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Jeanne wakes up with an aching chest.
The bedside clock reads 12:27PM, bright red light hurting her eyes. The blackout curtains do their job - the room is dark otherwise, and she blinks against the gloom, hand over her heart.
The apartment is quiet when she pads to the kitchen, scratching at her jaw. Cereza is nowhere to be seen, but there is a note on the table - Out for the day. Oatmeal in the fridge for you - please remember to eat it this time, dear. Cereza xoxo
She doesn’t say where she will be, but it isn’t hard to guess. The blue and orange striped scarf that has taken up a seemingly permanent residence on their coat rack tells Jeanne all she needs to know, these days. She grabs a glass from the cabinet, limbs still heavy with sleep, and fills it with water from the tap, hoping to get rid of the scratchiness in her throat.
Bloom.
She doubles over, dropping the glass to the floor before it can touch her lips, the shatter of it covered by a horrible coughing fit. She stumbles to the bathroom, feeling like she may vomit, hand over her mouth.
White knuckle grip on the porcelain sink, she coughs and heaves and gasps until she feels something tickle in her throat, coming up the wrong way.
She spits it in her hand, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Long platinum hair, tangled from a fitful sleep. Dark circles that haven’t gone away since Inferno, nightmares haunting her every step. The faintest traces of blood smeared around colorless lips.
In her palm, a perfect rose petal, soft and beautiful.
……………………………………………..
Jeanne is an excellent liar. Years spent training to one day lead the keepers of the darkness - lessons in subterfuge were just par for the course, and she is nothing if not a good student.
The only person she cannot lie to is Cereza.
Jeanne presses the single petal into her journal with a delicate touch. In an elegant scrawl she writes the date, and Cereza’s name.
She flips through the pages idly; hundreds of years of her thoughts and fears, recorded with painstaking accuracy. So many pages are simply sketches of Cereza - her head thrown back in laughter, her glare after losing a bout, her face creased in concentration. The heiress had more important things to do than spend her days doodling, but Cereza had a beauty that even in their youth Jeanne knew was important to try and capture. The sketches became less frequent the farther from Vigrid she ran, and less accurate. The hesitancy in the quill strokes is clear during those years. She had forgotten the details, the exact curve of her mouth and the shine of her eyes. There are traces of dried tears on the pages where the pen had nearly torn through the page, scratching out images that looked nothing like her fading memory.
After they were reunited, Jeanne had gone back in, doing her best to fix the mistakes with new drawings. Bayonetta’s smirk and the cock of her hip, Cereza’s small morning smile, Bayonetta’s sneer of disgust, Cereza’s face at rest, peaceful in her sleep. The best is the one she had done the week before Christmas - Cereza’s hair, cropped short, her smile blinding as she hung garland from their tree.
Jeanne is the Pride of the Umbra, the heir to a dead clan, one of the strongest witches ever born. And still, she pales in comparison to the sun that is Cereza, is brought to her knees at the very thought of her.
She has cleaned up by the time Cereza returns home, broken glass swept into the trash and blood wiped from her mouth. She kisses Jeanne on the cheek, a habit she hadn’t shaken since their childhood, and the scent of cologne overwhelms her nose. She tries not to crinkle it in disgust, turns away quickly.
Jeanne asks politely how her day went - Luka had taken her to a local botanical garden, waxing bad poetry about Cereza being the most dazzling rose of all. Jeanne hums, orders them takeout while Cereza changes into something more comfortable. When they settle on the couch to eat, their shoulders brush, warm and familiar and comfortable. Jeanne drinks half a bottle of wine to quell the itch in her throat, calls off an impromptu movie night with an excuse about grading papers.
Cereza had come to Inferno to save her. Cereza would never allow her to die, would insist on treatment, would hold Jeanne’s hand through it all, refusing to lose her oldest friend. Cereza would look at her with melancholy eyes, horribly sad and still so kind, smelling of cologne and wrapped in one of Luka’s old sweaters.
The only person she cannot lie to is Cereza, so she is forced to hide instead. The last time her life was ruined, standing alone in the wreckage of a people she had failed, she had run and hid and survived for as long as she could, knowing death was waiting around the corner. This feels much the same. The wreckage of her heart, overgrowing with vines and thorns, choking her from the inside out.
……………………………………………..
Rodin thinks she is a fool, but concocts the potions for her just the same. He’s always been business first. This is just another transaction. She appreciates his commitment to not intervening more than ever.
“You're my best customer, these days.” His cigar burns purple, held loosely in the side of his mouth. “It’ll be a damn shame when that little flower puts you six feet under.” He lines up the potions on the bar - enough for the next two weeks. She coughs into a handkerchief as delicately as she can manage, grimaces when it comes away splatted crimson. They’ve had to up the potency, and her wallet can feel the strain. She’ll need to go out again tonight, lurking in some church cemetery until Diomedes’ next meal comes crawling.
“I’ll leave some of my inheritance to you as thanks,” she snarks, uncorking one of the bottles and downing it in one go. It tastes bitter, like burnt weeds and summer exhaust. Months of practice have suppressed her need to gag when it touches her tongue, but she knows the unpleasantness won’t even go away. She’ll die before that happens.
Rodin snorts, goes to mix her a drink. She rolls her eyes when she sees what bottles he is pulling down from the shelf. Mixing her a Mysterious Destiny , Bayonetta’s signature cocktail. She doesn’t know whether it is his idea of a joke, or if he is actually concerned with her choices. Both possibilities irk her. She doesn’t even like fruity drinks, but now she will most certainly have to pay for it anyway. She taps her nails on the bar top in irritation, eyes wandering around the newly renovated bar. It looks nice, admittedly - Rodin had set up a training area at Cereza’s humble request, a dedicated place to try out her new toys.
“Don’t do me any favors,” he responds, sliding the finished drink to her waiting hand. The fruity tang of it mixes with the bitterness of the potion still lingering on her tongue, and it reminds her of black licorice. Disgusting. She tips him anyway.
“Same time in two weeks?” She gathers up the potions, eager to get going. Cereza was never in here on weekend afternoons anymore, Luka’s attention much more compelling than the darkness and loneliness of an empty bar, but she remains cautious just the same. She has been so careful about hiding it, and Cereza has been too busy to notice - but all it takes is one slip up to ruin it all.
“If you’re good for it, halo wise.” He takes a puff of the cigar, eyes flashing behind dark lenses. “How many more batches of this shit do I gotta make, anyway?”
The real question - how much longer before this kills you?
“A few more months at least, if my calculations are correct.” She was coughing up half torn flowers and thorns at this point, and she had become an expert at removing bloodstains from her clothes. The disease had progressed quickly, far quicker than she had hoped. The past few weeks she had busied herself with final preparations in between classes and killing angels - sorting through her stuff, last will and testament, finalizing lesson plans for her replacement, and the like.
Jeanne had died once. How hard could it be the second time around? The ability to prepare is nice, she thinks, in a detached sort of way.
She goes to leave, but Rodin’s voice stops her.
“I know a guy. If you change your mind.” It is the closest he will come to showing he cares, to offering an intervention. She wonders, absentmindedly, if he will ever share with Bayonetta that he was the one helping her, supplying her the life-stretching medicine. Probably not , Jeanne thinks, Cereza wouldn’t forgive him for that. Bad for business. Though maybe not; perhaps Cereza wouldn’t care. Their friendship/business partnership is one Jeanne has never fully understood, but she supposes it doesn’t much matter now.
“Then who would make sure you don’t go under? Enzo’s astronomical tab can’t be good for your bottom line.” She forces a laugh, bitter sounding to her own ears, and then leaves without another word.
Hours spent researching the condition, figuring out the best path forward for treating it, and never once had she considered surgery. Jeanne wasn’t so afraid of death that she would be willing to risk all of her feelings for Cereza. Hundreds of years of love and friendship and companionship, gone…..the worst possible fate.
If Cereza knew, she would insist, and Jeanne has never been able to say not to her. Neither of them were willing to let the other perish, no matter the cost. Isn’t that what got them here in the first place?
……………………………………………..
A morning spent making their apartment spotless, up hours earlier than normal, then out in the city getting everything for the most ridiculously lavish Christmas party their guests would ever attend. Jeanne had forced herself to make a checklist of all things, fighting against her inner dysfunction, determined to make everything perfect for Cereza.
This was finally the time. Months of dancing around each other, lingering touches and longing glances - Jeanne was ready to take the leap, fear be damned. They had survived so much, built a life together…the only thing missing was their last bit of truth. She had no doubt; Cereza was never shy about making her feelings clear.
And then she had forgotten the fucking caviar, and saved the love of her life for the price of her death. And Cereza, glorious, brave, foolish Cereza, had come for her anyway, dragging her from the jaws of Inferno like a woman possessed.
Cereza, who couldn’t look her in the eyes for weeks after, tears lingering on the edges of her lashes. Then, their first fight in hundreds of years, voices cracking with the strain of it.
“You always throw yourself in harm’s way for me! First the missiles and Jubileus, and now this. Your life is not worth more than mine-”
“Says the woman who went to the bowels of fucking Inferno, the one place a witch should never tread willingly - you’re more mad than I am!”
“Jeanne, promise me you won’t do that again. Promise me.”
“Nothing matters to me more than you, Cereza. What would you have me do?”
“Jeanne, please.”
“I can’t.”
The beginning of the end. They couldn’t live without each other, which meant they couldn’t love each other, either. Too big of a risk. Cereza, retreating from their home, finding distraction in Luka, and then more. Replacing a love weighed down by years of sacrifice and fear, a love that should have never bloomed in the first place, with one that was easy and simple and neat.
Jeanne doesn’t blame her.
After everything, Cereza deserves happiness, deserves peace. Isn’t that what Jeanne had fought for? 500 years of agony and isolation, kept alive by the small flame of hope that she would one day welcome Cereza into a world that would hold her with care instead of malice.
Jeanne had promised her, before their palms had known the shape of a gun or the horrors of the world, that she would protect Cereza no matter what. Small fingers entwined, hands held tightly despite the bars between them. Many moons before, Jeanne had seen her and immediately understood what loyalty was for. What love was for.
She’ll keep her promise, even if it kills her. Even though it will kill her.
……………………………………………..
It figures she would fall apart in the eleventh hour. Cereza watches in horror as she collapses to her knees, choking on her own life, crimson splattering to the ground, the color of it in striking contrast with the verdant leaves and vines and thorns that follow.
She was grateful that the little kitty had suggested she go alone to rescue the good doctor; her incident with The Kraken ( Cereza’s arms wrapped around her frame, her voice cracking as she screamed Jeanne’s name, history on repeat, again and again and again ) had left her weakened. She had known her time was running out for weeks now. Blood and petals littered the now destroyed facility, and Sigurd had watched her vomit roses in between gushing about Cereza. She was past the point of embarrassment - she just had to see Cereza through to the end. Nothing else mattered.
Cereza stares, aghast. There is so much blood and petals and spit and thorns, practically a full bouquet. Jeanne hacks a final time, hand wrapped around her throat, and a perfectly formed rose falls from her tongue into the mess.
Time freezes as they stare at each other. A kaleidoscope of emotions cross Cereza’s beautiful face, and Jeanne would rather be pulled to hell in this moment than see this realization. She isn’t stupid. They both know what this means.
But the timing is terrible and Jeanne can’t believe that now, now , is when she was going to fail. Cereza falls next to her, pressing a soft hand to her cheek, and Jeanne feels tears well in her eyes as she forces herself to turn from the touch. They have a job to do, a universe to save.
“How long?” Quiet horror, disbelief. Jeanne had been so fucking careful, after all - how was she to know?
“You have to go, Cereza. No one can do this but you.”
“Jeanne-”
“Please. Luka is still out there.” It is a low blow, and they both know it. Cereza looks pissed even as she rises and steps back.
Cereza can’t afford to lose another person she cares for, but Jeanne has been a dead man walking for months. Her time has run out. But Cereza can still save the universe. She can still save Luka.
“Promise me you’ll get it removed when this is over.” And Cereza knows it is fucked up to ask now, knows Jeanne wants to say no, but she has to have some reassurance. And Jeanne knows that too. She is fucking defeated, blood stained across her mouth, trembling and horrified at her weakness. She doesn’t know if Cereza will come back to anything more than a corpse, but still, her lips move of their own accord. She could never deny her anything.
"Fine. Fine, I promise. Now go . Please, Cereza."
Jeanne has never broken her promises to Cereza. Not in over 500 years. Despite everything, there is no one whose word she trusts more than Jeanne’s. So Cereza presses a kiss to her head and leaves her best friend, the woman she loved as more, once, and descends into madness.
Sigurd speaks finally, having watched this all in stone faced silence.
"Will you be able to hold them all off, in your condition?"
Jeanne wipes the blood from her mouth, laughs, hollow and broken. She rises on shaky knees, fires off shots into the circling homunculi, each hitting dead center. They drop like flies and she sneers.
"Of course." Because she has to. Because this is for Cereza. Nothing else matters. Nothing else has ever mattered.
When Sigurd stabs her, it goes right through her heart, ripping the delicate rose in the center to shreds.
"Cereza...."
Then, only darkness.
……………………………………………..
Jeanne wakes up to an empty chest and Viola, screaming in her ear.
Luka and Cereza, dragged to Inferno. The universes restored at the cost of their lives.
"We have to do something!" Viola is distraught, all the petulance of childhood still clinging to her amidst the grief. She looks so small - the image of a younger Cereza comes to mind, crying in the woods, knees and ego bruised after being shoved around for the fourth time that week, still hopeful that things would be better.
Jeanne feels nothing at the memory. Jeanne feels nothing at all.
"Okay, then."
But still, they go. Scaling Fimbulventr is easier without Aesir hounding their every move, and Jeanne and Viola have a much easier time of it than Cereza and Loki once did. Jeanne doesn’t linger on that thought - she knew Cereza had suffered to reach her in time. Foolish of her. Jeanne had never been worth the effort.
Jeanne watches the young spitfire cut through angels and demons with tears in her eyes, a woman possessed. Her form is off , Jeanne notes with an air of detachment as they make their way. She needs proper training with that sword. Viola is shaking like a wet cat when they finally enter the real Gates of Hell.
Jeanne doesn’t flinch. She has been here before, after all. She is more death than witch.
They find Luka first. A giant beast of a man, being hunted for sport by various demons. Viola is horrified when a small Diomedes attempts to cut him in half, galloping on his tail. Jeanne almost laughs a little, some mirth cutting through the emptiness in her chest.
The scene is just silly. He looks so out of place down here - but then, so does Jeanne. She glances down at her outfit, the pinks picked out by Cereza on a shopping trip that served as a thinly veiled attempt to salvage a friendship from the wreckage of their hearts ( "You need a wardrobe change, dear. Red and black cannot be the only thing in your closet." ) She looks like a fucking clown. Her and Luka both. Fitting, perhaps. The thought drifts like a tumbleweed through her consciousness, unable to latch on to any feeling.
She snorts, dispatches the demons, ignores his questions when he stops cowering to look at his savior.
"Jeanne?"
She tried to get to know Luka, when it became apparent that Cereza was committing to him. Awkward lunches with the worst small talk the three of them had ever endured. All of the agony and jealousy she once felt looking at him is now replaced by apathy. She still thinks him a bit dull, however.
"We have to find Cereza. Let's not take all of eternity, please."
Viola is watching her with wide eyes. Jeanne cuts through inferno like she was born to do it - she only slows enough for Viola and Luka to keep pace, but otherwise pays them little mind. Viola will protect him and their flank as Jeanne carves a path to their goal. Get Cereza, get out. A mission is a mission. She was trained for years by the Umbra to do the impossible - she slips back into that, the cold unflinching demeanor of the heiress to a clan long dead. It protects her, carries her, the memory of emotion a serviceable replacement for the real thing for now.
Once they finally arrive, the Mistress of Atrocity rises. She had been waiting. Her teeth bull back into a razor sharp grin, delighted - a veritable feast, come right to her. Jeanne orders Viola and Luka to stay back. This is her fight, her mission. If Cereza could save her single handedly, she was more than capable of returning the favor.
But fighting Madama Butterfly is a chore. She sees Cereza, purple spirit safely cocooned, hovering in what Jeanne knows to be a headspace of suffering, waiting to be devoured, and Jeanne feels......tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending to care. Luka's and Viola's cries are giving her a headache. The demoness is strong, stronger than Jeanne, but Jeanne has 500 years worth of survival skills and quite frankly needs to get the fuck out of here and have some coffee before her head splits open from the caffeine withdrawal, so. She makes do.
Viola intervenes, foolish and reckless, but it gives Jeanne enough time to snatch Cereza and run, so she doesn’t bother to berate the girl. Viola and Luka are close behind, all three of them trying to ignore Butterfly's cruel laughter as she advances on them, barely injured from their attacks.
Jeanne isn't worried - the hard part is over. Luka’s jaws tear at the demons hounding their retreat, Viola throwing dart after dart behind her without looking, whooping when they sound on impact. Cereza stirs where she is cradled against her chest, but Jeanne doesn't glance down, barely flinches as her cold hands move to wrap around Jeanne’s neck.
"J-jeanne?"
"Almost there, Cereza." Her tone is clipped, she is out of breath, and having every motherfucker in Inferno on her tail is, to put it lightly, very fucking annoying. She promised she would always protect her, and she would. Her duty, her loyalty, keeps her tired legs moving, stronger than her exhaustion. But her heart pounds without feeling. The apathy has settled over her like an impenetrable fog - she cares because she knows she is supposed to, but all she really wants is a nap, alone, in her dark and silent room.
They make it over the threshold, the Gates snapping shut behind them. Viola and Luka look amazed, overjoyed, crowding around her, checking to make sure Cereza is okay.
Jeanne tries not to drop her out of sheer exhaustion. She looks down at Cereza’s face, creased in slumber, arms still wrapped tightly around Jeanne’s neck, holding onto her like a lifeline.
For one blinding moment, she is seized by grief - Cereza, her Cereza - and then it is carried away, the ocean of her heart stilling forever.
……………………………………………..
Cereza tucks her head into Jeanne’s neck, closes her eyes - she is still out of it, but Jeanne has her. Jeanne has always had her. She passes out as they cross back into the human realm, Jeanne’s body heat warming her soul. She had been so scared to die - silly of her. Jeanne would never let anything bad happen to her, not permanently.
Jeanne had appeared in the darkness of space, had pushed Singularity back with her, fighting alongside her with the same grace and ease that had carried them both through countless years of strife. Cereza hadn’t been able to grab her hand in time, had watched Jeanne die and fade…..had watched Jeanne die in other universes too, ripping open her heart every time. She had failed her over and over, but Jeanne still returned for her.
When she felt her watch crack, she wanted to scream. Jeanne and Cereza. Their names carved over her heart, forever. Her only thought then, was a foolish, fleeting hope - that maybe they would find each other again, in Inferno.
Not so foolish. Jeanne would always come for her. Jeanne and Cereza, forever.
……………………………………………..
Cereza wakes up to Jeanne sitting across from her, drawing in a journal. She looks up as Cereza stirs, gives a small smile, then goes back to whatever she is writing. The journal looks vaguely familiar.
Cereza feels......like ass, honestly. Her mouth is cotton, her vision is blurry, and everything fucking hurts - it all comes back to her slowly and she tries not to shake at the remembrance of the end ( Luka's gentle touch, then pain, pain, agony, nothing but agony and her own fears, destroying her until that was all that was left ).
Was that how it was for Jeanne? She had never asked. She had saved her, yelled at her.....was too terrified to consider the reality of it. Jeanne had never mentioned it, but she knows the other woman was plagued by nightmares.
When they were kids, it was Cereza who had nightmares. Jeanne had snuck her into her warm bed, grasped her hand under the heavy duvet, let her hold Charles so he could protect her in her dreams. The guilt chokes her a bit.
She should berate Jeanne, for saving her, for risking her life (again, fucking again after everything) but Cereza was so scared and small and alone. Even now, the sludge of fear and agony sits in the pit of her stomach, threatening to boil over.
Jeanne had saved her. The relief is so overwhelming she feels sick.
She takes in the other witch, for a moment. She looks different. Hair cut short, shorter than Cereza has ever seen it. Gone is the sight of pinks and yellows and blues that she had talked her into wearing for the past year - Jeanne is clothed in dark slacks and heels, and an off white dress shirt. All greys and blacks and whites. She isn't wearing makeup. It is odd to see her face bare - she looks older, more worn than Cereza remembers. Even odder to see her without any color - her signature red is nowhere to be seen. How long had she been out?
She finds her voice, scratchy with disuse.
"Drawing me, again? You know, Sleeping Beauty doesn't pose for free."
Jeanne doesn't laugh at her sad attempt at a joke. She merely quirks an eyebrow, and flips over the notebook for her to see (which she now recognizes, once upon a time had been filled with all manner of sketches of herself. She remembers blushing over it when they were still young, at how beautiful each portrait was, as if Jeanne had dedicated her life to the sole craft of capturing Cereza's likeness).
It is not a drawing of her. Instead it is.....a sketch of guns?
"Rodin has agreed to make me a new set. He thought it was time for a change, and I agreed. Most likely just after more of my halos, but I told him I would bring him some ideas."
"Ah. Right." Cereza has never designed her own weapons - Jeanne had outfitted her in their early years, and now Rodin knows what she likes.
"Did All4One break?"
"No?" Jeanne furrows her brow. "Just...wanted something new, I suppose."
She has never known Jeanne to go for something new like this. She used weapons until they crumbled, everything in her hand so practiced that it became an extension of her limbs.
Cereza wishes Jeanne would come closer. The thought comes out of nowhere, but she feels it deep in her chest all the same. She can feel Jeanne's warmth still, bringing her back to life, as she carried her out of hell, like some romantic savior from myths long forgotten. Like Cereza had done herself, not so long ago, though it feels like eternities have passed since then.
Jeanne barely looks at her. And Cereza remembers, like an explosion in her mind, what had happened right before the world fell to shit. Jeanne, covered in petals and her own blood. She can’t stop herself from blurting out the question, fear coursing through her veins.
"Jeanne.....the flowers?"
"Taken care of, like you asked."
She doesn't elaborate. Cereza doesn’t force her to.
The guilt and shame sits heavy in her heart - she should have noticed, should have intervened sooner. Jeanne was her best friend and she had nearly died , right under her nose. She tries not to think of Luka, of the creases at his eyes when he smiles, how she had thrown herself into him to try and get over Jeanne. Did either of them know how afraid she really was, even now?
Everything feels like it is fragile, like her world could shatter at any moment.
Except for Jeanne, who is her only constant. Hundreds of years and that still hasn't changed.
"How long have I been out?"
Jeanne's eyes flit back to hers, and Cereza finds herself drowning in them, familiar steel. Jeanne anchors her now, when she feels most unmoored.
"A month. Rodin said you'd come to, eventually, so we've been waiting."
Another bloody coma. Of course. She flexes her hands into the sheets.
"We?"
"Luka, Viola. Rodin, though he likes to pretend not to care. Myself. Enzo as well - his wife keeps sending the worst baked goods ever created on this earth. Be lucky you've been asleep and avoided them all together - I was forced to eat one out of politeness and thought I may perish."
Cereza laughs at that, really laughs, heard thrown back in mirth despite the pain in her throat and chest. The mirth clears some of the shadows in her mind. Jeanne was always good at that.
Jeanne offers a small smirk, before looking back to her journal.
Cereza has a million questions, too many to sort through in the mess of her mind. But. She is alive. Jeanne is here. Everyone else was fine too. She could handle that, could make sense of that.
She is sick of sitting around. She has wasted too much of her life sleeping.
She swings her legs over the bed, and doesn't wait before stepping down, nose wrinkling at the ugly nightgown she's in, whose idea was that -
- and her legs buckle immediately, giving out.
Jeanne moves, faster than sound, and catches her before she can hit the ground, arms firm around her torso. She yelps, grasping on to the other witch tightly.....Jeanne is warm, and smells of lilies, familiar and comfortable.
She lets Jeanne take her weight, doesn't bother protesting as she is gently placed back onto the bed. She doesn't let go of Jeanne’s arms, feeling horribly clingy, desperate to replace the lingering touch of Inferno with something better.
“Jeanne-"
"Honestly, Cereza. I feel like you have become a worse patient with age."
Cereza snorts. Jeanne had to practically wrestle her into bed in Vigrid after training when they were younger, body sore and aching, unwilling to admit she needed rest. She most certainly is not as childish as she was then...but perhaps she is just as stubborn.
"Well thankfully I have you to take care of me then, hmm?"
Cereza expects a laugh, or a huff of exasperation, or even a gentle smile.
Jeanne instead steps back, pulling her arms from Cereza’s grasp.
"Whatever you need, Cereza, of course."
Her tone is neutral.
In fact, everything about her is fucking neutral. Cereza looks at her and feels lost all of a sudden - because this is Jeanne, her Jeanne, but not. But not. What the fuck had happened when I was asleep?
You know, her mind whispers, you know. The flowers were gone, at Cereza’s insistence. Jeanne was alive. She should feel ecstatic, but misery is heavy on her tongue.
Cereza had never known a Jeanne that didn’t love her. Part of her, the selfish, horrible, cruel part, doesn’t know if she is ready to. If she even wants to.
It is then that Viola and Luka make their entrance, loud and thrilled. Cereza fights to keep a smile on her face. She still feels out of it, and doesn't want to put on a show right now, but duty calls. She grasps for the mask of Bayonetta buried within her, slips it on with trembling hands, falling into the safety of the facade.
Viola fidgets near the edge of her bed, and Cereza doesn't know what to say to her (her daughter, but also not, not at all). Luka has no such issues, and clambers onto the bed next to her, pulling her into a warm grip. He smells strongly of cologne, and part of her wants to melt into him but - but she can't stop looking at Jeanne, who doesn't even flinch at Luka's display of affection. She watches it with even eyes, before picking up her notebook.
"Viola." The girl's attention snaps to Jeanne immediately. "Let's give them some privacy."
Viola follows after Jeanne like a kitten, and Cereza has to bite her tongue to beg the other woman not to leave. She trembles in Luka's grasp, feeling undone and not able to fully process why.
She doesn’t have to. Not immediately, anyway, as Luka talks and talks, filling the silence and preventing her mind from wandering. He explains everything that has happened (Jeanne, rescuing them all from Inferno. Jeanne, setting up a temporary home base for them all outside of the city, miles of trees surrounding them, privacy and quiet to heal. Jeanne, training both Luka and Viola every day, falling easily into the role of instructor, a productive way to pass the time while they waited for Cereza to wake up.)
Cereza listens in silence, frozen in Luka's loose hold. Something isn't right. And she is still out of it, still feels the phantom hands dragging her to hell, but she knows she isn't okay.
She doesn't even realize she is crying until Luka is pressing her to his chest, murmuring sweet things into her ears, and it makes it worse but she doesn't know why and doesn’t have the words to tell him to stop.
Eventually she stops crying and just stills, and he goes to get some food. She needs to eat (though she doesn't feel hungry - just tired, her chest aching) and probably needs more sleep. He runs a hand through her hair, presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, tells her to stay put. She knows it should feel good, should soothe her…it doesn’t. She doesn’t want to think about why. Luka had been in hell too, because of her. The guilt beats against her skull. She should be comforting him too, but all she wants is for him to go, to give her space.
Stubborn and antsy, she ignores his instruction and manages to drag herself to the large window on the far side of the room once he leaves, the sun bright and warm against her skin. In the yard below, Jeanne and Viola are training, the clash of their swords ringing loud enough to carry through even the closed window.
Jeanne moves with an ease of hundreds of years of practice. Cereza watches as she corrects Viola's form again and again, pushing the young witch to adapt. She can't hear them, but she can imagine Jeanne's words - biting, but honest. She is a good teacher. Cereza would know - she learned everything from Jeanne, back when they both were still growing into their limbs and only had wooden swords to practice with.
Cheshire bounds out of the sword, and Viola stamps her foot. She argues with the demon, and Jeanne throws her head back in laughter, clearly amused by the younger girl’s antics.
Cereza watches Jeanne.
She can't look away from Jeanne.
And then she is on her knees, doubled over, heaving into her hands, a woman possessed. She can't fucking breathe and it hurts and it is just like Inferno but worse, because she knows she is real, she knows she could die again. Her heart turns itself inside out, and she wonders if the deadly sin ritual is finally catching up to her.
She hacks and shakes and chokes.
And then it drops from her mouth into her hands, soft and sweet.
A perfect lily, petals stained with her blood.
FIN