Chapter Text
Time when usually everyone goes home. Time when faint dots of stars rise and streetlights flicker and buzz with seemingly the same exhaustion everyone shares after a long day.
The sight is undeniably comfortable, something that makes people feel at home even if they see it for the first time.
The old buildings looming over the dim roads filled with faint mist coming from the sea. The sea ports with sluggish fishermen dragging themselves home. These exhausted but jolly faces, these funky suits, these small routines they do that make life so much more bearable in this world. These miracles they seem to store deep within their souls.
"Dang it," Dice curses under his breath — thankfully visitors wouldn't hear that, for it might just scratch the King's facade of a perfect smooth man. He looks around the tables, snapping his fingers as his magic comes alive.
The tables are clean and chairs are tucked under them, the scent of alcohol is slowly faiding away and the music band has already left. Casino closes in, like, what — 20 minutes? And yet here Dice is — pacing around as if the floor is burning his feet.
The silence is interrupted by a raspy but warm voice. The air is suddenly stuffed with tobacco stench.
"What's it?" Wheezy interrogates, leaning back in one of the cushioned chairs between the slot machines. A blind cloud of smoke slowly ascends towards the ceiling.
"My card's missing," Dice waves his hand and raises a deck of cards, which gracefully shuffles itself slowly, with aggressive precision of a tired man desperate to finish this day and just leave.
Dotface has enough on his plate already, but giving into more opportunities other than the casino had it's fruit, of course. Music, singing, voice acting, constant shows and collaborations, this couldn't have been closer to what Dice always wanted — a loud life with seemingly no end. And now suddenly the schedule is full enough for him to forget about the inner struggles and challenges, intentionally or not. Or, if unlucky, forget to breathe.
But oh well.
Each card glows faintly as Dice's eyes flash in green light just for a moment.
"Ace of hearts," he finally specifies with a half-sigh half-groan.
"Maybe stuck some'ere?" Wheezy gets up, lazily looking around — not that it'll help in any way, but making it look like he's helping might be a smart move.
Dice flicks his wrist again, grabbing at the air, and the faint glow in his eyes rises alongside his annoyance.
"I'm about to do somethin' stupid."
The deafening silence of the empty office is broken by fast yet rhythmic taps: claws against the wooden table. The Devil sits curled above his desk, his free hand supporting his chin as he stares down at a piece of thick paper. His clawed finger presses down on the card as it writhes and shakes, occasionally glowing with a subtle spark in a futile attempt to escape.
"Bad idea," he mutters.
Stressed, he looks around to make sure nobody is watching: the office is still. It's as if the whole world is holding its breath to be as quiet as possible. The usual light breeze is gone, the curtains are still. Tapestries hang so firmly it feels like they're made of stone, not yarn. For good measure, which might seem silly, Devil curls above the table even more, shielding his activities with his back. Just in a very bizarre case someone is behind him, spying.
Suddenly a candle crack breaks the silence just for a moment, and Devil jumps slightly, covering the card with his hand firmly. He lets out a sigh so heavy that his chest drops on the table's surface. Distant voices of people outside don't help his racing heart either. Out of nowhere, the world lives again. Cars honk, some drunken men yell gibberish, a gust of wind blows through the curtains and crawls up the Devil's spine, fiddling with his shirt.
His eyes fall on the table again, and he grabs a pen. Sadly, this isn't the first attempt.
Now what?
Dang it.
All this stress and overthinking, yet still no idea what exactly to do. Write something deep? Something noticeable? What would it even be then?? What if it turns out to be just plain stupid? In good case scenario this won't do anything, in worst case just make everything harder. The best case, though...
Thoughts flood the Devil's mind, being much of a fuel to keep his heart racing. Overthinking the good, the bad, everything, even things that aren't related to what he's about to do. That was quite enough to make him miss the fact that he starts tracing the edges of the card's pip subconsciously — a habit of doodling and scribbling to help sort his thoughts won yet again.
One particular line strays from the edges it was supposed to trace, waking the angel up from his rabid thought process. He looks down at the card.
You know what? Good enough. If words are too difficult to choke out then subtle drawings will do.
Dev exhales yet another sigh, this time it rolls out in fiery smoke through the sharp teeth. Then another deep breath, an unsuccessful attempt to open his chest up after sitting with the posture of a question mark for half an hour.
He stretches his back, looking around once more — nobody's there, no one is trying to catch him doing this. Although it felt like even the walls were spying, curiously looking over Satan's shoulder and closing in more and more until the room felt too small to fit into. Anxiety and embarrassment seemed to have eaten all the spare space.
Devil looks down, and with a deep breath releases his palm from the table. The card he's been holding down immediately jumps up, sliding through the crack of the door and away from Satan's sight.
"Aha!" Dice grins, grabbing the lost card carelessly. Just as he's about to stuff the card into the deck and forget about it, his eye is snatched by black lines against the red ink of the hearts pip. The King's smirk is erased, victory replaced by curiosity.
"Lookee here," Dice lifts the card for Wheezy to see. The cigar blinks, processing:
"Any name on that?"
"None."
Wheezy huffs with a slight whistle between his teeth, getting up. He grabs his coat, putting it on as he approaches closer to see the card better. He fixes his clothes to look presentable, kind of mimicking Dice's movements, although it's never successful. The fur on the coat's collar will always stick up, the hem of the shirt will always need to be tucked in every so often. But ain't that charming in a way?
The two exit the casino.
"What'cha gonna do with it?" Wheeze finally asks as Dice throws a couple of PEZ into his mouth. The cold air hits their never ageing faces.
"Well, it ain't playable no more," the manager shrugs, "Dunno. Maybe keep it. Right beside my mirror."
"Oh-ow," Wheezy scoffs softly. Right, the mirror. That huge piece of glass almost fully covered with various pictures of Dice and love letters addressed to him. A shrine, really. Shrine of himself.
"You can still see yerself in that thing?" Wheeze teases.
"Oh, zip it," Dice shushes through his teeth, throwing the small box of candy into his pocket and patting it a couple of times, "Let's go."
Wheezy nods with a poorly held down smile and falls into step beside Dice without even looking. They take this exact route so often it feels like the pavement will have their footprints scraped into it soon. Ever since they met they've been taking on tiny joined routines — maybe out of desperation for something "normal". Working at the casino together has only increased the number of these attempts, and others begin to notice. "That's what 50 years of knowing a person does to ya," Bettigan would say, "Or maybe they're jus' going insane from not ageing."
"These small routines that make life so much more bearable in this world". Hell, they do.
The stars glow bright as the two part their ways for tonight. The casino's lights dim, and it's owner is long underground. The elevator dings quietly when it finally goes through the last layer of stone and reaches place so familiar it almost feels like home. Tonight though the perpetual cycle of memories of The Fall, Hell and unwelcome homesickness are interrupted by this new cause of anxiety.
Henchman's repetitive suggestions of dinner eventually get answered, but the angel doesn't manage to stuff a pea into his mouth. The next thing he remembers is plopping into the bed, letting his weight just free fall until his face hits the pillow. A cloud of smoke escapes his nostrils alongside a heavy sigh, and his eyes automatically close. Clothes don't seem to be an issue either.
"Bad idea," he mouths again.