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The morning light seeped through the curtains like diluted gold, painting faint stripes across the rumpled sheets. You stirred awake, the remnants of yesterday's chaos clinging to your bones—stiff muscles, a dull ache behind your temples. But then you saw her. Charlie hovered at the edge of the bed, backlit by the timid sunrise, cradling a chipped porcelain mug in both hands. Steam curled lazily from its rim, carrying the earthy scent of bergamot and chamomile. Shadows pooled beneath her eyes, betraying a sleepless night, yet she offered a tentative smile as she extended the tea.
"Here," she murmured, her voice roughened by exhaustion. The mug warmed your palms as you took it, but her gaze faltered, dropping to the floor. "Sorry if I... well. Dragged you into my problems." Her laugh was a brittle thing, fracturing halfway. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear—a nervous habit you'd memorized by now—as if the gesture could anchor her guilt.
You rose slowly, the sheets slipping away, and stepped into the narrow space between apology and absolution. Your thumb grazed the curve of her cheek, calloused but tender, tilting her face upward. A blush bloomed beneath your touch, rose-pink and feverish, as her eyes—wide, molten gold, always so bright even when shadowed—finally met yours.
"Hell's my home too now, Charlie," you said, quiet but ironclad. Her breath hitched; your thumb brushed the corner of her lip, a silent vow. "And I didn't fight my way through sulfur and seraphim just to let some self-righteous angels bulldoze it." A beat, then the ghost of a smirk. "Or you."
Her lashes dipped, but not before you caught the flicker of defiance reigniting in her gaze—a spark fanned to flame. Outside, the distant clamor of the hotel's eternal chaos hummed on, but here, in this sliver of dawn-struck stillness, the world narrowed to the press of her cheek against your palm, the shared heat of two souls refusing to bend.
Charlie's lips lingered against your wrist—a featherlight kiss, warm and tremulous, as if she feared the gesture might shatter the air between you. Her fingers tightened around yours, pressing your palm to her cheek like a relic she couldn't bear to release. "Still," she whispered, voice fraying at the edges, "you are a god. I can't ask you to do this—they're your people too." The words hung like smoke, bitter with the unspoken weight of celestial politics, of fractured loyalties etched in starlight and ash.
You shook your head, slow and deliberate, your other hand sliding to cradle the nape of her neck. "I'm not the god, Charlie. I am a god, yes," you admitted, the admission sharp as a blade drawn from its sheath. Her pulse fluttered beneath your fingertips, a trapped bird. "But Hell is my people now." You pulled her close, her forehead resting against your collarbone, her breath hitching as your voice dropped to a rumble—the low, tectonic growl of something ancient and untamed. "They cast me out long before you were a flicker in the cosmos. And a dragon," you added, lips grazing the shell of her ear, "has no reason not to burn the heavens for you."
She stiffened, then melted into the embrace, her laughter muffled against your chest—half-disbelieving, half-feral. When you stepped back, her eyes glinted with something sharper than gratitude: the thrill of a gambler holding a winning hand. "Now come along," you said, brushing a thumb over the smudged kohl beneath her lashes, "before your ragtag army turns the lobby into a warzone."
The hallway beyond was a cacophony of clattering steel and hissed curses. Husk's bar had been dismantled into a makeshift armory, whiskey bottles repurposed as Molotovs, their labels peeling like sunburnt skin. Niffty darted past, wielding a sewing needle like a rapier, screeching about "stitching shut celestial eyeballs!" Above it all, the hotel's chandelier swayed precariously, crystals scattering prismatic shards of hellfire-red light.
Vaggie materialized first, her spear slung across her back, face streaked with soot. Angel Dust trailed behind, fanning himself with a glittery claw. "Phew," he drawled, cocking a hip, "it's rowdier here than in a porn club during amateur hour." He flicked sweat from his upper brow, grinning sharp enough to draw blood. "Though I gotta say—" he winked at a passing Cannibal Town mercenary, who paused to flex oil-slick biceps, "—cannibals are hot. Literally. Dude's still got someone's femur in his back pocket."
Vaggie's eye twitched. "Focus, Angel. Or I'll repurpose your femur."
Charlie straightened, shoulders squaring, that fragile resolve hardening into steel. You watched her—this strange, bleeding-hearted princess and her legion of misfits—and felt the embers in your ribs roar to life. Let them come, you thought. Heaven had forgotten what a dragon's fury truly looked like.
Alastor's grin stretched wider, a crescent moon sharp enough to slice bone, but his grip on your hand was incongruously gentle—a spider's silk caress. Static crackled faintly in his shadow, tendrils of inky darkness coiling around his ankles as if agitated by his own uncharacteristic softness. "You're not hurt, are you?" he purred, tilting his head. The radio-filtered lilt of his voice wavered, just barely, betraying a flicker of something human beneath the static. It reminded you of that night months ago, when he'd found you bloodied after the Extermination, his microphone staff discarded as he'd staunched your wounds with trembling, gloved hands. A crack in the veneer.
You chuckled, low and warm, extracting your hand from his. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long, claws retracted. "I'm fine, Al. Remember what I am, love," you said, the endearment laced with both teasing and truth. His ear twitched, the dials in his eyes spinning briefly crimson before settling back to their usual sickly green.
Turning to Charlie, you squeezed her shoulder—a grounding touch. She leaned into it, her resolve steeling beneath your palm. "We're with you," you said, the plural deliberate, binding. Her exhale shook, but she nodded, a queen assembling her fractured crown.
Your gaze swept the room, noting the absence of a certain diminutive monarch. "Is Lucifer here?"
The air split with a sound like ripping velvet. Above, the ceiling warped, molten gold bleeding through the plaster as six massive wings—alabaster feathers edged in hellfire—unfurled in a grotesque parody of divinity. Lucifer descended, his polished boots kissing the floor without a sound. He winked, apple-red eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker. "Aww, missing me already, Y/N?" he crooned, twirling his cane. The tip left smoldering sigils in its wake, hellscript swirling like serpents.
Charlie stiffened. "Dad. You're... late."
"Fashionably!" he chirped, though his gaze snagged on the fortified windows, the barricaded doors. For a flicker, his smile dimmed, the apple on his cane rotting to a shriveled husk before snapping back to gloss. "Can't have my little hellion leading the charge alone, can we?" He sidled up to you, wings mantling like a predator's display. "Besides, heard there's a dragon in the ranks. Wouldn't miss this for all the realms."
Alastor's microphone staff materialized with a screech of feedback. "How delightful," he trilled, though his shadow reared, antlers branching like jagged lightning. "The band's all here! Shall we strike up a symphony?"
Somewhere in the chaos, Angel Dust yelled, "Symphony my ass—I call shotgun on the angel-killing bazooka!"
The room thrummed with chaotic potential—a storm held in a breath. You met Charlie's eyes, her fire mirrored in your own, and grinned. Let the heavens tremble.
