Work Text:
Tried to stay sober, tried to stay clean
Wake me when it's over, like a bad dream
Mama doesn't call, sister never writes
Bet you they would laugh if I called to say goodbye
No one's gonna worry, notice when I'm gone
They won't know I'm missin'
'Til they pull me out the Mystic
-----
Cash spent half his time at the bottom of a bottle. The other half was a toss up between unconscious, or bitter old sinner with a heavy hand and a sharper tongue.
Blitzø knew which option he preferred.
When he was little, he used to wonder if his dad was secretly actually a sinner hiding as an imp. That he was so twisted and angry and conniving because he came from topside like the humans in mama's stories. If he was a sinner, that meant his constant rage wasn't Blitzø's fault. That he hadn't done anything wrong. That his dad couldn't help but love the bottle more than him.
As he grew up, he came to realize his dad was just a twisted bitter bitch that got a hard on for making his own day better at the expense of someone else. And if that someone was his son? All the better.
Barbie could do no wrong, and Blitzø had been wrong since birth. Something was broken between them and no amount of money or crowds or tricks could fix it. Mama would soothe his tears and change the subject when he'd come crying.
Ever since that night with the fluffy little bird demon, Cash used his son like a tool. While he was little and cute, he was the distraction, fake tears over a skinned knee. Or real tears, depending on how many bottles deep his father was.
As a young teenager, he slunk through the crowds while Fizz and Barbie performed. Wallets, jewellery, anything he could grab that could be pawned, or returned for a reward. No longer tiny and cute, the gangly teenager got tough fast. He was invisible, a phantom. No one saw him. Fizz and Barbie tried. They really did. But there were only so many secrets Blitzø could keep before it was easier to just pull away. He tried to keep them safe from his dad's rage. All he wanted was the people he loved to be safe. And if that meant removing himself? He could do that. It felt a bit like ripping your hand off a frozen pole. It hurt a bit less once you ripped it away, but you left a part of yourself behind.
He felt the pity against his back when he'd slip out into the crowd after their group act. They all knew where he was going. He made sure they didn't know about the consequences if he fucked it up.
By the time he was 16, it was routine, just like the one he did in the ring. He was good at it. He could work a crowd without them even knowing he was there. A flirty remark, a compliment, a brush of a shoulder. Quick, quiet, only being noticed if he chose to be, he was a goddamn professional. Well, most of the time. He learned how to take a punch long before he learned how to throw one, but both skills got plenty of use.
It wasn't a fool proof method, and if he did get caught there was no one to take the fall. Bloody lips and black eyes were child's play.
Cash would never hit him bare handed, but he had ways of teaching a lesson.
Could you blame him for picking up the bottle? They say the apple doesn't fall far, and Blitzø was convinced he was destined to rot there.
Whoever the fuck “they” were.
It started with bottles swiped from the bleachers, from the hands of distracted patrons. Stubs of cigarettes shared with the stage hands after a big show. It dulled the edge, made it easier to stand there and take it when his father would remind him yet again of his failures.
After a while he didn't even try to hide his habit. It wasn't like anyone would give a fuck. Hell, it was the only time Cash seemed to show a shred of respect for his son. Not that he looked for it anymore.
It was fine he told himself. He deserved an escape. He was doing his best. Better the bottle then letting the others find out.
He started dipping into Cash's personal stash. There was a twisted kind of satisfaction in stealing his father's booze. Something about using his father's own coping mechanism against him. Poetic justice or whatever the fuck Fizz called it talking about the shitty romance books he read. It drowned out the bitter taste of having anything in common with his father.
He was 19 when the justice ran out. He wasn't even sure what the hell he had done, but his father was screaming, Barbie was crying in the corner of room and wouldn't look at him, and the ringing in his head was so
Fucking
Loud.
He didn't mean it. He never had. He never meant to hurt anyone.
-----
Years later, he'd convince himself he'd deserved it. That throwing him to the street had been good for his family. That they'd been right to cut him off. It was easier than the alternative.
He kept every flyer he found. Even found an old one with him and Barbie. No matter where he went, he always came back to the Pride ring, hoping one day, they'd all come back home.
After the first year he'd tried calling, clutching the shitty payphone and praying he got the numbers right. No one ever picked up. He tried to decide what was worse, that they knew it was him and didn't answer? Or there was no one left at the other end. He dialed again and again until he ran out of coins, and then dialed one more time, listening to the automated voice, eyes blurring.
Once he got his hands on an actual phone, he scoured the sinternet for anything he could find. It took months, several thousand dollars and a brief shootout to track Barbie to a rehab in Sloth. The address burned behind his eyelids every time he closed them.
He never went.
Fizz was easy to find, plastered across every billboard and cereal box in Hell. Green had never been his color and it made Blitzø's heart hurt to see it dripping off him. He had to remind himself that Fizz wasn't his to love anymore.
He spent a miserable fucking month at Loo Loo land at one point, trying to regain some of what he lost. Green burned behind his eyes and he only slept with the help of the bottle. He wasn't exactly sure when he started drinking at work, but 1, 2, 3 strikes and he was out. He didn't even stop to clear out his locker, but he did stop to piss on the carcass of a discarded FizzBot. Mammon would never see it, but Blitzø would know.
College was just as successful. His plan had revolved around somewhere safe to sleep and drinking himself into oblivion. After sleeping his way through 2 separate frats, an incident with a car battery, and setting his remedial math professor's desk on fire, he figured it was best to skip town.
He tried entertaining for a bit. Comedy clubs, acrobatics, even stripped for a while. But Fizz and Barbie had always been the flyers. He was the catcher, the base, the rock. In the end, it was his gift for petty theft that came in handy.
He wasn't built for the spotlight. So he slipped back to the shadows.
He thrived in the dark. Petty theft evolved into grand larceny once or twice. He did a few gigs as a bounty hunter, a few others as a bodyguard. He was good with a knife and even better with a gun. The knives he stole from a dead sinner were different from the ones he threw at Fizz on the spinning wheel, but the concept was the same. Only this time, he never missed.
Getting his hands on a gun was harder but he managed. He'd played around with the old-school flintlocks at the circus, dreaming of his own act. That maybe this was his thing, his ticket into his dad's good graces. It may have never given him that, but at least the gun tucked in his jacket might keep him just a little safer than his father ever did.
He never stayed in one job long, always moving. Never able to fully settle, to feel safe. He bought a van instead of an apartment, feeling safer on the move. The shitty mattress stuffed in the back and glaring morning light trickling through the tacked up posters almost felt like home.
The one constant was the noise in his head. It never left him alone. The alcohol didn't always work. The drugs helped for a bit, but they would sometimes give the noise a megaphone, leaving him to clutch at his skin.
Sometimes, he got lucky and could silence his brain with the body of another.
He figured out that sex sells, and he was good at it. He wasn't picky about his partners, didn't care what they were packing as long as they knew how to use it. Like with all his jobs, he didn't stick around anywhere long, and made sure to never give a repeat performance.
But when the noise in his head started sounding like voices he hadn't let himself hear in years, he'd head to the Lust ring, sipping some bitch ass cocktail and let the first demon with pretty eyes drag him to a bathroom stall.
Sometimes it was for the distraction of a hot body, sometimes it was for his next tank of gas. Every time it got easier to just close his eyes. He'd shove or get shoved against a back alley brick wall, and if he was lucky he'd even get off in the process. And if he didn't, he could always stumble back to the bar and try again.
Addiction was a shapeshifter, a liar, always promising that this time it was gonna be different, that it could change, that it could be better.
Eventually addiction had a name.
Verosika.
He'd broken his pattern, accepting the same job twice. The pop star had a security team, but she wanted someone low profile. Someone in the crowd. Blitzø was happy to oblige. The job was easy, the money was good, and the eye candy helped. So he stuck around. He got complacent.
It didn't take long for them to mix business and pleasure. She was a succubus, and he had a fucked up need to prove his worth via his body. When all he brought to the table was his dick or his fists, it was so easy to fall into old habits. Fuck or get fucked. The only difference was that this time the players stayed the same.
It wasn't that they were inherently bad people, but they were real fucking bad for each other.
It didn't start off toxic. It started off sweet. Well, as sweet as they knew how to be. Two fucked up alcoholics with a gift for self destruction, a match made in hell.
She would grin at him from the stage, performer's high buzzing with the beezlejuice through her veins. He'd grin back from the shadow of the stage, tip of his tongue tracing the corner of his mouth.
He'd sweep her off her feet backstage, carry her giggling to the car idling out back. Far away from prying eyes and desperate hands other than his own.
It burned like a star- bright, hot and inherently unstable. He used her for the drink, the drugs, the sex. It was fine, he told himself.
She's only here for the dick, no strings, no commitment. It's not manipulation if it's mutual.
He said it enough that he almost started to believe it.
But his life never went to plan. Shit got soft. Instead of slipping out of her bed every night, he was waking up with her head tucked under his chin.
It's not like he wanted to fuck it up, but the ability was hard wired into his skin. After she confessed, things got mean. He defaulted back to the snarling, angry creature in his chest that kept him safe. The one that protected himself from others and in turn, protected others from him. She didn't deserve his rage, but it's all he knew how to do.
He didn't know how to love, so he fell back on all he knew how to do- fuck, drink, drugs. Never stop moving, never slow down.
While he turned to rage, she turned to the bottle and hit it hard. Instead of soft mornings, it turned to drunken screaming matches. Instead of wicked smiles traded from stage to crowd, Blitzø stood with his back turned, eyes scanning the crowd with a water bottle full of vodka by his side. Too toxic to make it work, too codependent to make a clean break.
When he finally left for the last time, jamming the keys into the ignition of her pink sports car and peeling out of the driveway, he left something behind. A business card, an address and a note.
“Say hi to Barbie for me”
He fumbled in the glove box for the bottle he knew he'd find, popping the top and taking a long pull. He didn't know if it was the strong liquor, or the wind from the open window that was making him tear up and he was well on his way to being too drunk to care.
-----
Getting clean fucking sucked. He bent over the toilet of the shitty clinic, cursing his father, his genetics, every gasping breath he'd ever taken. He was back in Pride, as far away from Sloth as he could get. No fancy hospitals for him. He sent down a plea that it had been easier for Barbie and V than it was for him. No one deserved this shit. Except maybe him. And it was just him.
Just him, a court order, a paper gown, and a nurse that had the bedside manner of a shark at a fish gutting station.
“This is fucking hell dipshits” he roared, his voice raw from stomach acid. “Who the fuck cares about being an alcoholic?”.
“That's what you get for ripping a man's eye out in a drunken rage buddy”. His nurse was leaning against the door jam with a plastic tray. “Med call fucker”
Blitzø mustered up every last scrap of fight to glare at him from his place on the bathroom floor. He was going for raging predator, and landed somewhere around bedraggled foster kitten.
The nurse snorted, and placed the tray next to him. The little plastic cup of pills, water bottle (with actual water and not vodka, fucking losers), and applesauce.
“Thanks. Fuck off. Eat a dick” Blitzø muttered, wrestling with the cap to the bottle, desperate to rinse his mouth.
“Dicks aren't served till Thursday idiot. Have fun~”
Blitzø snorted, flipping him off as the tall sinner badged himself out of his room/isolation chamber. One day he'd actually remember the guy's name. He was a bitch, but Blitzø appreciated his no nonsense care. He hadn't gotten mad when Blitzø threw up on his shoes, and made sure his dinner tray had the lime jelly.
He also made sure Blitzø took his damn pills and on his second day, had physically dragged Blitzø's ass to the medical wing and cuffed him to the bed.
With his mouth no longer feeling like he was sucking on a battery, he rolled to his back, spread eagle on the cool tile.
He needed this to work. He was so close to getting his life together after fuck knows how many years on the streets. He had some savings, what he had thought was a stable job, and was looking for an apartment.
Unfortunately, all the apartments he looked at wanted first and last month's rent, and some even wanted a fucking letter from an employer.
He'd asked his boss. That wasn't the problem. The problem was he was probably way too drunk to have an adult conversation. The sinner had laughed, called him a washed up alcoholic, among other things, and fired him for the audacity. Blitzø didn't remember a huge amount of the conversation after, but he was reasonably confident the guy wouldn't be looking down on imps ever again. Or looking in any direction really.
He'd started looking for something else, but there was the pesky little issue of his 3 weeks of court ordered addiction therapy and detox. It had been that, or 12 months inside and Blitzø wasn't too fond of feeling trapped. Or another charge on his record.
So he looked up the nearest clinic, packed a bag, illegally parked the van and walked through the doors like he owned the place.
Now, curled up in a pathetic little ball back in bed, prison wasn't sounding too bad. At least there he could get a goddamn cigarette.
Due to the ‘violent nature’ of his being there, he wasn't allowed free range of the clinic. He had to be accompanied by his nurse, or another staff member.
This worked great for him as he had no interest in getting cozy. His plan was to get clean, pass a piss test or two, and get out. If his nurse hadn't made it his own personal goal to get Blitzø to his mandatory therapy sessions, he would have never left his room.
The therapist was a sweet older imp who looked like she should be baking cookies and knitting tiny hats for implings. Blitzø soon found out she was as fucking scary as she was sweet, and had no qualms about physically keeping him the room if needed.
Her horns were short, barely poking above her hair, swept back in a neat little bun. Her left hand was as white as his was, and he idly wondered if hers was a burn too.
The first few sessions had ended with him cuffed to convenient rings bolted to the couch, which told him he wasn't the first to attempt escape. He decided it was the withdrawals that made him easy to overpower.
“You don't want to be here” she stated calmly at their third session, once he finally stopped the stream of profanity. During the first two there wasn't really much time for conversation.
“Nah fucken shit” Blitzø spat back, trying to MacGyver his way out of the cuffs. “Do any of the fuckers you see here actually want to be here?”
She shrugged, shifting the clipboard on her lap. “No, but most consider me a necessary evil”
Blitzø growled, giving up on the cuffs, and sank back into the couch. It was really fucken' comfy, and he couldn't help wiggling down into it a bit.
She smiled at him, seemingly unconcerned that he bared his teeth back, and looked down at her clipboard. “Looks like you're here due to a first offense under the influence, is that right Mr Buckzo?”
“Blitzø. It's just Blitzø” He corrected her. “I'm not my father”
“Can you tell me what happened Blitzø?”
“Fucker fired me for no reason, and wouldn't stop reminding me that I'm just a lowly imp, not even worth the ground I stood on” Blitzø spat, eyes fixed on the shitty carpet. “I was drunk and he took it too far, so I took his eye” He looked up, defiant, ready for the scolding.
“Sounds like an absolute bitch” was the unexpected reply.
Shocked, Blitzø barked out a laugh. “Aren't you supposed to call me a bad boy and tell me violence is wrong?”
With a knowing smile on her lips, she lent forward. “Were you in your right mind?”
“No, I was piss drunk”
“Were you provoked? Treated unfairly?”
“Yup”
“Are you going to do it again?”
“If I do, I'm sure as fuck making sure I don't get caught, this place sucks”
With a satisfied nod, she scribbled something on her clipboard. “Sounds to me that that bitch had it coming, you regret your actions, and will make better choices in the future. That's good enough for me”
Rocking forward in her armchair, she stood with a soft huff. She unlocked his wrists, checking for any bruises or soreness.
“I'm not here to fix you Blitzø. I'm here so that next time you want to drink yourself into oblivion, you have options. Other than dismemberment.” She opened the door and ushered him through. “I'll see you tomorrow sweetheart”. He went to bite back, but the genuine smile on her face stopped him.
He replayed those words in his head for the reminder of his stay. He still resisted the therapy, and bitched about going, but he no longer required physical restraints.
Wisely, she didn't try too much therapy bullshit, but she had a freaky fucken' knack for getting him to open up.
Before he figured it out, he'd spilled his guts about Fizz and Barbie and Verosika and the drugs and the sex. About how loud it got in his head and how badly he missed his mama and how much he wanted a fucking drink. Or maybe some coke. He wasn't picky.
It was when he opened his mouth to talk about his dad that he caught on. He narrowed his eyes, as she sat innocently in her plush chair.
“You sneaky bitch” he accused, a little too amused and incredulous to be fully angry. “You've been fucking with me this whole time”
“Guilty as charged dear, if you'll excuse the saying” Her grin was proud, and completely free of regret.
“In that case” Blitzø lent back into the couch, spreading his arms theatrically. “What's wrong with me doc? What's the fix?”
“Other than crippling addiction, living in fucked up system and your inability to confront your past?” She scanned her notes as if to check for anything she missed.
Ouch
Blitzø pouted, equally as theatric as his pose. “C'mon, I thought we were friends. I haven't tried to break out in ages”
She smiled sadly at him. “I told you from the start dear, I'm not here to fix you. But for what it's worth, I'm very proud of your progress.”
“I sat on a couch, called you a fucking whore bag-”
“Slut bag actually” she interjected.
“-slut bag, thank you, and spent the majority of our sessions either hand cuffed, or doodling horses after palming all your pens” Blitzø ticked off each achievement on his claws, eyebrows raised. “I wouldn't call that an overwhelming success”
“Aha, but” She raised a finger triumphantly. “According to your court order, you've made huge strides. You haven't tried to kill or maim any staff, you have admitted guilt, and I'm reasonably sure you'll at least take a stab at sobriety once you get out. If not for yourself, at least to be less like your father” She beamed at him, genuinely enthusiastic about his progress.
He wasn't quite sure how to handle someone giving a shit about his well being. He stared around the room to avoid her enthusiasm, eyes settling on the bookcase. More specifically, on the papers tacked up on its side. Alongside your classic kitten posters and cliché motivational quotes was one of his horses. Stuck up on the wall. Like it was something important. Shaking his whole body, he dragged himself back to the conversation.
“Okay okay fair enou- wait. I didn't tell you shit about Cash being an alcoholic”
“Eh, I read between the lines.” She flapped her scared hand dismissively. “The point is, you've completed your detox program, and have a glowing report from therapy.”
His eyebrow crept even higher as he stared her down.
“Okay so I fudged the notes a little bit. But I am proud of you Blitzø. It's not easy being an imp. Just maybe next time, avoid dismembering people who play golf with overlords?”
Well. He couldn't argue with that.
That afternoon, he was given back his clothes and bag, a flimsy pamphlet about support groups, and ushered out the front door.
His nurse had smacked him so hard on the shoulder he almost fell on his face, but when he checked his bag for his keys, the bag was packed with snacks, medical supplies and bottled water.
He was thrilled to see his van safely in its illegal spot, and only one of his windows had been busted in.
Distracted by the broken glass on the front seat, he fumbled the key into the ignition, and pulled out of the spot. Well, at least that's what the plan was. The van made a horrifying crunching dragging sound and lurched forward half a foot before stopping. Slamming open the door, Blitzø paced around the van just to see the bright yellow boot locked over his tire.
ah fuck
A frustrating conversation with the city later, informing him he would have to pay a fine and wait several days, and the skilled application of the crowbar he kept in the trunk, Blitzø was finally fucking moving.
He had no idea where he's going. He had nowhere to go.
Eventually, he found a secluded car park near a dilapidated office building, wire fencing sagging and useless. He tucked the van into a spot, mostly out of sight of the road.
Using knowledge only years of living in a van could teach, he positioned the mangled remains of the boot over his wheel. Without looking too closely, the van would look like it's already been targeted, and hopefully he won't be bothered.
Crawling into the back, he curled up on the shitty mattress he'd been using for the past fuck knows how many years. He stared at the strips of light leaking in between his poster covered windows until his brain finally let him rest.
-----
As much as it had sucked, growing up in the circus meant he was never alone. From the time he could crawl, there was always a horde of other kids to play with. At night, curled up with Fizz and Barbie, Mama was always within yelling distance. As they grew up, they stuck together. All the kids in the circus could be found moving in a loud chaotic pack, all ravenous teenage mouths and awkward limbs.
Even after he turned sixteen and started spending less and less time with the others, there was always Fizz's steady breathing at night, and Barbie's strong hands as they broke camp.
There was always someone nearby. Which, as a teenager with a raging crush on his best friend, fucking sucked. But as an adult Blitzø found himself missing the company more than anything. He was used to instability, and eating sleep for dinner. But being the only person in this entire apartment? Was really fucking unnerving. In the van it was easy to pretend the loneliness was temporary. That in the morning he'd help everyone set up camp.
He'd never been good at being alone, despite the amount of practice he'd had.
He stood in the center of the space, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now.
He had an apartment.
He had a van that ran most of the time if you kicked it right.
He had a job he hated, a bouncer at one of the midrange clubs in Pride.
He had a semi occasional drinking problem and a fairly well managed drug problem.
He had a van, and a gun and more freedom than he'd ever had in his entire life. So why the fuck did he feel trapped? What the fuck did he want?
Fucking hell he wanted a drink.
-----
She was angry. Just like him. The first few days were almost violent. Physical contact was so far off the fucken’ table it might as well have been in Heaven.
He tried to explain, the gash could get infected, that all he wanted to do was wash it. She snarled, jammed in the corner of the apartment, poised to bolt.
He wasn't planning on bringing home a kid, much less a pissed off 17yo hellhound, but what choice did he have?
It wasn't like he could leave her there. She was trapped, just like he had been. He saw the heartbroken rage in her eyes. He finally had a home, he had some kind of stability for once in his life.
He finally had something to give
He walked by the shelter most days on the way too and from work, and finally talked himself into walking in. Just to look, he said. Just to figure out the process for next time.
The fucking adoption worker tried to talk him out of it, right in front of her. It had taken him half a fucking hour to get the paperwork. It took him less than a second to sign it. When the papers went through and he could finally bring her home, he was there at the crack of dawn. When she stepped out of the cage, Blitzø saw the wound across her bicep. An almost 18yo hellhound. She should have been twice his size, but she looked like he could have picked her up with one hand. She was downright scrawny and he was so angry.
He swore to himself, she would never know a dad like Cash. He couldn't give her a childhood, but he was gonna give her everything else.
Moving slow, crouched low to the ground, he sat cross legged in front of her, showing her each bottle. Explaining what each one did, how to use the bandage without snagging her fur. When he was done, he nudged the first aid kit towards her. She bristled. He just smiled and scooted backwards. He was careful to stay between her and the exit, but left a clear path to the bathroom and her new bedroom.
He'd made it up with new sheets decorated with tiny stars and one of his stuffed horses. He made sure it could be locked from the inside.
I want you to stay, but I want you to feel safe.
He pretended not to hear the crack in her growl. He pretended not to notice the tremble as she snagged the kit and bolted to the bathroom. He sagged against the wall when the lock clicked.
To start with, they were like roommates. If your roommate was twice your height and would bitch slap you into next week if she felt threatened. Blitzø didn't remember much from his college days, but the vibe felt similar.
On her 18th, he'd expected to wake up to her gone. He'd been preparing for it actually. Making sure there were new toiletries in the bathroom, and prepackaged food in the cupboards. He'd even paid up 12 months on her phone plan, and shifted it into her name. Doing everything he could so that when she decided to run, she would be as safe as he could make her.
He didn't want her to run. He wanted to make pancakes and her favorite coffee and be a huge obnoxious asshole about her birthday. But he knew that's not what she wanted. So he was determined to give his baby the best possible chance if she chose to leave.
Instead, she smacked her way out of her room, and beelined for the coffee pot like she did most mornings. She still snarled at him when he said good morning, but he didn't care.
She had stayed. He couldn't remember the last time that happened.
Months later, coming home from another shift at the club, he heard the clink of glass bottles as he fought with his keys. He slipped in quietly. They got along better now, but she had a habit of throwing objects when startled, and he had no desire to explain another black eye to his boss. The lights were off, the only illumination from the propped open fridge.
“Just me Loonie” He called softly, flipping on the living room light. His night vision was good, but not as good as a hellhound.
Loona froze, caught going through the small collection of bottles on the top shelf. She shrank back, lips pulling back to immediately go on the offensive.
“Don’t bother” Blitzø sat down heavily on the arm of the couch, gesturing at the bottles. “Poured it all out and filled it with water the day I brought you home” He sighed, tilting his head back. The ceiling was gross and water stained, weird blobs almost looking like nebulae. “My old man drank like a fish, gave me a taste for the stuff. I decided I wasn't gonna risk doing that to you”
“Why keep the bottles? Why not just chuck the whole thing?”
Blitzø scoffed bitterly. “Figured if I ever came home black out drunk again I'd be too fucked to tell the difference and at least I'd drink some fucking water for once in my life”
Loona laughed, sharp and loud. It wasn't something he'd heard before and he had to work hard to keep from ugly sobbing.
“That's the dumbest shit I've ever heard” The tone of voice was the softest he'd ever heard come from her mouth.
Blitzø grinned, gesturing at his own chest. “Nah shit kid, I've got a reputation to maintain” He sighed, rolling his shoulders back. “I'm not gonna stop you drinking, like I even have that right. But I am gonna be a raging asshole about it until I've given you better strategies than Cash gave me”.
She snorted, closing the cupboard and hitching herself up to sit on the counter. “You say that like I don't already drink dumbass”
“Again, nah shit kid. But I started when I was 16, and you've still got time to make sure it doesn't fuck you over.” He blew out a breath. “I can at least make sure you don't end up in a gutter somewhere, or make the mistake of ordering a Smokers Cough at a bar”
“....Do I wanna know?”
“Jagermeister and mayo. If I hadn't already decided to get sober for the second time, that would have done it”
“Oh that's fucking gross what the fuck”
Blitzø laughed. “You're tellin’ me, I drank the damn thing”.
They sat quietly for a bit, Loona still shuddering. All at once, Blitzø hopped off the arm of the couch, clapping his hands. “Well, if we're gonna turn you into a safe drinker we may as well get started” He started patting down his pockets for his wallet and phone, spinning his keys around his finger. “C'mon. We're gonna go get shitty mixed drinks from the corner store and watch horror movies”
Loona slid off the counter slowly, sheer confusion across her face. “You just said you're sober fuckhead”
Blitzø nodded, holding the door open and waving her through. “Oh I will be drinking non alcoholic beer. Tastes like piss with none of the mind altering fun stuff.”
He locked the door behind them, heading towards the stairs of their apartment block. “But I am pretending to be a well adjusted father and I don't want you drinking at some dive bar alone just yet. We'll work up to it”
-----
Fuck his head hurt. Okay, inventory. Limbs, head, bones, teeth, eyes, all present and accounted for. Great. Fantastic. Excellent start.
He slit an eye open and immediately regretted every single life's choice that had led him to this moment.
Okay, backtrack. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he tried to remember exactly what specific set of life choices led him here.
Ozzie's
Stolas
Lonna
Gluttony
Beezlejuice
….fuck.
His brain churned, trying to categorise how badly he fucked up this time. A few seconds too late he realized his stomach was churning just as bad.
Fuck. He was gonna have to clean the carpet.
Carpet cleaned, air freshener, and a splitting headache later, he curled up back on the couch feeling incredibly sorry for himself.
“Good morning dumbass!” Loona smacked the front door open, a cardboard drink carrier balanced precariously in one hand. Setting the two cups on the coffee table, she plonked down on the couch next to him, ignoring his pained grunt.
“Figured you'd have a headache as big as Mammon's ass so I got you a hot chocolate” she continued, far too loud and cheerful for his current state of misery.
Struggling into a seated position, he accepted the hot drink with a pained hiss. “Thanks sweetie”
“So” She began, sipping her coffee. “You wanna fill me in on that bullshit?”
He groaned, thunking his head back. “Absolutely not. You are not ‘dading’ me right now”
“Yes the fuck I am dick head. I dragged your drunk ass home, I deserve some answers.”
Fuck, he was way too hung over for this shit. But she was right. She deserved more than….this. All of it.
“At least your strategy worked” She nudged an empty bottle with her foot, one that Blitzø recognised as from his shelf.
He grimaced, knowing that it meant his first instinct had been to reach for more alcohol.
Taking a deep breath, Blitzø gave her the abridged version of the fuckery that had brought about his current spiral. He kept it brief, more for his own dignity than her sake. Finished, he winced in preparation for his daughter's scolding.
“Okay, lemme just recap that shit. You invited your transitional bird fuck on a Not Date date, got roasted by your ex girlfriend, your ex best friend, a fucking deadly sin, got ignored by the transactional fuck, then got completely shitfaced at a Gluttony party and made out with a goddamn Daryll?”
“Dennis” He corrected listlessly, staring at the lid of his drink. It was delicious. “His name was Dennis”
Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head wildly. “Jesus fucking Christ Dad, why are you like this”.
Honestly, a fair question.
Huffing, she stood, sticking out her hand to help him up. “C'mon dipshit, up you get. We're going to the corner store for ice-cream and eggs.”
Completely baffled and newly vertical, Blitzø pulled on the clean shirt she shoved at him, watching her hunt for her wallet and the van keys. “Eggs?”
“Well yeah, you just got broken up with so we're gonna go egg his house. Mansion. Whatever the fuck.”
“We were never dating” Blitzø protested, but he followed her out of the apartment anyway.
Loona muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “and I'm fucking Lucifer” before conceding. “Fucking fine, if you wanna be in denial about it, we'll go egg pedestrians off the freeway bridge” She unlocked the van, looking at him expectantly. “You comin’? Or you just gonna wallow like a little bitch?”
Blitzø stood stock still for a moment, countless emotions running through his chest. The main one was needle sharp heartbreak. At Stolas, at himself, at what he lost, at what he put his daughter through. But in close second was overwhelming gratitude towards his daughter.
His daughter. He was a dad. Not always a good one, but never a bad one, never an abusive one. He was a victim and perpetuator of so many goddamn fucked up vicious cycles, but not this one. He knew that she knew she was loved. He was never gonna do what his dad did. He knew full well he was gonna fuck her up in new and interesting ways, just like any parent. The urge to self destruct to try and protect her was very fucking tempting, but he wasn't gonna bow out now. Not on the only act that ever mattered. The performance of his fucking life.
“Yeah. Yeah I'm coming. Let's fucking do this”