Chapter Text
Look.
Look. Look. Look. Look.
In his defence he never thought it’d go this far. In his defence he’d totally had this under control. But – he skids around the corner, feet slipping out from under him, he catches his fall by the palm of his hand on the rain-soaked concrete of the sidewalk and uses it to immediately push himself back onto his feet – maybe it had gone just a little too far. Spiraled just a little out of his control. It didn’t mean Lucifer was right or anything. Of course not. His heart drummed against his chest, in time with the loud thud-thud-thuds of heavy footsteps behind him. He careened around another corner, ducking into a dark alleyway and pressing his back against the wall. Clamping a hand over his mouth to catch his wheezing breath he watched as they stormed past the alley, before scrambling up the nearest fire escape. He wiped the rain out of his eyes, hissing when his hand slipped over a rough, rusted part of the railing. Pulling himself onto the roof he, he cradled his injured hand as he watched the little figures race on down the street.
An hour. He’ll give it an hour before he makes his way back home. He takes out his phone, using his body to shield it from the rain. 6.17 P.M. and 15 unread messages.
Lucifer was going to kill him.
Mammon winced as he tried to one-handedly shimmy the window open. The lights switched on instantly to Lucifer standing beyond the pane, arms crossed and face set in a deadly scowl.
Shit.
Sneaking in had stopped working when Mammon had turned fourteen and Lucifer had quite possibly been bitten by a radioactive spider and developed super senses. For a moment he contemplated the pros and cons of climbing back down and spending the night on the streets. Somehow, bloodthirsty loan sharks seemed more inviting than the wrath of his older brother. Before he could arrive at a more conclusive decision however, the window had been swung open, nearly knocking him off his perch, and Lucifer had caught his wrist in an iron grip.
“Don’t you dare,” Lucifer hissed, his eyes seem to almost blaze red in the low light before he’s forcefully dragging Mammon inside.
Shit.
"What the hell do you think you’re doing,” Lucifer hisses again, his whole body quivering with the strain of keeping his voice down. “Do you have any notion of what the time is. You were supposed to be home hours ago. You were supposed to keep an eye on the others. You were supposed to be here. Has your stupidity grown to the point where reading the time is no longer possible!?”
Mammon shrinks under his words, glaring sullenly at his boots. The lecture would probably take hours and Lucifer’s current mood meant there was no way he could ask for more money to pay off his current debts. He may have to resolve to stealing it, except –
“Is money no longer the only thing you cannot be trusted with. I needed those extra shifts Mammon.” Lucifer sags, and Mammon is keenly aware of the bags under his eyes. Suddenly he looked ancient, centuries older than just thirty-four, and with the world on his shoulders. “We needed those extra shifts. We cannot afford this, Mammon. The gambling, the debts, the everything. It needs to stop, immediately. Do you understand?”
“I know. I do. I’m sorry.” And he was. He always was. He never meant for it to go this far. Things so rarely managed to catch and keep his attention. But the exchange of money, the swift movement of something they so rarely had in extra, did. It drew him with the promises of everything the rich had, everything he and his brothers could have, with just a little more of their own. All he had to do was invest a little, gamble a little, and he’ll get it all back tenfold. And sure, he’d lost the first time but surely, he couldn’t lose the second or the third or the fourth or the hundredth time. Surely the odds will eventually fall in his favour. And he had already lost too much, he couldn’t stop now. The odds will eventually fall in his favour and he’d win big, big enough to cover what he’d lost and cover what he’d promised. And till they did, all he had to do was keep playing. He never meant to lose control.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, anger at himself forming a tight knot in his chest, “Could – could ya explain it to ‘im? Tell him it was my fault? That I’ll clean up my act and he won’t have ta worry ‘bout ya missin’ another shift again? He is ya boyfriend so maybe he’ll be lenient and–”
“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my friend,” Lucifer snapped. “Besides, we already rely on Diavolo’s charity, to ask for more would be–” Lucifer cuts himself off with a sigh, deflating just slightly. “Do you have any more left,” Lucifer asks, the anger sizzled down for now.
And Mammon thinks about the last time Lucifer bailed him out, about how far in the red he currently is, and he says, “Nah, I’m all good. I’m quittin’, I promise this time. I’m done. Got no more scores ta settle.”
“Good.”
Shit.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“QUIT USING THE WIFI! I need to watch – “
“WELL I need to watch – “
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“THAT’S NOT IMPORTANT AT ALL! Just watch it later! Rur – “
“IF I DON’T WATCH THE REVIEW FOR THE LATEST SKINCARE PRODUCTS HOW WOULD I KNOW IF – “
“I’m hungry.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I DON’T CARE! RURI-CHAN IS WAY MORE IMPOR- “
“HOW DARE YO- “
“You’re both too loud.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“JUST RECORD IT AND- “
“YOU RECORD I- “
“Guysssss stop fighting! It makes me thirst for the blood of th-”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“ASMO! YOU HEARTLE- “
“LEVI YOU USELESS OTA- “
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH"
Mammon jolted back into reality, the wooden spoon he had been using, hitting against the edge of the pan and splashing his already injured hand with boiling water. He swore under his breath, hurrying to hold it under the tap. Satan’s wailing continued as Levi and Asmo continued to scream at each other over it, he could feel a headache throbbing to life behind his eyes.
“ALL OF YA SHUT UP! NO ONE GETS THE WIFI GOT IT! NONE OF YA!”
“WHAT!”
“THAT’S NOT FAIR!”
“Yeah? Well tough luck buddy.” He walked around the kitchen table, plucking the wailing toddler off the floor and bouncing him on his hip. “I’m in charge here.” He gratefully took the fuzzy kitten plushie Lilith held up to him and bounced it in front of Satan’s red scowling face, adding ridiculous sound effects to make it seem all the more enticing.
“Why do you get to be in – “
“Cause I’m the only adult here and Lucifer left me in charge so I say no one gets it! Got a problem with it? Take it up with the old man when he gets back. Now out. All of ya!” He gives them his best scowl, Lucifer’s patented ‘Don’t Fuck With Me, I’ll Break a Chair Over Your Head’ scowl that he’d spent many a night practicing in front of his mirror, while he uses the face of the toy to tickle Satan’s tummy.
Asmo and Levi give him identical withering looks before slinking off. Teenagers. There was no way he was that much trouble. Lucifer’s premature grey hair was definitely due to something completely unrelated to Mammon’s own teenage years.
“I’m hungry,” Beel whines pitifully.
And Mammon almost gives in, before he shakes himself out of it and carefully hands Satan over to Beel, “I’ll call when the pasta’s done, just don’t try ta kill each other till then.”
“Whatever,” Belphie says, with a roll of his eyes. “C’mon.” He tugged on Beel’s sleeve, yelling over his shoulder as they leave, “Lilith. Come.”
Mammon shuddered to think what it would be like in a year’s time when those two finally became teenagers. Beel would probably very realistically eat them out of house and home. He’d have to start working street corners just to avoid the possibility of Beel resorting to cannibalism at the lack of food. And sex work was a brutal cutthroat business but his legs would look good in a skimpy little dress, he’d definitely be able to score some regulars. Though it was also a dangerous business but if he could get Lucifer as his pimp – surely Lucifer’s trademark scowl would protect him. But would Lucifer’s talents be wasted as just a pimp… Wouldn’t there be a market for Lucifer’s soft baby face? Wouldn’t there be people who wanted Lucifer to choke them out?
“Wouldn’t people pay Lucifer to step on them?”
“What?”
What.
“What?”
“Why would Lucifer want to step on any-“
“LILITH!”
“WHAT! You said-“
“DIDN’T I TELL YA TO GO?!?”
Lilith hissed at him. “You’ll regret this the day I finally feast on your blood!” She twirled the blanket she had draped across her shoulders, yelping when she tripped on the trailing ends. She hissed one more time and ran out of the room.
“What the fuck.”
“She’s going through a vampire phase.”
The noise Mammon then made was one of extreme manly surprise. It was rough and gruff and very extremely manly. Not at all something that could shatter glass.
Mammon clutched at his chest, blinking stupidly at the boy sitting at the furthest end of their small round breakfast table.
“Are ya… one of ours?” Mammon was almost certain the boy wasn’t one of his brothers – last he checked Levi and Asmo were the only teenagers in the house – but he also wouldn’t really put it past Lucifer to pick up another kid off the side of the road. At this point Mammon was waiting for Lucifer to bring out the cape, cowl and shiny spandex to take them out crimefighting.
The boy smiled, and there was something distinctly snake like about it that sent a shiver down Mammon’s spine.
“I’m a friend of Asmo’s,” he says, in that same soft amused voice.
“Right… What are ya-”
“I’ll be spending the night. We have a school project.”
“Right. Does Lucifer know?”
“Oh. Lucifer knows.” The boy’s smile widens, if that was even possible, but his eyes remain fixed on Mammon. There’s something cold and calculating in them, something that says he’s measuring Mammon up, deeming whether he’s worthy.
“Okay, well,” he turns back towards the pasta, stirring it just so he didn’t have to make eye contact with the boy. “Keep the door open.”
“You seem troubled.”
Mammon once again made an extremely manly sound as he spins around, tripping over his own feet when he comes face to face with the smiling boy. His heart pounds, frantic, as the hair on the back of his neck rises. He hadn’t heard the chair move. Hadn’t heard the boy’s footsteps.
“I’m fine.” His voice comes out weak and cracked. Unconvincing.
The boy smiles.
“You look like you could use a friend.”
“Look,” Mammon says, focusing on the indignation that swirls within rather than the rapid beating of his heart or the sweat that prickles on the back of his neck. “I don’t need a friend, specially some teenager. Ya got it.”
The boy laughs. It seems to echo across their small kitchen. Mammon clenches his teeth.
“Oh,” he says, silver eyes dancing with amusement. “I don’t need a new friend, I already have Asmo. But,” he pulls out a business card, holding it out to Mammon, “I know someone who does. They can help you with all your money problems Mammon. .....You’ll finally stop being an useless burden to Lucifer.....”
The boy’s voice seems to drift to him from far, from past a dense fog, but all he can focus on is the blindingly white card. On the name and number, printed in pitch black, and sitting at its centre. He reaches for it with steady hands, no matter how much his chest hurts or his ears ring. It’s rough under his fingers. Rough and warm, seeming to emit its own heat. There’s not a wrinkle on it. Not a speck of dust. Not a fingerprint. But he’d seen the boy pull it out of his pocket, it should have been–
The boy.
Mammon’s head whips upwards as he jolts back into reality, away from the fog that had consumed him. The kitchen is empty, he can hear the sounds of his brothers drifting towards him from the sitting room. The card is warm in his hands.
It takes him three days. Three days to even take the card out from where he had stuffed it under a pile of washed laundry on his desk chair. Three days of avoiding certain parts of town, of dodging into alleyways, of ignoring calls, of every nerve in his body being on edge as he carted the kids back and forth from school. He’s already got one kid mixed up in all of his bullshit, he doesn’t really want to stop to think about what would happen if they got wind of his siblings. Whatever Lucifer did to him would never compare with the guilt, anger and self-hatred that would consume him if he got the brats entangled in his messes.
That.
That sobering thought is what has him reaching under his pile of laundered clothes on a Friday night after he’d fed the gaggle of hell demons he called siblings.
The card, when he finally pulls it out, is still pristine in his hands. Rough to the touch and cool. Distantly, Mammon wonders exactly what kind of panicky adrenaline-pain high he had been on last time to imagine it radiating its own heat. He flips it over. Squints at it and flips it over again, as if that would make anything other than the single word – a name – and the inconspicuous – local – phone number, magically appear on it. It didn’t.
Whoever this was, whatever new blackhole this sucked him down even Mammon knew there was something highly…off about it. Knew there was something telling in the way a persistent chill seemed to settle along his body as he stared at the card. A sixth sense of foreboding.
But.
He thought of her. That sickly little girl that was always looking up at him, always clinging to his pants and begging him not to leave her behind again.
He thought of Lucifer. The bags under his eyes and the white in his hair. The strain in his voice as he struggled to provide for them all while managing Mammon’s ever rising debts.
He thought of his siblings. Annoying and energetic and troublemaking assholes who’d likely kill him and sell his organs for a packet of chips. He loved them to death.
He dialed the number.
Whatever this was, whoever this was, he only needed them till he could float and then he’d pay them off as well, if that’s how this thing worked. If this was a sex thing, well then, well he’d deal with that too. If this was a drug thing – Mammon grimaced – he was too naturally shifty to make a good drug mule. It wouldn’t help that he couldn’t keep a secret or tell a lie to – possibly quite literally in this case – save his life. If it was an assassin kind of deal though – if he had to be the chauffer of a mafia kingpin though – if he had to be a part of a high stakes heist though – if – if – if – if –
“‘lo?”
Mammon blinked. Pulled the phone away to look at its screen and blinked again as a small slurred voice mumbled through it. He fumbled to press it back against his ear, scared that they would cut the line and that he wouldn’t find the courage to call back.
Heart in his throat and sweat beading along his temples, he says “Hello?”
“Listen,” the voice said, heavy with sleep. It had to be barely past eight, who the fuck went to sleep at ei– “If you’re trying to sell me something, I’m really not interested. Like I get it’s your job but I really don’t need another–”
“What?!? NO. I’m not – I’m not a fuckin’ telemarketer. JEEZ.”
“Oh. Is this – sorry who is this? It’s late?”
“It’s eight.”
“A.M?”
“P.M.”
“…right. Sorry, what’s happening?”
“I’m,” Mammon, took a deep breath. Would this even work? The voice still sounded groggy with sleep, and Mammon couldn’t very well imagine this being the person who’d pull him out of debt, this being the person he’d sell his soul to. But – but as far as he knew they were also his last hope. “I was given ya number – um your business card? Told you could help me with – ugh with my debt… it’s pretty – pretty bad right now. ‘s all in the red and I… don’t know what to do… But I, I was told I needed a…friend.. You…” he trailed off, realizing just how pathetic he’d started to sound, angry that he couldn’t make more of an impression, couldn’t sound sultry or badass enough that some shady back alley – black market trench coat wearing mysterious silhouette would see his worth and be willing to invest in him.
“Solomon.” Their voice is now startlingly clear, awake and aware within a single instance but –
“Wha– NO. This is Mammon. The fuck is Solomon.”
“No. Sorry, that’s my bad. Solomon – my… ah, associate, who gave you my card.”
“Your associate’s a fifteen-year-old?”
“No, not really–”
“–doesn’t really answer anythin’.”
“But I would be willing to meet up. See if my help would be rewarded. If you’re okay with that?”
“I,” No. No backing away now. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
“Great. Your choice, pick a place and time. I’m at your service.”
“Right, umm…,” Mammon licked his lips, the chill that had lifted when he first spoke to them, when he heard the sleep laced in their voice – something so normal – was back with a vengeance. It settled in his bones and made his throat tight. He ran his free hand up the back of his neck, trying to ward off the creeping cold.
“Mammon?” the voice asked, stern and close – too close. Mammon whipped around, breath rattling in his chest as he stared blankly at the empty room. The world outside his window was still and dark. Oddly quiet for an early Friday night.
“Yeah,” Mammon answered at length, taking a deep breath and trying to swallow past the panic that was threatening to choke him. Why. Why. Why was he–
“A time and place, Mammon,” the voice said, calm and cold and small, coming through his phone. Why was he shaki–
“Right.” Deep breaths. “Sorry.” Stupid. Stupid. Why was he panicking!? They had been nothing but civil. They were letting him call the meeting on his terms. They were nice to telemarketers. He was alone in his room. They couldn’t see him. He rattled out a place, a small coffee shop, far enough from his house that he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him but close enough that he knew all the routes for a quick getaway. “Tomorrow, 10 A.M. good for ya?”
“It’s perfect Mammon,” the voice whispered in his ear, the calm cold indifference in it cracking to let just a hint of amusement seep through.
“Okay. Yeah. Cool. See ya th-”
The phone beeps and then goes silent.
He stands there for a second, blankly, staring ahead and seeing nothing, before he pulls the phone from his ear. It’s cold in his hand, the black screen reflecting his own wide-eyed face.
It’s dead.
Refusing to turn back on no matter how hard or how long he presses at it.
When he, in somewhat of a daze, finally plugs it into his charger it flickers briefly before starting up at zero percent. His heart thunders as he stares at the slowly loading bar. His throat dries. Somewhat, hysterically, he wishes he was small enough to justify crawling into his big brother’s bed.
In the end it’s another sleepless night. Less because he can’t get his brain to quiet down or because he can’t stop the restless energy from pooling in his calves and more because he can’t shake the feeling of eyes staring at him from the pitch black world outside his window, even once he gives in and draws the curtains.