Archive of Our Own

"I…I wish for a-a bargain."

He tilts his head and studies the child gaping up at him, a blue notebook dangling limply in the kid’s hands. The container is damaged, limbs twisted and weak, but the soul burns undiminished; a tiny, unwavering flame in the way of three worlds.

It's kinda cute.

The circle is crudely drawn; the offering…not quite meager, what with the Attachment to it, but not quite what he's used to.

"Little one," he says, modulating his voice as best he can. The way tiny hands clap tiny ears tells him it's not enough. "You should not be messing with rituals you do not know."

He crouches down, down, down, robes whispering loudly in the stunned silence between them.

Determination is overtaking the shock behind those intelligent eyes.

Ah, how strange. Despite his misgivings, the wispy bindings of a deal begin to form. He studies them, somehow unsurprised at the strength behind them.

He's still going to have words with someone about age limits on summonings, but he can clearly see why this one would want a life without malady.

"I wish for my dad to come home safely."

Surprise is a flavor he hasn't tasted in a long while. He savors it for a few moments, considering. It's a simple task. Easy enough for this tiny morsel.

Still.

"Do you understand the price to be paid for such a request?"

Extra fuel onto the flame that burns brightly behind those grey eyes. The child nods.

"Alright.” He grins suddenly, dropping formalities, because this kid. "We have a deal, kid."

Excitement and hope lights up the kid's face. "You promise?"

He nods gravely, still grinning. "I promise."

"What's that?"

He offers, and lets Diaz take the little Superman action figure out of his hands.

He watches, smiling, as the man softens. Gunpowdered fingers brush gently over worn contours and faded colors.

"My kid has one just like this," Diaz says softly. "It’s his favorite."

Diaz is more of a handful than he expected.

It's easy enough, to protect him in this war of attrition, where there's less blood and more sand to wear things down. Two and a half years into this deployment and the hardest thing is to keep him from devouring himself.

The hint of suicide; a tang of a death wish that never quite fades.

His soul is a little worn around the edges, for being so young, and more flavored with guilt and anguish than he generally likes.

There's a brittleness, behind all that strength. As if the perfect strike will crack him wide open.

The fire in him flickers daily, the ever present hint of black guilt and red anguish strengthening until it overpowers everything before it's smothered by the intensity of love and affection and longing.

It's an interesting flavor, though, to say the least.

"If you had a single wish," he says, "what would it be?"

Diaz laughs. "That's easy enough."

He can taste the words on his tongue before Diaz says them.

"I want to see my son."

He grins.

"I'm sure you will, man."

But Diaz just lightly strokes the child's toy in his hands.

He checks in on Christopher, once in a while.

The kid's an absolute treat, burning absolutely undiminished despite the callousness of the world. He nudges the cruelty of those around the kid sometimes, just to see what happens.

It makes him feel something like fondness for this little thing.

The mother, though, is something else. She's trying, but the bold taste of determination has faded, leaving something black and wretched in its wake.

Where the kid only bends, she's fairly close to breaking.

Her soul is fraying even faster than Eddie's, and only flaring when she sees her husband. A tangled weave of love and anger; of choking disappointment and unyielding grief shadowed over with despair.

He considers helping her, but shrugs.

The contract was only for one, after all.

Sixty-seven days. They'd only been sixty-seven goddamn days away from the end. And now this.

Eddie Diaz is a suicidal moron.

"Hello, Evan."

There's no plausible reason why Maddie should be here in the middle of a field hospital somewhere in the desert, but here she is, standing beside him in a prim, sharply cut two piece suit. No one notices the addition of the random civilian in the heart of a secure military base.

"Mom's asking for you."

His jaw clenches tighter and it takes him a minute to speak.

"I'm working."

Who in their right mind even ran towards bullets?

"I could--"

Eddie Fucking Diaz, that's who.

"No!" He snarls. He takes a deep breath, and another, and swallows the words that want to come out. That Eddie is his. His, and he's not--

She studies him with unfathomably dark and endlessly deep eyes. "You know he'll be fine." There's reproach in her voice. He ignores her, keeping his gaze locked on Eddie's cot.

Fucking Eddie Diaz and his self-sacrificial tendencies.

His soul is burning steadily, flavored with the tang of chemicals and not even close to guttering out.

It doesn't stop the pit fire raging in his chest.

Humans are so damn fragile.

Finally, Maddie sighs. "I'll distract mom."

"Good luck," he mutters.

When Eddie finally wakes up, he double takes at the figure standing beside his cot. Eddie blinks, shaking his head as though to clear it.

"Buck?"

It takes him a moment to remember how, but then an easy smile is sliding across his face. "Hey. You had me worried there."

Eddie relaxes back into his pillow.

"You and me both, buddy."

It's an easy task, but he still breathes a sigh of something like relief when it's over.

The contract is finished, he thinks as he watches Eddie hug his wife and son.

He should collect and be on his merry way. He can feel several Contracts in the vicinity already.

Eddie Diaz is a menace, truly. It can't be good for his health.

"Hello."

He looks down, startled, at Christopher Diaz for a long moment.

Those eyes are still utterly fearless, and wet with gratitude. He glances back up at Eddie and his wife, who are just looking on them fondly before crouching down to offer a grin and a hand.

"Hey, little man. My name's Evan Buckley. Buck, if you will. I'm your dad's best buddy."

There's time enough to collect this little flame.

He won't say he's basking in the light of this little family, but theirs is a soothing warmth compared to the ash and cinder of the ever burning pit fire in his chest.

Even if Shannon and Eddie fight more and more.

Even if he finds himself increasingly with armfuls of a drunk Eddie.

When the bough breaks, he watches on with interest, smiling innocently when accusatory looks are thrown his way from both Shannon and the Diaz family.

He doesn't do anything to defend himself because Eddie is already vehemently proclaiming the innocence of their relationship. He lets her burn, because it probably won't be long now, before she burns entirely out.

When Eddie comes to him later and apologizes, he tracks that evasive gaze and dull blush with even more interest.

"It's okay, I get it," he says easily, and then adds oil to this fire. "You're my best friend, and you're important to me. I'm not saying I wouldn't go for you if you were single, as least for a roll in the sheets, cause you're super attractive, Eds, I don't know if you know. And I love Christopher like he's mine, but I'm definitely not a homewrecker."

The tangled flare of shock and want and longing and guilt that blooms is absolutely delicious.

But he doesn't weave that web any further, content to just watch the bridges burn by themselves. After Shannon leaves, the Diazes double down. There's hatred and disgust outright in their gazes when they look at him. He says nothing to disabuse them of their preconceptions, and Eddie's words fall on deaf ears.

It's still a shock somehow when Eddie asks him to move with them.

"Los Angeles?"

That was Lucifer's playground. He'd be a guppy in a pool of sharks.

Still worth it. Maybe.

He doesn't even know why he's still here. Why he hasn't collected Christopher's soul yet; except aged souls taste better, don't they?

"I want you with us," Eddie says, gaze firm.

Yeah, aged souls taste better. He doesn't think about the warm fondness that curls at that statement.

So of course he follows them to Los Angeles, and of course he becomes a firefighter, because who else is going to bring this idiot home to his son?

And then Shannon comes back.

And then Shannon dies.

He watches Shannon watch them, carefully staying in the shadows. All three of them are sobbing, even if two aren't aware of the third. The air is heavy with grief and anguish and Christopher's pitiful little pleas for "Bucky! Where's Buck?!" and Eddie's bewildered attempts to soothe his son.

He doesn't come out, despite Christopher's calls, and he doesn't pick up the buzzing in his pocket even as he watches Eddie stare at his phone in frustration.

He doesn't leave, either. Not until the shadows grow darker, and Shannon's desperate sobs turn into fearful ones as they reach for her and swallow her whole.

The contract was only ever for one, after all.

They're both mad at him in the same way, but different all the same.

He doesn't say a word when Christopher rails at him, hiccuping sobs and tearful accusations and pleas for explanations.

He doesn't say a word, just wrangles those flailing fists in gently and folds the kid into a hug.

And he doesn't say a word when Eddie just collapses next to him, uttering a single, exhausted, "Why didn't you pick up?" before he leans in anyway.

He doesn't say a word. He just stays.

"This is becoming habit, little brother."

A bad one, she doesn't say.

He ignores her, staring intently through the window of the PICU, where Eddie sits with his son.

They stand there for a while; a quiet, undisturbed oasis in the chaos of the normal hustle and bustle.

"He fell last week," he says at last. "It's normal, really, for those with his condition. But I could smell it--" Could smell the fluid leaking into his brain, and could do nothing but watch as it worsened until Eddie could finally see that it wasn't normal.

"He's human," is all Maddie offers.

His jaw clenches and he very carefully keeps his words to himself. The want, the need to fix Christopher, because Christopher deserves so much better than what he got.

He feels weirdly panicked at the thought.

He barely notices when Maddie leaves later, still focused on the sleeping figures inside the room.

"Sir," a nurse appears at his side, confused. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know how you got in here, but it's not visiting hours yet."

"I've been here," he says, shooting her a smile. "I was just returning from the bathroom. Thank you."

"But--!"

He waves her off and slips into the room, settling down on the chair next to Eddie, and waits for them to wake up.

Eddie kisses him on a random Tuesday morning, and it's strange, but he's never tasted this flavor before. He chases it as the man pulls back, eager for more.

"I love you," Eddie whispers.

And he stills, because it couldn't really be--

"You don't have to say it back, I just wanted you to know."

He's been lusted and he's been loved. But this is--this is warm sunshine and soft clouds and--only Eddie Diaz. He wants to laugh.

Instead he kisses Eddie; licks into his mouth and devours him.

And then it all ends on a random Sunday morning at the park. The sun is shining. The breeze is cool. But there's only the acrid aftertaste of shock and horror swirling.

"Save him! Please, please, save him!"

He tilts his head and studies the ever familiar tableau of humanity, except this time, it's Eddie on his knees cradling the limp body of his ten year old son. This time, it's Eddie's anguish blooming in the air like a wretched perfume.

For years he's tended to this particular flame; kept it warm and bright so that it could return home where it belonged.

The home that is now no longer there.

He already tastes the ash on the air; can see grief darker than black seeping in.

He doesn't taste Christopher at all, just the bitter edge of his pain in the air and the tangy salt of the hysterical child he had sacrificed his life for. The bright little soul is gone. The contract is broken. The silly little string tethering him is gone.

He feels...bereft.

He feels distant. Detached.

"Please, Buck. I-I know what you are. I know why Abuela is afraid of you. Please!"

And he's stunned, because of course. Of course that's why this Love tastes so different, so pure. Because it is pure. Because Eddie Diaz has always known what he is, and he loves him anyway.

It hurts.

He lets the last of his humanity slip from his countenance.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. The rote if not the temptation. A century of binding contracts and loopholes. Christopher managed to slip neatly through one and now he's not sure if he wants to get him back.

It's not something he would have hesitated over, before.

But this is Eddie. And it's Chris.

They are his.

They were his.

It hurts.

"Buck! Please!"

He's seen time and time again the results of desperate grief, seen time and time again the inherent wrongness of those brought back from beyond, whether they went up or down.

He doesn't know how to tell Eddie this. Doesn't know if he'll care. He tries anyway.

"I can't, Eddie," he says gently. "He's gone."

Eddie's face twists, anger and grief warring as he stares. Denial is sour and strong in the air. He clutches the broken body closer to him.

"He's not! You can fix it! You can!"

"I can't," he repeats. "You wouldn't want me to."

"I do. I do, I do." Eddie dissolves into sobs again, curling over the tiny body that used to house his son.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," he says as the paramedics finally arrive, far too late.

He watches as they take the body away, watches Eddie stagger after them, back curved over with grief and the inability to accept this new reality.

He watches, and does not follow that wildly flickering, already drastically dimming flame.

He doesn't go back to the Diaz house, and doesn't attend the funeral. He doesn't see Eddie Diaz again, and definitely doesn't miss him. Doesn't miss either of them.

The contract is finished. Annulled, if you will.

He didn't get what he was promised, but he's not too torn up about it. The kid deserves his final destination.

More than anyone, he thinks.

He doesn't think about checking up on Eddie; doesn't want to bear witness to the final, sputtering moments of that particular flame.

Perhaps it's cowardly of him, but he stays away, all the same.

It's bad form to get so attached, for something like him.

He takes on a few short term contracts, but they taste...weird. Off in a way that's distasteful and he's frustrated, to say the least.

He's almost considering a trip back downstairs, because the level of attachment he still denies feeling is a little bit disturbing. There's nothing like spending time in the pit to give yourself perspective. It wasn't even his longest contract. He doesn't know why he's acting like this; doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about them.

Three months later he's in another circle, staring down at deeply etched, almost angry lines, and back up at one glowering Eddie Diaz.

He studies the offering at his feet; a familiar, if worn, blue notebook with Magiꓘ written in blocky, childish letters. The Attachment on it makes him swallow hard, a twinge of emotion that gets caught in his chest, because it's Eddie's, layered over Christopher's.

He looks back up, drinks in the sight of those too sharp cheekbones and shadowed, sunken eyes. The flame of his soul flickers wildly, as though agitated. There's a strange flavor in the air. Anger and grief and despair tinged with something almost like…longing?

He tilts his head, trying to suss out the man's feelings. "I'm not going to bring him back, Eddie."

Grief is prevalent on that face for a moment.

"I know," Eddie grits out between clenched teeth. "That's not why I called you."

He waits. There's a tiny flutter of nervousness threading through him. Why, he couldn't say.

Eddie flags, arms dropping from where they're crossed and suddenly looking so very tired. "This is stupid." He rubs his face aggressively.

"Did you...want to make a bargain?" He ventures tentatively.

"No." Eddie glares at him again, and were his eyes that red-rimmed a minute ago? That darker-than-black grief surfaces again.

And he is confused, because this--this has never happened. A summons without a deal. Eddie fucking Diaz, ladies and demons.

And then, to his utter horror, Eddie's crying. He's backing away from the circle like he can't go fast enough, sinking to the floor when he hits the wall.

He watches him with something like sympathy.

Okay. This is more familiar. Grief-fueled madness. It's the only explanation for this.

He steps out of the circle and sits tentatively besides Eddie, bumping shoulders like old times.

Eddie doesn't acknowledge him, but his outburst is already dissipating into quiet hiccups and heavy breathing.

"Why am I here, Eddie?" He asks quietly, when the silence stretches too long.

Eddie laughs wetly.

"I miss him," he finally says. "I miss you."

He is...he doesn't know what he is. There's something bright bubbling, almost bursting, at that admission. That familiar, addictive flavor is on the tip of his tongue.

"I know it's stupid, to miss a demon. But I feel like I lost both of you that day."

"I miss you, too," he admits out loud, perhaps for the first time. "And I am sorry that I couldn't bring him back."

Eddie looks at him, startled, then hesitant.

"We have feelings too," he says, rolling his eyes. "Sometimes," he adds, then, "not a lot, really. It's hard to explain." And it is hard to explain this roiling desire to wholly possess. He doesn't know if his kind can love. He doesn't know if they can, but he wants.

"You were special. You are special." He grins briefly before sobering up and staring at Eddie earnestly. "I liked your kid. I liked Christopher. I know you're sad. I get why you are, but trust me when I say he's in a very good place, okay?"

Eddie sniffs, dropping his watery gaze back to where his legs are stretched out in front of him.

He smiles, pleased as the flame that is Eddie Diaz stabilizes, just a little.

"And I really do like you, okay? I just didn't think you wanted to see me around when I didn't do as you wanted."

He's not nervous, because that's dumb.

"I was definitely...angry," Eddie admits, quietly. "But I lov--I thought we were at least friends."

"We are friends," he defends, sidestepping the other issues, even as he savors it on his tongue. "Whatever the circumstances that brought me into your life, you're important to me. I like the person you are, Eddie Diaz, and I like...who I am around you."

"Christopher."

"What?"

"You said whatever the circumstance, but it was Christopher that brought you into my life."

"So he did."

They fall quiet again, both staring at the notebook.

"Will you stay?"

"For as long as you'll have me."

Fingers find his and thread in between them.

"Promise?"

The binding is soft and light. Shackles of air that caress him. Little whispers in his ear. That delicious, delectable flavor again.

"Promise."

"Was I a good man?" The tremulous voice is weak, disused. The hand that grips his arm is of similar strength, belonging to an old man in an old house, forgotten by society perhaps, but not alone. Never alone.

"You were," he soothes, sitting vigil even as the sweet, cloying perfume of death is growing thicker by the minute and he's struggling not to choke on it. "You still are."

"Will I get to see him?"

He feels the sharp pressure of tears, but swallows it.

"I know you will."

Eddie subsides with a sigh, closing his eyes.

It's been a good ride. A blink of an eye in the grander scheme of things, but he has no regrets.

"And you?"

Eddie's staring at him again, worried.

He blinks. "Me?"

"Will I see you again?"

He swallows, mouth closing around the No.

No matter how far demons crawl from the pit, there is no way upstairs.

"One day," he lies, smiling gently.

It isn't technically a lie. He'll see this particular soul again one day, maybe--just housed in another body. He'll never taste that particular flavor again, though.

Eddie studies him. He's rather unsure how much Eddie actually sees through those cloudy eyes.

"Promise?"

He hesitates, because he can feel the edges of a contract, and while they're just as soft and light, they hurt against his skin.

"Promise, Buck?"

His eyes are burning and he has to take a deep breath before replying.

"I promise."

He needs to leave. He has things to do.

But he's still there when the air grows stale, a cooling husk on the bed beside him that once housed someone he used to know. The shadows have long whisked him beyond reach.

He's still there when they take that empty corpse away, unnoticed by the men and women looking through the house for clues on next of kin.

He's still there when they start packing up things for auction or garbage, no next of kin to be found.

He slips a faded little action figure into his pocket, incinerates a little blue notebook and finally leaves out the door with the rest of the garbage.

He occasionally pokes at the edges of this new, ridiculous contract that was somehow allowed to form; that he somehow allowed to form.

He's down three for three, now. It's unheard of for someone of his lineage. Two souls he let slip through his fingers and now what seems an unfulfillable contract.

And even though it means nothing, he finds himself often loitering by certain tombstones, ignoring the weeping souls still tethered to this mortal coil.

He wanders for a year, but is more restless and sometimes too angry to want to deal with the pettiness of mortals.

When he can't take it anymore, he goes home.

"Mom," he says, standing a respectful distance from the chaise she lounges on. It's always a gamble, disturbing her. He doesn't want to end up having to spend another century climbing out of the deepest pits on a happy whim. Although, it would certainly give him something to do and take his mind off certain things. Still, not his idea of a fun time.

She stirs, a cloud of brimstone and ash swirling into the air.

"Hello, darling," she purrs throatily. "We haven't seen you in a while. Come give your mother a kiss."

He swallows and carefully does as she wishes before backing away again.

"Hypothetically speaking, how would one locate a specific soul?"

"Just take a Hunter, darling. Let them do all the work."

He's not nervous. He's not.

"What if they're upstairs?"

Vermilion eyes, usually sleepy and lidded, focus sharply on him.

He stills, pinned underneath the weight of that gaze and the regard behind it. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck.

"What's this, Evan? You've never shown interest one way or another."

"I was cheated out of a deal," he hedges, struggling not to fidget or drop his gaze, to keep a bland if still slightly cowed expression on his face. "I want the soul I'm owed."

His mother leans forward, amused and intrigued all at once.

"Need we revisit some lessons, darling? It isn't like you to lose a deal."

"There was a sacrifice," he half-lies, because it may be true for Christopher, but there was no excuse for letting Eddie slip through his fingers.

"Hmm." He absolutely doesn't fidget as she studies him, and doesn't relax even as she settles back onto her chaise. "And is it truly worth the chaos? To devour a soul from upstairs?"

He affects a slightly sulking expression and doesn't say anything, because anything he says will definitely give him away.

His mother laughs. "I suppose we haven't had any trouble for awhile. I can call in a few favors to get you upstairs for a time. There are no guarantees once you're there, though."

She fixes her gaze on him again.

"But in exchange, you'll do a few things for me first, won't you, darling?"

The edges of this deal are thorns, piercing and sharp. He doesn't hide the wince this time; doesn't scream when they tear into him with malicious glee.

"Yes, mother."

"Fuck," he says before he even opens his eyes. The pain lingers in his bones, sunken deep and taken permanent residence.

"You're an idiot."

He doesn't have to look over to see the look on Maddie's face.

Recovery is going to set him back at least a year.

"What the hell made you decide to do that?"

He sighs and doesn't reply.

"Gonna get yourself killed, little brother."

It wouldn't be the worst thing, he doesn't say aloud.

It's peaceful.

He can't breathe.

It hurts. It hurts.

He sinks to his knees. The enormity of what he wants suddenly hits him.

He doesn't know where to begin.

He can't think past the pain.

It's not as painfully bright, when he comes to.

"You're a long way from home, little demon."

He turns his head, eyeing the man standing serenely just off to the side of him with suspicion.

"What's it to you?"

"What indeed."

He fidgets under that calm gaze and struggles to sit up, hoping to lose that vulnerable, horribly exposed feeling.

He wants to snarl, to slash, to fight and bleed. Anything to offset the pain of his teeth on edge.

He doesn't, obviously.

He's stupid, not suicidal.

"I'm looking for someone," he admits finally.

"Are you now."

He sends the man an annoyed look and gets a benevolent smile in return.

He's not sulking. He's not.

The smile widens suddenly, and it's like a veneer strips away. The man is suddenly more bearable.

"Come on, then," the man says, turning.

"Wait, what?" He asks, scrambling to follow.

"We don't really have names anymore, but you can call me Bobby."

He wonders what that's like. To simply exist and be. At peace, everlasting.

It sounds kind of boring, frankly.

Bobby looks amused, as if he can hear what he's thinking.

"What will you do, Efniel?"

He scowls and doesn't flinch. He hasn't heard that name in more than a century, and never without the promise of pain.

"I made a promise," he grits out from between his teeth. "It's binding."

Bobby studies him. "So it is. The thing is, rules are rules, Efniel. You shouldn't be here. Eventually, souls will return to the cycle of things. You simply need wait."

He flounders, because he thought as much. It could, quite literally, take forever. Humanity is more likely to wipe itself out first than a soul willingly departing the Sea of Tranquility to re-enter the Cycle of Suffering. Another millennia, at least.

"Screw the rules," he mutters.

Bobby smiles.

"Of course, there are alternatives. You could join the mortal coil yourself. Take your chances that one day the gates may be open to one such as yourself."

He feels dizzy with how fast the blood drains from his face, and clenches his jaw to keep the tremble at bay. Phantom memories of pain are already skittering across his skin. Being human? Hah. They would come for him, endlessly, ceaselessly, unrelentingly.

"Otherwise, he in his remorse, turned back and repented. Sevenfold."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"You're fairly young, Efniel, but you've been quite prolific, haven't you."

"You haven't met my mother," he deadpans.

"221,264 souls reside in hell because of you."

He crosses his arms, petulant. "You don't think that's a little bit unfair? Free will is free will, after all."

Bobby slides him a look, and he huffs.

"In cold, hard numbers, that's 1,548,848 souls that you must guide to the light if you wish for a boon. And we won't talk about the 12,235 souls you personally tended to in Hell, because we both know how you feel about that, don't we, Efniel?"

He looks away and doesn't reply.

Penance then, if not penitence--and he's not so sure about the latter. He'd been so young, then, before he had the strength to crawl out.

It would still take a long time, but maybe not forever; a toss up, either way.

Temptation is easy. Despair even more so, but to keep from temptation is a full time job.

Lifetimes instead of moments.

For a minute, he considers whether it's worth it. Considers why he's even going so far and what he's already sacrificed to get here because he doubts Eddie or Christopher even remember him anymore.

His peers would definitely see it as a challenge. His family would not take it lying down. They'd probably disown him and then it'd be open season with the other families. They'd drag him back to the pit for the trophy points alone.

Both options presented at least a few centuries of possible unforgiving torture, definite and relentless pursuit and absolute loneliness.

Only one would give him any sort of chance to defend himself.

He should walk away. He needs to walk away.

Instead, he thinks about Eddie's face. The warmth of his hands. Christopher's smile.

The addicting flavor of a pure, one of a kind love.

He takes a deep breath and draws his own shackles.

"Deal."