Trent had never given much thought to how an angel would look. 

Why would he?

He wasn't quite sure he believed in them, anyhow, -- what kind of fanciful nonsense would that be, endlessly pondering something you aren't sure exists?

But if he were ever to humor the idea, he was certain he wouldn't picture this. 

Bright red hair, devilish. A small, scarcely-curved frame, hardly seeming intimidating, or otherwise inhuman. Just like any other girl he could have met out on the town this evening. 

Anyone he could have taken home, before he got home and sunk to his knees and got wasted. Before he broke the bottle in his hand, dug the glass into his palm.

Funny thing was, there wasn't a woman in his house before then. But now there was.

She spoke to him in a low, smooth voice, pulling his hand into hers. Too drunk and shocked to stop her, he blinked, listening to how she gently murmured to him, seemingly trying to comfort him. Which made no sense at all.

And yet, however frightening, there was something hypnotic about her voice. Something that almost made him feel safe.

"Come on, honey," she cooed. "Try to relax a little. You are a real piece of work, aren't you?"

Before he could even comprehend what was happening, she lifted his bloody knuckles up to her lips, ever-so-slightly brushing them against his skin before pulling away again. He glanced down when she did, only to find that the fresh wound had already closed up.

It was as if it had never been there at all.

Trembling, he found himself looking into her eyes, luminous pools of sapphire blue. Otherworldly.

Unnatural.

"What are you?" he asked, shaking voice filled with something both cruel and curious. "Are you some kind of ghost? Sharon? Dammit, I knew I shouldn't have moved into this place--"

She laughed quietly, long, cold fingers brushing lightly against his newly-healed skin. He shivered.

"I'm not Tate, if that's what you're thinking. Though that is quite the comparison..." She paused, shaking her head full of copper curls. "I'm not quite a ghost at all, really. Why don't you take three guesses of what I could be?"

Still frightened out of his damned mind, Trent shook his head. "I don't know. A succubus?"

She laughed again. "Good God, no. Quite the opposite, actually." 

The woman smiled at him then, look of affection flashing over her face as she brushed her fingertips over another cut. "Two words, Sweetheart. Guardian. Angel."

Those two words just made Trent even dizzier than he already was. 

Of all the people in the world who could have guardian angels, he hardly figured he would be one of them. He was far from devout, in any sense. Hell, he committed so-called 'sins' that many would deem unpardonable on an almost-daily basis. 

There were surely better candidates, he thought. Old people whose minds were going, their bodies withering. Starving kids, sick, lonely, and wide-eyed. People out on window ledges, feeling completely hopeless.

Not some semi-underground rock musician in Los Angeles, high out of his tree with a bleeding hand. 

Head spinning so that his eyes threatened to roll back in his head, he forced out that one word that tormented him: "why?"

The woman giggled. "What kind of question is that?" she asked. "Because you need it, silly!" 

Trent grimaced. He'd think that, if he did have a guardian angel, whatever almighty higher power that was behind it should have at least given him a type of person that he'd like. Not overly jovial, cutesy pixie women who called him things like 'sweetheart' and 'silly.'

"I don't... Need it..." He stammered slightly, his tongue feeling heavy. He was just so tired, and far more intoxicated than he needed to be. "I don't think so, anyway... I mean, I didn't think I was doing too bad."

"Mmm-hmm," the woman hummed flatly. She was still examining his hands.

After a long while of turning his palm over and playing with his fingers, the woman finally looked up to meet his eyes. 

"Tell me, Trent, about this glass," she says. "Did you break it on purpose?"

In that moment, he nearly choked. "W-what?" His voice came out strangled, faint. "N-no... Why would I..."

"Easy," she chastised him gently.

She lifted his hand close to her lips again, brushing them against another small nick.

 Trent's face burned.

Once that wound was healed, she pulled away, glaring back up at him. "You can try to explain yourself in the morning. I'll still be here then." 

She smiled at him, seeming so sincerely kind. He swallowed, a lump rising in his throat. 

He couldn't remember the last time someone looked at him like that. It sure as hell didn't happen frequently enough for him to be aware that he missed it. 

While he pondered this, the woman continued to prattle on. "I know you're exhausted, so we best be getting you to bed... Unless you want to eat or drink something first... Might make the hangover a little less miserable..." 

He shook his head. "No," he said, with a surprising amount of decisiveness for someone in his condition. "I definitely think I need to be in bed."

"Alright, then." The woman rose to her feet before holding her hands out to him. "Stand up?" she requested. 

Despite his shaking legs and swirling head, Trent obliged her, taking both of her hands. They were rather cool to the touch, he noted. This was either a convenient coincidence, or all the more evidence of her death, however long ago. 

Though he was a good few inches taller than her, (a rare occurrence with anyone,) Trent leaned on the tiny woman for support as they headed towards his bedroom. Somehow, she seemed to know exactly where to go without being told. 

Once they were finally there, he collapsed back onto the matress rather clumsily. Meanwhile, the woman decided to take it upon herself to untie his boots and toss them aside. After the shoes were discarded, she crawled closer to him, ultimately positioning herself by his side at the edge of the bed. 

Eyelids feeling weighed down, Trent gazed up lazily at the woman's pretty face. "What's your name?" he inquired, voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

The woman smiled, running one of those healing hands of hers through his hair, spread haphazardly across the pillow. "You can call me Tori." 

"Tori." He muttered the name almost dreamily, as if he had escaped the real world for the night already. "And Tori... How do I know that you're real? That you're not just crazy, or... hm... messing with me?"

Though she knew he couldn't see it from behind his now-closed eyes, the angel grinned slyly. "Believe me, honey," she whispered into his ear. "You'll know soon enough. Now, sweet dreams."

It was around that approximate time that Trent passed out, the entire world around him seeming to fade away. 

Tori just held his hand, waiting patiently for daylight to come.