Work Text:
In front of you lies all of your supplies. Watercolor and pencils and the highest quality liners sit in front of you. On your computer screen you have several different angles of the shark devil pulled up.
Last week he became the shark fiend, but before that a few of the public hunters tracked the thing down and beat it half to death. It means that the photos sent over are shitty and less than favorable quality, but still enough to work with. The shark devil, Beam as he’s been dubbed, looks like somebody attached ant legs to a multi-eyed shark. It’s more reminiscent of a shitty modge-podge you’d find in a side of the road museum. Tubes and guts spill out from the middle where it’s been sliced open. That makes your job of piecing this thing together so much harder. You can tell there’s too much lying there to have hid inside its stomach in the first place.
Pulling out your lightest red, you sketch out the body and back first, the simplest part. Right now it looks vaguely normal, resembling a great white or some other large shark you don’t know the name of.
Your job, simply put, is to catalogue the incarnations and reincarnations of devils. You paint, write, and publish all sorts of information. “Publish” may not be the best word, but it’s true that everything you do goes into the public division and governments pockets in some official way or another. It’s a prestigious position, and one that was passed down by your previous teacher and supervisor.
The most exciting bit of it is the access to information you have. There’s a million books and pages that came before your own, all easily accessible. It’s amazing to see the evolution of devils as they pass through several different cycles.
Perhaps the most exciting devil for you to watch, stare at through the pages yellowed by time, is the angel devil. Of many of the devils you spent time pouring over, angel is the most constant, and the most diverse.
In the oldest pages, the ones you have to handle with gloves and stare at through glass, a picture is painted of overwhelming eyes and overlapping rings of gold. It’s holy and horrifying all at once, and you swear you can feel life being sucked out of you through the pages.
In a strange way, it grows human over time. The oldest pages that draw firey wheels turn into oil paintings with four faces and six wings turn into a glowing man.
Tomorrow you will paint the newest incarnation. It’s rare you see a devil so close, in person rather than through a screen. Angel is apathetic you hear, indifferent to humans, a perfect balance of angel and devil. Murmurs that spread over message boards and through experienced hunters say he’s weaker. Before as long as the whisp floated past, you could feel your life force being drawn into the being. Now you have to touch him, even something as thin as cloth is protective enough.
Idly, you wonder if you should bring some gloves along with you.
—-
You’re guided down to the basement underneath public devil hunting headquarters alongside two experienced devil hunters. Scars cover their faces alongside frowns. Most hunters are serious and scoff if you talk for too long, unamused with your fascination for the very demons they kill.
It’s not enough to fully keep you quiet still. Nervously, as you pass devils already recorded within your pages, you chatter aimlessly.
A pair of gloves is tucked into your pocket.
Stopping in front of a nicer door, not chained metal like some of the others, you get a nod from one of the men guiding you. Slipping the cloth over your fingertips you brush past the men and into the open doorway.
Angel, the angel devil, is divine.
Now he almost passes as human. He , not it because there’s no rings of gold or fire in front of you.
It’s a man, soft as cotton and carved from stone. He lounges on a stiff threadbare couch. Angel doesn’t even look up when you enter, not a single bone in his body moves at all.
A halo hangs above his head, white gold that shines even in the dim light of the room. Wings a warm cream color spread out behind him.
It takes you a moment to find any sort of words.
“I’m here to paint you.” As you speak, his copper eyes trace their way over your face. Even as you stand in the center of the room, setting up your stool and easel he remains sagged into the couch.
Unbothered, you continue. Pulling out a pencil, you sketch out the devil’s figure, carving out the way his skin stretches over his bones. Right now angel is only clothed in a pair of pale shorts. His wait is thin, yet smooth. The devil isn’t build like a god, yet still so much more divine than man.
“Do you need me to move?” The voice is smooth and quiet. Eyes shimmer with some kind of emotion, you hope it’s intrigue.
Shaking your head, you wave your hand animatedly. “It’s fine, I don’t need a pose or anything. I’m just interested in capturing your appearance, so I’m still offered some creative liberty.” You’re voice is a bright contrast to everything dim and dark about the room.
Afterwards Angel lets his head rest back again, silence hanging in the air for one brief moment. You lips are quick to open again.
“If someone touches you, they lose some of their lifespan, correct?”
The devil makes eye contact with you again. He sizes you up, regarding you with a cover of apathy. A soft nod is the answer to your question.
“Do your wings count?” Angel’s eyes light up with a faint hint of surprise. “Or things like your hair, or the halo? The people outside couldn’t give me any specifics and I’d like to record as much as possible.”
“Why do you care?”
You’re appalled that he even asked the question. “It’s my job. There’s a lot of competition for this kind of feild, so I like to make sure I do a damn good job. Plus, I just find you interesting.”
At this point you’ve stopped sketching. Leaning back precariously on your stool, you snatch up your briefcase. Flipping through the insides you pull out his folder. “It was hard to find much record of you, or past incarnations,” you start. “There’s lots of stories, biblical and shit, but actual sightings are hard to get record of.” Breathless you sigh, “You are amazing.”
Showing off the several sketches and paintings (or photos of them at least), you hop off the stool and spread them over the floor. Each paper is accompanied with an entire history, which for now, you keep to yourself.
Angel doesn’t lean forward, but his eyes follow your hands. His face doesn’t show much interest. Most people don’t have the same passion for history that you do, so the silence in the air doesn’t disturb you.
“I doubt you remember any of this, but I find you just as fascinating this time around. Not that I’ve ever seen you in the flesh, I’ve just imagined this before.”
Fingers trembling, you sweep the pages into a stack once more. Tucking your bag beside you, you resume your position and pull out the pencil once more. This time your mouth manages to stat shut, though words still tug at your lips.
“Everything counts.”
You can’t hold back your surprise. “Everything?”
He gives you a nod. “My wings, my hair, everything that’s apart of me will suck your life away.” Angel hasn’t moved this entire time. The devil’s wings occasionally twitch, but other than that he seems nearly immobile.
“If something falls off though, or you cut your hair?”
“Then it’s moot.”
“What if…” You lick your lips, pondering the question for a moment. “If you had a hangnail, does the whole edge still count until it falls off? Or if you cut a finger off and reattached it? Even if the finger wasn’t yours in the first place, would that work?”
“I… don’t suppose it would.” Angel doesn’t offer anymore information. Though he doesn’t seem off-put by your blabbering, so you choose to continue on.
As you talk, about everything and nothing in particular, you continue your work. Drawing quickly and accurately is important. Smaller details like the color of Angel’s eyes, or the curve of his shoulders, or even the tan-line that barely peeks out from underneath his shorts aren’t important, though you embed them into your memory.
Instead you mark features ambiguously, focusing on sculpting out his wings and shading in the glow of his halo. You wish you could spend more time on this, fill in his cheeks properly and capture how the light moves and bends around him.
“How long will this take?”
“Probably an hour or two. Are you bothered?”
He doesn’t give you an answer, simply sinks further into the couch, turning his head to the side.
Silence envelopes you for a moment longer.
…
“Why do I look different now?”
“Different from the previous angel devils? I suppose that, since devils come from the fear of humans, it depends of human perception of you. That’s why I do what I do. The more we can track the past, and present to an extent, the easier it is to predict the future.”
“Why not ask the future devil?”
“Right, ‘cause the future is awesome,” you parrot. “I don’t fancy loosing an arm or two.”
He nods.
“You ask a lot of questions, but you keep avoiding my own. That’s a little rude.” You’re blabbering mouth can’t help but point that fact out.
Angel’s eyebrows twitch. You’ve been studying his face for awhile at this point, but you can’t decipher what the devil feels.
“See, you’re all quiet again, moody.”
“I don’t enjoy the company of humans.”
“Haven’t you heard that you should always be nice to the people serving you? I’ll seriously mess up this portrait.”
“And if I am nice?”
“I dunno,” you admit. “I’ll draw you super muscley, make sure your dick looks real big.”
The corners of his lips twitch. It’s not a laugh, not even a smile, just the barest traces of amusement. It’s still enough to make your own grin widen. Angel lets a puff of air escape from his mouth, nostrils flaring in the process.
“I better be nice then.”
The smile shows through even as you speak. “Damn right.”
It’s time to pull your paints out, the sketch has put in as much detail as possible. You don’t check your watch, you’re probably overtime like you always are.
You shade his face in a myriad of colors. Yellows and Reds and Blues melt together, crafting skin and hair. It’s hard to capture the colors, slightly inhuman. The pale skin, almost white but still full of color. His hair is a bright reddish orangish pink, desaturated, but not brown.
You don’t need to add in the lighting or the way his halo bends and spreads silver over his face, though you do regardless. There’s a million different reasons you got into this line of work, and one of them is simply the joy you have when painting. His wings offer a frustrating and beautiful background, full of the softest of rainbows.
“How soft are your feathers?” You eye them carefully. If it wouldn’t lead to your death you’d run your fingers through them.
Angel shrugs. “Soft.”
Your eyebrows raise. “That’s not very descriptive.”
Sighing the devil plucks a feather from his wings, extending his arm out to you. Surprised, you lean forward to take it from him. His fingertips are so close to you. If you brushed against him, just for a moment, you wonder how much life you’d lose.
You don’t though, instead you just take the edge of the feather and draw it towards you.
“It’s soft.”
He scoffs, “That’s what I said.”
You run your fingers over the cream vanes, making your way down towards the base of the quill, where the after feathers lie in fluffy short tendrils.
“And I’m not dying right now?”
A camera in the corner zooms in on you. On the other side somewhere agents are watching your conversation.
“No.” Angel pushes the words out a little forcefully. He eyes flicker towards the red light flickering on and off. “Are you done yet?”
“Not quite, You’re very distracting Angel-san.”
“You’re the one who keeps talking.”
“Hmmm.” You run the soft feather over the palm of your hand. “Do you… preen at all? I think that’s what it’s called.”
“Like a bird?”
You look up in delight. “Exactly! I mean, you groom yourself in some way, yes?”
“I don’t care much for appearances.”
“Only-“ You poke a finger in his direction. “-beautiful people say that.
The corners of his lips twitch again.
Trying to settle your smile, you switch back to painting. His wings are the hardest part to get right. Their color is ever shifting, a myriad of pastels shifting to the purest snow white in the blink of an eye. One day you’ll spend the whole afternoon trying to capture what the feather in your pocket looks like. For now you settle for splattering in soft purples and pinks.
It looks nothing like real thing.
Angel is beautiful and dynamic. Despite his apathetic nature, his eyes have a gentle glow. Soft pink spreads over his cheeks. (You’re not share if it was there before.)
If this wasn’t for work, if you didn’t have to turn it in at the end of the day, you’d rip it to shreds. Instead you’d take your time, work with oil and varnish and canvas stretched tight. You could pose the devil carefully, bend down onto your knees and get as close as possible, maybe even loose a few seconds of your life.
The watercolor is already dry. You brush your fingers over the paper, feeling the slight dips in it that holds the pigment.
“Can I see?”
You turn it around wordlessly.
Angel stares.
“It would’ve been better if I had more time. There’s constraints with what my work would let me do, plus the public association is a stick up my ass. The painting is really-“
“It’s very nice.” Angel speaks softly, staring into his own reflection.
Your cheeks heat up. Nervously you tuck your hands into your pockets. “Anyways, if you ever want a real painting, one you can keep, I have a business card.” You fumble with your jacket for a moment, trying to pick one up. It’s tucked between two of your fingers.
He takes it. “I’m not sure if I get paid at all.”
“I’ll do it for free.”
Angel’s lips form a not-quite smile. “I might just take you up on that.”
“I’m counting on it.”