Author's Note: This was originally written for the Yuletide 2012 fanfiction challenge, for EllieMurasaki.
Thank you, wilde_shade, for betaing this and reining in my adverbs! And thank you, EllieMurasaki, for having an awesome prompt.
You are playing croquet with the Quiet Deviless when you hear a very familiar male voice ahead of you saying, "...and once, why, she showed me her epic."
"Was it terrible? Oh, it sounds dreadful," says a young man. Do you recognize this voice? Is it that artist you were once involved with? The one who somehow keeps finding his way into your bed? You strain to hear.
"Oh, it was rubbish of the worst sort," continues the first man - the Affectionate Devil, you realize, with a horrible shock, for you thought his affection was only directed at you. "I can't blame you for mocking it, really. She is awfully sensitive, though, you must know by now -"
And now your heart hardens not with jealousy of the artist, but in anger on behalf of your companion, whose yellow eyes are even now filling with hot tears. You look at her and reach for the ratwork derringer at your belt, but she lays one gloved hand on yours to stop you. "No," she says, "no, you said yourself it was ...less competent than - than -" She sniffs. The two men ahead of you laugh uproariously at something and the tears pour down her cheeks.
"Still," you say, trying to find a way to comfort her without contradicting your earlier, entirely truthful statements about her poetry. "Still, it was wrong to mock something you poured your heart into."
She gives you a sad smile. "My heart, my dear? You mean my soul, certainly." Her voice is shaky. "Oh, but even without one, it does hurt so! Must they laugh at me? I cannot bear it!" She sobs, and you comfort her as best you can, resolving to tell the Affectionate Devil exactly what you think of him next time you see him.
The Affectionate Devil is in the foulest of tempers and it is entirely your doing. You have quite intentionally insisted upon seeing The Zailor's Wife, having heard from a friend that it has the most perfect caricature of a famously pompous devil. The bosun struts about the stage, singing of duty and propriety, gesturing comically, and generally gnawing on the scenery with gusto. Every time the audience laughs, the Affectionate Devil's fists clench. You ask him, at intermission, if he is feeling quite well.
"My dear companion," he says, after a pause, "I cannot help but think I must have offended you somehow, for you have been smirking at every insult to the dignity of Hell in this opera."
You are all innocence. "Insult to the dignity of Hell? What can you possibly mean? No one has more respect than I for Devils." You open your fan with a vicious flick of your wrist, and fan yourself delicately. The Affectionate Devil is bearing his fangs openly now, and you decide you had best get on with it. "I was playing croquet the other day," you start, "with a dear friend. One whose poetical nature is, though less refined than my own, admirable if only for her devotion to the arts."
The Affectionate Devil hisses to himself - it is something he does instead of grumbling, you have noticed. "I see," he says.
"And in front of us, sadly, were the loudest and rowdiest and least gentlemanly gentlemen it has been my displeasure to overhear during what ought to be a quiet and civilized game," you continue.
"My dear -" starts the Affectionate Devil.
"These two imbeciles - for they proved themselves so - made the kind and sensitive lady I accompanied weep openly, for it appeared from their conversation that they were speaking of her in a manner that I am quite certain would never have happened had they known she was there." Your fan is a shield - but it does not shield you from the Affectionate Devil. Rather, it shields him from the full force of your anger, and makes it civilized and controlled.
"Oh, but you cannot blame me!" says the Affectionate Devil, his slitted eyes widening in desperation. "How else do you expect me to feel about my rival? Oh, she makes my ichor boil," he snarls. "With her tears and her poems and her little pet bat. She only wants you for your soul, you know."
"Your rival?" you ask. "And who was it you were playing croquet with, then? Have I a rival in him?"
"He is a rising star in the art world," he says, as if justifying his interest.
"I know of him," you say primly. "His grasp of anatomy leaves much to be desired."
"Perhaps," says the Devil - for he is not so affectionate as he was before - "that depends upon whose anatomy he is grasping."
You look sharply at him, color rising in your face, and close your fan with a snap. "Your implications are not appreciated, sir. Not at all."
You are surprised to find the Quiet Deviless cheerful once more the next time you see her. You are picnicking in the Prickfinger Wastes, and after you fend off the jealous inquiries of a Society lady - you are smugly silent at her until she leaves - the Deviless favors you with a wide, pointy grin and clasps your hand in hers. "Oh, my sweet dear one, you should not have - but you did! It was too kind of you - but you should not have!"
"What?" you ask. You feel your cheeks flush at this, because she is, in her timid way, so sweet when she is happy. You are also quite certain your hand will be burnt, but that is the least of your concerns.
"There is no need to be modest," she says. "I know it was you, I know it must have been." She kisses you on the cheek, and leads you to a quiet corner.
"I, ah..." You consider everything she's said thus far and your history together, but you cannot fathom what she's talking about. Is it better to be honest? Or no?
"I have," she says, her voice trembling in excitement, "a publisher! And it is all down to you - oh, it must be! - after you had taken such an interest - well, a critical interest, but an interest nonetheless - in my Art!"
You try not to wince at the audible capital A, and you suddenly have no appetite. Who, on earth or beneath it, thinks that this is a good idea? How much honey must a reputable publisher have consumed to consider the Quiet Deviless' works anything but nauseatingly sentimental? But you contrive to arrange your face into what you hope is a good approximation of a real smile. "I'm delighted for you," you say. "But... but I myself had nothing to do with it, I confess."
"Oh, you are lovely," she says, smiling sweetly at you. "So noble. Such a bright-burning soul." And she goes on, uncharacteristically talkative and cheerful all the while.
The Affectionate Devil has somehow wormed his way back into your good graces, with the application of gifts and kind letters and a boating invitation which he knows you would never turn down. After pointing out the dome of St. Fiacre's, he puts an arm around your shoulder, and smiles lazily. "I trust you have forgiven me for our previous disagreement, considering all I have done for my rival - all in the name of your affections."
"I'm sorry?" you ask, blinking.
"The Deviless!" he says, shocked that you have not guessed already. "I used up quite a lot of favors doing it for her. For you, really. Or did you think publishers were wont to print any bit of drivel that found itself on their desks?"
"I - well," you say, frowning. "I do not have a very high opinion of publishers' tastes, for I have had some limited success with them myself. However, I admit I was... startled to hear of her sudden good fortune." You add, more hesitantly, "She credits me."
"All my own intention," says the Affectionate Devil. "Do you not see how much I must feel for you now? That I should win her over for you - she, my rival for your affections!" He puts his hand to his forehead as if he might at any moment swoon from an excess of feeling. "It is like something out of a play! And though it hurts to see the two of you so happy, I know your happiness shall make your soul glow! It is worth my suffering. And it is terribly noble of me, you must admit, for I did see you first," he adds, ruining the effect of his noble suffering completely.
"Your sacrifices shall not be forgotten, my own infernal Cyrano," you tell him, smiling fondly at his amateur dramatics. "And are you a poet too?"
"I fear not," he says. "My only literary accomplishment thus far has been in securing your affections."
"A worthy accomplishment, I think, and proof of your cleverness," you tell him - for you know your heart may only be truly won by one as clever as yourself - and you put your arm about his waist and he leans his head on your shoulder, and you continue your boat trip in quiet, companionable silence.
Almost as soon as you arrive home from your outing with the Devil, you receive word that a great calamity has befallen the Deviless. You rush to her house to see what the matter is, hoping it is not too grave. Her maidservant shows you in quickly, and as you rush to her side, you see that her eyes are red from crying.
"What is the matter?" you ask. "Have your publishers deserted you? I shall make things right, do not fret," you promise, feeling she deserves gallantry. "I have connections."
"Oh! It is ever so much worse," she cries. "My bat - my little Flutterwings -" She sniffs into a handkerchief. "Do you remember his little chirping voice? But he is gone now, forever!"
"There, there," you say, and pat her on the shoulder.
But for some reason she narrows her eyes. "And you! You were out boating! In my hour of need!" she snarls, bearing fangs.
You feel this is a little unfair. After all, you did not know it was her hour of need. And there is nothing you could have done, neither for her nor Flutterwings. You are not a veterinarian. "Well, I -"
"I suppose you cannot spare even one thought for my feelings," she says, more tearfully than ever. "You must think it is a fine thing, to toy with the feelings of the soulless. After all, we are only fiends. We are not worthy of fidelity. Or true affection." She blows her nose noisily into the handkerchief, and though it is a very disgusting noise, it is a very human gesture. "Oh, if only you knew what a burden it was! How you would long to be free of it!"
"I -" you start. "You must believe me! I have never thought of you as unworthy."
"Truly?" Her eyes are wide, now.
"Truly," you tell her. "You are certainly far more worthy than some human persons of my acquaintance. And you are very sweet. Why, your affection for Flutterwings demonstrates this perfectly! Anyone who claims that the soulless have no depth of feeling, no capacity for goodness, has certainly never met you, my dear."
She positively beams at you through her tears and kisses you on the cheek - a kiss that burns. "My dear friend. I am so glad you came."
It happens one otherwise uneventful evening. There is a knock at the door, and you wonder who it could possibly be. You hope it is not that irritating young artist again, as he is quickly losing his appeal. But when you open the door, you see not one, but two sets of yellow eyes, two fanged smiles - in short, your two Devils. One has rosy cheeks and dark curls, and the other has a fine hat and a hideous red and purple cravat, and your greetings die in your throat, for you know this cannot end well.
"Good evening," says the Affectionate Devil, taking off his hat. The Quiet Deviless nods at you.
"Er," you say. "To - to what do I owe the honor?"
The Quiet Deviless purses her lips, as if she is worried. She hesitates, for a long moment, but finally, she whispers, "We wish for you to choose."
You blink. "To choose?"
"Between the two of us," says the Affectionate Devil. "To whom will you give your heart? Your very essence?"
"In short," says the Quiet Deviless, "to whom will you give your soul?"
You flush. "I do not think -"
"Oh, but please hear us out!" she implores.
"Surely you know that we without souls are worthy," says the Affectionate Devil. "Truly, it is a great burden, having a soul. There is such pain. Such sorrow."
"And you will be envied by all," says the Deviless. She is whispering into your ear now. "You will be the talk of Society. Your name will be on everyone's lips."
"And it is not uncomfortable at all," says the Devil. "Why, it is a pleasure. Not," he says quickly, "not when performed by a common Spirifer, but oh! When your own dearest friend takes your soul, Abstraction is the pleasantest thing of all."
You look from one set of yellow eyes to the other, and listen to their increasingly convincing pleas. "Please, I am so fond of you both! I cannot choose!" you say, finally, pushing them both away. You feel certain this is the end of your acquaintance - certain that they will both storm out, enraged by your lack of virtue.
But instead, they exchange a look. "Well, then," says the Devil. "We agreed, for your own sake, that you must be unburdened. But we have been selfish. We have each wanted you for ourselves."
"If you like," says the Deviless, "you shall have us both." And then she surprises you by kissing you full on the mouth. Her lips are burning hot. You feel the Devil's hands unbuttoning your waistcoat and his fangs - very delicately - brushing your neck.
The Devils, working together, divest you of your waistcoat and trousers, and explore your body with gentle fingers and fanged mouths. You carefully unlace the Deviless' corset, and then try to undo the Devil's hideous cravat, which is difficult, considering the Deviless' fingers between your legs are making you weak-kneed and highly distractable.
The three of you make your way to the bedroom, shedding clothes all the while. You push the Devil onto the bed and straddle him. He makes a wonderful sort of whimpering noise, even as you pull the Deviless' mouth to yours. If you had known how delicious they were together, and how amenable they were to such perversions, you would have suggested this long ago.
Afterwards, the Deviless whispers sweet things in your ear, and the Devil strokes your hair, and the three of you lie sated in your bed, happily exhausted.
The Devil kisses the Deviless lightly - almost chastely - and says, "A pleasure shared, my dear - how right you were! We should work together more often." She giggles, and you giggle too, even though you don't quite understand their meaning. The two of them exchange another look, as meaningful as the first.
"You are ready now," says the Deviless, tracing one hot finger down your chest, and though it is not a question, you agree wholeheartedly, and smile lazily up at her.
All you can recall after that is a curved metal surface, something gleaming and strangely cold.
When you awake, the Devil and the Deviless are gone. You feel neither scandalized nor smug upon recollecting the night before, although, to be fair, you do not feel particularly alive. There is a large package done up with an elaborate bow on your nightstand, containing a great quantity of venom-rubies, and a bland note thanking you for a splendid evening, signed by both Devils.
Though you write them letters, they go unanswered. You try calling upon the Deviless at her home, but she has moved. The inquiries you make at the Brass Embassy lead you nowhere.
Sometimes, when you go to the Long Spoon, a pair of sad eyes looks familiar, or you spot a rakish smile that makes your heart leap. But when you look closer, the sad eyes are brown, and the smile is unfanged. Hell has become quite fashionable, and you cannot find your friends in the morass of socialites waiting anxiously to be de-souled.
Eventually, you give up the search. For, you consider, it is not that you want your soul back, oh no - you want your sweet Deviless back, with her dreadful poetry and timid nature, and your dear Devil, with his clever words and adventurousness. But finding them once more might mean seeing them for who they truly are, and you know, in that pit where your soul once was, that you could not stand to have your illusions shattered so.