things.
The question burned in her throat, until she couldn't swallow it down anymore.
"Why?"
The word scraped against the silence, rougher than she intended.
Charlie blinked, her movements pausing. She looked up from Vaggie's hand, her expression blank with genuine confusion.
"Why... what exactly? Does this hurt too much? Is the towel not cold enough?"
"No," Vaggie snapped, pulling her hand back slightly to emphasize the point. "Not the hand. This. All of this."
She gestured vaguely at the wet floor, the pile of shattered glass, the comfortable bed she didn't pay for, and finally, at Charlie herself.
"I'm a fucking nightmare," Vaggie said, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "You've spent the last two weeks changing my bandages, sleeping on that rock of a sofa, watching over me like I was gonna break any second. And I—I give you nothing. I can't even offer you a simple 'thank you' without choking on it, can't even pour a glass of water without destroying your property. And you... you're still here, in the middle of the night, cleaning up my own mess."
She stared at Charlie with her eye, desperate to find one lie in all that kindness.
"Why? Why aren't you yelling at me? Why aren't you throwing me out? Why did you bring me in in the first place?"
Charlie sat back on her heels, her hands resting on her lap. The confusion slowly faded from her face, replaced by a soft, sad realization. It was just... sad. A deep, quiet sadness that Vaggie hadn't expected.
"Because you needed help, Vaggie," Charlie said softly.
Her answer was so simple, so blunt, that it knocked the wind out of Vaggie's argument.
"I saw you in that alley," Charlie continued, her voice low in the quiet room. "You were bleeding out. Alone. Did you really expect me to just... walk past you? To leave you there just because we didn't know each other? Because I didn't know if you'd be a 'good' houseguest?"
She shook her head slightly, reaching out to rest her hand on the mattress, just inches from Vaggie's knee. "You think this is a trade? That you have to pay for the bandages, the water, or the glass?" Charlie looked her in the eye, her gaze genuien. "That's not how it works. Not here."
"But I—"
"No," Charlie interrupted, gentle but firm. "You're hurt. You're scared. And you just burned your hand trying to get a drink because you didn't want to wake me up. Why would I yell at you for that? Why would I throw you out for being real?"
Real.
The word felt foreign. For as long as Vaggie could remember, she wasn't supposed to be real. She was supposed to be a weapon with a purpose, a standard of perfection that didn't allow for mistakes. While real things were messy. They broke. They needed help.
She didn't understand any of this. For her entire existence, her worth had been measured by her utility. She was valuable because she was lethal. She was valuable because she obeyed. The moment she stopped being those things, she was worthless. Adam and Lute had made that very clear when they left her in that alley.
But now, this girl was looking at her, broken and useless, and telling her that breathing was enough reason to be saved. It didn't make sense. It went against every law of Heaven she had ever known.
"You don't have to be useful to be worth saving, Vaggie," Charlie whispered. "I chose to save you because you needed it, because I wanted to. I know we don't know each other that well, but you don't owe me a thing. Not a 'thank you,' and definitely not an apology."
She offered a small, tired smile, one that didn't hide the exhaustion in her eyes but felt warm nonetheless.
Vaggie opened her mouth to argue. She wanted to say something, to tell Charlie that that's not how it should be, but the words died on her tongue. She looked at Charlie's earnest eyes, and felt a wall inside her chest begin to crack dangerously.
"I don't understand you," She could only whisper.
"That's okay," Charlie finally finished attending Vaggie's hand. "We have time. You can figure me out later. Just focus on feeling better now, okay?"
She let go of her hand, but she didn't stand up. Instead, she turned her attention to the disaster on the floor.
Vaggie watched in silence as the Princess of Hell began to pick up the jagged shards one by one. She moved slowly, gathering the glinting edges in the dark, fingers brushing against the wet floor.
After the last shard was placed into the trash, Charlie stood up, brushing off her knees. She didn't say anything else. She seemed to know they had used up enough words for one night. She picked up another fresh glass from the tray, and reached for the kettle. The sound of water filling the cup was quiet and comforting in the dim room.
"Careful," she whispered, her fingers lingering on the base of the glass until she was absolutely sure Vaggie had a secure grip with her uninjured hand. "It's still hot."
Vaggie nodded, bringing the glass to her lips as steam warmed her face, the warm water washed away the dryness in her throat.
When she lowered the glass, she caught Charlie watching her. Not staring at the bandages, but looking at her, scanning her face with that same genuine concern.
"Do you want something for the pain?" Charlie asked softly. "I have some extra painkillers in the drawer. Strong ones. It might help you sleep."
Vaggie hesitated. Part of her wanted to refuse, to say she could handle it. But the throbbing in her hand was syncing with the ache in her back and the hollow socket of her eye. She was just so tired.
"Yeah," Vaggie breathed, the fight finally draining out of her. "Yeah, I do."
Charlie nodded, the tension finally leaving her frame. She turned to the nightstand, the drawer sliding open with a soft screech. There was the rattle of plastic, the sharp snap of a blister pack.
Vaggie watched her through the gloom, but the gloom was changing.
Outside the window, the heavy, blood-red darkness of the Pentagram was beginning to lighten, shifting into the bruised purple of early dawn. The long night was already bleeding into morning.
"Well..." Charlie glanced at the window, then back at Vaggie, rubbing the exhaustion from her face. "Guess I should get a start on things too. There's still a lot to do!"
She looked tired, disheveled, and completely out of her depth. But she was still smiling.
"You just rest," Charlie whispered, leaning in to tuck the corner of the blanket around Vaggie's shoulder. "Sleep in. I'll be right outside if you need anything. Just... let the medicine do its work."
Vaggie took the pills, the bitterness fading quickly against her tongue. She held the glass for a moment, the water cool against her palm, before setting it down on the coaster carefully.
"Okay," Vaggie breathed. She watched Charlie quietly pad towards the door, ready to face a day that would likely be just as difficult as the night.
The painkillers began to pull at Vaggie's consciousness, a heavy wave dragging her under. But she didn't fight it.
She was supposed to die in that alley. But here she was, warm, safe, watching the sunrise, or whatever they called it down here.
She forced herself to push down the memory of the thousands she had slaughtered down here. Charlie's people. She couldn't think about that now.
She still didn't understand it. Not really.
To her, Charlie's worldview did not make much sense. You didn't just give kindness away. You didn't expose your throat to a stranger just because they were dying.
But Vaggie knew she couldn't really argue with her.
That reckless kindness was the only reason Vaggie was breathing. It was the only thing standing between her and death.
It didn't make sense, but she didn't want to fight it anymore.
She wanted to understand it.
She wanted to know where all those hopes and smiles came from. It was a whole new language, but as the heaviness of sleep finally dragged her under, Vaggie made a quiet, hazy promise to the ceiling.
She would figure this out. She would figure her out.
And maybe, if she studied hard enough—if she could believe, even for a second, that Charlie was right—then maybe, just maybe, her existence wasn't the unforgivable sin she thought it was after all.