Chapter Text
HELL
Shortly after the Trial of Demon Crowley
“AHH!”
Beelzebub’s scream is visceral, harsh, broken, as it tears out of their throat into the ether. Power rips out of their body, if by force, and eviscerates every low level demon that had the insane thought to try and approach them. Those maggots become nothing but ash and matter under their power, and any being left alive, cowers back into the shadows to avoid the ire of their prince.
Despite the alleviating feeling of releasing their anger, it still sits heavy in their stomach, a stone weight that pulls them down. Electricity hums under their skin, makes their ears ring with the desire to murder again. All the fault of that damned antichrist—Adam, as dubbed by his humans—who had failed at the one job he had been created for.
What part of the “ineffable” plan hadn’t been straightforward?
Antichrist is born within the pits of hellfire.
Same antichrist is delivered to the surface, in the care of human parents for eleven years until the horsemen are summoned.
Then, finally, the war that had been brewing since the day Lucifer fell from the Heavens.
Now—
—there’s no war and millions of demons knocking down their door demanding to know when they will lay siege to the Heavens who had forsaken them.
Demon Crowley was their scapegoat.
They had clearly been fraternizing with Heaven, proof by the fact that Beelzebub, themselves had seen Crowley next to the Principality. Both of whom had worked in tandem to encourage the antichrist to berate his Hellish father using the love of their Earthly father. Beelzebub had to be the one to tell Satan that their child refused to start the Armageddon so planned from the beginning, when Earth was just a teardrop of an idea. Since the conversation, Satan had locked himself within the lowest circle of Hell and had refused to speak with any of his princes.
Worst of all, the one demon they could persecute for the aborted war, had been immune to execution by Holy Water. While Beelzebub couldn’t prove it, they held suspicion that the Principality had something to do with the little show in the bathtub. So, there was no answer for the demons who had witnessed the Demon Crowley step into the bath and remain unharmed.
“Lord Beelzebub—“ some half wit of a demon whimpers from the shadows and they snap to the direction of the voice to see several eyes staring at them in the darkness.
“Why are you all standing around?! GET BACK TO WORK!” They hiss in their direction, their flies buzzing in agitation, swarming after the demons who scream and run before they are consumed.
They take off in the opposite direction, towards their office, where there would undoubtedly be mountains of paperwork and files surrounding their working throne as if they didn’t have a Lord of Files, whose very job was to take care of that nonsense. Demons line the corridors, weapons in hands, tongues lapping at lips in their bloodlust and Beelzebub gets tired of telling them to get back to work.
Drop your weapons.
Go back to temptations.
Go back to judgements.
Go back to work that didn’t involve pissing Beelzebub off.
“My Lord, can’t you just— restart the war?” One particularly bold demon decides to ask as his last words before Beelzebub snaps them out of existence all together. The others seem to get the hint, and run off, should they be next as Beelzebub pulls the door of their office open, steps inside, and slams it shut.
Demons mill about outside the glass walls of the office, and Beelzebub dares them to stop moving to stare at them. Which appears to be warning enough to keep moving, back and forth, shoving and pushing each other as they get back to work. Behind them the door rattles and they turn, sharply, at the sound only to find no one there but a shattered mirror; a cursed thing Dagon had found in the fourth circle of Hell. It’s gilded, folded in gold, with a diamond inlaid in a flower at its top most point.
Appropriate to the sinners of Greed, they supposed.
Their own reflection sits in the cracked glass, staring back at them, as if mocking them, reminding them that they are a failure.
Them.
A Grand Duke of Hell.
A Prince.
The Lord of the Flies.
One of the few that had willingly fallen into the pits of eternal damnation, and yet—
—they hadn’t led the legions of hell into battle—
—they’d unsuccessfully annihilated a traitor who’d chosen an angel over his own kind—
—the face that looked back was one of incompetence.
Placing a finger to their chin, they turned their own face, left and right. For six thousand years they had worn this face, and perhaps this was their sign to make a change. Their flies buzz at their command, coming up to swarm them, landing on their face, their arms, their legs, to encase their body in a cocoon of humming and fluttering wings. When they’re dismissed, it’s to reveal the new face that had taken shape under their power.
The eye shape is different, accented by dark coal with new demonic markings underneath in thin lines. The face shape is softer, rounder in places, while their rashes and sores have made the decision to relocate to surround their mouth, and inch down their throat.
“Hm—“ they hum, and open their mouth to see the same rotting teeth as they’ve always been, “—it’ll do, I suppose,” they say and find their voice has become softer with its new visage.
A chorus of buzzes from their most trusted and loyal companions tells Beelzebub that the look is approved.
Suddenly, the door to their office slides open, and Hastur invites himself into Beelzebub’s presence, “Lord Beelzebub, I’d like to speak further on Armageddon—“ he says, and Beelzebub is met with the very distinct urge to turn his to dust. They’d have to double check the rules on one Duke of Hell slaughtering another. “—did you change your appearance?”
“What do you want, Hastur?”
“What is our next move?”
Beelzebub stares as they move to their horned throne in the center of the room, sitting upon it with a look that dares Hastur to ask again.
“How do we re-start Armageddon?”
“We don’t, you idiot,” Beelzebub snaps, “If you had insured the child had gone to the right humans—“The Satanic nuns are loyal, Lord Beelzebub, they are competent”—“ they recite, remembering the conversation they’d had with Hastur before the child had been taken to the surface.
“You blame me?” Hastur demands, offense in his voice, “When that traitor Crowley was the one conspiring with the Principality of Heaven to thwart us. We should lay siege to Heaven before they—“
“WE CAN NOT SIMPLY RESTART ARMAGEDDON!” Beelzebub shouts, their flies buzz angrily about them and swarm on Hastur who swats at them to get away. “The boy banished three of our four horsemen!” They continue, rising from the throne, “There is a plan to be followed, and now, due to your gross incompetence we must wait for the horsemen to be reborn from the flames of creation—“
“—There are other ways—“ Hastur argues.
“The boy is tainted by love! Pure of heart, body and mind! Without the strongest of temptations, he will simply banish the horsemen again and again—he will never see the end to fruition—“
“We can tempt him! Give us five years—“ Hastur says, continuing to swat at the ever growing swarm of flies that pull at the rotting flesh of Hastur’s body, “—now—call off the flies—“
“—I’ve changed my mind—“ Beelzebub says and summons the strength of their power to throw at Hastur who obliterates into a million little shards of demonic mold; should there be consequences to their actions, they’ll deal with them later.
Dagon rounds the corner at that moment, peering into the room with a tick of their fangs. “Ah—there’s the mirror—“ they say and reach for it as they glance down at the mess of ash at their feet. He kicks at it with his toe, making indistinguishable shapes as they hum, “Is this Hastur?”
“It was.”
“Suppose the Dark Council has an opening now,” Dagon says as they hoist the mirror. “Any updates on the war?”
Beelzebub glares and Dagon sighs. As Lord of the Files, Dagon’s job was probably one of the more tedious in Hell, and Beelzebub knows they’re itching for a fight, a change of pace, new souls to torment. Without the war, they’d be stuck in an office, same as Beelzebub sorting through corruption and temptations, and requests from Abaddon about expanding the limits of purgatory.
“While you’re here, we need to replace Crowley as our Earthly Representative. Which is that demon at arrivals—the one who wants to prove herself—“
“Shax of the Fifth House.”
“Fine,” Beelzebub says and returns to their throne, turning to sit within its embrace again, “Tell Shax of the Fifth House, she’s just received a promotion.”
“I’ll send the summons,” Dagon says.
“Goody,” Beelzebub snaps as they look away, towards the glass and the vastness of Hell as a clear dismissal.
Dagon doesn’t say another word as he exits with the mirror and closes the door behind them.
***
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
THREE WEEKS AFTER THE ARMAGEDDON THAT WASN'T
They appear in an alleyway, the sky dark above, stars absent in the ink black void. The air is frigid as snow falls in a steady wave to coat the world around them. They brush the soot from their shoulder, remains of the Hellfire they used to come to the surface. Snow melts under their feet as they take a step forward.
“What the hell?! Where’d you come from?”
A human stands at the mouth of the alley, a knife in hand, pointed in their direction. They’re breath is visible as they speak, frozen on air, their skin is red in places kissed by the frost. Beelzebub sees a second human, on the ground, looking frightened and elated as they turn to them for help. It seemed Beelzebub had interrupted a bit of sinning, and the human on the ground thinks they’ve come to rescue them from the apparent mugging.
The knife wielding malcontent takes a step towards them as if attempting to menace the Lord of Flies and Beelzebub can see all they need to know about this human. This person would spread calamity in the form of robberies and a few assaults. Not much in the way of corruption, but enough to find themselves in Hell once they met their end.
Killing them simply wasn’t worth the time it would take to snap their fingers.
They continue on, the snow sizzling and melting under each step, leaving behind icy footprints as they make to exit the alley. The humans would remain ignorant to who they have witnessed, and will continue with their short flicker they call life or, at least, they would have, had the weapon holding human didn’t find it necessary to yell, “Look, here, lady—!”
With a snap of their fingers, lightning strikes from below, and the human is gone in a blast of dust that annihilated their body and soul.
Hell wouldn’t miss them.
Too frightened to speak, the other human stumbles to their feet, and runs away, their feet crunching in the snow as they don’t dare to look back. Beelzebub could care less about the fate of the human after that and continues on to their destination; a small restaurant across a busy motorway. They step into the street, and the coming traffic yields to them, the drivers rolling down their windows to yell and curse at Beelzebub, unknowingly putting themselves that much closer to death. Once they’re on the other side of the street, traffic resumes, and Beelzebub smirks with the knowledge that soon, one of those drivers would meet a terrible fate.
Cyrillic Beelzebub doesn’t care to read, marks the door as they push inside the restaurant to find a rather vacant establishment. It’s a cozy little place, with minimal lighting and a few space heaters offering a red glow and warmth to weary travelers. The owner has chosen dark reds all their poison of choice, and have used it liberally on the walls, and table coverings. Balalaika music plays softly overhead, and Beelzebub notes the restaurant is sparsely populated. Maybe it was the late hour, or perhaps the harsh weather kept humans at bay. Either way, Gabriel is easy to spot when he’s one of only three people occupying the establishment.
Gabriel sits alone, dressed in the same gray suit that seemed to be the accoutrement of Heaven. Beelzebub walks directly to the table and takes the empty seat, drawing Gabriel’s attention to them, only passively.
“You can’t sit there, I’m waiting for someone—“ Gabriel says dismissively.
“You’re waiting for me.”
Gabriel glances at them, up and down, and gives them a rather sardonic, “I don’t think so,” as if he knew Beelzebub better than they knew themselves.
Beelzebub sighs and rolls their eyes. There were plenty of demons who changed their appearance like Earth changed it’s weather, but Beelzebub does it, and is subjected to endless inquiries, “New face—“ they say exasperatedly, “—I had the old one for 6,000 years, I just thought it was time for a change.”
Angelically purple eyes narrow in distrust, searching Beelzebub’s face for a hint of deception, as if Beelzebub had reason to lie about their identity to their greatest enemy. The same nemesis they’d been face to face with a few weeks ago human time.
Ruddy angels always seem to think they know more than everyone else.
“I don’t know who you are,” he reiterates as if putting a period on their interaction.
Beelzebub rolls their eyes, “Come on, it’s me—Beelzebub. Lord of the Flies—“ Gabriel still gives them a dumb look and Beelzebub sighs again, “Watch,” they order, and conjure a fly to the end of their tongue, the sweet thing buzz anxiously until Beelzebub opens their mouth to allow it freedom, “There you go.”
Gabriel watches the fly as it zooms past him, then shakes his head, looking back at them, “Why did you wanna meet me here?”
Technically, Gabriel had chosen their meeting place. Beelzebub had simply sent a fly to the Supreme Archangel requesting a meeting for a background talk and Gabriel had initially responded that he was too busy with a miracle or two that could not wait; Beelzebub had sent four more flies before Gabriel agreed. Their only stipulation was that any meeting take place nowhere near Heaven or hell and Gabriel had sent Beelzebub an image of the restaurant in question to meet at. Angels could do no wrong, they supposed; at least, by Heavenly logic. “Well, if we’re gonna have background talks, they can’t be in either of our home territories.”
“And what do we need to discuss?”
Satan help them, Beelzebub could not stand interacting with angels.
What did they need to discuss?
Only the event that undoubtedly every angel and demon has been restlessly grousing about since it didn’t happen—
“Arma-bloody-geddon.”
Gabriel rolls his eyes, so visibly that Beelzebub half expects him to transport himself back to Heaven.
“That was a complete and utter pain in the ass,” they comment, resting back in their creaking chair, arms crossed over their chest.
Without missing a point, Gabriel levels them with a pointed look, and responds, “I know, but we are ready for round two,” as if he were going to rip the Heavens open in that moment and reveal an army of Angels ready to strike Beelzebub down where they sat.
“As are we,” Beelzebub retorts quickly, a master in the art of lying. Hell was in utter disarray. Most days they had a hard time keeping demons on task, and there was a heavier sense of malaise around the pits of Hell as of late. Nothing ever went smoothly in Hell, never had, but as of late, there were a higher number of misplaced souls and Dagon found himself up to his ears in re-judgements. If Beelzebub wasn’t already busy trying to oversee, basically everything else, they had no doubt Dagon would be throwing souls their way to ease his workload. At this point, Armageddon would be more hassle than it was worth. Regardless, they couldn’t let the Archangel detect even a hint of a lie, “Utterly ready—Armageddon, here we come—“
“Arma-bloody-geddon—“ Gabriel corrects with a tilt of his head, like a child learning a new word, “Arma-bloody-geddon—ah—“ he laughs and sticks out his tongue as if the curse left a bad taste in his mouth. It amused Beelzebub, by only the tiniest of a fraction. “Well, you lost—“
“So did you.”
“No we didn’t.”
“Well, you didn’t win,” Beelzebub points out with the passing thought that the verbal volley left another hint of enjoyment in its wake. A feeling they quickly throw away as to not dwell on it longer than absolutely necessary.
“Tell me about it—“ Gabriel says with another little chuckle and leans forward a bit, closer to Beelzebub, hand illustrating as they speak. Most beings that interacted with Beelzebub didn’t dare to move closer, they always took steps back, or leaned out of their space. Everyone feared them, except for a Supreme Archangel, it seemed. Like a hellhound receiving attention and a pat on the head, Gabriel continues, almost excitedly, “Everyone in Heaven is all like, “Well, you’re the commander-in-chief, can’t you just make the war happen anyway?” Like, I make the rules.”
Apparently, they had something in common.
Beelzebub scoffs and leans toward him, expecting a pull back that never comes and a pleasant sense of commanderie begins to bloom in their chest. Another emotion to put under lock and key, immediately, and focus only on the matter at hand, “That’s exactly what my lot said—“
Every day.
Every hour.
Every minute.
Beelzebub had to stop incinerating demons that questioned them. Dagon requested they stop destroying Hell’s foot soldiers or there’d be no demons left to fight any future wars. Now, they just resorted to casting those who pissed them off to the dung pits, or ripped off a limb or two; things that would grow back.
Gabriel rests back in his chair with a half smile in Beelzebub’s direction, “Well, it’s good to know there’s someone who understands. Thank you,” he says with a nod in their direction and it actually sounds earnest. He seems to realize he’s just offered a kind word to a demon and visibly clears their throat, even if the motion is not audible as he goes to stand up, “It’s a pity we’ll never speak again.”
Then, before Beelzebub can say another word, Gabriel is up, and walking away, with no fear of having his back to a Prince of Hell. Beelzebub watches him as he goes, until he is out the door, on the other side, in the snow. He glances up at the dust as if amused by it as he disappears in a glow of bright light.
They hadn’t actually had a discussion about Armageddon, future attempts at it, or any of the traitors’ actions. Apparently, what they both really needed was a lended ear to air their complaints. To know someone was experiencing the same hurdles as they were helped to quell their ire in a way that a change of face, or endless murders hadn’t.
“Hm—“
Strange.
***
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
1 YEAR LATER
Beelzebub was in the city this time, not to spread dread, or corruption, or filth but to see a situation for themselves. Whispered word was that Pestilence was spotted lurking around the fifth circle of Hell, and fast at work sending a gift to the humans. Not enough to end a world, but enough that, should it take hold, would have both Heaven and Hell up to their ears in new arrivals.
They were wandering around an area of the city called “Murray Hill” when the sound of trumpets entered their head and they couldn't help but cringe at the sound. Angels never did anything by halves, including simple summons to meet, it seemed. In the sound of those horns is Gabriel’s voice requesting a meeting with them, preferably now, all said in an impatient tone.
Beelzebub has half a mind to not respond, but the curiosity of the angel’s summon wins out and they look around their immediate area. There’s a bar—“Open Early”, the sign reads—that advertises human alcohols in the window and something called “billiards”. A fly appears as it’s summoned and Beelzebub lets it take in the location before sending it on its way to Gabriel. Humans pass by them, sidling into the bar, and Beelzebub follows them in.
The place is unobtrusive.
Music plays overhead, meant to set the atmosphere but not made to be obnoxiously audible. Its wall is papered with human currency. Several walls sport metal plates with numerals and names of states. Other round metal objects take up remaining space; Beelzebub believes they are meant to go on human vehicles. A few flies have found homes on glowing neon signs and buzz their approval of the warmth.
As Beelzebub traverses further into the bar, they see two humans, one man, one woman, circling a green table that holds a smattering of multicolored balls, long sticks in hands as they talk. The woman stops at one end of the table, lining her stick up against the white ball, striking it to smack against several of the others; they’re not sure what purpose it serves.
“Sit wherever!” A human woman behind the bar shouts to them as they pass two bottles of yellowish liquid to two other women who wander off to find seats in a corner.
The tables are raised, the stools high, and Beelzebub finds an empty table near two men who lay cards between them in a rapid pass, intermittently taking large drinks of their dark glass bottles. Beelzebub takes a seat, and looks at their nails just as the front door opens and a man stumbles into the annoyance of the bar keeper. A cursory look tells them the human, shabby in dress, will be one of Heaven’s despite their hardships. The bar keeper comes over to berate the man and Beelzebub finds their nails to be far more fascinating.
They hadn’t been on Earth in this corporal form since the last time they met Gabriel, and they were noticing now how dull their nails were. Pointed, yes, but not with the lethality of their demonic claws. Specks of black lay under the nail beds, leaving them with a sense of death that Beelzebub idly picks at as they sit there.
“I have a proposal to make,” Gabriel says as he finally makes his appearance. He takes the seat across from them without invitation, resting his elbow comfortably on the edge, “Instead of Armageddon, what about—no Armageddon?”
That’s unexpected enough to make them look up with a tilt of their head, “An interesting proposal—no Armageddon—they won’t like that though, most of my demons live for Armageddon, if you can call that living—“
Lately, most of the demon population had grown wise and knew better than to ask about any impending war. However, Beelzebub didn’t miss the looks thrown their way anytime they were in their office, or moving floor to floor to attend to judgements, or Asmosdeus’ latest complaint about being chained as punishment for the creation of reality television. Work had to be done, and Beelzebub, unfortunately, couldn’t lock themselves away from the inquisitive looks. Every demon of Hell was waiting for them to emerge and declare they were at war.
No Armageddon would certainly throw a wrench in their desires.
“Well, my angels too,” Gabriel says in interruption of Beelzebub’s thoughts, “—but you can't always get what you—“ his purple eyes dart left and right, as if he’s looking for the right words. Ironic for beings that knew every human language in existence, “—live for.”
Beelzebub nods in agreement at the statement.
If everyone got what they lived for then they’d be approving the daily requests they received for demons to traverse to Earth. Nevertheless, the sixty forms they received that morning for transfers to Las Vegas, Nevada were not the matter at hand.
“Advantages to no Armageddon?”
“We keep the status quo, static and—um—quo-ey?” Gabriel says with an upwards inflection on the last word, as if he weren’t sure if that’s what he wants to say, and Beelzebub can’t help their small chuckle.
Had the Supreme Archangel always been so endearingly simple minded?
From the grapevine—that officially speaking, didn’t exist—they’d heard that the herald of the Almighty was iron in his resolve and his judgements. Beelzebub had personally seen souls cast to Hell by Gabriel, all who cursed the name of the angel as if that would win them a seat in Heaven. All of that did not match up with the image of the man that set before them, unabashedly fumbling over the English language.
Admittedly, keeping the status quo wouldn’t be the worst thing. Demons would continue on spreading greed, fraud, lust, corruption while the Angels attempted to thwart as they always have. It’d worked for 6000 years, so what in the rules said it couldn’t work for another 6000 years, and maybe, then, they could revisit the idea of an Armageddon. Perhaps with a new Antichrist that would follow the plan to the letter.
Beelzebub looks left, then right, to ensure no wayward demon or angel lurks within the shadows, eavesdropping on their private conversation. They fold their arms across their chest, leaning forward ever so slightly, lowering their voice conspiratorially, and realizes, their next words would cross the line into fraternization, “No one can ever know, of course.”
“Of course,” Gabriel immediately agrees, an equal collaborator. “A deal?”
“Mm,” Beelzebub agrees with a small nod, sealing their fate as a traitor to Hell. With all that said between them, they expect Gabriel to take his leave; excuse himself as he did last time. Instead, he sits there, peers down at the small bowl of human confections—peanuts, they believed they were called—between them and then back up again, as if he wants to say something else but can’t find the words. “I like this song,” Beelzebub offers to fill the void of silence. They listen closer and find they do, actually, like the small melodic tune. Not too fast or slow, or overly composed; it’s simple, like they’re finding Gabriel to be.
“Song?” Gabriel asks with genuine confusion.
“The music that’s playing now.”
“What music?” Gabriel asks and looks around at the ceiling as if the music were, itself, a physical tangible object to be viewed.
“The noise.”
“That’s music?”
Beelzebub gives a genuine chuckle; their second that day.
How—
—funny—
—that there were likely several churches within the very city they sat that named themself after Gabriel. In those churches, they believed music was the way to be heard by the Heavens. Devotees sang their worship, praised in the form of angelic choirs, and yet, those they worshiped didn’t recognize music when they heard it.
Perhaps, angels needed to get out of the stark white void of Heaven more often.
“I like it—“ Beelzebub says, closing their eyes briefly to take in the lyrics. Every day seems a little longer. Going faster than a rollercoaster, despite Beelzebub not being sure exactly what a rollercoaster was, it was still nice, “—contains information in a tuneful way—every day something is getting closer—“
“Then—um—Then I also like it.”
Beelzebub doesn’t have a need to breathe. Yet, in that moment, something tight makes them huff a breath that makes their corporale form’s chest ache. As if their non-existent breath had been stolen from them. Their heart seems to begin to beat faster and they don’t know how to stop the emotions. Instead, they turn their focus to the music and bobs their head in time to the tune. They see Gabriel follow their motion, horribly off rhythm. Angels don’t dance, but he appears to be going along with it for Beelzebub.
Love like yours will surely come my way.
They exhale as Gabriel looks over at them and a smile pulls at their lips before they have time to reel in the reaction. There’s a heat like fire inside their face, and for once, they are confused by a horribly foreign emotion.
What are you doing to me, angel?
“So—agreement concluded?” Beelzebub asks. “No need to ever meet again, is there?”
Close the door.
Let them grasp the reins of the situation again.
Stop the fluttering in their stomach, that has nothing to do with flies.
“None whatsoever,” Gabriel agrees with the softest set to his eyes, focused on Beelzebub’s own.
There wasn’t much Beelzebub remembers from their time as an angel. What they do remember—will never forget, in fact—is the feeling of falling from the heights of the angelic. They remember standing at the edge of Heaven with Lucifer’s promises of freedom whispered in their ears. They remember opening their arms, closing their eyes and falling backwards, wings tucked around themselves. Most importantly they remember the pain of Heaven’s love stripped away from them like a second skin. Something untouchable they had been desperate to cling to even as their wings were painted black.
Perhaps it had been fear.
Maybe it had been exhilaration.
Either way, that indefinable feeling rushes over them like a crash of holy water set to burn them away to nothing.
All because of Gabriel.
Yes.
They need not meet again.
***
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
A YEAR LATER
They meet again.
There is no point to the meeting.
No conversation to be had.
Yet, Beelzebub finds time to sneak away out of Hell, despite the influx of new arrivals thanks to Pestilence's work on the surface and people’s seeming unwillingness to avoid a plague. They can only imagine that Gabriel is just as busy, and yet, he had requested their presence—in a graveyard at night, no less—and Beelzebub had accepted without question.
Beelzebub pushes all human complaints about their arrival to Hell aside, casts Demon Josh to the dung pits for talking unceasingly, and then, assured the coast is clear they head to the surface in a torrent of flames. Gabriel is already present, standing in the midst of a heavy fog, the smell of decay—undetectable to humans—and rot thick around them. Their own brimstone mingles with the other smells to create a concoction so similar to Hell they would have thought they were still there if not for the glowing purple eyes that peer down at them.
“I wanted to show you something,” Gabriel says in lieu of greeting, “Let there be light!”
A heavenly beam bursts forth from the sky to illuminate a statue of Gabriel and bells ring in the distant night. His marble self is long haired, draped in his white angelic robes, that he probably hasn’t worn in hundreds, if not thousands of years. One set of wings are folded against his back, a pale comparison to the real things, and nowhere near as soft. In his arms he carries a cross, nearly larger than his body, as if the item were the message he was set to deliver on behalf of the Almighty.
“I think the sculptor really caught something—the shape of the head—beautiful—really moving—“ Gabriel says with a motion of his hands as if tracing the curves of his own face, over his wings and down his own torso.
Beelzebub frowns at it, then, at him, from the corner of their eyes.
In their opinion, it didn’t do the actual angel any justice.
Regardless, they say, “It’s a very good likeness.”
Demons were talented liars.
Gabriel sighs in fond admiration of his own visage, “Sometimes I come here for hours and just—look at it.”
Beelzebub’s frown deepens as they glance up at Gabriel. They hadn’t realized that angels knew vanity, let alone be so brazen about it. Perhaps there was a tint of black in Gabriel’s wings.
“Right—shall we go to the pub?” Beelzebub suggests, preferring Gabriel’s attention on them and not himself.
They turn away to walk through the graveyard without giving Gabriel the chance to answer. The goal is the bundle of lights that marked the human settlement below. Gabriel must take several more moments to bask, annoyingly, in his own glory as Beelzebub is nearly out of the graveyard before he appears at their shoulder to match them step for step; their footfalls silent in the darkness.
Together, they walk in tandem, the silence comfortable between them as grass turns to concrete and cobblestone. Few humans linger on the streets in search of destinations to spend their evening. Several of them duck into the pub, others continue on past the celestial beings they do not acknowledge as they laugh amongst themselves. Another human walks by on a mobile phone, griping to the listener about how they were having trouble getting a flight out of the UK due to new restrictions.
Beelzebub watches them all, like their flies buzzing about, unaware how insignificant their lives truly were.
“Ah—“ Gabriel chimes and draws Beelzebub’s attention, “—this place looks lovely.”
Beelzebub looks to find them in front of the pub they’d just watched multiple humans move in and out of.
The Resurrectionist.
A man on the sign wears an apron, his hands around a blood coated cleaver.
“Provocative choice for a human drinking establishment.”
Gabriel smiles as he holds the door open for them. Beelzebub nods as they pass into the pub where quiet music plays, and candles glow from each empty table in the room. Art of varying things hangs from walls painted in yellow with no rhyme or reason. One picture depicts a forest, while another depicts a sea creature, and more than one are news documents. There’s two televisions as well, playing some program that Beelzebub can’t make sense of; humans enjoyed the strangest things.
A total of three humans occupy the space, and not one of them looks up as they walk inside, towards the unoccupied bar where an old barkeep stands, idly wiping things with a white rag. The balding gray haired human looks between them as if he’s suspicious and Beelzebub looks up to Gabriel, in silent question of how he plans to discourage that suspicion.
“Two goblets of your intoxicating liquor, please, and uh—“
That fond sensation takes hold again at how out of place the angel is and to emphasize that, Beelzebub turns to the barkeep with confidence and says, “Packet of crisps?”
The old man doesn’t spare them more than a passing glance as he places the plastic bag on the counter, more focused on Gabriel, his skepticism palpable, “Very good, sir,” he says, an eyebrow raised, “Which liquor would that be?”
Gabriel looks to Beelzebub and they look back. Their ignorance for all things human was still terribly amusing. Not that Beelzebub was much better, but they at least knew more than the Supreme Archangel and could tell a human the difference between a rum and gin; at least, they’re pretty sure they could.
“Whichever one it is you humans usually orally consume,” he says and looks to Beelzebub for confirmation that was the right route to go.
Silly angel , Beelzebub thinks, How else would they consume it?
Beelzebub gives him a small smile and wanders off to find them a table, which isn’t difficult. They find the darkest corner where a booth sits, built for more than two people and furnished in leather that makes a squelch noise when they sit. The packet of crisps finds its resting home on the table, and Beelzebub looks around further to find even more pictures surrounding them. Everywhere they look there’s more and more nonsensical art. Fate had a twisted sense of humor as the image to their immediate right appears to be a photo of a demon, winged and horned, staring menacingly down at the human in their clutches.
“Here you go,” Gabriel says as he sets the two glasses of dark brown liquor on the table, both filled to the brim and sharp in scent. Beelzebub leans forward to inspect it, not too keen on the idea of putting that in their body; they’re not entirely sure it won’t discorporate them. “You don’t actually have to consume.”
“Oh.”
“And the—“ Gabriel makes a motion to the crisps.
“Oh, the packet of crisps? Good,” Beelzebub nods before realizing something has changed. The music above has changed. It's a soft, melodic, familiar tinkling tune with lyrics they recognized immediately and their eyes darted to Gabriel, “Is that—did you—?”
— for me?
“A small miracle,” Gabriel whispers, illustrating the size with his fingers.
“Oh,” Beelzebub says through a fond sigh.
Gabriel had—
—for them—
—their heart was going to rip itself from their chest cavity, possibly do a tap dance or two, before running away from them and hop into Gabriel’s embrace.
“That song will always be there on that jukebox, to comfort the afflicted,” Gabriel explains, unaware of the turmoil going on beside him.
“Mm,” Beelzebub hums.
No one had ever gifted them anything in this manner before. There were plenty of demons that offered tithes in the way of viscera; a few guts here, a heart there, a half eaten brain perhaps. Plenty of others gifted them things in hopes of a reciprocation in the form of promotions, or weapons, or power.
No one had done something like this.
Something that was selfless, and just for Beelzebub with no underlying motive.
Gabriel had done something for Beelzebub.
To make Beelzebub happy.
Maybe angel purity was more real than they thought.
“I should give you something,” Beelzebub decides with a bump of their shoulder against Gabriel’s. They close their first to conjure a fly that comes to life with a buzz and a flutter. Careful of the creature, they place their hand on the table, palm up, to reveal him to Gabriel. The tiny being walks to the tip of Beelzebub’s finger to sit patiently for their next order. “Here, it’s for you—“ they say and Gabriel places his hand next to theirs, fingers brushing against each other to ignite a spark of desire; an emotion usually outside of Beelzebub’s purview. “It’s a container—so—it’s bigger on the inside,” they explain and are sure that Gabriel is rubbing his fingers against theirs as the fly marches carefully over to his index finger. The effort to move their hand away is solid, but slowly, they withdraw and elaborate, “You can put things in it.”
They reach for the match box in the middle of the table and dump out the contents to hold it out to Gabriel who allows the fly to fly into the interior.
“Bye-bye,” Beelzebub waves.
They’d never given one of their flies away before. They expect an immediate protest, but this fly seems to have an affinity for Gabriel. When he brings the box to his ear, Beelzebub hears the distinct contented hum that spoke volumes. The fly had just told Gabriel they would be there should he ever need it. He places the matchbox comfortably in a pocket inside his coat, and the fly calms immediately, resting happily against Gabriel’s chest.
“I—don’t actually know what to say,” Gabriel says in clear disbelief.
“Why not?”
“No one’s ever given me anything before.”
Oh.
Oh.
This was so much worse than falling.
It wasn’t lust or desire that Beelzebub feels in that moment but—
—oh no.
They know it shows on their face too as Gabriel stares into their eyes, unblinking. He doesn’t shy away from the dark coal that coats their eyes, or the demonic marks carved into their skin.
Gabriel doesn’t just look, he sees them and refuses to turn away.
“Ah—“ Gabriel says suddenly, a finger going to his temple as the glow of his eyes grows bright, “—it seems Michael is looking for me—“
“I understand,” Beelzebub says, “—there’ll be no need to meet again.”
“No, I suppose not,” Gabriel says and rises from the table, their drinks still full and untouched, “—say, in a month, human time—perhaps I will be around again—for another human beverage—“
“Perhaps I will be too—“
“Then, if we happen to meet again—“
Beelzebub shrugs with a small smile as Gabriel sighs, probably from the incessant call of Michael’s trumpets in his head. Gabriel gives them a half smile as they disappear in a beam of white light and Beelzebub ensures that none of the humans will remember seeing that display of angelic power.
***
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
THE NEXT MONTH
The moment Beelzebub steps into the pub, the song they’ve grown fond of begins to play, and they can’t help but smile to themselves as they walk towards the table in the back where Gabriel already waits. In front of the angel is a black and white board with little pieces set up on either side that he seems to be contemplating.
They slide into the booth next to him, but his attention does not move from the board.
“I saw some humans playing this game—“ he says in explanation, “—I think its meant to be a miniaturized version of the battle of Heaven and Hell—“
“Hm—does that make this tallest piece the Almighty and Satan?” They ask as they reach out to teeter the tallest piece under their finger.
“That was my thought—which would make the next tallest you and me, respectively—“
Beelzebub nods, “And these little pointed ones on either side? The Dukes of Hell and your Archangels?”
“Two pints of regular,” a human interrupts, setting down two full glasses beside them.
“Human—“ Gabriel says and Beelzebub casts an eye to the man, younger than the other bar keep that had been in residence during their last visit, “—what exactly is this game—?”
“Uh—chess?”
“Chess,” Gabriel says with an inordinate amount of excitement, “So fascinating—these humans—Chess—“
“Yeah,” the bar keep says with a puzzled look at Gabriel.
He lingers far longer than Beelzebub would like—possibly because they’re the man’s only customers—and they shoot him a glare that has his shrinking back. There’s a shiver of fear that run through humans when they’re around Beelzebub, and they can see it now as this man stumbles away, glancing over his shoulder as if trying to pinpoint the terror.
“Would you like to play?”
“Do you know how?” Beelzebub asks, because they, personally, don’t know the rules of the game.
“Well, I assume we send these little pieces into battle first, like the pawns that fall in the first waves. I protect the Almighty and you guard Satan, if either falls, the opposition loses—“ Gabriel explains, “—Naturally I’ll go first—“
Beelzebub scoffs, “Naturally—“ they move one of the black pawns forward a space, “—except, I’ve already gone—“
Gabriel’s eyes narrow and he becomes the Supreme Archangel he is, and moves two of his pieces forward a space, a move which Beelzebub mirrors immediately, eyebrow raised in challenge. Not wanting to be one-upped by Hell, he moves three forward, and uses one of the pawns to eliminate one of Beelzebub’s. Beelzebub’s returning barb is to eliminate three of Gabriel’s foot soldiers and advance three forward, closer to the piece that represents the Almighty.
“I see—“ he says under his breath and takes the castle piece in hand, using it to remove the rest of Beelzebub’s minions in a move they are not sure is legal.
“Is that how you truly wish to play?” Beelzebub asks, using the piece to represent Dagon, to remove the last of Gabriel’s own angels from the board, sweeping them away.
“Michael would not stand for such a blatant break in the rules of engagement,” Gabriel answers, moving his own pointing piece forward to take out the one Beelzebub had dubbed to be Dagon.
“Then—I have no choice—“ Beelzebub says and moves the piece that is themselves forward, across the open field to be placed right in front of the piece that represents Gabriel. “—I will—myself—have to conquer the Supreme Archangel Gabriel—“
Gabriel’s hand reaches over to place itself over their own, gripping it softly, “You already have.”
Beelzebub exhales, turning their hand in Gabriel’s, their grip palm to palm as the traitorous emotions pulsed through them; unceasing.
“—as have you—“ they say in a whisper, “—conquered Lord Beelzebub, Grand Duke of Hell.”
“I like this,” Gabriel says and lifts their joined hands, “Holding onto your hand—it’s warm—“
“It’s the hell fire.”
“I’d expect it to be cold.”
“Yours is cold, angel,” Beelzebub says with a squeeze to his hand. “—I like it.”
“I—“ Gabriel begins but the rest is cut off by the sound of thousands of flies buzzing in their head, transmitting a message from Dagon who apparently can’t handle things on his own for five damned minutes without Beelzebub. They place their fingers to their temple, and Gabriel reaches for their other hand, eyes on theirs as he tilts his head, “—are you being summoned away this time?”
Beelzebub nods, unable to speak until the flies depart, their message delivered and they hiss their annoyance. “I’m going to rip out every tongue within the seven pits of Hell!”
“No one ever tells you you’re doing a good job, do they?”
“What?!” Beelzebub snaps at Gabriel, their anger misplaced toward the angel, who, unsurprisingly, has a look that tells them Beelzebub could say anything at that moment and they’d forgive them.
“No one tells you you’re doing a good job. I can only imagine how hard you’re working lately, and they all demand things from you without a single accolade.”
“It’s Hell—“
“Then, allow me to say—you’re doing wonderful work, Beelzebub,” Gabriel says earnestly, lifting their hands to their lips to press a kiss to the knuckles. Beelzebub blinks as they watch him do it, their annoyance at their minions beginning to melt away. “Hah—I’ve seen humans do that before—now I see why—“
“Silly, silly, silly angel—I don’t understand you one bit—“
“Then, allow me to teach you more about me.
Beelzebub sighs endearingly at him, squeezing his hand again as the flies threaten to return with yet another summons from Dagon, “One month—human time—I’ll be here again—“
“Then, so will I.”
Reluctantly, Beelzebub releases Gabriel’s hand and offers his a smile in lieu of departing words as they allow the flames to rise up from Hell to engulf them and pull them back down; they’ll trust Gabriel to deal with the human should he have seen anything.
***
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
ANOTHER MONTH GONE
“I thought we could go for a walk,” Gabriel says when Beelzebub appears on the surface with a brush of the remaining brimstone from their shoulder.
“A walk?”
“Yes—with no destination in mind—apparently it’s something humans do—well—I do have a destination in mind—“
Beelzebub tilts their head, “Find another statue of yourself?”
Gabriel chuckles, “No, actually, but if you’d like to go view my statue, we can do that.”
“I’d prefer the walk.”
“Wonderful,” Gabriel says and takes ahold of their hand into his own. “I’m going to hold your hand.”
“That’s fine.”
Gabriel looks at them, his eyes searching, glowing briefly as he examines them and Beelzebub wants to tell him to stop it, but they’re trying their hardest not to snap at him when they’re annoyed. It’s so easy to be bothered by every angel in existence, except for Gabriel and they didn’t want to scare him away by being—them—
“Something’s wrong.”
“Is it?”
“Your responses are clipped. You haven’t smiled once since you arrived and you look like you’d prefer nothing better than to set me on fire.”
“Must I always smile?”
“No,” Gabriel says with a shake of his head, “But I like it when you do.”
Beelzebub sighs in their irritation because Gabriel has a distinct gift about him. One that made Beelzebub feel apologetic for taking their agitation out on him when it wasn’t his fault.
“Come here,” Gabriel says and leads them over to a metal bench, bringing them down to sit beside him, still keeping a hold on their hand, “You can talk to me, if you would like, or, we can sit here in silence and you can curse every human that walks by.”
As if on cue, a human walks by, a hacking cough on their lips that has several other humans turning to glare or rapidly cross the street to avoid them, “I think they’ve cursed themselves enough.”
Gabriel nods, and then, he sits there, and waits.
Wait for Beelzebub to speak.
To leave.
To do nothing but sit there.
They know that whatever they choose to do, Gabriel will go along with it.
Their body makes the decision for them, and collapses against his shoulder. Where they rest, they can hear his heart, beating just a bit faster in his chest, an irregular beat that soothes Beelzebub as they listen. “I’ve hardly had a moment to myself as of late. Every second Dagon is summoning me to assist them with new arrivals because we don’t have enough demons to work in the records. Human souls are so backed up we have near a million souls resting in Limbo. More than a handful of demons have put in for transfers to punishments, and just as many are requesting to be moved to temptations to avoid judgements—on top of that your lot are sending us even more souls that have been misplaced, and I’m down in judgements constantly lately—It makes me want to burn everything to ash, miracle it back to its natural form and then burn it again—“
“Please don’t burn me when I ask—did Hell have anything to do with the recent illness?”
“Hm—“ they scoff, “—Pestilence has been at play, but they haven’t returned to Earth as far as I know. The last time they were here they took the form of Pollution, but as far as I know, they have said this isn’t worth their personal time.”
“Remember the days of the Black Death?”
Beelzebub groans and burrows deeper into Gabriel’s shoulder. They feel his arms wrap around their shoulders, keeping them close, and their own heart begins to beat with affection as opposed to murder. “I feel like we had so many more reliable demons back then—I know I like to kill them for sport, but I didn’t think I’d destroyed that many—“
Gabriel hums, a feeling that rumbles through Beelzebub as they shift. They feel Gabriel rest his chin on their head, their bowler hat seemingly miracled away and then, they hear, softly, “Every day, it’s a-getting closer. Going faster than a roller coaster. Love like yours will surely come my way. A-hey. A-hey—“
Beelzebub feels a bewildering moisture form in their eyes as their arms move of their own accord to wrap around Gabriel’s middle.
“—everyday seems a little longer. Every way, love’s a little stronger. Come what may. Do you ever long for true love from me—“
Their arms squeeze him tighter as their eyes close, and allow themselves to be soothed by Gabriel’s singing of their song. They allow it to rush over them like cool water to extinguish the flames of rage that had so consumed them. If the angel were to never let them go, they would be perfectly content in that eternity. “Love like yours will surely come my way—“ Beelzebub finishes the song with him, still, practically clinging to him.
“I’ll see what I can do in Heaven to ease your workload—“
“—don’t raise any alarms—any hint of collaboration and they’ll mark you a traitor.”
“I—I dont think I’d care if they did—“
***
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
YET ANOTHER MONTH GONE
“We’re quite a ways from the pub,” Gabriel says when he appears next to Beelzebub in a glow of light.
Beelzebub nods, and holds out their hand to him, which he immediately takes, holding it in his grasp; once again, Beelzebub’s heart threatens to claw its way out of their chest; brutally and painfully, in a good way. “We didn’t take that walk last time—“
“No, I suppose we didn’t.”
“So—I’m making it up to you—“ they say and begin to walk, expecting Gabriel to keep up with them, which he does, without question, as he refuses to let go of their hand. They truly have no destination in mind, besides the pub, but they don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Despite the stresses of Hell, they were still finding time to sneak away, meet Gabriel and just—be appreciated—if only for a few hours. So they were happy to wander aimlessly as long as Gabriel was beside them.
“Would you like to see what I had planned last time?”
“Lead the way.”
Gabriel turns them to cross the street where the traffic immediately stops, horns honking at them as they pass by. He leads with clear purpose through the streets of Scotland, more humans than last month out on the streets, walking, jogging, carting children in prams. Sickness still hangs in the air, but little by little, the humans become braver, willing to risk it to step outdoors into the beaming bright sun that warms the day. Beelzebub sees a man on his mobile pass by them as he discusses a party for that evening, and they can see that they’ll be afflicted soon.
“It won’t end his life,” Gabriel says, eyes straight ahead as he continues to walk, “I do want to apologize to you.”
“An angel? Apologizing to a demon? Perhaps Armageddon is upon us.”
Gabriel chuckles, “We’re still ready.”
“As are we—always—“
Gabriel smiles down at them, his hand squeezing theirs, “I had to demote Sandalphon, he was—unfortunately—moving records to Hell the moment they arrived in Heaven to circumvent our backlog at the Gates.”
“Well—thank you for the effort—but between the wars, the sickness, the average human lifespan, accidents, everyday murders—I fear the backlogs in Hell may never end—“
“Did you, a demon, just thank me, an angel? Perhaps Armageddon truly is upon us.”
“Shut up,” Beelzebub laughs with a shove of their shoulder into him and Gabriel bumps them back.
“This way,” he says, and turns them again, this time down a side street with trees on either side of the road. Beelzebub follows without question, down the path where the scent of oak, and pine grows stronger by the step. Birds chirp, and flies buzz with the bees that zoom from flower to flower. On and on they walk until they reach a front gate that announces the location as a botanical garden, “I’ve brought you to Eden.”
“Eden?”
“Well, with marginally more humans—far less foliage—no animals to speak of—and Eden didn’t have the walking paths but the spirit is the same, I suppose—“ Gabriel says as he leads them towards the entrance. “Did you ever visit?”
Beelzebub shakes their head, “No demon was to set foot in Eden, except for one, sent to tempt Eve—we chose Demon Crowley, as you recall—“
“Ah, yes, the apple,” Gabriel nods as they walk inside the edifice built as an altar to human consumerism. Beelzebub thinks it’s quite brilliant, actually. Lure humans in with a free walk around a garden, while first luring them with potentially overpriced meals, and merchandise to spend the little money they had. All lined up in perfect position to be passed by on the way out to the actual gardens. “Do you remember it—?”
“Hm?” Beelzebub hums, as they continue through the hollow building, their footsteps silent, despite the echoes of human voices and footfalls around them. Together they move towards the sliding glass doors at the end of the room, trees and bushes visible beyond them, and together they step into the garden, hand in hand, angel and demon. The paths are bricked, the foliage plentiful, surrounding them in plants, trees and flowers all with their own distinct scents, mixing into a cocktail of smells that was much favorable to the rot of Hell.
“Being an angel? Do you remember it?”
No one had asked before if they remembered their existence as an angel.
Then again, it wasn’t entirely relevant.
They had been fallen far longer than they’d been an angel; at least, from what they could remember.
“Yes—“ Beelzebub answers honestly, “—and also, no—but that was the point of being stripped of God’s love—I remember Lucifer’s speech, the one that started the rebellion, and I remember willingly falling from grace—but I don’t remember my angelic name—or my full role in the creation—I get vague flashes, if I try, but—I don’t often think about it—no reason too—“
When Beelzebub looks to Gabriel, to see how he receives this answer, the angel is staring straight ahead, his eyes distant, contemplative, not focusing on the foliage that surrounds them as they continue to walk, or even looking at Beelzebub themselves.
“Do you regret it?—Falling—“
A bird flies from one tree to the next, followed closely by a companion, the two of them chasing each other in a choreographed dance.
“You’re asking dangerous questions, angel.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
Beelzebub keeps their silence for as long as it takes to move their hand, changing the position to thread their fingers through Gabriel’s in a more intimate caress, “No.”
“Do you ever think existence isn’t waiting for the next fight but—finding something that’s more important than choosing sides?”
“Such things would make me a traitor.”
Gabriel looks down at them then, his hand squeezing theirs even tighter, “Would that be such a bad thing?”
There’s no hesitation when they answer, “No.”
Not for you, angel.
***
EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
YET ANOTHER MONTH LATER
The next time they get a chance to visit, things have gotten better for the humans in terms of the plague, but worse, overall, in terms of Beelzebub’s demeanor. Hell is behind on spreading temptations due to the soul backlog. Lately, they’re having to rely heavily on humans to be human and make their own poor choices; which they will, but their souls won’t be fermented enough to become low-level demonic minions.
When Beelzebub enters the pub, Gabriel is already there, against the bar in the crowded space of humans dressed in bright colors. They each knock back bottles of liquor, their eyes trained on the televisions to some kind of sporting event. Humans on the screen kick about a black and white ball on grass, chasing each other in circles while the humans in the pub shout instructions to them. Beelzebub doesn’t know much about human sports, nor do they profess to, but they’ve seen the riots that occur due to them.
“You see this?” Gabriel asks, motioning to the television, “Strange thing—humans just chasing an object—what is the point?”
Beelzebub shrugs and the humans cheer as the ball goes flying into a net. “I hear through a grapevine—that doesn’t exist—that your fellow Archangels are planning a new Armageddon.”
“Yes—Michael’s scriveners like to talk about these matters openly—but that's not the plan I’m particularly worried about—I can simply veto Michael’s plans—our agreement for no Arma-bloody-geddon, still stands—“
Beelzebub blinks up at him, “There are plans you can’t veto.”
“There is one—but—“ he blinks several times, his eyes glowing as he attempts to pull at something in his head. “—I—it’s like there’s a block—as if I’m not to know the details until the moment is upon us.”
“The Almighty hiding details of their ineffable planning from their personal voice? Shocking.”
“Isn’t it? What could be so important that I can’t know the details?”
Beelzebub chuckles, “Dearest, that was sarcasm.”
“Ah—noted—“ he says.
Another round of shouts fills the space around them, this time to the negative, and several indiscernible comments about a “ref” not knowing how to do their job properly. Gabriel, as if in retaliation, waves his hand in the direction of the jukebox and their song begins to play, louder than the crowds, most of whom turn to the box in annoyance as if the music was interrupting their fun. When really, their raucous behavior was ruining Beelzebub’s one saving grace a month. One of them even has the audacity to unplug the jukebox only for the song to keep playing.
This was for them and Gabriel, not the humans.
Gabriel nudges his shoulder against theirs and Beelzebub smiles up at him. Then, they have a sudden thought. There was one event—something they were told about around the virgin birth—that Satan, himself, had told Beelzebub was an inevitability. An event, that should all else fail, could not be stopped.
“Gabriel—“ they begin, “Could this be about the—“
They’re interrupted by a sharp shove from behind that propels them forward into Gabriel, who instinctively reaches out to catch them.
A drunkard turns, his breath heavy with alcohol, a bottle in his hand sloshy as he says, “Watch yerself, wee lass—“ before his friends grab his attention and they resume shouting at the television.
Beelzebub glares, and before they can do anything particularly Hellish, Gabriel guides them away from the bar, toward a back wall where there’s a bit more breathing room. Being away from the humans—even a minuit distance—helps to curb the desire to smite them all.
“They’re just being humans—“ Gabriel says as his hands move to their waist, staying there, with no clear intention of letting go.
With one last look in the human’s direction, Beelzebub sighs, and turns their attention fully to Gabriel. They loop their arms around his neck, and step closer to his chest and begin to sway back and forth, allowing their song to calm the beast within.
“What are we doing?”
“I forgot—“ Beelzebub says with a teasing smirk, “—angels don’t dance.”
“Is this dancing?”
“In a sense,” Beelzebub confirms and steps even closer, their chest to Gabriel’s as they continue to sway, side to side. Gabriel’s arms go a bit firmly around their waist, and he follows their lead in the same rocking motion as their song plays on repeat.
“Could this be about—“ Gabriel says.
“Hm?”
“Before we were interrupted, you said, “Could this be about—“—?”
“Ah—“ the hum and glance over their shoulder to make sure they’re not overheard, “The Second Coming.”
Gabriel raises a brow, “So soon?”
“Armageddon didn’t work out as planned so—“
“So—plan an event no singular angel or demon could stop—“ Gabriel finishes. “That could explain the meeting I had with the Metatron, the block on my mind—not meant to know the details yet—and if I ask, they’ll likely cast me to Hell—“
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Beelzebub asks their tone laced with a twinge of hope. They could honestly say they wouldn’t be horribly opposed to Gabriel joining them in Hell.
“I think—I’d go willingly knowing whose waiting for me—“
Beelzebub looks up at him sharply, eyes wide in disbelief as Gabriel looks back at them, “You—you would fall—for me?”
“I’d jump for you.”
The breath that comes out is shuddering and harsh.
The wetness at the edge of their eyes is heavy, salted, tanged with their own disbelief as this time, Beelzebub is sure their chest will explode. Their eyes lock to Gabriel’s purple, then glance down at his lips, and back again as they lean ever so closer, up to their tiptoes to whisper, “Can I tempt you?”
“Anytime you’d like,” Gabriel answers.
While he doesn’t seem to immediately understand Beelzebub’s intent, he does appear to trust them enough to stay still as they press forward, their lips against his in a soft first kiss. It lasts for less than a beat of a heart, and when Beelzebub pulls back, it’s to see Gabriel’s eyes, wide, and open, staring back at them.
His hand moves from around their waist to come up and caress their cheek, and Beelzebub falls into the touch as Gabriel leans back down towards their lips to ask, “May I taste temptation again?”
Beelzebub smiles and says against his lips, “Anytime you’d like.”
***
HELL
ONE MONTH LATER
Beelzebub was on a tear.
Which, to their demon underlings, probably isn’t much different than their usual temperament, but this time, it was worse.
Worse because Gabriel hadn’t shown up.
They’d sat in that pub—The Resurrectionist—for hours, listening to their song that played because Beelzebub was there, but Gabriel was not and the Supreme Archangel didn’t have the decency to send a trumpet message. If he didn’t want to meet, he could have very well had the decency to say something instead of making Beelzebub, Grand Duke of Hell, look like a fool in front of humans, no less.
“Lord Beelzebub! You’re back!” Demon Josh says as a greeting as the tottering demon hurries to catch up with them, just as Beelzebub burns another few pawns under their fist, the tiny demons screaming in death. They can see Demon Josh cringe, and that at least tells them the underling knows not to waste their time, “—just came to give my status reports, like you asked—“
“Get on then!” Beelzebub snaps as they stop through the corridors of Hell and Demon Josh hurries to keep pace.
“We’re still seeing a back-up in arrivals, judgements and records—of course—we’ve had worse—remember the Spanish Influenza? Oh! Smallpox! That was a nasty job on Pestilence’s part—remember those days?”
Beelzebub glares and grabs the nearest demon by the coat and tosses them to the dung pits.
“Of course you remember this days,” Demon Josh chuckles, “Uh—right—um—I also have been receiving appointment requests from Shax to deliver status reports—“
Beelzebub rolls their eyes, and is met with the longing for Crowley to be Earth’s Representative again. Traitor as he was, Crowley had no aspirations in Hell, and they were lucky to get a report every ten years, and hardly ever in person. Shax, however, wanted to grovel at their feet anytime the opportunity presented itself; Beelzebub was already tired of her.
“—OH!—“ Demon Josh exclaims, turning over the pages of his clipboard, “—big news down the grapevine earlier today—apparently something is up in the up—gossip, possibly—you know how these things can be—it’s either true or false, and most of the time it’s false—remember the whole Sodom and Gomorrah business—?”
Beelzebub stops their movement and Demon Josh, not realizing how close to death he truly is, bumps into their back. They spin around to grab the larger demon by the throat, squeezing until the creature turns from gray to ashen, and slowly to black. Their claws dig into his throat as they lift him from the ground, his clipboard clattering to the floor, “What. Is. Going. On. In. Heaven.”
“L-Lord Be-Beelzebub—can’t—“
“If you want to keep your tongue, the next words out of your mouth better be useful to me.”
Demon Josh drops to the ground. Every demon in the immediate vicinity has the good sense to clear out as Demon Josh clutches his throat as he sputters, “Supreme Archangel Gabriel—“
Beelzebub kneels to their level, flies angrily buzzing about their head, as they hiss, “What about Supreme Archangel Gabriel?
“—they—they are saying the Archangels had planned to re-start the Armageddon—restart the war—but the Supreme Archangel said no—and the word is Heaven isn’t happy with him—“
“Are they casting him to Hell?”
“I don’t know,” Demon Josh whimpers and Beelzebub grabs him by the throat again and shoves him back against the wall, “I really don’t know, Lord Beelzebub! I swear on Satan! There’s rumors of a trial, but I don’t know—I don’t—“
“The minute—the second— you hear anything, you report it to me, yes?”
“Of course, Lord Beelzebub—“ Demon Josh nods, and the moment Beelzebub releases him he’s scurrying away on all fours to be away before Beelzebub can do any of the mutilations that have come to their mind.
They rise from their kneel and begin to make their way back to their quarters when they’re stopped by the sound of trumpets within their own head.
Gabriel.
The message is simple, and clear, “I’m coming to you.”