Chapter Text
Hell, 10:45 AM, the Day of Judgment for the Traitors
“The angel survived, m’lord,” Erik said calmly.
“He what, now?” Beelzebub asked. They were holding Dagon’s trembling hands.
Crowley had already swaggered off. Michael had returned, shaken, to the lift.
Hastur was pacing the room. He stopped and stared at Erik, who had just entered the death chamber.
“He survived,” said Erik. “He breathed Hellfire at the other angels!”
“Hellfire, huh?” said Beelzebub, quirking an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
Beelzebub kissed Dagon on one scaly cheek and lowered her down into their throne. Dagon, second-in-command of Beelzebub’s forces, was the only one allowed to sit there besides themself, and often did in the absence of Beelzebub.
Now she was sitting there because it was preferable to her collapsing.
Beelzebub took back their hands. They slipped a sleek black Imp from an interior jacket pocket. The display lit up.
“Yes, m’lord?” the little device chirped.
“Search. Crawly. Miracles.”
“File found.”
“Last entry?”
“Ten hundred and thirty three. Hellfire.”
“FUCK!” Dagon spat. “That’s how they did it!”
Beelzebub turned, cupping her cheek with one hand. Their thumb dragged gently over her scales, admiring the way the low light danced over them.
“I’ll go tell Lucifer,” they told her. “We’ll get you your war.”
“You’d better,” Hastur said, darkly. “Because there ain’t no way Flappy, Slappy, Crappy, and Sappy are gonna let us jus’ go on.”
Gabriel, Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel. Flappy, Slappy, Crappy, and Sappy.
“We’ve still got shock troops ready. Not to mention the weapons,” Beelzebub said. “I haven’t been ordered to decommission yet. Let me speak to Lucifer.”
Beelzebub brushed Dagon’s lips with their own, tasting the salt of her tears mixing with the salt of her mouth.
“My lord,” Dagon said, softly. Her arms wrapped around Beelzebub’s neck. “Thank you.”
“I’m coming back here. Hastur, Dagon, calm the troops. Make sure that they’re waiting for orders.”
Hastur nodded, and Dagon stood up. Her faith was renewed, and that was a good thing to see. Beelzebub left the chamber, heading for the lifts. They were going down.
~*~
Beelzebub stepped back into the death chamber. The demon looked pale, wan. Excepting the bleeding bruise over one eye.
“What did he say?” Dagon asked. Her concerned fingers went to Beelzebub’s eye.
Beelzebub captured her hand, and kissed the knuckles. Hastur’s stare was blank, and suddenly defeated. He slumped against the wall, forehead touching his knees.
“War’s off. Indefinitely,” Beelzebub said, with a shrug. “Lucifer doesn’t want me confirming my theory with the Archangel. Told me to decommission the weapons. To stand down...I am so sorry, Dagon.”
“Does he really think that they’re going to stand down?” Dagon asked. Her voice was nearly hysterical.
Beelzebub hugged her to themself. “I think they will.”
“That pigeon’s made you soft,” Hastur said.
Beelzebub glared at him over Dagon’s shoulder. Hastur was still in a ball against the wall, in a place where no glare was going to reach him.
“I still have to speak to that pigeon,” Beelzebub said. “I’ll find out what they’re doing.”
“Don’t go. Please,” Dagon asked, their nails digging into Beelzebub’s lapels. “Not now, please. Don’t go to him.”
Beelzebub stroked Dagon’s hair. “No, there’s nothing that wouldn’t wait. Honestly.”
“Well, what’s the rest of it?” Hastur asked. “I’m gonna guess he gave you a little kiss with his fist for some reason.”
“I persisted,” Beelzebub said, with a shrug. “What? I’m not stupid enough to think that just because one angel says they’re standing down, that means that they all will. Even if it was an Archangel. I argued for war. For our safety.”
“So he popped you in the face?”
“Eventually,” Beelzebub agreed. “Three quarters of the horsemen are gone. Not discorporated, gone. The Antichrist, who could do anything, went and made himself mortal. We’re to leave the traitors alone,” Beelzebub said. “If you want to join Ligur, that’d be the fastest way.”
“Urgh...” Hastur gurgled. “Why leave the traitors alone?”
“Even if they switched corporations and tricked us, they’re still part of the Ineffable. They’re off-limits, and Lucifer’s probably going to mope over his lost child for the next two hundred years...” Beelzebub paused. “War’s off.”
“What now?” Dagon asked. Her voice was fragile.
“I have to address the troops. War called off on account of Ineffability. And, if they want to be able to continue to use miracles, they’d best get back to work. Hastur, you’re on leave until you don’t want to be anymore,” Beelzebub said. “Paid, of course.”
“What’s the use, if I’ve got to leave off on the ones what killed my Ligur?”
Beelzebub stared at the demon who leaked tears from his wide black eyes. They had performed the ceremony for Hastur and Ligur, eons ago. The two lovesick fools had woven crowns out of flowers for each other. Laughing like children, under a full moon, near a still pool. Both in their finest. It had been a well-attended event. The newlywed demons danced the wedding dance, together, kissing every two or three steps.
Hastur looked like a crumpled paper bag without Ligur. Empty.
Dagon was clinging to them. Hard. She was terrified, and with good reason.
“They’ll stand down,” Beelzebub said, softly, to Dagon, who gaped like the fish that she was. They stroked her cheeks. “Lovely, I said that I would keep you safe. I have never not kept you safe.”
“See how that worked out for Ligur,” Hastur spat. He rolled onto his feet. “I’m off then. I’m gonna go punch something that bleeds. Not a fucking traitor, I swear.”
“Take it upstairs. The demon are going to be upset enough.”
“Aye, m’lord. M’fish.”
Hastur stormed off, toward the lifts.
Erik still trembled in a corner. “Erik,” Beelzebub said. “You did well. You’re dismissed.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Erik left.
Alone in the death chamber, Beelzebub pulled Dagon down onto their throne with them. “After I calm the troops...did you want to do something?”
“What did you have in mind?” Dagon asked.
Beelzebub gave Dagon a wicked look. “Decadence is on.”
“Yes...” Dagon said, with her first genuine grin since “Crowley” had failed to dissolve in a bath of Holy Water. “Yes, m’lord.”
“I’ll meet you at the lifts. Give me an hour.”
They kissed her, a deep one, feeling her body relax as they stroked her tongue with their own. A hand at the back of her neck, and another stroking the swell of her breast through her clothes. Dagon sighed.
“Let’s forget for a while, nu?” Beelzebub said.
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Wear something nice,” Beelzebub said, moving their lips to Dagon’s neck. Her cravat tickled Beelzebub’s face. Dagon’s fingers went to the back of Beelzebub’s head, running through their hair. A few flies flitted and took wing, annoyed at being disturbed. “I’ve got to go disappoint the troops.”
Dagon stood up and offered a hand to the Prince, who took it. They stood up, and Dagon straightened their regalia for them.
“My prince,” she said, bowed, and left the room.
It was as close as she’d ever get to “I love you,” which is a sad fact that Beelzebub had accepted around the same time as they’d married Hastur and Ligur. They’d never pushed, just longed in a soft way. Longed for something warmer than the occasional snog.
But Dagon was happy with a few kisses, a few bolder touches, and the protection of a Prince of Hell.
Beelzebub stood alone in the death chamber, somewhere between crying and screaming. God knows, and Satan certainly did not, that they never wanted a war. Never wanted to watch Dagon bleed out in their arms.
No such thing as a war without casualties, and why would God give Beelzebub even the occasional kindness from Dagon unless She planned to rip that away?
And the less they thought about the Archangel, the better.
They crossed to the door, pausing at the mirrored glass behind the bathtub to heal their eye. They looked fine. Time to address the troops.
~*~
The troops took it all in stride, Beelzebub thought. They’d finished up their speech by reminding the demons that every soul that they stole from Heaven was a victory. Every soul that went to Hell made Heaven less powerful. That was their war, now. And they’d bleed the angels dry, just like that.
They’d cheered. It was weak, but it was a cheer.
They’d run by their quarters, to get ready. They’d dressed like a woman. Not their usual choice, but one dressed for effect at Decadence.
The hem of their sequined gown whispered over the aged tile floor of Hell as they clicked to the lifts in their very high heels. The gown was a deep, dark red at the high neck, and faded to black at the bottom. Beelzebub liked the weight of it. The whole thing was held on by a heavy metal clasp at the back of their neck.
Dagon was waiting at the lifts. Beelzebub had been expecting a nicely tailored suit. Instead, Dagon was dazzling in a mermaid-cut gown. It glimmered dangerously under the sickly light of the fluorescent bulbs.
Her hair was curled and hung loose over her creamy shoulders. More of her scales showed, iridescent against the black of her gown.
“Beautiful,” Beelzebub said, and meant it. They kissed her cheek when she leaned down for them.
“Likewise,” Dagon said.
They stepped into the lift, hand in hand, headed for the sweaty New Orleans night.