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The incident at The Ritz was the last Slorch was to see of Baraqiel for quite some time. Not that the Archduke cared, of course. Demons didn't care. Didn't enjoy spending time with no one. Demons didn't have feelings that could get hurt.
Supposedly.
Then again, he wasn't very good at being a demon. Or maybe bad? Slorch could never tell. Either way, it had never really suited him. He enjoyed some aspects of his job. Coming up with inventive torments was fun, even if unappreciated by other demons. Like, they didn’t see why being subjected to an endless magic show led by an incompetent conjuror, constantly pulling the wrong cards or dropping dead doves (unintentionally) from his sleeves was more of a terrifying punishment than giving someone a going over with a flail or something. But that was the problem with other demons: they lacked vision.
Although, one big plus of his role was that the fact his title and position meant he was mostly left to his own devices. He liked being left on his own; it afforded him a bit of peace to just listen to music that may or may not have been commissioned from (and then performed by) one of the many composers down there. Well, commission was maybe not exactly the right term for “leaving them off the torture rota for a couple hundred years in exchange for some unpublished symphonies”. Potayto, potahto.
The point was, Slorch the Vile didn't just like protecting his personal, solitary life: he'd erected a 15ft barb wire fence around it, complete with hand painted signs that said “Fuck Off” and “Beware of the Jaguar”.
Well, he had liked his solitude. And then a stupid bloody angel with stupid bloody hair and a stupid bloody smile had waltzed into his existence. Suddenly, Slorch the Vile, Archduke of Hell and Master of the Secret Torments didn't enjoy the silence as much. He'd become too used to the witterings of that stuck-up twat, always banging on about plans and the stars and how much the humans fascinated him. Getting all bright-eyed, or being bitingly arch, or just weirdly adora—
Slorch shook his head and sighed, slouching forward in his throne as he drummed blackened claws upon the armrest. Nope, not going there. Angel had been pretty bloody clear about how he saw the demon: a lesser being, someone to use. Fuck that. Slorch had been down that path once before and it hadn't gone well; back then, he'd stumbled off the end of it into Hell.
A loud, booming knock on the door to his chambers pulled him from his memories. Scowling at it, he shouted, “What?!!”
“Ah, my Lord,” began a small, wheedling voice that Slorch recognised as belonging to one of his underlings. Ferdy? Furby? Furry? He’d remember it later, he was sure. His minion carried on, “There is a visitor here seeking an audience with you.”
Slorch frowned. Far as he could recall, he didn’t have anyone down on his schedule for today. “Tell ‘em to sod off,” Slorch declared, feeling the start of a good wallow forming around him. “Not in the mood for visitors.”
There was a slightly panicked noise from the other side of the door and then it was creaking open, just a sliver, enough for the stricken face of Furfur (that was it!) to peek around. “Apologies, my Lord,” he began, eyes darting as if to stare over his shoulder, “but the, erm, visitor is causing a bit of a stir, showing up unannounced as they did.”
Slorch raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Alright, fine,” he grumbled, “show ‘em in. But make sure they know they’ll have to sling their hook if I don’t like what they have to say.”
With a reluctant but obsequious bow, Furfur took his leave, leaving the door ajar. Slorch sighed, straightening himself up in his throne. It stood on a raised platform, a mottled-red carpet leading from it to the doorway; all the better to let whoever stepped over his threshold know exactly where they stood with him.
When the all-too-familiar flash of pale cream and gold appeared through the doorway, he was too surprised to be furious. At least, at first. Months and months of no contact, no apology, no sign the angel had thought about him at all, and there he suddenly was, closing the door behind him with a sheepish smile.
Slorch hated that Baraqiel’s hair was still stupid and perfect, that his clothes looked as ridiculously well-fitted and flattering as ever. Most of all, he hated how his breath fluttered in his chest at the sight of him.
“Um, hello,” Baraqiel began, taking a tentative step forward.
Anger seized Slorch’s heart then. The gall, the absolute nerve of this angel, to waltz into his chambers, uninvited. “An’ what, may I ask, are you doing here?” he demanded in a clipped tone.
The cautious smile upon Baraqiel’s lips was replaced with an embarrassed pout. “Right, yeah, sorry, there are things to be discussed. About Armageddon. I-I should have sent you a formal request.”
“Why didn’t you?” Slorch asked, his eyes narrowing while noting the way the angel’s hands were tightly clasped together at his front.
“Truthfully? I thought you wouldn’t respond,” Baraqiel nervously chuckled. “Actually, I thought you’d tell me to go fuck myself.”
Slorch huffed. “An’ I’d have good reason to, I’d say.”
He took no real satisfaction in seeing Baraqiel squirming in his own skin. Well, maybe just a bit of satisfaction—demon, remember?—but he couldn’t wring much from it. He sighed and muttered, “Well, you’re here now. What’s so important you’d dare sully your pretty little clothes with Hell’s muck again?”
OK, fine, Slorch had chosen his words quite deliberately and alright, yes, it was definitely rewarding to see Baraqiel wince in recognition. He seemed about to say something, his eyes touched with regret (or maybe that was just Slorch’s hopeful wishing), but instead he took a deep breath and settled into professional mode.
“It’s about the Antichrist,” he began, planting his feet more firmly upon the carpet. “Heaven has agreed with my suggestion that the child requires…monitoring.”
That had been the plan, so Slorch wasn’t exactly sure what the issue was. He and Baraqiel had planned to recommend to their respective sides that a Heavenly/Hellish presence would be required to oversee the Antichrist’s upbringing. Make sure that he was protected. For Slorch’s higher-ups, that was an easy sell. Heaven, of course, would likely have taken a bit more persuading. However, Slorch knew they’d arrogantly assume Hell would fuck it up, incapable of ensuring the survival of even the Son of Satan with any kind of competence. Heaven needed the Antichrist in one piece as much as Hell did if the Final Battle was to go ahead.
“So what’s the problem?” he asked. “Eric and Muriel are on Earth, they’ve been delegated for exactly this purpose, ain’t they?”
“Yes, well,” Baraqiel grimaced, “unfortunately, my superiors believe that, ah, a safer pair of hands is required.” He sighed. “My understanding is that the Metatron himself has now liaised with your direct manager about it. You, um, should have received a memo?”
Slorch rolled his eyes and slumped further down into his throne, his gaze wandering to the worryingly large pile of unopened pneumatic tube canisters in the corner of the room. “Suspect that may be the case, yeah.” Turning his attention back to the angel, he asked, “‘S’cuse my ignorance ‘ere, but what’s going on, then?”
Baraqiel shuffled awkwardly forward a few steps, worrying at his lip. “So, ah, our respective sides have decided the existing representatives on Earth are to continue their usual duties.” The angel was wringing his hands now, never a good sign. “And more senior beings will be required to monitor the Antichrist instead. By which they mean…us.”
The Archduke blinked once, then twice. Nope, he wasn’t sure he’d heard that right. “What d’you mean ‘us’?”
Cringing, Baraqiel was almost hopping from foot to foot. “We’re expected to fulfil the roles Eric and Muriel were going to take up. Infiltrate the ambassador’s household, y’know?”
Slorch blinked a third time; it still didn’t help. He was stunned, frozen to the spot as the creeping realisation began to trickle into his skin. He knew, he always knew, that any control he had of himself, his surroundings, was precarious at best, but it’s one thing to know something and quite another to feel the leaden certainty of it wrap itself around your bones. So. They were at it again: moving him around as they pleased, just another fucking pawn of Heaven and Hell.
Dropping his head into his hands, he tried to stave off the familiar sensation of slithering panic that always accompanied moments where he found himself subject to Satan’s declarations. He’d fought so hard to scrape together a modicum of power, and then that bastard would do something to remind him what an illusion that was, of how everything was so unpredictably unfair.
Hell didn’t ask, after all; it demanded.
“Oh, I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” Baraqiel murmured, almost in a comforting tone, from somewhere far away. “You like Earth, don’t you?”
“Not the point, angel,” Slorch snarled with a shout, raising his head to glare at him. “We ‘ad a plan, a good one, and they just decide to change everythin’ at the last minute—”
He closed his eyes and took a long breath; not that he needed to, but the ritual of it helped quiet a piece of his mind. Letting his arms fall to his side, he breathed deeper, willing his temper to recede. Slorch liked having plans, routines; he liked the structure they gave him, something to hold onto. To have them removed so suddenly left him grasping in thin air as the floor fell away beneath him.
Of course he liked Earth. But he wasn’t getting any say in the matter. Just another choice made for him; someone else’s will imposed upon him.
And to make matters worse, he’d be in closer proximity than ever before with that infuriating angel. An angel who was clearly crawling out of his skin being in the same room as him.
“I-I know it’s not ideal,” Baraqiel murmured, his voice moving closer. When Slorch opened his eyes, the angel was standing a few feet from his throne, something unreadable etched into his face.
“Yeah, well,” Slorch sighed, unable to keep the bite from his tone, “imagine you’ll have a sight worse time than me.” When confusion danced through Baraqiel’s eyes, the Archduke snorted. With a bitter smile, he gestured with a flourish towards himself. “Havin’ to try and conduct your holy duties while I’m lurkin’ around.”
“Why would I possibly have a problem with you being there, isn’t that the point?” Baraqiel said it with such a straight face it caused a burst of laughter to erupt from Slorch’s throat.
“Oh, give over,” Slorch scoffed, launching himself up from his throne and stalking down the platform steps towards the angel. “Not a word, all these months…what, got it outta your system, Dominion?” He was standing a foot or so away now, seething at yet another being who saw him as inferior. “Don’t see it often, but you wouldn’t be the first of your kind to slum it with my lot, looking for a bit of rough.”
A myriad of expressions blazed across Baraqiel’s face; bafflement, affront, anger. Finally, it settled on one that the demon hadn’t expected: remorse. However, the angel’s voice still held a note of ill-temper as he ground out, “That-that wasn’t why I didn’t contact you.”
“Oh, well,” Slorch spat out over his shoulder as he stormed back to the platform, “do enlighten me, if you please.”
Lips pressed tight together, it took a few more moments for Baraqiel to prise the answer from his own mouth. “I was…too ashamed.”
“I managed to work that out, ta very much,” the Archduke sneered, turning on his heel to face the enemy, “judging by how quick you were to remind me of my place.” He was about to launch into a very graphic and crude description of where exactly Baraqiel could shove the rest of his shame, when Baraqiel surprised him once again.
The Dominion, mouth twisted, bit out, “No, I was ashamed of what I said. I-I chose all the wrong words.” He began pacing back and forth, muttering, “I mean, you can’t blame…well, you can, but what I mean is…look, the thing is, I wasn’t expecting it to feel…For Heaven’s sake, this was a lot easier when I was saying it in my head.”
Baraqiel came to a stop, running his hands through his frustratingly perfect hair with exasperation. “I didn’t handle that whole…thing well. I liked it and it was such—I just hadn’t felt like that before.” He was waving his arms around like they were controlled by over-caffeinated snakes, the words pouring from his mouth in a torrent. “And, and it was great, like, really fucking great, and I’d been thinking about it, you, really, if I’m honest for so long, and I got so caught up in the everything of it.”
Slorch blinked as the angel took a breath before barrelling on, “And I thought you didn’t, well, it was only after you left that I realised I‘d just assumed you didn’t feel stuff like that, for me, so I thought I’d keep it professional, y’know, but then you got so angry and it was really stupid to make assumptions because I don’t think of you as lesser…”
He paused then, a look of anguish painting his face. “No, I’m…that’s not true. I did. I thought I was doing you a favour by treating you as an equal rather than actually thinking of you as such.”
The admission cut through Slorch’s chest with a delicate slice and there was that rush, that long-forgotten pain of being truly hurt. And perhaps he would have thrown the angel out, banished him from Hell; damn their plans, let the world sink into the mire…but then Baraqiel kept talking.
Because of course he did.
“I don’t like that I thought of you that way,” the angel sighed, his fingers drumming against his thighs. “And I can’t say there isn’t some residual nonsense still knocking around my head. I could argue it was mandatory instruction under Heaven’s command, and it was, but I didn’t have to let it embed itself into me. I thought I was better than that.”
“The thing is,” he continued, eyes now fixed upon the ceiling and hands planted upon his hips, “I’m trying to unlearn all that bollocks, because I don’t think of you as lesser, I don’t.” His voice was starting to speed up again, a swirling cacophony of emotion. “Because, because you completely confound me, in a good way, and I like you, and I’m sorry for being an arse, I’m so sorry for presuming how you felt, or rather that you don’t feel, that was just, fuck, that was awful of me, and I’m sorry for not calling you and how that must have hurt you and I missed you—”
Archduke Slorch the Vile, Master of the Secret Torments, had heard apologies before, but they’d always been made in appeasement, of some kind. They’d been made with reluctance, or in fear, or with false smiles.
He didn’t think he’d ever heard an apology born out of someone truly believing they had wronged him; of caring about how Slorch felt; of thinking Slorch had any feelings left at all after Heaven and Hell had tried to hollow them out.
That he did, that he guarded them with precision and caution lest anyone see them for weakness, was simply another burden to endure.
Bless it, it wasn’t fair, Slorch thought as he grabbed Baraqiel and pulled him into a kiss, his indignation melting away as the oak-honey scent of whatever aftershave the silly angel wore enveloped him. It wasn’t fair that this ridiculous being who radiated love for his stars, for the world, who was clutching him back and pressing into the kiss, was at his core annoyingly, weirdly, truly adorable.
After a long moment, they pulled apart, foreheads resting against one another. “Well,” Baraqiel murmured, a giddy grin upon his lips, “that was…yes.”
“Need to talk, angel,” Slorch began, almost instantly regretting it given the cavalcade of broken sentences Baraqiel had only just unleashed. “Proper talk.”
The angel nodded his head. “Talk. Talk good.”
Hearing the Dominion actually at a loss for words dragged a laugh from Slorch. “‘S’pose first thing we need to discuss is what we want. Then, I wanna hear about which of us is going to be the blessed nanny, Satan save me.”