Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Beelzebub had never taken the stairs from Hell. They preferred a dramatic entrance whenever they had to spawn on Earth for any errand, and at that, they typically avoided Earth. It was never a welcoming place for demons. Humans held their prejudice and old beliefs that could really interfere with a demon’s business. Which is why they had decided Crowley would be stationed on Earth until he saved the damned thing—not-damned thing?—and went native.    

Crowley always made Earth seem like a sinful, war-torn place in his reports. There was far more chaos than peace in everyday life. But, behind the glass separating them from the gates and central London, Beelzebub only saw humans pushing against one another to get to wherever humans went. There was no fighting or famine-gripped children or even a light altercation to be seen.

Lucifer’s words still had hold of Beelzebub’s stomach and throat. There would be punishment, he told them, for allowing Crowley to get in the way of Armageddon. Ineffable plan or not. 

“And no one was supervising him for 11 years when he went to nanny the antichrist with that angel? When he was actively plotting against us? And no one confirmed that the child ended up with the right family in those 11 years? Not once, no one made sure that it was the right child we had tagged.”

“Crowley was supposed to—” 

“And Crowley got away with lying to my top demons and building an immunity to holy water. How is that? Aren’t you supposed to be the prince of Hell?” 

“Yes.” 

“And do you think you deserve that title?” 

Beelzebub supposed they knew the answer Lucifer wanted to hear. “No.” 

Dagon stepped out of the gates behind Beelzebub. Her long, red hair was still pulled back and laid against the back of her dark jacket. But that was all that was familiar about her. The scaley, silver skin that had adorned her face was gone to reveal pale cheeks and well-sculpted eyebrows. Her eyes were pale blue and of human proportion, though she still retained the slight wrinkles that surrounded them. 

By human standards, she was beautiful. But Beelzebub preferred her decaying, fish-y look. 

They reached up and felt their own face. Their blistering skin was gone. Even worse, their medals and sash and fuzzy cap were gone from their uniform. 

“I haven’t really been on Earth in centuries,” they said, not saying that they felt lost. 

“I think I know where to go,” Dagon said, not saying that she understood and that she would help lead them to a safe space. 

They paused at the glass doors and looked into the streets together. 

“You’ll go a year on Earth without your title or your powers.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t want you in my Hell. Your incompetence revolts me.” 

Beelzebub’s knees burned from where they had been slammed into the ground when Lucifer approached. As they were free to rise, they could see their trousers had torn and their skin had been rubbed off. They tried not to wince as they took their first step towards the doors of the execution room that had been intended for Crowley months earlier. 

“I’m going with them.” 

Dagon stepped forward from the crowd. She hurried to Beelzebub’s side and took their elbow, supporting their weight. 

Beelzebub looked at the nice suits and skirts everyone outside was wearing and then looked to their worn, mismatched outfits. They were determined to handle their eviction with grace like they had their fall. While the other demons had been left moaning in pain on the floor of Hell, Beelzebub had quickly picked themselves up and dusted themselves off. Lucifer had been impressed with how they bit back the agony of their grace being ripped away and their wings being broken beyond repair. 

“We should change,” they said. “Blend in.” 

Dagon followed their gaze to a young man wearing a tight, black suit. The legs were tapered and fitted to his thighs and behind. The jacket was unbuttoned, exposing a white top. It looked similar to what Beelzebub already wore but updated and cleaner. Dagon looked Beelzebub up and down and suddenly, the outfit was on them. They ran their hands up and down the tight thighs of the trousers and belt and grimaced. 

A group of older women passed by wearing high-waisted jeans that weren’t particularly tight or form-fitting. Dagon decided those looked nice. Next, she saw a black sweater on another woman, and thought that maybe that would pair well with a scarf. 

“Just pick something already,” Beelzebub huffed. 

Dagon was a bit of a fashionista in Hell. She had put together her outfits every few centuries in Hell with pride and careful consideration. 

With a pair of Chelsea boots under the cuffed jeans, she felt ready. Beelzebub nodded at her and pushed open the door. 

They stayed close to her side as they pushed their ways through the streets. Hell had prepared the two of them well for the crowds of London. There was no feeling of claustrophobia. The open-air proved to be better than the musky scent that perfumed the damp halls of Hell. 

“We’ll have to leave the city for my idea,” Dagon said. 

Beelzebub missed her muffled, slurred, lispy speech. Her teeth were flat and short now and didn’t give her the impediment she had in Hell. 

By human standards, Dagon deserved the lingering stares and faint smiles she received as they found a cab. She was tall and fair and looked confident. Powerful. She knew what she was doing and where she was going as her shorter partner trailed behind. And though it was unfamiliar, it was beginning to grow on Beelzebub. 

“You look nice,” they mumbled, settling into the backseat of a black cab. “For someone who’s supposed to be a human.” 

Dagon smiled. “You cleaned up well, too. Unfortunately. Your flies were always becoming of you.” 

Her smile was off, but it was still nice to see after months of pacing around Hell in isolation, waiting for Lucifer’s appointment, and then hearing their punishment in front of an audience. 

Beelzebub turned to their window. Dagon smiled for a touch longer than they could handle, and they needed to focus on something else as their cheeks began to burn. They stared at the other cars as they drove away from the curb. Then, they caught their own reflection. 

They looked just a bit wrong. After thousands of years, they had built up a level of grime they were proud of. They were fond of their flies that provided them with constant company. Their appearance had become their own. There were no angelic drill sergeants making sure they were wearing the right uniforms or robes. Their filth had become part of their identity. No one told them to clean up or brush their hair, and they could keep in as much mess as they wanted.

And now it was gone with their authority and powers. 

In the reflection in the glass, Beelzebub caught Dagon looking at them and then turning away. She looked out her own window as the people of central London passed by in a blur. Beelzebub watched her brush a few strands of fallen hair behind her ear. 

At least they still had her. 

Chapter Text

Beelzebub woke up when the sun was low in the sky and blinded them as they opened their eyes. They rolled over and entertained the idea of trying to fall back asleep, but the room was too hot, too bright, and they could hear Dagon shuffling around right outside the door. 

They shoved their blankets away and upon remembering that they couldn’t use a miracle to change, decided to stay in their oversized t-shirt (that Dagon had picked out for herself), sweatpants, and the thin layer of sweat they had woken up in. 

Dagon smiled at them when they walked out of the bedroom. She was well-groomed and still in day clothes, tidying around the sitting room that didn’t need tidying. It was a misconception that demons would prefer to live in filth and mess. It wasn’t necessarily how they preferred to live, but it just so happened to be what Hell looked like. It was nothing more than a musty, cramped basement, and it was what they were used to. Dagon had taken to keeping their cozy cottage neat and clean, and her smile turned into a frown when Beelzebub came closer. 

“How long did I sleep this time?” they asked. 

“Three days.” 

A sharp pang hit their stomach and sat down, trying to casually hide a wince. 

“Do you want anything to eat?” Dagon asked. 

Eating was a new thing they had to get used to. Their body functions, they found, were reverted to that of a human’s but not as severe. They could still go days without eating before hunger pangs settled in. Toilet functions were just as slow. But if they pushed their limits, they would get lightheaded upon standing or wake up desperately needing to pee. 

“Sure.” 

“What would you like?” 

“I don’t care.” 

The biggest issue was that Beelzebub didn’t know much about earth foods. In Hell, they had no problem eating rotting produce. But because of their new more human-ish (less fly-ish) body, the first time they tried eating a spoiled apple lead to an awful upset tummy and a sleepless night. And even though Dagon had found food magazines to replicate gourmet dishes from, Beelzebub found little motivation to pick something out from them. 

Dagon reached out and touch a greasy, tangled lock of hair. “Can I sort your hair out while you eat?” 

“If you have to.” 

“It can’t be comfortable.” 

“It feels fine.” 

Dagon disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of spaghetti aglio e olio with kale. Neither of them knew what it exactly was, but it smelled fine and Beelzebub favored pasta. At least they favored it enough to pick at each meal before setting it down. But a few bites, Dagon knew, would be better than nothing. 

She handed the bowl and a glass of water to Beelzebub and perched on the top of the sofa behind them, examining the tangles in their hair. It wasn’t as terrible as when Beelzebub woke from their first nap which had lasted the entire first week they were in the South Downs. Dagon had to resort to miracles to get their hair unmatted and untangled then. 

Beelzebub twirled noodles around the fork and slurped it into their mouth. They wiped their mouth with the back of their hand. 

Dagon preferred tackling Beelzebub’s hair with a comb and oils. It was, dare she say, tender. She adored the little touches and knew that Beelzebub did, too. At the very least, it was time that they spent together. 

"Do you want anything else?" she asked when Beelzebub laid the bowl on the coffee table. 

As expected, Beelzebub said, "No."

Dagon worked the first knot out and combed through the greasy hair a few times before moving on to the next tangle.

The strands were already horribly uneven, but with the extra breakage when they snapped back at Dagon's comb, it wrecked their hair even further. 

Maybe they needed to wash it. Humans used shampoo, Dagon knew. And conditioner. She could pick some up for Beelzebub when she went shopping (something she only did out of mild excitement that she never expected to feel) or miracle bottles in the bathroom after a quick search on her phone (which she was slowly getting accustomed to) to find out what shampoo really was. Maybe there was something else, too, that Beelzebub would like for bathing. Judging from the television she had watched, Dagon knew that humans thought of bathing in soapy bubbles as a luxury. She could get Beelzebub whatever they needed for a luxurious, calm night in the bathroom.

Though, the next image to pop into Dagon’s head was a miserable, wet Beelzebub with soap clinging to their stringy hair.

The final knot was worked out. Dagon brushed through their hair, evened the part, and combed their fringe out of their face. 

“If you’d like I could draw you a bath,” she said. 

“Why?” 

“Just thought you might like to get clean.” 

“I don’t care. We never bathed in Hell.” 

Dagon didn’t even bathe on Earth. She didn’t allow herself to persperate or produce oils. But Beelzebub didn’t have that luxury anymore. “It might help you relax.”

Beelzebub leaned back into Dagon. For a few minutes, they stared forward and said nothing. Dagon pushed their hair behind their ears and adjusted their shirt so that it wasn’t hanging off one shoulder. 

Finally, Beelzebub said, “What am I meant to do in a bath?” 

Dagon pulled her phone out of her pocket and slid down next to Beelzebub. She slowly typed “human bath” (because while her hands were speedy and accurate with a typewriter, she was not yet comfortable with the small keyboard that only needed her thumbs) into the search bar and pulled up the image results. 

There were rows and rows of people sitting in bathtubs, smiling and rubbing soapy water into their hair. Dagon continued scrolling. 

“This looks like a thing for infants,” Beelzebub said. 

Picture after picture, there were small babies being bathed by adoring hands. Dagon shook her head and went back to the first page of web results. “I promise you it’s not.”

She typed in “How to take a bath.” 

Suddenly, there were dozens of articles with instructions on how to “make the best” of a bath. Beelzebub pressed their head into Dagon’s shoulder and grabbed her arm. It only slightly limited her mobility as she clicked on a link. 

There were bolded headings explaining each recommended aspect. 

“What are bath bombs?” Beelzebub asked. 

“They don’t explode,” Dagon said after searching for the definition. “Unfortunately. They fizz and give off a pleasant aroma. And color.” 

They carried on for the better part of an hour, investigating all of the elements of baths. Dagon miracled them into existence in front of them. A purple bath bomb recommended by the article. Candles that were supposed to bring calm. A face mask. Sugar scrub. Moisturizer. A pile of magazines. A fluffy robe and matching towel. 

“Do I need all of that?” 

“Yes,” Dagon said. “We’re going to do it right.” 

She grabbed everything in her arms and impressive balancing skills, led Beelzebub into their modest bathroom. She set everything down on their vanity and turned around to a bathtub that was twice the size of what was there a minute before. 

“Get undressed,” she ordered. 

Beelzebub rolled their eyes and began stripping, leaving their clothes in a pile in the corner. Dagon took a spare hair elastic and attempted to pull their short hair up while the water filled the tub at a perfect 33 degrees. 

“I don’t think I’ll like this.” 

“You don’t know that yet.” 

Dagon held their hand as they stepped over the side of the tub and settled in. They looked as miserable as she had expected, thin legs crossed and pulled close to their chest and shoulders rolled forward. They looked up at Dagon in their hunched position. 

“Is this it?” 

“You’re supposed to relax.” 

Beelzebub grimaced. “Get in with me.” 

Dagon looked at the bath bomb and jar of face mask. It did look genuinely exciting to her. It was the type of pampering that wasn’t found in Hell even though slathering mud on their faces could have been something demons enjoyed. But demons didn’t take time to relax and clean. Any pampering was limited to Dagon painting her nails at her desk and brushing her hair every once in a while. 

She pulled off her clothes, changed her low ponytail to a high bun, and sat at the opposite end of the bathtub. Beelzebub still looked miserable, but they relaxed. Their shoulders lost their tension and their legs began to lower into the water. 

“Let’s try the bath bomb first,” Dagon said. 

When she lowered it in, it gave off a pink and purple fizz. The water quickly turned a dark purple. It was lovely to Dagon, though Beelzebub didn’t look to be too impressed. 

“And now our face masks.” 

She opened the jar of mask and scoop a generous amount onto her fingers. It smelled like mud. Good mud. Wet, clay earth one could dig into and play around in. She streaked it across Beelzebub’s cheeks. They closed their eyes and held their breath. 

Dagon wanted them to relax. She wanted them to give into the assigned leisure time they were sharing. She wanted them to enjoy the mask and bath bomb as much as she did. It would be a relief for her if they could begin to find the little pleasures in existence as she did. 

Their face was covered in mud. It had made it into their eyebrows and covered the peach fuzz on their upper lip. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to go on so heavily, Dagon thought, as she looked back at the blue eyes peeking out in the middle of brown. 

She smeared less onto her own face. She couldn’t help but smile at the gooey feeling. It was so odd that humans found this to be luxurious. They paid money for it. They had others do it for them. All while Dagon had been fighting the urge to roll around in mud for a solid 700 years. She had been missing out! 

Dagon shoved her fingers deep into the jar and added a little extra under her chin. She truly wanted to squish it in her hand and spread it further down her neck and onto her chest. But she refrained, and she rinsed and dried her hands. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Beelzebub asked. 

Dagon nodded. Beelzebub fought a smile and sank back into the water, shoving their legs between hers and the edge of the tub. 

“Are you?” Dagon asked. 

Beelzebub shrugged. Dagon took that as an improvement. It was better than not responding or a blunt, “no.” 

“Would you like to read a magazine?” she asked. 

She had been interested in magazines lately. The trashy ones that poked their noses into other humans’ business. She enjoyed the drama of celebrities and their seemingly always-failing relationships. The appeal was due to a mix of worshipping false idols, lust, and greed. There was also a cathartic joy she got from knowing that there humans whose lives were falling apart in a way that did not affect her whatsoever. 

“Not really.” 

“Should I read to you then?” 

Beelzebub sunk even lower into the water until their chin was submerged. “Okay.” 

Dagon grabbed the first tabloid from the stack she had brought in. There was an exciting story in the front about a May-December relationship on the edge of collapse with paparazzi pictures as proof. Humans never ceased to entertain. 

Dagon opened the magazine and began reading.