Chapter Text
There was no place like home.
And sometimes home was a 250-square-foot slice of tacky hotel.
There wasn’t a sound aside from the stumbling clunk of heels on hardwood as Lollie walked in the door. Her shadow swayed, cast across the floor by what little light she let in before it was gone with the click of a lock behind her, lost to the dim glow of the lobby lights and the shadows that sat in every cobwebbed corner. Lollie beelined to the kitchen, hoping there might have been something leftover from a dinner invite she’d turned down weeks ago- back when skipping out on time with friends seemed worth it to keep things sweet with the Vees, when success was a possibility instead of a pipedream. The single, neatly wrapped plate of pasta with the note “See you again soon?” signed with a scribbly bunny sketch was the last thing she wanted to see when she opened the refrigerator. Lollie swallowed back the feeling of overworked taffy that had taken hold of her tongue and ate what she could of it cold, hoping it would fill the gaping hole in her stomach before heading back to the lobby with a soda and the half-empty bottle of dish soap in hand. Whatever sugar-induced dopamine rush had gotten her through the evening had worn off halfway home, and for a second she seriously debated sleeping on the sofa instead of subjecting her aching feet to the stairs.
In a perfect world, all Lollie would have to do is click her sparkly red platforms together, and she’d “pop!” onto the welcome mat of somewhere she owned; a swanky little bungalow just a skip from the beach, or a penthouse apartment so high up she could walk naked in front of the windows without worrying about giving out a show for free. Maybe there’d even be someone waiting for her, someone handsome, someone sweet- someone who’d barely let her get the keys in the lock before he’d burst through the door, sweep her off her feet and carry her to the couch to cuddle while she complained about her day.
Instead, Lollie stood scuffing her shoes against the grubby carpet of a charity project, leaning her weight onto the rickety railing, and cursing the place for not having an elevator when she needed it.
It could be so much worse, that nagging baritone in the back of her mind echoed with every aching step up the stairs, Lollie ignoring the barbed-wire feeling biting into her bones the best she could and muttering through grinding teeth-
“Yada yada, wandering the desert, whatever you say, Dad.”
The hiccuping half-laugh that followed rippled the solemn silence of the hotel hallways, and she paused to listen for whoever might have been haunting them at his hour; if they were there, they either had a shit sense of humor or were too gentile to get the joke. Lollie did her best to tiptoe past the single other occupied room this side of the second floor, not daring to peer into the propped-open door beside Angel’s just in case it decided to taunt her with its emptiness. The tension in her spine unwound with the turn of her key in the lock, and Lollie whispered her welcome into the pitch black of her bedroom as she stepped inside.
“Honey, I’m home.”
There wasn’t a sound from the dark, but Lollie answered anyway.
“It sucked. Can we order in tonight?”
Understatement of the season, Lollie snorted to herself. Her meeting with the bigwigs had gone badly enough, but trying to scrounge together something to wear on stage that night had been nothing short of a nightmare. The only pair of stage-appropriate shoes she had in her locker were so worn to hell that she’d spent a good half hour scraping the bottoms with a nail file so she wouldn’t eat shit on stage, and that had just been the beginning. Without Angel Dust’s Voktek-funded wardrobe at her disposal, Lollie had been at the mercy of the other girl's good graces to fill in the gaps, which there were plenty of, since all she’d been able to scrounge from her stash aside from her shoes had been a g-string and a pair of purple petal pasties. The costume they managed to mash together reminded her far too much of her early days of working the midnight ballet, when she’d show up in what little lingerie or club wear she could move in and pray it stayed put long enough to make it through her set. The pack of pasties sitting in the bottom of her locker had been a lucky pull in the end; they had come in handy when the only top twenty girls could spare between them was little more than a stretch headband. Lollie was sure she was wearing more adhesive than actual fabric by the time she finished getting ready, but sometimes that was just what a girl had to do to keep the nips and lips locked down for the evening.
At least the bad-boy bat behind the spin tables had been around long enough to understand what Lollie meant by “you know what I like”, even if his choice was far fewer beats per minute than her regular bubblegum bump and grind. It hadn’t really mattered, Lollie could find a way to dance to nearly anything, but the longer she listened to the lyrics, looking for something of substance so she could sweet-talk the scumbags sitting side-stage, the more she wondered if maybe it was time to stop flirting with the DJ.
“And I can't help but think about it day and night;
I wanna make that body rock - sit back and watch…”
He might as well have told her the roses were red with that kind of poetry.
The song’s slower tempo had been a blessing in the end. It had allowed her to stay up close and personal with the customers, right where she needed to be for her sugar-psychedelics to work their magic- not that their Monday morning clientele would have cared if she was wearing a paper bag, just as long as it was over her head, instead of anything of importance. Still, it was nice to see their eyes sparkle; it almost made her feel like it meant something.
Lollie had floated through her set, too high off home-brewed hallucinogens on an empty stomach to care about the grimy residue the stage left on her palms or the raw state of her ankles from the too-loose straps of her heels. Floor work made it almost too easy for her to separate mind from body, simple recreations of shapes and positions well-molded into her muscle memory from decades of repetition, letting her look ahead to the real work waiting for her offstage. Coming up with a new dance in an evening would have been easy peasy on any other day-
Preferably one that hadn’t sucked harder than one of Val’s fresh-faced fuckdolls, if it wasn’t too much to ask.
All that wasn’t even considering she had come up with choreography for two dancers with wildly different strengths, nor that she’d need to get both sets clean enough to show Valentino tomorrow and somehow still find the time to reset. One all-nighter was child’s play in the grand scheme of a girl who didn’t classify as alive before the afternoon, but two? Two was like putting her into the race with her shoelaces tied together.
Lollie tossed her purse in the direction she expected her dresser to be, and listened as it tumbled to the floor; the sound of its contents spilling out the open top was the cherry on the unfrosted fruit cake that was her day. Her shoes were the first thing to go, kicked into the still-dark room in front of her while she fumbled for the light switch on the wall beside her and clicked on the light.
When she’d told Niffty she could clean her room this morning, Lollie had expected it to be clean, but the place was pristine.
The first thing she noticed was the floor- she could see it, for one thing. She’d almost forgotten how soft the shag she’d talked Alastor into installing was; it’s pale peachy pink, so often lost beneath the carpet of costume she left lying around. It pillowed around wiggling toes as Lollie took in the checkerboard pattern Niffty had vacuumed into it, that tiny flicker of admiration for a woman’s work warming the cold pit that had occupied her insides for the last eight hours. The bedsheets were pressed, pillows fluffed, towels folded into the shape of a floppy-eared dog on top of her vanity, and best of all, the sauciest of her sundresses lay out across her bed with a set of strappy heels to match. Everything was perfect, as sharp as the sting settling into the back of her throat- it was a damn shame the room was beginning to blur. Niffty must have used something heavy to clean the bathroom that made her eyes water.
The door creaked as she kicked it closed, cutting another edge into her nerves that sharpened at the tug of her earrings catching on her sweater she pulled over her head so she could check the damage. Grapefruit juice was sticky, but light in color, meaning her “spilled” cocktail was less a stain and more of a stiff, dried-up bit of fabric. It had been smart to skip her usual Not-So-Dirty Shirley in favor of something lighter, or she’d be scrubbing soaked in grenadine until sunrise. Even blood woulda’ been less of a bitch to get out, Lollie thought as she filled the bathroom sink and dumped the bottle of dish soap into the basin so she could drown today's catastrophes in cold water.
It took every ounce of restraint not to give in to the shower’s siren song of steam. Lollie would have given anything to rinse off the nitty gritty of the day and bury herself beneath fresh bedsheets- but there would be no time to enjoy the fruits of Niffty’s labor tonight. She hadn’t even listened to the song Val had sent over for her set, too caught up spending every second offstage coming up with choreography for Angel. Damp hands slid over the worst of the grime stuck to her skin, scrubbing the worst of it on the wadded-up fabric of her jeans as she stripped down to her socks on the way back into her bedroom. There was a snowball's chance in Hell for sleep, so an endless supply of energy drinks would have to be good enough to get her through the night. Lollie tossed what little of her outfit wasn’t soaking in the sink into the laundry bin and grabbed the can from her dresser, glancing down as she pulled back the pop-tab just in case it bubbled over.
The sight of her ruined manicure is the last straw.
Her shoulder screamed; whatever damage Valentino had done reopened as the can crashed into the far wall. It clattered to the floor unceremoniously, spilling whatever wasn’t currently soaking into her clean bedspread across the carpet; Guilt gripped her by the throat at the sight of it, digging its ugly, awful fingers into every sore spot the day left behind until she couldn’t bear it any longer. The last lingering bit of rational thought sealed her lips shut before she could scream, the sound sandpaper against the soft folds of her larynx, ripping through months of preparation for a performance she’d never have the chance to give. Something shattered, the sound as far away as the feeling of her rising beneath her, her silhouette stretches across the wallpaper like a shadow show for sadists as the lamplight flickers; it fades in the light of the hallway as the door opens behind her, and Lollie’s chipped nails dig deeper into the carpet.
“...I take it Val told ya’ about the changes to the lineup,” Angel said, voice like a knife to her gut despite its softness.
“I’ve already been working on your choreo. I’ll have it by the morning.” The words come out strained, worn thin between layers of emotion she clears with a soft trill before getting back to her feet. Her fingers come back black as she quickly wipes them across wet cheeks, too tired to care about smeared mascara or blotchy blush. “Val wants to see it before the club opens tomorrow night, I’ll skip work after so we can practice.”
“Babe-”
“It’s fine, Ange’.”
The release of tension that had been building between her temples as she took down her hair nearly pulled a sob from her throat, but Lollie swallowed the sound and settled instead for a heavy sigh as she raked her nails across her scalp. She could feel Angel hovering, that familiar tingle of being watched making the peach fuzz on the back of her neck perk up; the way he paused before moving past her was enough to know that he’d caught how she’d flinched when he’d come too close, and that feeling of guilt grips her again. It’s cold, hollow but heavy, like she’d taken a gulp of water just when she needed to breathe.
Lollie watched as Angel knelt at her bedside, returning her lamp to its rightful place on the side table. Concerns over electric currents and broken glass die in her throat, unable to squeeze past the stone currently sinking into her stomach in time to keep him from unscrewing the shattered lightbulb and carrying its pieces to the tiny pink trash can tucked beneath her vanity. It closed with a loud clank that scraped up her spine, and with a breath deep enough for both of them, Angel turned to her again.
“Maybe it’s better this way?”
The softness of him stung, rubbing raw against the rotten ache that had taken root in her soul. Every word sounded more sincere than the next. Angel’s voice was as low as the day they’d met, when he’d barely been able to stand but somehow still able to find the fire to run his mouth in between dry heaves to tell her that he wasn’t interested in whatever she was selling. Lollie kept her head down, staring instead at her own toes scuffing shapes into the shag, too scared he’d see a broken mirror of that moment standing in front of him if she dared look up.
Stripped socks shuffled across the line she’d drawn in the carpet between them as Angel sighed into the space above her head and said,
“Look- I know you were really bettin’ on this show to be ya’ big break, or whateva’ but- I hate to see ya’ get your heart broken when it don’t work out the way you want it to.”
You’re got to be fuckin’ kidding me- Lollie bit down before the outburst could bubble over. Angel did not deserve the jealous little devil that had settled onto her shoulder, not now, no matter how tone deaf the darling demon could be at times. Sharp fangs gnawed at her tongue, chewing up all the spite that had settled at its tip until it was easy enough to swallow and steadying herself to withstand the acrid cocktail of self-loathing, sour apples, and saliva sliding down her throat.
Despite her attempts to smooth the sharp edges to her tone, it seemed to cut all the same.
“Goodnight, Angel.”
“Don’t do that.”
Lollie didn’t have to see his face to know she’d hit a nerve; it sat in the sudden sharpness of his shoulders, the flexing of his fingers, fighting whatever awful storm of fight or fawn was twisting up inside of him. They disappeared from the solid stare she’d fixed to the string dangling from the hem of his shirt, her own fingers itching to reach out and snap it so she could mend the seam, to rip it out so it would roll, take her scissors to it and crop it- anything, other than having to stand here a second longer knowing she’d slipped up and said something stupid twice in one day.
Angel groaned, the sound muffled beneath his hands but somehow still too loud in the stiff silence of her bedroom.
“Look, Lollie, I love ya’, you know that- you n’ Cloves have been my lifeline for the last year, but you’ve gotta’ face the facts. One way or anotha’, this is gonna’ end biting you in the ass. At least this way I don’t have’ta watch ‘em clean your blood off the floor once Val gets sick foolin’ around.” Long fingers brushed back the limp curl of her bangs as Angel talked, gently smoothing them back from her face so he could better look at her- and still, Lollie stayed stuck on that damned thread hanging from the end of his shirt. Angel straightened with a sigh, suddenly standing as far away as she felt, and turned away with a parting pat to the top of her head. “...Fine. G’night suga’, try and get some rest.”
And, again, Lollie was alone.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at the slowly blurring shapes of the old amusement park poster she’d hung up on the back of her door. It might have been hours, or maybe minutes, but who could tell? There was no ticking of a clock, no sign of sunlight to be seen through her curtains, just the steady drip of a faucet to pass the time. It leaked down her chin, dripping down to dampen the bra's band biting into her ribcage as it shuddered and shook, too wound tight to turn off no matter how hard Lollie tried. The handle slipped from her fingers as she stumbled to the bathroom and splashed her face with the half-dead dish soap bubbles, overflowing as she pulled the plug and rang out the soaked sweater from the sink. It stuck ice cold to her stomach, turning sputtering sobs to shaking breath, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Lollie managed to whisper-
“...I love you too, Angie.”