#saves.

Vaggie wouldn’t admit it, but she’s been anxious. Would Bill really show up? Down here —- well, it’s Hell. Not-so pretty and not-so pleasant, and definitely the last place any sane person would think of as an ideal visit for the Holidays. There’s also this guilt & worry in her gut, swelling like a tidepool ;  praying she wasn’t intruding any family he has back home. That wasn’t her intention at all.

There’s that worrisome thought, and one other thing. This is new. She’s had found-sisters before and makeshift families, but a dad has never been part of the equation. Sure Satan is sweet and accepting – and she adores him to bits! But that’s Charlie’s dad. Bill, though? Bill’s just .. come into her life and brought ember from a feeling Motha’s long since forgotten. And although it was kind of scary, it was nice. It was warm, and comforting.

Every opening of the Hotel door has Vaggie’s heart leaping right into her throat and her eye gluing to the doorframe, only to be simmered back down with a disappointing voice of someone who was anyone else but Cipher echoing in the entryway. Quietly murmuring to herself, she toils away in the kitchen with her macabre Gingerbread Devils and Abominable Cotton Candy Snowmen. Until —

“Happy Holidays,” followed up with loud footsteps that Vaggie was starting to recognize. 

Like lightning, she shoots from the kitchen with bright eyes —- or, well, eye, light lilac dust sprinkling the floor behind in her wake.

“Ay mira, lo lograste. You made it!” Vaggie beams as she comes rounding the corner with her arms wide open, nose smudged with a white streak of flour and hair bound back in a thick braid that is visibly stressed from much nervous grappling. But before she could close the distance, that box came tumbling out of Bill’s hands and spilled out the third-eyed pooch. That alone threw the Manager completely off-guard —- and it certainly showed. What, with the brim of her eye being stretched to its limit and shrinking the yellow iris to that of a small drop of ink. heartbeat practically pounding behind her sight. If he were perceptive, he could hear that the breath had been plain stolen from the goth moth.

& down she came crumbling to her knees before the supernatural shiba, arms instead bringing in the slobbery puppy kisses for a hug instead of the big bear of a Papa. Jus – How did he know? That’s a dumb question considering who he is —— but “how did he know?” She wonders regardless in pure dumbstruck awe. The love the Manager had for this specific breed was something she never spoke of before outside of quiet moments with Charlie, but he knew. Of course he knew, he’s Cryptic Cryptid Dad Who Speaks In Ominous Riddles and Deer Teeth.

“¡Perrito!“ The Manager cries with a loud crack in her voice, smothered in saliva and still maintaining a fast growing grin. There were ghibli-sized tears starting pouring here, but the puppy just seems to be absorbing all of them with those excitable licks. So getting equal, Vaggie’s face carefully mushes into a lavender furry & third-eyed forehead, nose-to-nose with the pup and hands fluffing fur as she begins to gush in spanish. “¡Mírate, preciosa! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?” She coos, lips pooling to baby-talk the curly-tailed hound. Whichever one of the three  goofs in the hall is making more noise is debatable, they all seem to drown one another out with their joyful cacophony. 

“She’s for me??” Vaggie eventually squeaks, rising up with energetic puppy wriggling around in her arms, now finally fluttering over to Bill to mush into him. She can’t exactly hug him with this adorable armful, but she can affectionately bump into him and hope he gets the sentiment. Her forehead now moves from pup to Bill, gently thumping against his chest to give him a few nuzzles! “I love her — !! I love her so much!!!”

Nearby should he see it, there is a gray, snowflake patterned present with eyeballs decorated in the small intricacies set on a counter surface, bound in a green ribbon with a gift tag reading “To: Bill C. - With love: Vaggie M.”. And inside it was something modest, something homemade. A ceramic salt-n-peppered water bird whistle carefully wrapped in cloth with Bill’s initials carved at the bottom - a little moth next to his name, and a pair of fingerless black leather gloves with Goristro teeth embedded long, sharpened and jagged along the knuckles for landing one Hell of a flesh-ripping punch. Classy! 

Sniff. Sniff. What’s burning. A very silly question given the location, but Vaggie’s learned to decipher the differences between the regular burning fires of Hell and Hey The House Is Potentially Burning Down. Expert training. Expert upsetting unlife experience.

Her singular irritant eye flashes up and locks on the poor singed Radio Personality, posture straightening with an arm coming to laze over the inventory log. She squints, both suspicious and curious, wondering if this deer had once more run into the headlights of Death —– but lo, no! He surprises the moth demon by presenting the homemade biscuits, as blatantly proven by the little smoke sizzles rising from his shoulders and the flour powdered on his nose. The kitchen would be another thing to deal with later on, but for now..

“I had no idea you knew how to cook.” Or did so very often, gathered by the blackened edges on the mystery meat biscuits! But this attitude towards him is .. somewhat low-tempered. No immediate hostility, just the sort semi-casual-awkward glow. Still, she sets her pen aside and slowly accepts them, examining them, surprise now surmising at the fact he made them for her. He. His own hands made the effort to do this. Is this how he felt when she revealed the fact she made cookies for him? They didn’t smell half-bad, either – there’s actually a nice little temptation of deliciousness wafting from the slightly burnt edges. Maybe a little overcooked, but that doesn’t entirely ruin biscuits depending on what they’re made of. 

If she doesn’t get around to eating them, Razzle and Dazzle certainly will. Or a PCP’d Angel Dust.

“.. Thanks, Alastor.” Boy, didn’t saying that feel weird.