Work Text:
The antique shop was not particularly high-end or atmospheric. Illuminated by fluorescent lights (unnecessary at this hour of the afternoon), it was disorganized in a pedestrian way, items stacked haphazardly on metal shelves. Sunlight blazed through the large front windows into plastic bins of vintage bric-a-brac, allegedly from Europe.
Ange Ushiromiya, rummaging through them, doubted that this was actually the case. It didn’t stop her from pawing through the trinkets halfheartedly, uncertain what she was actually looking for. These days she often found herself in some Tokyo neighborhood or other, wandering aimlessly, looking at secondhand books or vintage clothing or inexpensive antiques. She might get a coffee from a plant-filled cafe and sit inside at a table alone. She might look out the window at passersby—groups of friends laughing and chatting, a mother and daughter holding hands, a couple walking arm in arm.
Today she was in Shimokitazawa in this poor-to-middling quality shop perusing vintage goods, and something in caught her eye. It was a mass-produced letter opener in the shape of a sword, its brass handle stamped with several small pentacles. Pentacles for wealth, for greed, emblazoned on a sword. Perhaps one that could carry out a prophesied twilight.
It reminded her of an old friend.
She bought it and slipped it into her pocket as she stepped outside. It was pleasant for this time of year, the sun warm on her face.
Ange walked down the busy street and felt the usual quiet pull of loneliness. She had gone her whole life without real friends, and had, until recently, accepted it as her lot in life. But several months earlier, everything had changed. She had found out the truth about Eva, she had met with Hachijo, she had discovered her own truth about Rokkenjima. All of it made her remember—more vividly than she had in years—her friendships with Maria and Sakutarou and the Seven Sisters. She’d found them, originally, out of a longing for connection. Lately she felt that longing both more deeply and more quietly than she’d had as a child. Hachijo’s tale had planted a seed of possibility in her heart, the potential for closure, for real friendship. She didn’t exactly want them back. She wanted more.
Nevertheless, who better for her to call, when she wanted more, than that closest old friend of hers, the demon-saint of greed?
She’d been clutching the letter opener in her pocket. It was warm in her hand when she took it out to examine it again. She was on a crowded street in the middle of the day, anti-magic toxin swirling around her. She strode forward confidently and focused the incantation in her mind into this new totem for Mammon.
But the sounds of the city and the chatter of people and the white light of the sun were too much to overcome in this moment, and Mammon would not materialize. Ange put the letter opener back in her pocket and resolved to try again later, when she was alone.
She took the train through Tokyo back to her apartment, holding the idea of Mammon securely in her pocket the whole way.
That evening, she went up to the roof of her building. It was colder than it had been earlier during the day. It took her by surprise, though it shouldn’t have—it was already the beginning of December, the days getting shorter and colder.
She sat on a concrete ledge and took out the dull blade she’d bought earlier in the day. This time, she said the incantation out loud and closed her eyes. She opened them to see Mammon sitting beside her, long hair fluttering in the wind… more than it really should have been. There wasn’t all that much of a breeze out here. Trust a demon to always remind you how very much they lived in the world of the fantastical.
“Been a while, Ange-sama,” said Mammon. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again, after Rokkenjima.”
Ange smiled crookedly. “Yeah. Me neither.”
“Are you going to call my sisters?”
“Not right now. I just… I’ve been a little lonely. I wanted to talk like we used to.”
“I am always at your service, mistress.”
“You didn’t show up earlier,” said Ange. She’d wondered, too, if she would ever be able to see Mammon again, when she hadn’t felt her respond to her call.
“I heard you,” said Mammon. “But you didn’t let me come through. The anti-magic toxin stopped you. You must not be used to talking to us anymore—it feels like it’s been a long time, with how far away you were.”
“It’s only been two months.”
Mammon hummed in thought. “Has it? Or have you lived whole other lives since then?”
Ange tilted her head back to look at the night sky, to restrain the tears that had come to her eyes at the memories of everything she’d learned and felt since she and Mammon had been together on Rokkenjima.
As though by magic—or indeed, actually by magic—Mammon had moved effortlessly to sit in Ange’s lap and put an arm around her.
“Tell me what’s on your mind,” said Mammon.
And so Ange told her everything—about her parents, about Eva, Battler, Hachijo, Bernkastel, Featherine, Clair, Lion. About how, with the weight of her past beginning to lift at last, she was lonelier than ever. She told Mammon about how, over and over, the reason behind everything that had happened seemed to be love. And how it seemed so impossible for her. As though, after everything, she was still forever destined to look at the world through a glass window, alone.
“And what about me, Ange-sama?” Mammon asked. “Don’t you love me?”
Ange looked at her, surprised. “That’s bold of you, isn’t it?”
Mammon leaned closer to her. Their faces were close together now, and Ange could feel the warmth of her body weighing her down.
“Is it? You called me here, didn’t you?”
She had, and Mammon’s face was tilted slightly in question, not quite touching hers. Ange reached up and put her hands in her hair. It was light, smooth and silky, and Ange felt a prickle of anticipation along the back of her neck.
She leaned up and kissed her. It was soft, golden with possibility, as tangible as anything in her life ever had been.
“You’re right,” said Ange, uncertain. “I do love you.”
Mammon held Ange’s face in hers and pressed their foreheads together.
“Good,” she said, grinning mischievously.
Ange frowned. “Not going to say it back?”
Good was so very Mammon of an answer. She didn’t know what else she’d expected.
“I am furniture, Ange-sama,” said Mammon. “I can’t.”
Of course. She was still alone, then.
“I wish you weren’t,” said Ange bitterly. “I wish you could.”
“Hmm,” said Mammon. She held Ange’s head in her hands and kissed her again. “That’s my Ange. Why shouldn’t you ask for everything you want? That’s why I’m your favorite, right? And you know, the furniture of a powerful witch like you… you can make me powerful too, can’t you? Powerful enough to turn myself into a Human? To be allowed to love you?”
“Well… yes. I am still a powerful witch.” Ange frowned again. “But… I don’t know what you mean.”
Mammon giggled. “You know I can’t just tell you the answer. But my master is the Endless Witch of Resurrection, isn’t she? I might not be Human tonight, or tomorrow, or next week. But I’ve seen your power. You’ll be able to do it. I can tell.”
Ange scoffed and shook her head. “Not going to tell me more? You’re as bad as Lambda. Always such teases.”
Mammon touched her cheek tenderly and looked into her eyes. “You’re going to be the one to win your game, I know it.”
Ange still didn’t understand, but something in Mammon’s expression made her heart lift with hope. City lights made the night sky hazy, and up here on the roof the air was cool with the first chill of winter. Mammon, her furniture, sat in her lap. She wasn’t alone now, and somehow, finally, she believed it; she wouldn’t be alone forever.