The darkness swims around Adam for quite a long time, longer than he can keep track of. There is something peaceful in nothingness, though; like, don't get him wrong, Adam likes consciousness - it's one of his most-preferred states of being - but it is nice to be away from it all for a while, especially considering the reality he's currently trying to escape.

The reality that… he actually can't really remember clearly right now. But he doesn't need the details to figure out that it's definitely something unpleasant.

So he doesn't fight to awaken just yet, basking in the quiet of the dark. It's only natural, however, that the tranquil feeling he'd been getting used to would be yanked away from him.

Story of his fucking life.

Instead of that quiet nothingness, he's thrust into an uncomfortable limbo between consciousness and sleep. A blazing heat hovers over him like vultures, and he's the carrion unable to speak or move. His eyes flick open occasionally, but the world's a blur and fuck everything is so hot…

"Ah, shit… he's still got that fever," someone mumbles above him, a deliciously cool hand pushing his sweaty hair back and pressing against his forehead.

He hears his own breaths sometimes, how fast and shallow they are, and he wonders if he's going to die. That should kick his system into panic overdrive, but it surprisingly doesn't - like death is preferable to whatever happened to him.

He can't keep track of who's with him and when - the blurry people change shape and size. Most don't look too intimidating, and fortunately, they're not unknown entities all the time. At one point, he's able to recognize the smug face of Lute, though he's pretty sure she's a hallucination - the way she speaks and sounds like Adam's inner insecurities pretty much proves that.

"Sir. Adam. Get up. I didn't know you were this weak," she hisses. "You are the First Man, aren't you?"

Of course I am, bitch, he thinks, trying to pull himself together. But how can he do that when his fucking body won't cooperate?

"The sinners and angels will know you're a fraud if you don't wake up and show them you're not," Lute warns, and it kills him how right she is. Eventually, the mean "il-Lute-sion" disappears, and he's once again stranded with the ever-shifting strangers in the room.

There's one particular shadow that unsettles him the most; it looms over him a bit too long, a bit too intensely. But it's not like he can fight it like this - all he can do is lie there and stare at it.

It sneers at him, the echo of its laughter striking fear down to his core for a reason he's beyond understanding right now. The edge of familiarity, however, is enough to drag him back down into the depths of darkness.

Oh well. It's alright to not face it for now.

When Adam next fully wakes, his mind is a little clearer. He has no fucking clue how long he'd been teetering between states of consciousness, but at least the pain's a little more manageable - 'manageable' in the sense that it doesn't make him paralyzed with shock, at least. Shit still fucking hurts, of course.

His eyes gently pry open, slowly adjusting to the dim light of the room. There's a sense of deja vu as he finds himself lying atop some comfy sheets, but this time he remains still. He has no idea when he'd been in this exact position last, but he does remember the likes of Lucifer touching him. And thank fuck that guy doesn't seem to be around right now - if he knows what's good for him, he'll stay away.

The heat's oppressive, but it's not internal anymore, at least. On the contrary, the room he's in is hot as balls, a stuffiness that makes the sheets stick to his skin. He can feel the sweat dripping down his forehead, creating a gross little collection of stains on the pillows. Yuck.

He tests out his voice, opening his mouth and pushing out words quietly: "The fuck…?" Okay, so he sounds like he'd played too many concerts and wore his throat out singing, but at least he can manage something.

The garish red shades of his surroundings are annoyingly familiar - must be that shitty hotel. But hadn't Adam razed it? He is almost certain he blasted some epic holy light through it, cutting it in half and tearing it down.

A shrill, way-too-fucking-happy voice sounds from nearby, and it nearly startles him out of his skin. "Adam? Oh my god, Adam! Hey! Hi there! Good morning! Can you hear me?" It's much too obvious who that shrieking tone belongs to, and as he shifts his head to the other side on the pillow, the image of Lucifer's spawn assaults his vision.

She's so close to him, sitting on a chair at his bedside. He just stares at her, wishing he were anywhere but here right now.

"I'm so glad you're up!" she chirps.

I'm not. He grimaces, blinking a few times to keep himself awake and alert enough to direct hatred her way.

"Sooooo…" The blond bitch's eyes dart around the room for a minute before focusing back on Adam. She looks nervous - though why, he doesn't know. He can't be very intimidating like this. "How are you feeling?"

He tilts his head ever-so-slightly and keeps staring as hard as he can at her, wishing he could kill her with a simple glare.

"Right… probably not that great, huh?" she guesses, correctly. "Um, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?"

Adam considers the question. Everything still does hurt, especially his wings, but he isn't in the same agony that his body still has memorized. The pain isn't as bad, but that doesn't mean it's anywhere near gone - so would that put it at a… seven? Eight? What's a zero on the scale - a fucking opioid high? And a ten would be… death?

In the end, Adam just does what he does best, and skirts around the hard questions. His throat is so dry, his voice coming out hoarse and scratchy as he shoots back, "You're not a damn doctor, so I guarantee whatever number I'd say, you'd be unable to do anything about it."

She purses her lips. "I mean, I can't do anything huge, but if you're in a lot of pain, I could ask my dad to-"

"Fuck no," he snaps at that horrible suggestion. "I don't want that shrimp anywhere near me - ever again, if fucking possible."

"Well… can you at least tell me if you're hurting a lot? Or if anything in particular hurts the most?"

"Why's it matter to you?"

The bitch tilts her head and blinks, her dumb face looking baffled at his question. "You mean, why's it matter if you're in pain? It matters a lot , actually, and the reason is very simple: I don't like it!"

Adam stares back at her, unimpressed. She sure can pull off that braindead-bimbo look very well, almost like it's natural and not a front. Too bad he's seen her true colors in the horns and tail, and she's still Lucifer's kid. She's got evil in her DNA.

"Whatever," he scoffs. His head throbs as he tries to remember the events after the battle. "More important things to talk about than how I'm ~feewing~, babe. Such as, how did I end up in this shithole?" He should be home - is he being held prisoner here? Where are his Exorcists?

The bitch scoots her chair closer to him, and he hates the way the noise makes him tense. "What, exactly, do you remember?" she asks quietly.

He doesn't know why the fuck she's batting the Dickens-orphan-eyes at him like he's some stray puppy she found in a gutter. Yeah, he's clearly pretty fucked up right now, and he doesn't remember much, but there's no reason to pity him like that. He's just… still getting his bearings!

"I remember bringin' my girls down to wreck your shit as always," he snarks, that memory not lost on him. Killing sinners never gets old, but this time it felt particularly satisfying to shoot his holy light at them. "You fuckers are so pathetic, thinking you could keep us out. I blasted right through your…"

Their…

Shield…?

A jolt spears through his brain like a static shock, his entire body tensing for a fight. His heart speeds up, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach - all over, what, a simple word? 'Shield' ? Why does that thought have that sort of power over him—?

"…some kind of shield, sir!"

"Oh, really? I didn't notice this GIANT FUCKING SHIELD, you dumb bitch! No shit!"

Okay, so he'd had some words with Lute about the shield, right, but… but whose shield was it again…?

A brief memory flashes through his mind unannounced: him having the thought to break through the shield, to escape it — but why ? Hadn't he broken through it already - why would he need or want to escape it…?

"Adam, are you okay?"

Fuck, he'd spaced out. The likes of Ms. Butterflies-and-Rainbows is looking at him with those stupid eyes again.

Instead of answering her fake concern, he just continues his rant. "...I remember we kicked the shit outta you cunts. Lute killed your stupid goat-dragon and I eviscerated some lame ship heading towards me."

The cunt's eye twitches - Adam must've hit a nerve. With a dark smirk, he adds, "I killed plenty of you filth before you cheated and called Daddy and got me with my back turned, right?"

"Yes, well… you definitely did raise some, um, hell… you killed some of my friends and destroyed my hotel."

Adam laughs. "Ha! Yeah… I'm fucking awesome. Don't need to butter me up so much, sweetheart."

She frowns and continues, "We rebuilt the hotel, as you can see. You're in one of the rooms right now."

"Neat." His eyes flick around the room, noting how ugly the color schemes are. The shade of red tickles something in his brain, a memory of something a similar color… but another buzz like electricity stops him from thinking further about it. Instead, he just focuses on what needs to be done to this shithole. "I'll have to just use a little more power to destroy this one."

Without thinking it through, he thrusts out a palm to let some badass power start pooling in his hands.

There's more familiarity in the way his fingers tingle with warmth but ultimately summon nothing - almost like he's had this exact shortcoming before. With a growl, he tries again with the other hand, letting out a frustrated curse as it yields the same lack of results.

Bimbo-Bitch narrows her eyes. "Did you seriously just try to summon power to destroy my hotel?"

"Uh, yeah. Shit shouldn't be standing!"

"Did you forget that you're in it!?"

…Well fuck. She got him there. Too bad he's too preoccupied with what stopped him from demolishing this new location to respond with anything but a sheepish shrug.

Inspecting his hands, he notes that the tips of his gauntlet-gloves are missing - which, awesome, fingerless gloves look badass - but the most surprising additions are the two silver bands clamped around his wrists. He doesn't remember wearing them for the Extermination, and they do not compliment his original outfit's colors, so they're new. What the fuck are they, though?

Anything unfamiliar in this place makes him uneasy. Adam yanks on the bracelets, grunting with effort and swallowing the slight tingles of pain he gets from the pulling motions. The bands do not break or even move from their position on him, sealed tightly against his skin like they're glued on.

"What the shit are these?" he demands, glaring towards the braindead bitch.

"My dad made those - they're cuffs to, um, suppress your… angelic… power…" she trails off, wringing her hands.

Adam shakes his wrists in her direction. "Take them the fuck off," he hisses.

The cunt nervously laughs. "No… no, I can't do that. Sorry." She straightens herself out. "They're not there to hurt you, just to restrict. It helps make everyone feel safe - including you."

Anger burns through him at that stupid response, at how ridiculous it is. His fists tighten and his teeth gnash as he jeers, "What the fuck do you think I could do anyway, accidentally blast my own ass with angelic light?" With a little more force than necessary, he slams his fist into the mattress for emphasis. "You know what would make me '~feew saywfe~' right now? Being able to use what I was given from fucking Heaven!"

His words make Morningstar-Bitch pause, and another pitying look creases her features. Well, whatever's got her all PMS-y, he doesn't give one shit. She's probably sad about her dead little friends or something, and feels awkward talking to their very handsome slayer.

Finally, she replies somberly, "You can't expect me to trust you, after all that's happened. There's no use arguing anyway - they're staying on." She seems firm on that, but fuck if he doesn't try again later to chew them off or something. The cunt changes the subject: "Let's get back on topic. What else do you remember?"

Though he doesn't want to keep playing this Let's-See-What-The-Dickmaster-Can-Remember game with this bitch, he also would prefer not being left in the dark by his own fucking mind. With a huff of frustration, Adam wracks his brain, diving deep into any memories he can snatch pieces of. The events of the latest Extermination are remarkable enough to recall, but the end's where it gets fuzzy. There's glimpses that flicker in and out of focus: a crater, a hot knife sticking out of his stomach, Lute's anguished expression… He tries to recall each image's context, what went on before and after each point in time, but it's so, so difficult.

His head pounds against his skull. With a groan, he screws his eyes shut.

"Adam…?"

"Give me a goddamn minute! I'm thinking!" he snarls, her voice just like nails on a fucking chalkboard. He tries, again, to sift through the fog in his brain.

So… after Lucifer showed up (unfairly), he'd thrown Adam into a crater. Okay, that definitely did happen. Then the cocksucker punched Adam over and over, until… what? What had stopped him?

"Stop, Dad… he's had enough."

'Dad'.

He shoots a glare towards the prissy princess. It figures that she had been the one to stop Adam's ass from getting beaten more. Well, he hopes she doesn't expect a thank you, because fuck that.

So... after Lucifer backed off, Adam crawled out of the crater and yelled at them some more. He recalls standing before the sinners with a feeling of helplessness and frustration - like it wasn't supposed to happen that way. And it really wasn't - he's the fucking First Man, how dare they go against him? Without him, there wouldn't even be sinners for them to try and protect!

He tries to stave off those same angry feelings from seeping into him now, so he thinks back harder. After he'd done his monologue like an epic movie hero, there'd been… pain. And a lot of it.

The dagger's tip poking through his stomach.

It had made his whole vision go white, his body falling to the ground in a heap. And the sharp stinging didn't stop, something was stabbing him repeatedly—

Lute's face.

She called out his name, he thinks, and then she stared down at him so sadly - the bitch was actually crying! He can't remember ever seeing her look like that, much less his way.

Remembering that soft moment makes him feel weird. Lute's supposed to be the one with her shit together, and seeing all her badass walls breaking down for his sake is just… strange. When they see each other again, he's going to give her so much shit for it - "Awww, Luuuute, you reawwy cawuh about meeee~" - and they'll probably laugh it off and go play video games or something.

Anyway, the moment after Lute cried, he'd closed his eyes. There isn't anything past that that he missed, is there?

Without dwelling on it, he recaps to Morningstar Jr: "I fell in a crater, got stabbed a billion times, and Lute was there." Trying to think further just makes his head sting in protest, like he's overloading his brain with the memory diving.

"Okay, so you remember Niffty stabbing you-"

"What the hell's a Niffty?"

"Oh, uh, one of my staff," Bitchtits explains. "The maid, actually - she's tiny, but very hard to miss. You'll probably… definitely encounter her during your stay here."

Adam scoffs. "And who the fuck decided I'm staying in this ugly hotel?"

"I understand you want to go back home," Cuntface says patiently, "and I'd like that, too!"

Adam sneers. "Love that we're on the same page, sweetheart. This hotel is so lame and suffocating."

"However… I don't think you should be moving a lot right now. You're pretty injured, as you just recalled."

"Angelic steel is pretty fuckin' serious," Adam grumbles. "I'll admit, that caught me off-guard. S'why I feel like I got hit by a thousand trucks, huh?"

"Well, that actually brings me to my next point." She shifts a bit uncomfortably. "But first I have to confirm: you don't remember anything past getting stabbed?"

…Do I?

He assumes Little-Miss-Mercy saved him, but he doesn't know how close to death he'd been. If he's to believe this bitch, then his wounds had become infected and… what, he was brought here? But why wouldn't his girls take him back with them?

A voice echoes in his head: his own taunting voice, cheeky words directed towards… someone.

"...I think it's time I split… Heaven's wonderin' what's takin' me so long… get home for dinner and all that…"

When did that happen? Did it happen in the first place, or is he getting mixed up? Things mesh together when you thrive in the afterlife for thousands of years…

He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the grime and grease caked into it. Ew.

"It's all a fuckin' blur," he growls.

"I can imagine!" the bitch replies. Whatever she wanted to originally say, it's clear she's gotten lost in a tangent first. "I mean— It's been about a week and a half, after all, and you had a pretty bad fever the whole time! It makes sense that you'd be a bit mixed up."

Adam stares at her blankly. "You don't fucking say." He sort of remembers something like that - he's never had a fever in his afterlife, but he'd had enough sicknesses on earth to know the symptoms. Being crazy out of it, sweating and shivering simultaneously, feeling extremely weak… yeah, it all sucks. "But I shouldn't be able to get sick. How the hell did I even have one? Did one of you cunts sneeze on me or somethin'?"

Or maybe he spent too much time in Hell? Can that make him sick? He's never had an issue with it in all the years coming down here to slay sinners…

Bitchface looks pensive, that perma-smile that seems carved into her face finally disappearing. "No. Your, um, wounds were infected. It was nothing my dad's magic couldn't handle - though, your tenacity is also nothing to sneeze at, if you'll excuse my pun!" She gives a halfhearted giggle, but he just rolls his eyes.

"Of course. I'm the First fucking Man, remember? I'm the best - I can do anything." With a bit too much confidence, he shifts his hand out to flip her off, only to feel a wave of pain shoot through his back at the movement. Face pinched in pain, he rides it out. "Goddammit…"

Morning-shit stands up from her chair, stepping a bit closer to him. "Are you alright?"

"Just… shut up!" he snaps. "God, get off my fucking back!"

She takes a deep breath, counting some numbers to herself. "Look, sorry, I got distracted there for a sec- the reason I'm asking about what you recall is because something happened to you - something beyond your stab wounds that you don't seem to remember yet. And I want to make sure you're ready to hear it."

Her indirect way of speaking is beginning to piss him off. Why can't she just say what she clearly wants to say? Adam's never had any issue being direct - it's as easy as opening his mouth and letting the words flow without a filter. His teeth flash as he smiles mirthlessly, and he wishes he still had his mask on. "I don't speak Demonic Cryptic Cunt. In English, babe," he snarls.

She sounds like she's disarming a bomb, carefully treading over every word. "Well, Adam, it's… it's about your…" Swallowing hard, she forces out the last word like she's throwing it off a cliff: "…wings."

"What about my…"

When he moves to fold his wings over his sides in their usual position, pain unexpectedly jolts through his back. Wait, what ? He couldn't see his wings before, but his vision's pretty limited on his stomach like this, so he just assumed they were spread out beyond his line of sight. He can feel them like his arms and legs, so why aren't they moving where he wants them to?

Are they broken? If that's the case, why does it hurt his back instead of the wings themselves? He recalls one time he overdid it and pulled a muscle or two in them; the resulting ache had radiated down the delicate wing muscles. For a few days after, shit stung like hell every time he moved wrong.

He cranes his neck back, hoping - needing - to catch a glimpse of gold feathers…

Hold the fucking phone… where are they?

Another jolt of static sears through his brain. Something's- something's wrong…

He braces his elbows on the sheets and hoists himself upwards. His back protests with a fresh flare of pain that makes him gasp, but he fights past it to get up . And he does manage to lift his body, rolling onto his side and kicking his legs out over the side of the bed. Maneuvering carefully, he slides himself off the sheets and plants his feet on the floor.

"Oh, Adam, don't, um…"

"If you fucking touch me, I'll twirl you around the room by that fuckass braid of yours," Adam snarls, forcing his body to stand up. He has to actively tell himself not to use his wings, as it's completely instinctive at this point. The world spins for a minute and his head strikes with another zap of pain, but he does it. He actually gets up, and damn if he's not proud of himself for that one.

But the pride only lasts a second once he focuses back on what had been so dire to force himself up for in the first place. He slowly turns his neck, rolling a shoulder forward to try to get a peek at his back. His muscles protest, both from lack of use and his injuries, and he isn't able to look very far. He tries again to lift a wing and notes the absence of it moving anywhere near where he aimed for it to be. In fact, he can see the slightest bit of a shadow projected onto the ugly red wallpaper - and he doesn't realize at first that it's his body. The shape is so off, so different from what he's used to seeing, that he can't believe it's his until it sways slightly with him.

His silhouette is missing two very, very important parts of him.

Turning his head slowly towards the princess, his eyes narrow into a fierce glare. Fury bubbles inside him, threatening to spill over any second.

"Where the fuck are my wings?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.

The cunt looks stunned, her fanged mouth hanging open and that same pathetic shine to her eyes. She can't seem to form words to answer him, only proving her guilt.

That's it - Lucifer must've confiscated his wings somehow, and she clearly knows that but won't admit it!

"Your cuck dad took them, didn't he?" Adam snarls. "Popped 'em right off with his magic bullshit so he could, what, put them in a giant cum jar or something? What a fucking freak." The thought's revolting, but definitely something he can see Lucifer doing. If the shrimp's able to transform his own body easily, he probably can manipulate others' - just snapped his tiny fingers and made Adam's wings disappear like a gay-ass magician.

"W-what? Adam, that's… that's not even close to what happened," the bitch stammers.

(Well, of course it isn't - even Adam knows that, if the nagging voice in the back of his mind is anything to go off of. Doubt pulls at him relentlessly, but he tries to shove it down to keep up the charade. Denial's a hell of a drug.)

"Whatever!" he snaps. "Give them back now. Your daddy's epic prank is over, Mini Morningstar."

"But he didn't do this!"

"I don't care what you say, you lying whore. So I'm gonna ask again, and you're gonna answer: Where the hell did my wings go?"

Even hunched over in pain, he's way taller than her, but he forces himself to stand up taller, straighter, to loom over her.

But she doesn't look scared - only sad, which continues to be so damn confusing. "You… really don't remember, do you?"

"What am I supposed to remember?!" Adam screams. What the fuck is he missing? With a grunt of frustration, he grabs her wrist, yanking her toward him and looming over her to be extra intimidating. "I have the mother of all fuckin' headaches and you playing guessing games with me isn't helping! So spill it! What the actual fuck did you do to me, you fucking cunt!?"

The bitch flinches at his tone (good) and furrows her brow. "I didn't do anything but help you!" she exclaims. "I saved your life! My dad did, too!"

"Like hell I believe that!"

"It's the truth! We didn't do anything to your wings-!"

"So who did!? Spit it out, you useless bitch!"

"It was… A-Alastor…!" she blurts out, covering her mouth with her hands in regret, but it's too late. That name is all she needed to say for the dots to finally connect in Adam's brain, reigniting memories that his mind was trying to protect him from.

The lights flicker for a brief moment, darkness creeping up on the edges of his vision. That damned laughter begins to echo in his ears again, bouncing around his head like an earworm. Adam holds his breath, eyes flicking about in terror as he tries to find the source of the hideous cackling, knowing exactly who it is but afraid to see them again.

"How could you forget me, Mr. First Man…?"

Fuck, Adam doesn't know how he could've - honestly, he never should've been able to forget that fucking bastard, but he still feels out of sorts after being unconscious for so long, not to mention the fever that probably boiled his brain for a while.

There's really no point wondering why he forgot, because he remembers fully now, every second of that agonizing event - every rip, every tear, every laugh, every cry. It's all in his head now, refusing to stop replaying over and over and over and over-

The Morningstar girl is saying something - she looks like she's talking to the walls - but he can't make out her words. The familiar, overwhelming despair is back with a vengeance, practically knocking the wind out of him. He falls to his knees and the girl cries out in concern as he starts desperately clawing at his own shoulders. Fuck, he doesn't know why he's doing it, but he keeps digging his nails into his bare skin, trying to reach his back and prove to himself-

Prove… what? That he's just hearing things? That none of this is real? That he's actually back in Heaven and just having a nightmare?

"It can't be fucking real, it can't be…" Adam mumbles, his hands shaking. His nails are coated with gold, some matching scratch marks along his shoulders. "He- he didn't take them … he fucking didn't!" The more he speaks, the less he believes it, but he keeps trying to create the reality he wants through his words.

Things like that just don't happen to him, he's the First Man - God's chosen human! He can't be broken, he can't he can't he can't-

Pain jolts him back to reality, his nails finally scraping the edge of something on his back. The tips of his fingers brush some uneven lumps, thin raised lines trail across the edges.

"What the fuck…?"

Stitches - like Lucifer had mentioned, the last time Adam woke.

"We've been keeping an eye on your injuries, alternating between using bandages and leaving them off," the girl says quietly. "Today's a no-bandage day, so your wounds can get some fresh air."

He can barely hear her explanation. He feels so terribly naked like this. Whatever ugly scars are left behind, he doesn't even have the luxury of hiding them away. Unconsciously, his muscles twitch to bring his wings around his torso to protect himself. He's so used to doing it that it's a fucking reflex at this point- they're like a safety blanket, folding perfectly around his body. It's so natural how they curl into him, how he's able to feel the soft feathers at his sides-

Never again.

Right. He'll… never be able to do that again. The thought brings a wave of grief to wash over him, and he continues to get lost in his own mind. The walls in this terrible room feel like they're closing in, his throat tightening like he's being strangled.

Briefly, his eyes meet Charlie's.

He's ashamed of how much fear is reflecting through his gaze - not to mention the pity in hers.

"They… they can't be gone- I…" he whispers, absolutely revolted at how lost he sounds. "Wh- what the fuck am I supposed to do now?" His fingers interlock so tightly, his nails digging into the backs of his hands, and he looks to Charlie like she holds all the answers.

"Adam, take some deep breaths, okay? Like this…" She models the breathing for him, hesitantly approaching. His muscles tighten again, anticipating a fight or pain.

The way she's looking at him roils his stomach.

He tries to get a fucking grip on himself, but it's hard to reign any logic back in when his mind is playing flashback after terrifying flashback. He doesn't even feel here right now, like this room is all an illusion and Alastor's still pulling him apart…

There's no way he's able to follow her example of deep breaths, given how quickly his heart is hammering in his chest.

He can't do much beyond regarding Charlie like cornered prey, his eyes wide and unblinking as he fights the urge to run to safety - but he has to remind himself that there is no safety anymore.

Without his wings, he can't go home . They were a part of him just like his arms and legs - probably even more important, given that they were a gift for his earthly tribulations. Without them, he's nothing - Alastor made sure of that.

And now… now he's just supposed to stay here, in this hotel? With the Radio Demon under the same roof, ready to torture him again and take something else away?

Adam can't let that happen. He's weak right now, incredibly so, but he has to at least be able to protect himself from further harm. But… trapped here in Hell, the odds are stacked against him. Without his best friend, army, or allies in general…

God- what would the angels all think of him, if they caught a glimpse of his wingless body? He definitely isn't one of them anymore, and that cuts him deeper than he would've realized. He's used to being a loved and revered man, and has loved himself all these years because of it; with his form now, he's ugly and broken - just as much of a fraud, but now it's visible for all to see.

I'm disgusting.

Sitting here in Hell on his knees, seconds away from breaking down and crying like he's some pathetic child , really amplifies the humiliation.

And in that sheer desire to protect himself from further vulnerability, he turns to another emotion, one that he's much more familiar with: anger. It's always felt more natural, more comfortable, than sorrow. He lets that fury swim through his veins and slip over him like a glove; it takes control so very easily, ushering him further and further from his sorrow for the time being.

"Adam…"

She says his name so gently - how dare she speak to him like that, like she's forgotten he came down here in the first place to murder her and everyone she loves?

He hasn't forgotten that she's the enemy. And she has no right to try to do damage control here when she let that maniac into her hotel and let him tear off Adam's wings as punishment.

"...get out," he mutters. That laughter is in his head again, burrowing through him like an insect. It thrums against his skull along with the pounding of his headache, fueling his fury at the sheer unfairness of all this.

How could they fucking do this to me?

"But-"

"I said GET THE FUCK OUT!" The only item within his reach is an empty basket - probably used to hold towels or some shit - so he picks it up and hurls it toward her with all his strength. With a roar, he repeats his demand, screaming at her to leave him alone. He doesn't know what he'll do, now that he's stuck here, but having Charlie this close to him is suffocating. As if his paranoia spiking isn't bad enough, her presence only furthers the hot and thick air in this claustrophobic room.

Luckily for his sore throat, he doesn't have to keep yelling. She wordlessly steps backwards out of the room. He wants to get up and slam the door in her face, but he's frozen on his knees. He doesn't have to even try to stand, though, because she ends up closing the door behind her.

However… she isn't gone. Not yet. From the other side of the door, he can hear her muffled voice.

"Adam… I'm going to leave and let you have some time to process this, but can you please listen to what I have to say first?"

He groans, hands meeting his hair and clutching at the strands in frustration. But he doesn't refuse her - can't, really, in this position - and just stays quiet. Whatever she has to say, he doubts it'll be helpful or comforting, but he decides to hear her out anyway. Like he's some needy bitch, waiting for anyone to tell him what to do and what will make him better.

Charlie takes a deep breath and begins, "I am truly, truly sorry for what happened to you. I don't care what you hear from anyone in Hell or this hotel or anywhere - you didn't deserve that. No matter our differences, what you went through will never be justified or okay." Hearing the words spoken like affirmations - like they're a fact - makes a lump form in Adam's throat, but he swallows it down as she continues. "If we can figure out a way to give you your… your wings back, we will . I just don't know how or if anyone can." She sounds truly upset; he already knows her heart's total mush, but like with Lute, he's always caught off guard by any true compassion sent his way.

Of course, she could still just be faking it… but she'd be a damn good actress if that's the case.

Nevertheless, she keeps speaking, her voice trembling in a way that he can't hear as anything but genuine. "But… for now, I just want you to rest and recover for a bit before we figure out what to do next. And- and you don't have to worry about, um, Alastor. No one is going to let him hurt you again."

Goddammit. He wishes he could believe her, but there's just no way. Even with her unrelenting, obnoxious optimism, she just can't promise something like that.

"I think… for now, if you can make your way to the bathroom in there, it might be a good idea for you to take a shower," Charlie continues. "N-not because you stink or anything, I promise! Just um, being clean has been known to affect mental health in a positive way! I think you'll feel a little better at least if you get all the dirt and grime from the battle off completely! Just… try to avoid getting the wounds soaked - there's plenty of washcloths in there for you to use to lightly dampen them..." She's babbling now, and he tries not to zone out.

Like I can fucking look at myself, Adam thinks bitterly, staring pointedly at the floor.

As if she can read his mind, Charlie assures, "I made sure my dad took out all the mirrors in the bathroom, so you don't have to worry about catching a glimpse of anything you don't want to see yet." She speaks so kindly, and he finds himself caught between the human desire for comfort and his seasoned angelic soul knowing it's too good to be true.

Not that it matters. He's all alone now regardless, isn't he?

"Baby steps, Adam," Charlie murmurs. "Feeling along your back to get used to the new shapes is more than enough of a start. It'll help you identify the changes to get more familiar with them."

He doesn't answer her, but he hopes she appreciates the way he listened to all her shit anyway. After a few moments of tense silence, he hears her shoes slowly patter down the hall as she walks away.

Finally...

He forces himself onto his feet, his back still buzzing with pain. It's going to be hell walking to the shower but at this point, does he really have much choice? She was nice about it, but he does probably stink; if it's been a week and a half of fever-sweating and passively bleeding, he'll need to do something to clean up.

Ugh. Everything hurts and his strength is rapidly draining out the longer he wastes time standing still. He tries not to think too deeply about anything, instead just focusing on struggling to the bathroom.

Well, he thinks with a defeated sigh, let's get this over with…