Chapter Text
"—apologize, I'm almost done." The words are already waiting before he's even fully opened the door.
Simeon closes it carefully behind him, the latch silent at his urging. "No need. I'm afraid I'm the one who's early."
Barbatos doesn't look up, focus intense. "There's a pot of tea on the table behind you. I'm terribly sorry, but you're going to have to pour it for yourself."
"A shocking inconvenience," Simeon says, and is rewarded with the slow and subtle spread of something not quite a grin. He turns and flips a teacup in black ceramic, lowers the spout carefully towards the centre. A steady stream of something pale blue and bright pours out, little petals of white swirling in the cloudy liquid. A shock of day wrapped in night.
He doesn't pick up the curlicued handle.
Instead he walks around the tall table that Barbatos is huddled over, a large text spread open on the surface. Draws the empty cup towards him and fills it. There's a sudden oppressive stillness as the steward freezes, fingers pausing in their complicated motions. Simeon waits patiently for a reprimand but . . . "Thank you."
"It's no trouble."
They settle into silence as Simeon replaces the pot, picks up his cup and takes that first sip. It tastes like cold air and morning dew and something almost minty. He closes his eyes.
"Is it to your liking?"
"You've never made something I disliked," Simeon says mildly. It's a truly remarkable statistic: one hundred percent satisfaction. He wonders if it's a power or the astute observation afforded by centuries catering to everyone else's needs. He wonders if he's ever had anyone looking after him.
He cradles the porcelain in one gloved hand, black on black. The liquid doesn't waver as he wanders over, peering at the dense words beneath the butler's hands. They're fairytales. Simeon watches as Barbatos weaves a complicated binding spell into his text.
“What is that for?”
“My Lord has asked me to help him arrange a scavenger hunt,” he replies, as though this is answer enough. Simeon watches for a moment, considering. It is.
"That sounds like fun."
"My Lord is full of amusing ideas," Barbatos says. "Although if you're interested, I'll tell him that you'd like to participate."
"That's alright." Simeon takes another sip. "I fear the brothers would have me at a disadvantage. The Prince's games always seem very personal."
"Perhaps I can help him tailor it to better suit you."
Simeon pauses, leaning against the edge where Barbatos is working. His white-gloved fingers still haven't stopped moving, tracing magic circles in the air above the dense tome. "Do you think you know me well enough?"
There's a teal glow, magic seeping into the pages, flowing over sentences before they settle. The butler presses his palms to the paper, once, very gently. Then flips the cover closed.
"I could."
"Oh?"
Barbatos reaches for his teacup. "Would you be willing to fill out a survey?"
"If I said yes, would you actually have one on hand?"
A long, slow sip. "If I did, would you be surprised?"
Simeon watches him carefully, drinking serenely from his cup. He can't decide. There is still so much of him that he doesn't know.
It is cooler in here than almost anywhere else in the Devildom that he has yet been. He can feel it in the air; thinner, sharper. Almost like home.
Simeon keeps his hands behind his back as he walks, consciously not reaching out towards the overflowing barrels of produce lined along the pathways. Large green leaves, trailing vines heavy with fruit, everything coloured in bright jewel tones and shifting in the light.
It's his turn to buy the groceries for Purgatory Hall. Luke usually takes on this chore, since it gives him an opportunity to pick out exciting new ingredients for his increasingly inventive recipes, but he's fallen behind on some of his schoolwork. Solomon had offered to hold a study session for the young angel, so far ahead in his classwork Simeon suspects he's already finished the workload for the entirety of the school year.
He has a list in one hand. A trailing length of parchment; Michael's preferred stationery. Even here Luke caters too much to the higher angel's whims. (He'd attempted to send it to him over text, but Simeon had accidentally deleted several messages too many times for Luke to feel entirely confident about the efficiency of the trip).
Unfortunately, Simeon still hasn't spent any significant amount of time learning about agriculture in the Devildom. He is easily distracted; too much vying for his attention and with only limited opportunity. They're here, they're here, he's is here. He will not miss this chance.
This means, of course, that he can only identify roughly twenty percent of the items he's been tasked with purchasing.
"It's wonderful to see you back here, Barbatos."
He looks up from Luke's cramped handwriting. (His hands are small and his letters even smaller). The butler is standing in front of a vendor's stall, looking down at the wares with an uncommonly focused expression. "You know I think you have the finest quality of devilberries at the market. Do you mean to tell me you haven't set aside a box for the castle?"
"It'll be sent out at closing. Would you like to inspect them?"
"Thank you, but there's no need. You've never given me a bad batch." Barbatos reaches down, plucks something round and bright yellow with petals unfurling from the stem. He speaks without looking up. "Simeon, are you here on your errands as well?"
"I am." Simeon pauses, considering. The butler appears busy; he wouldn't want to impose.
"Would you like to join me?"
Obvious. Simeon has never felt like this before. All that time spent marshalling his expressions, his thoughts, every potential tell. He can't be so easy to read as this demon makes him feel.
"You wouldn't mind?"
"I wouldn't ask otherwise." He turns, then, and the smile that he levels at the angel is shockingly genuine. Simeon stills, arrested by the expression, and it occurs to him in a startling flash that perhaps he is not the only one seeking company.
"Then, please." He falls in beside the man, white gloves still gently caressing a selection of the yellow produce. "I have to confess, I'm going to need some help. I don't really know the names of most of the things on display."
"I see." Barbatos pauses, passing a handful of what Simeon assumes are vegetables over to the vendor. "And what were you going to do if I hadn't invited you along?"
"I would have asked the vendors, probably. I'm sure I would have managed."
"That might have taken you a while," Barbatos says. He holds out one pristine glove, and Simeon pauses for a moment before he realizes what he wants. Barbatos peruses the list with an overly-serious manner. When his head lifts, he does not look impressed. "This is a very long list."
"I didn't say I would have managed it quickly."
It's a laugh, the noise that follows. No subtlety in the sound — real and just slightly louder than his normal speaking volume. A warm satisfaction melts through Simeon, dripping along his shoulders, over his chest. He's never heard it from him before.
"You would have been here long after closing," Barbatos manages, looking amused. "If you'll follow me, I can help you get this done before most of the morning has passed."
"What about your shopping?" Simeon asks. Aside from his list, Barbatos is not holding anything in either hand.
"I have standing orders to be delivered to the castle. Aside from checking on the status of those, I mainly come to explore new ingredients, and speak with the vendors."
"I see." He takes his scrolling parchment back, loosely unfurled in one hand. "In that case, please. I have no idea where I'm going."
Barbatos makes a little moue that Simeon recognizes as teasing. "But you were disguising it so well."
The demon sets an easy pace. Slower than he'd expected for someone so busy, almost deceptively at leisure if it weren't for the rigid posture of his spine. Simeon follows, the diminished length of his steps surprisingly familiar.
They're keeping pace with an angel that isn't even there.
"I can keep up with your strides a little better than Luke, you know."
Barbatos blinks at him. "Of course. I apologize, I suppose I've gotten used to metering my pace to fit his."
"That's very kind of you," Simeon says. It slips out; his voice embarrassingly heavy with approval and affection.
Barbatos is silent for a moment. ". . . I enjoy having him around. He's a very eager student." He isn't walking any faster.
Simeon hums, something tuneless and sweet. "He respects you a great deal, you know."
"I may have suspected. He's called me 'master' to my face at least twice, although I think it was a slip of the tongue."
"He meant it. Even if he didn't necessarily say it straight to you." He can probably guess at the instances. Luke has returned to Purgatory Hall incredibly flustered at least twice, and had rebuffed all Simeon's concerned prodding. He'd assumed it had been a difficult lesson but now. . .
"He did get very red. And he refused to look at me for the rest of our baking session." Barbatos pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. "It was . . . cute. Ah. Here we are."
They've stopped in front of a stall piled high with dark black gourds, shiny as polished glass. "I believe you require only three of the Maelgourds?"
Simeon holds the list up, scanning attentively. "Yes, that's exactly right." Luke's careful print is so familiar to him now — something so intimate from an angel he once barely knew in passing. "I'm glad Luke is adjusting well. I was worried about him. But it looks like he's managed to let go of his trouble with the demons." His voice is careful, without inflection.
At least one of them should walk away from this experience satisfied.
Barbatos takes the tote bag deliberately from where it's threaded over Simeon's arm. The canvas catches at his gloves, threatening the edge, and Barbatos lifts it overly high to prevent this sudden exposure. "My Lord has always been interested in the culture of the human realm."
"Oh," Simeon says, startled from his spiraling thoughts. "Is that so?"
"Yes. He used to incorporate things he learned from the humans into games with the brothers."
Simeon doesn't know what response is expected of him. The Prince's games. All this time with his former brothers that he's never had. There's a strang, uncomfortable irritation: like water, just at the beginning of a boil. It sits low in his chest, a sensation that he doesn't think he's experienced before. It takes him a moment to place; he's only been familiar with the theory, after all.
He's jealous.
"The games were much more tame to start. My Lord was still learning, but he adapts so quickly."
"I can only imagine how well Lucifer took to them," Simeon says. He doesn't have to close his eyes to conjure the look of consternation on the Morning Star's face. Fleeting glances that he still remembers, delivered behind the broad expanse of Michael's wings.
There's a twitch at the corner of the butler's mouth. Like he was about to allow another rare laugh. "There was a small period of adjustment."
Simeon hums, reaches out to caress the soft flesh of the nearest fruit. The skin blooms under his touch; luminescent. Like a still-living thing. "And has he adjusted?"
There's silence for a moment. He can sense the way Barbatos must be weighing his words, and he's reminded of that very first private tea, of the absurd intimacy of his questions then. He wonders if enough has changed to be afforded the privilege of honesty.
"I would like to believe he enjoys them more than he lets on," Barbatos says slowly. Carefully, like he's only voicing the thought long after it occurs, conscientious of each meaning. "He's a very serious demon. It's my hope that these games offer a brief reprieve."
"So he complains about them," Simeon says, as the steward slows in front of another stall. White gloves point at a selection of produce hanging on a sharply spiked vine, and the vendor nods and wordlessly unhooks it with limbs too sinuous to be confused as Hominidae.
"Of course not." Simeon stares at his companion, impassive, and Barbatos actually chuckles and amends, "Not directly to my Lord, at any rate."
He speaks almost fondly. Simeon accepts the wrapped package from the vendor with a distracted smile. He wants to ask him . . . The questions sits heavy on his tongue, a pill he can't quite swallow. There is a whole history in the air here that he has no knowledge of, an atmosphere too heavy for flight; dense with secrets and time.
Perhaps that's why every breath still tastes too thick.
Are you two friends?
If Barbatos has noticed the ugly emotions that he's desperately entombing, he doesn't show it. Instead white satin lands against black as he guides him by the arm. A firm touch, surprisingly cool. Their heat carefully separated by insulated layers, all contact a shade removed.
For a startling moment, Simeon doesn't remember why he's wearing gloves.
"Luke asked for these?" Barbatos is looking down at the grocery list, leaning too far into Simeon's space to read the tiny writing. "The rest of your items are for a recipe I told him I'd teach him next week. He doesn't mean to practice ahead of time, does he?"
"Maybe he's hoping to impress you," Simeon says, amused. How like the younger angel; so precocious.
"These are difficult things to find, even here. Please, stay close. The spice vendors tend to group in very closely together and it can be a . . . challenge, to navigate the pathways they mark out with their stalls."
"Thank you for your help." Simeon takes the bag back from the butler. The demon returns to his roles too easily, already having carried its increasing load for nearly the entirety of their trip. "I hope I'm not disrupting your own chores too much."
"You caught me at the end of them," Barbatos says easily. Simeon still can't discern a lie from that implacable expression.
He'll have to take him at his word.
"What was your favourite, then?"
Barbatos looks back, not faltering in his steps even as the paths grow more narrow, the spaces between stalls shrinking to accommodate barely a single visitor. Everything is dimmer here, the close press of wood and produce blocking out the light. "My favourite?"
"Of Lord Diavolo's games," Simeon clarifies. The trailing edge of his cape catches on a thorny vine, and when he turns to dislodge it the spores that brush off on the hem fluoresce in bright teal. The same colour as—
“My Lord had the brilliant idea to hold a fancy dress party." Barbatos is facing forwards again, wending his way over a multitude of various pitfalls without so much as a glance. Practiced. Elegant. "He assigned costumes to each of the brothers. I believe Lucifer was a human superhero. In full tights and cape.”
Simeon is startled by a chuckle, organic and fully unexpected. "Do you happen to have any pictures?"
"Of course. Although if you'd like to see them, I'll have to ask that you keep them to yourself. Lucifer would never forgive such a breach of trust."
"I promise," Simeon says, perhaps too eager. He pauses, settles his mind and tries to call stillness back to himself. How desperate, to be chasing any morsel. Is this what he's reduced to?
But he doesn't take it back.
"What made that your favourite?"
Barbatos stops so abruptly that if Simeon were any less alert he might have fallen into him. As it is he barely manages to catch himself a hair's breadth from the butler's side. This close to anyone else Simeon would be able to feel their heat, lifting towards him. Instead there is only the strange absence of it, enclosed within an immaculately pressed suit.
"It might have been the only time Lucifer said he'd enjoyed himself."
The angel pauses, considering. "Is that something you actively work towards?"
"It's always nice to know your efforts are appreciated." Simeon thinks, if Barbatos were someone else, this is where he might have shrugged. As it is he only bends at the waist, back straight, as he reaches into a dark pouch hanging from a wooden beam. The fingers of his gloves come away bright blue.
"It's a bit dimmer than usual, but it should work for the recipe Luke has in mind." Barbatos rubs his fingers together and the stain disappears. "Don't let Solomon anywhere near it; it's incredibly volatile."
"Dangerous?" He asks, alarmed. "Should I be letting Luke use this unsupervised?"
"No, nothing like that. But it's a strong taste. A little goes a long way and Solomon has a tendency to . . . improvise."
"Ah." An awfully diplomatic way to frame it. "Even Beel couldn't finish his meal."
Barbatos smiles at him with a kind of terrible mirth. "He hasn't tried to cook for you, has he?"
"Unfortunately . . ."
He looks on the verge of another laugh. "I'm surprised you've survived for as long as you have."
"Lucifer always said I was alike Beel in that regard. A startling constitution." Even now his mind keeps circling back — a compass always returning north. He's in an awfully wistful mood today.
"Did he?" The butler's voice has gone subdued. He stills, hands clasping behind his back, and Simeon is lost for a moment, before he remembers what they've come to do. The grimm he finally offers to the vendor is thick and heavy, surface tarnished by dirt or rust or the oils of a million other hands.
"Is there anything else you needed?"
Yes "No. Thank you for all your help."
Barbatos nods, starts to wend his way back through the various alleys of the market towards the main path. Is silent for a touch too long, the subtle beat of his footsteps overrun by the sounds of stalls finally coming down, wares packed away for the day. Simeon stares down at the load hanging on his arm. It's surprisingly heavy.
Most vendors have already cleared away, nearer the entrance. Simeon experiences temperature mainly in the abstract, but he thinks the space seems colder in this emptiness than it had when he first arrived.
"Are you needed urgently back at Purgatory Hall?"
Simeon blinks, startled by the sudden conversation. "No. I cleared out most of the day for this errand. I thought it would take more time, going shopping on my own."
"So now you have some free time, then?"
"I do."
Barbatos nods, like this has decided something, although Simeon can't guess at what. "Excellent. Then would you like to come with me?"
"Where to?"
Instead of answering, Barbatos glances off to the side, just slightly over the angel's shoulder. His gaze is focused, deliberate. Knowing. "There are things you want to ask me."
Neither of them pretend it is a question.
The curl of the parchment in Simeon's gloves has gone crumpled. Worn and stained after being dangled so carelessly on their journey. He should throw it out.
He tucks the completed grocery list into his bag. "Would you answer me?"
"If I think I can."
"Alright. Please, lead the way."
The atmosphere is stifling after wandering about in all that air-conditioned cold. Heat that his senses recognize as pressure, coiling up towards him. He can feel the way it makes his outline shimmer, before more applied concentration steadies out his form.
They're in the flower market.
"I was keeping you from your duties," Simeon says, too practiced at swallowing guilt to let it thread through his words. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I'm here for my own pleasure." Barbatos walks easily ahead, tall fronds swallowing the elegant lines of his legs. His words are soft.
Simeon is conscious of his large bag dangling off one arm, obtrusive in the planter lanes. Attempts to tug it towards his chest, letting it bump uncomfortably against the sharp edges of his hip. Large, drooping petals and spiked leaves reach out to him from every edge, colours in such dizzying diversity he can't put a name to them. Pollen is heavy here, some motes sparking in the air. The ones that land on him sizzle like embers, flaring bright and briefly before fading to ash.
"The conflagration blooms are particularly active at this time of the year. Please be careful, the larger spores might burn."
Simeon lifts his arm to his face. His gloves are pristine, as always. A relief, even if he can already see tiny singe marks on the canvas bag. "Which ones are those?"
"The little black stones. I wouldn't advise you stand too close to them, if you can help it. They tend to flare up unexpectedly."
"I see." Simeon bends towards a stone anyway, curious, safely out of immediate range. There's a shudder before it hacks sparks into the air, spiraling with unnervingly even geometry. "They're wonderful."
"I'm glad they meet with your approval." And he *sounds* it. "There are also a beautiful selection of wraith lilies, if you'd like something a little less . . . incendiary. They're famous for their floating petals."
He can guess at those; there are bowls hanging from the ceiling, trailing petals hovering over the sides, disconnected from any visible stem. Some sweet scent trails down, nearly tangible. "They're beautiful, but I'm afraid I wouldn't know where to keep them." He pauses, trying to find his guide. He can no longer see him, swallowed by all this vibrant greenery. "Am I finally having my Devildom agriculture lessons?"
"Is that what you'd like?"
"That depends. Will this be featuring on my exams?" Simeon bends towards a single stem, flowers asymmetrically heavy on one side. Tiny things the exact shade and shape of human skulls.
"I'll administer yours personally."
"I can't say how grateful I am for such a devoted teacher," Simeon murmurs. The perfume in here is growing cloying. He forgot, for a moment, that he didn't actually need to breathe.
"Only because I suspect you aren't any kind of grateful at all."
When he rounds the corner he's met with the rigid expanse of the butler's back. It's broader, up close, less slender when not in direct competition with the wide set of the Prince's impressive shoulders. There's a spot of bright orange on the left, where a spot of pollen must have been sneezed onto his coat. Simeon considers whether it would be too audacious of him to brush it off.
"The corpse flower is incredibly rare even in the human world. Some only bloom every few years." His gaze flicks up towards the towering plant, something that had gone impossibly unnoticed. The tall spadix brushes the ceiling of the enclosure. "The ones we have in the Devildom are exceptionally old. The youngest only bloom every few centuries."
The petals are extended, a purple so deep he can feel the age of it, drawn in towards that fragrant centre. Simeon reaches forwards after a quick glance at his companion, who nods him forwards with an easy smile. "Don't get too close. At that size everything begins to look like food."
"It's an impressive creature," Simeon says softly.
"It was a gift. Something that Lucifer procured for Lord Diavolo eons ago."
A gift from Lucifer. Simeon clasps his hands together, feels the slide of satin on his skin. He can understand the precious value of it. The size feels like a monument, a sentiment that he can't approach. "Is this why we're here?"
"The last time it bloomed was when it was gifted," Barbatos says. "This is a rare occasion. I wanted to appreciate it."
"Won't Lord Diavolo want to see this?"
"He'll be along later." He extends a gloved finger, running around the cup with a delicate touch. The flower twitches under his motion, but he detaches easily. "I suppose I wanted the opportunity to take it in while nothing else was demanding my attention."
"Am I a distraction?"
"Not at all."
They stand in silence, the majesty of the plant dwarfing the flotsam of Simeon's thoughts. Letting their eyes remain fixed in place, sharing a moment where the world is still.
Barbatos breaks it first. "Are you going to ask?"
Yes. No. Maybe. Simeon takes a deep breath, nearly chokes on the cloying taste. Shifts to hold the bag under one arm, wary of the threat of bruising. "How did he do it?"
"Please be a little more specific."
"Lord Diavolo. How did he change Lucifer's mind?" He shifts, feels a tension in his back. When was the last time he spread his wings? "They were never friendly before."
"What a generous way to phrase it," Barbatos murmurs. "Although I think that made it easier. He had prejudice but no expectations. My Lord could have done nothing and he wouldn't have been disappointed."
It's a funny thing. Both their relationships are shaped not by what they did but by what they didn't do. Simeon reaches forwards, fingers the very edge of the plant. He is struck by the sudden impression that it is trying to touch him back.
"I thought I was going to follow him," he says quietly. "Lucifer once took up so much of my world, it seemed inconceivable to live an existence without him in it. I thought—"
Movement, shattering the stillness. Simeon cuts off abruptly, startled. There's a flash of red and black in his periphery, a whiff of something that could be leather and fire, and suddenly he is reminded of an old saying: 'Speak of the devil and he will appear.'
It's never worked for him before.
He catches Lucifer’s eye from across the room, brisk steps carrying him swiftly to the exit. Separated by heavy avenues of flowers and grasses and fertilizer, the trailing edges of his jacket brushing against the leaves. A complicated, incomprehensible expression flits across his face, and then he’s turning, snapping the door briskly open and stepping through. It closes, heavy, and suddenly the air is clearer. And less rich.
He sighs. A long breath, all that unused air. Withdraws his hand so he can adjust the load in his arms. “Sometimes I wonder if the outcome would have been different. If I’d made a different choice.”
There’s silence for too long. Even without looking he can feel the weight of the butler's gaze, expression perfectly impassive. “Are you asking me—”
“No.” His voice is easy, serene as he gazes at the closed door. “There’s no reason to upset ancient history.”
"History is more fluid than you realize."
Of course. Things must be so easy for someone who already knows their course. Simeon can feel liquid seeping beneath his fingers, muscle tensing so suddenly he couldn't stop the damage. He's shattered a gourd; an involuntary reflex.
He's burning from the inside out, everything heat and regret and the bile of imperfect feeling, a wound angry and open and he doesn't know where to lay the blame
"It must be nice." He can't look at the butler, eyes trained on the door, seeing a silhouette instead of all that dark metal. "To be able to ensure the reality you want."
Barbatos makes a noise that could almost be a hum. "You're assuming that the choices I make will dictate the way the future plays out." Simeon can hear the slight crinkle of fabric. When he turns Barbatos is staring downwards, adjusting his gloves. He's almost stunned by the regular quality of that action. Simeon has never seen him do that before. “But you forget; our decisions are not the only ones we have to live with.”
Barbatos turns on his heel, footsteps so silent Simeon could almost believe he isn't here at all. "Come, they'll have to close the market soon. And I'm sure Luke is eagerly awaiting your return."
"Of course."
It's awkward, the walk back. Silence and some oppressive atmosphere that Simeon can recognize as his responsibility. But he can't bring himself to mend it.
He doesn't know what to say.
"Thank you for accompanying me," he manages finally, when they've stopped outside the entrance. Barbatos inclines his head, and Simeon notices, for the first time, a tall bouquet of something aggressive with sharp edges. He didn't see him pick it up.
"It was my pleasure."
That can't be true, not for the whole of it, but Simeon will take courtesy when it's offered. He smiles, because at the very least he's practiced enough to remember the shape of it, the familiar lines forcing a release of all that earlier tension. He can feel his shoulders starting to relax. "I'll have to show my gratitude properly. Come over to the hall on your next evening off. We'll make dinner."
"All of you?"
This is familiar. Easy, safe conversation that he falls into with relief. That strange emotion buried under the normalcy of these words. "I promise to keep him firmly out of the kitchen."
"Then I would be delighted." Barbatos plucks something from his bouquet with delicate fingers: a bloom that looks soft when separated from its brothers. He tucks it into Simeon's bag, the petals vibrant against the canvas. "Please tell Luke I'll look forward to it."
"I'll let him know."
"What do you mean we're going to be cooking for Barbatos?!?!?!?"