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He’s in Vee Tower again, and his vision’s gone sort of fuzzy at the edges, like a dream, like if you took the whole thing in your hands, every piece and part and promise, it all would tear right in two. His head’s in somebody else’s lap and he’s pretty sure that he’s drooling. Can feel it, in a tacky thin sliver by his mouth. He hasn’t been this fucked up in a long time. It’s a little nostalgic.
Charlie’s gonna be so mad at him.
[SHE DOESN’T KNOW YOU’RE HERE.]
[NOBODY KNOWS YOU’RE HERE.]
[IT’S ALWAYS BEEN LIKE THIS.]
He’s in Vee Tower again. He’s missed it. A lot. He doesn’t know why he ever left. Not really. No drugs at the hotel, but that’s all he gets here. Fuck, his head hurts so bad, but there’s a hand stroking his hair. A soft and light giggle, but: I missed you too, baby. He just has to lay here and let someone stroke his hair. That’s nice. It’s nice here. Fuck talking about your feelings, this is all he’s ever needed. Why did he ever leave?
[THAT’S RIGHT.]
[YOU LOVE IT HERE.]
[NOWHERE ELSE WILL TAKE YOU.]
Ay, pobrecito, that’s not true. But he’s back in Vee Tower, again, and sweet, sweet sangria fills his head. Like music, like home, like everything he’s ever been, and all that he’s ever going to be. The hands move and anchor, dig in, urging him upright. Pincer grasp. He goes willingly. He doesn’t know any other way. There, there, I know. He’s being pretty mean, huh? Yeah, he is.
[DON’T LISTEN TO HIM.]
[JUST FOCUS ON ME.]
[STOP FUCKING LISTENING TO HIM.]
He’s in Vee Tower again. He’s in Vee Tower again, and he’s in Vee Tower again and there’s yelling like he never left. It’s like he’s been here the whole time, listening, seeing. Quiet. The rapture starts like this: You always fucking do this shit, every fucking time, just taking things that don’t belong to you. It stopped being cute a long time ago. He’s not fun when he’s like this. You’re not fun either, but that’s old news, babe.
[YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO LEAVE HERE.]
[YOU CAN’T EVER FUCKING LEAVE.]
[YOU NEED ME.]
Do I? Do I really? I don’t think I do. I don’t even think you need me, the way you’ve been acting. I’m done. Placation, above all else: it’s heaven-sent, downy soft like angel fluff. Oh, he’s in Vee Tower and when he gets back Charlie is going to be so angry he’s in Vee Tower and she’s going to be mad
[DON’T jzzt WALK AWAY.]
[VALENTINO.]
[VALENTINO!]
[FUCK YOU—]
He’s in Vee Tower again. There's a motel in his mouth and behind his teeth. Unh, unh, unh. Did the money make it there, too? Check the molars, he’s always got something stashed back there. No one ever checks until they need something, but it’s cash only, unless you’ve got something better, babycakes. He’ll be better. He can, oh, he swears it, Daddy, please, let me make it up to you, lemme go again, please no please don’t I’m sorry please please not again please please pleasepleasepleaseplease
Angel bolts upright. The lights are out, and given the unique throbbing ache in his skull, he’s pretty sure his just got punched out. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and groans. Fuck.
He feels around on the couch, but he can’t find his phone. That last shoot must’ve gotten rough. Though he’s not sore like he normally would be. Just sort of achy and tired. He squints through the darkness, and it’s still a bit fuzzy, but his eyes are adjusting. It’s quiet, the night sky is a lovely crimson, Alastor is tied to an office chair, his mouth tastes awful and—
“Shit!”
“Lover’s quarrel,” Alastor says, by way of greeting. He looks better than Angel probably does. Perky, even, in spite of the thick VoxTech cable that’s wrapped around his waist. But when Angel looks closer, he sees it’s just for show—the free edge dangles off the chair, wriggling as Alastor peers at Angel curiously. “They’ve been fighting a lot lately, haven’t they?”
Lately is relative. Angel can’t even remember what he had for breakfast, let alone the last time Vox and Valentino got into a row so bad it sent the city on the fritz. But normally they solve that by fucking. They’ll be back soon. Angel mumbles as such, and Alastor lets out a crackly little laugh.
“Oh, I already knew that.”
“They made you watch?” The thought’s a little nauseating, and somehow makes Angel’s headache worse.
“They haven’t made me do anything.” Alastor sounds almost affronted at the idea. “I’m just their… little captive, for the time being. A bargaining chip. Bargaining chips don’t have to do anything but let themselves be tossed around.”
Angel kneads at his temples. “Weird way to admit that bein’ tied up gets you hard, but that’s okay. We all got our vices.”
“Yes, and mine just happen to have fiber optics.”
That sounds like the plot to a bad porno. But this time, Angel keeps that to himself. Small mercies. He does say, “You’re—a fuckin’ freak, you know that? Charlie’s been worried sick. They do anything to you?”
“Oh, the three of them took me on quite the little press junket. I’m surprised you didn’t see the video! Vox promised that they’d be plastered all over the city. And they’ve subjected me to plenty of torture, though. Just today that Velvette girl held me down and put some kind of varnish on my nails.”
Angel frowns. “Willingly?” And then, when he thinks about it some more, “Did it hurt?”
But Alastor gives a big huff. “My eyes. She picked the wrong shade of red. I told her the maroon would be better, but she insisted.” He delicately places his hands in front of Angel. Angel doesn’t touch them, but he does look. Alastor’s claws have been painted a deep wine red with the slightest bit of shimmer. The color matches his suit perfectly.
Angel just stares at them. “Sounds awful,” he says.
“Trust me, it was.”
“Maybe—maybe we can put together an escape plan or somethin’. That wire bondage ain’t doin’ shit to keep you held back, Smiles. Does Charlie know you’ve been here? Do they know I’m here?” The thought makes pain lance through his temple, and he shoves a hand at his face. “Fuck, my head hurts like a bitch.”
Alastor examines his nails. “Mm, yes, hypnosis will do that to you. I imagine it’ll wear off once Vox comes back.”
The rapture starts like this:
He’s back in Vee Tower. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He says, wide-eyed, “What?”
“It does funny things to you. Makes you forget things.” Alastor flicks a speck of nail polish that he’s picked off from his cuticle. It sticks to the couch blanket, incriminating. It pins Angel down like a bug under a microscope. “He tried it once with me. But it didn’t last very long.”
Angel doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He’s sifting through memories and faces and words and texts and time and things and he doesn’t know he can’t remember what did he do what did they make him do
Alastor gives him an appraising sort of look, mid-spiral, and tells Angel, not unkindly, “I’m not sure you’ll even remember this tomorrow.”
The door opens and it sounds like a gunshot. And Angel doesn’t have a whole lot of color in his face—hasn’t seen a makeup palette since the morning—but he knows that he must be white as a ghost. He thinks about a lot of things, but none of them mean anything. They never do. All that’s left in his head is an ache. Alastor doesn’t watch when Vox electrocutes him. He looks out the window, and continues to pick off his nail polish.