Work Text:
There’s something about seeing a dead man’s face that Faust is foolishly unprepared for. He stumbles, eyes wide, face no doubt betraying the imperfections he is not supposed to have.
"Don't do that," Faust snaps, recovering quickly. He rounds on the demon, irritation quickly overtaking his shock. His crossbow is a heavy, comforting weight at his side, and he runs his fingers over the cool metal.
"Do what?" the demon asks innocently. He grins, a flash of white among pale skin. "I haven't even done anything yet."
"Don't wear that face," Faust snaps, tearing his gaze away. He glares at the sky instead of the demon, reigning back the emotions that threaten to choke him. Loss, sorrow, guilt, and rage; all neatly packed away. Shoot, aim, walk. "Don't taunt me like that."
The demon slips closer, until Faust can feel his presence at his back, all but hanging over him."Is that a wish, angel?" it giggles. "If you want to order me around like that, you need to give something in return, you know." A snap, a brief pause, and then a rush of blue light that spills onto Faust's periphery.
Faust closes his eyes and steels himself, before looking back. Demons are cruel. This one is still wearing Eno's face. He looks down at the palm that is thrust out to him, splayed invitingly at his direction and trailing azure fire, then back at the demon's expectant expression.
"I'm not an angel anymore," he says. "You should know that, if you're going to steal his face. And even if I were, I don't have a soul to give you."
The demon grins. "Oh, but you are," he protests. "And oh, but you do. You have plenty to give me."
In an instant, Faust is on his feet, crossbow leveled and ready to shoot. "No," he snarls. "You can't take them."
The demon eyes the arrow pointed at his face, but sighs dramatically. "All you angels," he whines. "So scary, so one-track minded. Relax. I'm not here to prey on your makeshift charges."
Faust raises an eyebrow. He hoists his crossbow slightly higher, keeping it trained on the demon. "There's nothing else."
The demon sighs again. "No," he whines. "Mortals are so boring, you know. So easy to crack, so blandly similar. I want a game. A challenge. I want an angel."
"I'm not an angel," Faust reminds him, even as his mouth flattens in thought. As lies went, this one wasn’t even halfway convincing. Who’s ever heard of a demon who didn’t want mortal souls? Who willingly tangled with the angels that had the power to destroy them?
Well, if there was a demon that wanted a contract with an angel, he supposes it’d make sense to start with the defective ones.
Regardless; the demon was a threat. It wasn’t even trying to pretend it wasn’t, at this point. Faust fires.
The demon yelps, scrambling to dodge. The bolt collides with the wall behind him, sending debris flying. He missed. Oh, well. Another shot. Faust reloads and re-aims, narrowing his eyes in focus.
"Are you really that eager to kill me again, Sasha?" Eno asks quietly.
Faust's grip slips on his crossbow.
"Shut up," he rasps, the sound of his own voice alien to his ears, wild and ragged. "Shut up, don't pretend to be him." The crossbow clatters onto the ground with the rattle of steel on rock. He whirls around, trying to calm his trembling fingers.
A hand catches him on the shoulder. Faust whirls around, snarling. Eno— the demon— he reminds himself sharply, reels back, eyes wide. Fake. Staged. An imitation.
Demons lied, cheated, and stole to get their way. Nothing they said was true. Trust a demon, and spell your own doom. That was what he told his charges. He'd never expected to have to tell himself.
"Sasha—" the demon begins. A lie. An act.
"Faust," he corrects sharply. "That's my name. Don't call me by anything else."
"Faust," the demon says, quietly. Then, bright and forced, "I could really be him, if you wanted. You wouldn't even have to know the difference. All you have to do is let me…"
A whisper on the wind, breathed into the curve of his ear, a soft caress; the temptation that pulled his charges under.
"No," Faust says. The demon is watching him, faint melancholy across his stolen features. "That face will save your life, but nothing else."
A mirthless smile twists Eno's face. "Alright, angel," he murmurs. He takes his hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, bowing to expose the back of his neck. "Mephisto, at your service."
With one last grin, he disappears, lost in the wind. Faust looks down at his hand, knuckles burning with the memory of the touch, and sighs.
A demon named Mephisto who wore Eno's face. How troublesome.
It's a surprise when Faust calls him for a change.
Mephisto has a feeling he knows what happened, but it’s still quite the sight to see Faust surrounded by bodies.
He glances at the sky as he arrives. It’s cold despite the sun, a chill seeping through the air. He takes one step on the soil, dirt crunching beneath his boots, and he can feel the traces of every lost human soul on the grounds. Newly departed, forced to wander endlessly.
What a shame. Mephisto could put them to good use. There’s a reason he likes cemeteries.
As he draws nearer to Faust, the souls grow thicker. More and more litter the air, the atmosphere thick with agony.
“I’ve never been summoned by an angel before,” Mephisto comments as he stops beside Faust to peer into the grave.
It’s not a pretty sight. Bodies are piled high, strewn carelessly without the same regard given to all the neatly staggered gravestones he just passed. Eager to be away with, some abandoned before their breath even died in their lungs. Among all of the forgotten dead, several have been retrieved, bodies propped up carefully, eyes closed as if resting.
And among all of them; Faust. He looks almost like any other angel that's not fighting; a marble statue, their purpose fulfilled for the day. Unblinking, not needing to concern themselves with mortal flaws like breath. Faust is frozen in his grief, head bowed, hair falling into his face, eyes closed in sorrow.
Mephisto hadn’t known angels could break. There’s something beautiful about it.
“Mephisto,” Faust says. He does not rise, but his head swivels to look at him, eyes opening. He tilts his head to the bodies, hair falling limply around his cheeks. “Save them,” he says, simply. “Bring them back.”
Oh.
Mephisto knew the moment Faust summoned him, but something about it hurts. Faust is no longer really an angel. He no longer has access to all the power of heaven to keep his charges safe until their time is ready. He no longer has any real charges at all, and he is under no oath or duty to protect them.
For all that he is no longer an angel, being an angel is all he knows. Be assigned a charge to protect until their time comes; love them as you should, as God's child; fight tirelessly and ceaselessly, from charge to charge.
But it's the same as it always was. Mortals will always, always die, and eventually their time will come and Faust will hold them as they go.
“A deal, then,” Mephisto says smoothly, holding out his hand. Blue fire spills forth, casting long shadows over Faust’s form. “I’ll grant your wish.”
And in return, Mephisto takes whatever he wants.
Faust’s eyes meet Mephisto’s, unflinching. He stands and takes his hand.
Since he was created, since hundreds of years ago, since he had finally tracked down the disgraced angel that had been cast from heaven, Mephisto had really only wanted one thing:
Faust.
He’s not quite sure why. He doesn’t like to examine it too closely. He thinks there was a time, a very, very long time ago, where Faust was... safe. Arms around him, wings shielding him, a voice saying I’ll protect you.
Mephisto doesn’t know why, but he wants. He doesn’t quite know what, exactly, he wants from Faust, but he knows he wants Faust. There is nowhere else to go, no other cause to follow, besides Faust.
Faust clasps his hand. Fire binds them together, the terms of their contract Mephisto’s to forge, but he feels no triumph. He looks at the bodies that litter the floor, that flood out of the grave, then at the broken, detached angel in front of him. A hollow victory.
“What do you want, then?” Faust asks, voice empty.
Mephisto lifts his shoulders in a half shrug. “Your loyalty,” he says. “Denounce everything else, and swear yourself to me. Stay by my side, and dispose of my enemies.”
Faust blinks. He looks down at their clasped hands. “Alright.”
Mephisto smiles, and lets go. Despite the loss of contact, he can still feel it; the sting of the fire, the touch of Faust’s palm under his, the contract that binds them together. The start of an eternity.