"But everyone calls me Pip, because they hate me."
"Then I will call you Pip."
Rating: T for Damien's swearing and adult themes.
Pairing[s]: Damien + Pip.
Disclaimer[s]: South Park belongs to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.
Author's Thoughts 1: This is my first Damien/Pip story, ever. I've never written for this pairing, and it was really hard to figure out Damien, I tried to keep him from going OOC, I think I did well. Actually, same with Pip, they're complicated characters to write for since neither of them had much Canon screen time, especially together. I've watched Damien's episode maybe 3 times, in a row, to try and get his speech pattern mastered; I think I did well. Updates to this story and ALL of my stories [unfortunately I may need to put the powers au on temporary hiatus] will be very slow, seeing as I just got a new puppy and he's taking up a lot of my time. Criticism will be well appreciated.
[Damien's Point of View.]
Have you ever walked on walls? Most people can't say they have, but most people will say they've thought about it. It's a lot like the concept of flying, and how much humans dream of it, how much they want it. Humans can't really walk on walls, or fly, and that's probably why the want to.
While it would be exhilarating to see the world from the side or upside down, or gracefully soar through mountain cliffs, humans probably want these things because they can't have them, at least not easily or safely. Whether it's magical powers, immortality, or prove magical creatures exist, they always want it. I can't understand why, and frankly, I've never bothered to put my time into finding out why.
When I turned 18, I started to understand. Not much. I had been going through a lot of changes; my tongue forked, my horns started to come in, my tail grew, my ears spiked, I started thinking more about my position as 'Prince' of Hell. But, that's not all. I started to develop more emotions than anger; when I was younger, all I could feel was burning anger, towards everything that dare lay it's eyes on me.
But that changed around my birthday. At first, I only woke up with an oddly numb feeling in my chest. After laying there in confusion for a while, I left my room and walked into the kitchen, where my Father was standing there in a white apron with little flowers on it, probably a spare. I laughed.
Satan, naturally, whirled around in confusion and nearly dropped the food he was busy preparing. I covered my mouth in shock, eyes as wide as saucers, and the pancake flopped out of his pan. I laughed again. I couldn't stop laughing. I dropped to the floor laughing, at this point, nothing. My Father told me it was just all of my emotions catching up on me, but this was only after I started uncontrollably sobbing for the rest of the day.
I learned that some emotions I liked, some I didn't. My body liked the feeling of joy, excitement, laughter, but my mind didn't. My body didn't like the feeling of anger, annoyance or greed, but my mind didn't. For months I was in a constant war with myself, until all of my emotions mellowed to the point they were manageable.
And now, I'm starting to understand why humans always strive for what they can't physically have. I want something that I can never have, and I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else.
[Pip's Point of View.]
I've always thought a good way to pass time was painting. I did it back in England plenty, and when I was a child. There's a field in the woods near Stark's Pond that, in the Spring and Summer, has the most beautiful wildflowers.
My first painting of the wildflowers was during the Spring when there were only patches of snow left. It was crude, as it should have been, colors lazily chosen and lines too thick and runny. Awful, really. But at least 3 days of a week, in all seasons, I come out and paint the clearing. All of the trees, the snow, the flowers, the grass, the sky. My room is now covered in different canvases of this one scene, painted over and over again, tracking my improvement.
I say, as humbly as possible, that now my paintings of the flowers look like photographs. My adoptive parents compliment me every day and say that I should sell some of my early works, but I always turn it down. I could make a lot of money, but I would rather keep the memories with me, nailed to my wall like a time-line.
It's not an unusual sight to see me hauling an easel and bucket out through the woods, and nobody seems to comment anymore. It takes a while to walk, at least 20 minutes, but the scenery is always breathtaking, even when the trees are sticks and snow covers everything in a layer of white. The clearing, today, is missing many of it's flowers, only a few sticking up from the snow.
I smile and set my easel and bucket down, pulling over a stool I covered with a blanket and left in the clearing. I take a seat and spread some colors over a pallet, wiping a wet paintbrush on my leg, and start to paint.
I only get to paint for an hour or so, before the scenery is disturbed. I notice a glowing light behind my canvas. Suspiciously and slowly, I step down from my stool and walk around the easel to see what's happening. On the growing, glowing and melting the snow, is a large pentagram, burning quietly.
I gasp, eyes widening, taking a step back in fear. Fire starts to rise in the center of the pentagram as a roar shakes the trees around it. I see my life flashing before my eyes as the flames tower higher, higher, smoke covering the sky, until it all fades back into the pentagram as it slowly disappears.
My eyes are closed and forearms hiding my face, legs shaking. I don't dare to look and see what came from the flames; it could be Satan or an even scarier demon. I'll be dead soon, it'll kill me, oh no...
"You! Infidel!" a voice shouts towards me, but not the voice of Satan. I shakily lower my arms and open my eyes, looking to the figure in the center of the pentagram, who is storming towards me.
They're tall, very tall, maybe 6 feet or more. Black pants and a black turtleneck, with short black hair, wearing a silver upside-down cross around their neck. They have boots and a long, thin tail, with fur at the end where the spade shape ends the tail, horns coming from their head, eyes a glowing red with a scowl on their face.
Why are they so familiar?
"Alright mortal, where am I? What year is this?" the demon growls, a flame starting to grow in their eyes as they raise their hand towards me. I feel my body hovering upward, muscles twisting until I cry out in pain.
"I-It's South Park, Colorado!" I whine, voice shaking and cracking as it comes out. The teenager stares at me for a while, all with a snarl, before his jaw clenches and I tumble to the ground, muscles relaxed.
"South Park, Colorado," he says quietly to himself. I sit down on my knees, holding my head and looking up to stare at him, hat now disregarded to the side. His eyes stop flaming and glowing, staring down into mine as his features soften. "Hey...aren't you...uh,"
"I-I'm Phillip, do I know you?"
His eyebrows raise slightly before lowering again. "Pip," he says, very quietly, just under a whisper.
"Huh? How do you know me?"
"Don't...you recognize me?"
"I-I'm afraid I don't, sir," I say nervously while standing up, making sure my posture is small and passive. "sh-should I?"
"It's," he suddenly stops, putting his fist to his Adam's apple and coughing, until his voice comes out at a squeaky tone. "It's me, Damien, Son of Satan? Antichrist? Does this ring a bell?"
I tilt my head slowly, trying not to smile at the amusing pitch of his voice, before my face lights up and a smile breaks out. "Oh, yes, I remember you! Damien! It's...been a very long time,"
Damien coughs again, speaking in a much deeper voice, "It has. How long?"
I pick up my hat and put it back on, placing a hand on my chin. "A little under ten years...I'm eighteen now, I assume you're..."
"Nineteen, in mortal years." Damien replies, his tail flicking into the snow. My face pales some.
"W-Why do you have a tail...and horns? You didn't have those when we were younger," I ask nervously, taking a step back, which seems to disappoint him.
"I got them when I matured. I could get rid of them if they bothered you, or if I cared about what you felt. In fact, I think I'll keep them, just to bother you." he smiles widely, exposing sharp canines with a reddish tint. A shiver runs down my spine.
"Ah, righto then, it's...nice to see you again, Damien. Have you been well?" I ask, dusting the snow off the back of my pants, trying to stay casual. Damien pauses, legs closed tightly together, shoulders back in a very proud posture, tail swaying.
"I suppose,"
"Why are you here on Earth?" I ask.
"Well, it isn't to warn everyone that the day of reckoning is coming, like last time." he gives me a smile, a very soft one. When we were children, he didn't really smile, for the small amount of time I knew him. And when he did, it was only before and after he set me on fire and sent me flying into the clouds. That wasn't very pleasant. "But it isn't really any of your business why I'm here, is it?"
"I guess not," I reply with a nervous, shy smile. "is there somewhere you wanted to be in specific? I can take you, if you'd like."
"No, nowhere in specific."
"So you just...wanted to be on Earth for a little while?"
"Precisely. You aren't that dumb, for a worthless human." he smiles again, exposing those dangerous canines. I don't smile in return, only shuffle my feet, feeling anxious to get back to painting.
"Right, well, I'd like to get back to painting now, Damien, if that's alright with you." I say politely, not waiting for a reply before walking back to my seat and picking up my brush again.
"Painting?" I hear him say as he walks over to me, boots crunching in the snow. "What are you painting, snow?"
"Well, for many years, I've been painting this clearing and the flowers. I have countless paintings of it," I say proudly, smiling at the unfinished lines and soft colors on the canvas. Damien's red eyes widen and then narrow, looking at the picture, and then the clearing.
"I don't think you'll be able to, now," he says, "there's a pentagram burned in the ground."
"What?!" I gasp, sitting up so quickly the easel almost falls forward. I look over the canvas and see there is, in fact, a dark pentagram burned into the ground. Damien looks to the pentagram and then to me, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, as if he doesn't understand the distraught expression on my face.
"What?" he asks casually.
"I've been painting this place for years..." I say sadly, staring at the unfinished painting on the easel with wet eyes. Damien looks to the clearing, the canvas, and then to me again, more confused than he had probably ever been.
"I don't understand what the problem is," he says dumbly.
"Well, I can't just draw it with a pentagram now, my parents are Catholic!" I exclaim, sitting down in defeat. "This was my sanctuary...this is what I did for therapy, and now I can't anymore! I'll have to find a new place!"
Damien takes his hands out of his pockets, looking unsure of what to do. "I...can try to fix it, but I don't think I can 'un-burn' something," he mumbles awkwardly, hands hovering out in front of him like they don't belong to him.
"Oh, don't bother..." I say with a tight throat and a heavy heart. Damien looks down to me again with his eyebrows creased, the ends of his mouth pinched.
"Well...well what if I did something else," Damien says quickly, making me lift my head to meet his gaze.
"Like what? I want to paint something beautiful...how are you going to make a burnt pentagram on the ground beautiful?" I mutter with a weak voice. Damien's eyes shift around before he stumbles to the center of the pentagram again, eyes starting to glow and flame. I step out from behind the easel to watch, curious but doubtful.
Damien summons flames from the sides of the pentagram until the flames surround the circle. His pale, thin fingertips dance and sway as he makes the flames to his sides and behind him grow, up into the sky, eventually making them twist. I narrow my eyes, frown starting to lighten as a shape starts to take place with the tendrils of fire.
A wildflower, probably the most common kind, is formed in the sky with bright, swirling flames, Damien's arms outstretched and hands upturned, a small, uncertain smile on his face.
"Is this beautiful?" he asks nervously.
I don't reply, only stare at him in confusion. He's nothing like I remember him. I remember him as a bitter, ye-olde-speaking, demon of a child, who only talked to me because nobody else would. Even when he emerged from the flames at first, he reminded me of how I knew him. As soon as he recognized me, he seemed to change, into something I could only describe as an awkward teenager who isn't sure how to act around people.
"Hey, weakling, are you even paying attention?!" he shouts to me, making me jump. "I'm trying to do something for you!"
"Oh, I-I'm sorry Damien, it's gorgeous! Could you...hold it for a few hours, so I can paint it?"
"A few hours?!"
"Yes, I'm terribly sorry, it's okay if you can't," I say, my voice getting quieter and quieter as I stare at the flames. They're truly spectacular, I've never seen fire take a shape of a wildflower against a cloudy grey sky. I don't think many people can say they have!
"Are you going to paint me in it?"
"Would you be angry with me if I did?"
"No, I just want to know if I'm going to be in it or not."
"You'll find out!" I call back, walking behind the easel and taking a seat. I give a long glance to the black paint, the primary color I would use for him. I shake my head quietly, I shouldn't. He looks too demonic, and my parents are Catholic. I can't draw a demon into this, and I'm sure he won't mind. I can't imagine he'd actually want me to paint him into it.
So, in maybe half an hour, I finish the flowers, snow, sky, and trees, since I already had progress on them. I take a deep breath, staring at the picture; I could leave it like this, but...what a spectacular show happening above me.
I'll paint it. With all of my other pictures, it could be possible that I've gone insane from drawing the same old thing, or, someone might believe it was real. I'm okay with either.
"Hurry the fuck up, Frenchie!"
"I'm not French!"
We've had this exchange countless times in the last hour, but I'm almost done. "Just a few more minutes, I'm almost done."
"I remember why I never come up to the mortal plain, I end up doing things like this! Wow, when I go back, I'm staying back!" he complains, though he doesn't lose form. I roll my eyes, not really caring. Damien and I had never been friends, we just...talked. And then he blew me up. But, I think I might be the only person who ever tried to break his shell. Not that he let me.
"Okay...done," I sigh, figuring I can add anything else later, and I shouldn't keep Damien here any longer. I hear him sigh and growl with relief, the flames vanishing, only now allowing me to see how dark it really was.
"Finally, can I see it?" he asks while walking over to me, nearly shoving me over to get a look at the easel, which I push back so he can see better. He's silent for a while, eyes tracing up and down the lines of the fire he previously made. "It's alright."
I smile some, the end of my nose a bright red from the chill. "Why, thank you, Damien," I say politely. "Are you going home now?"
Damien flinches. "Yeah."
"Do you not want to go home?"
"No, I do. I don't want to be around your loser-ass any longer," Damien affirms, "but...I suppose it's better than the same old-same old."
"I'm a delight to be around, lately," I say excitedly, "although it's only my mother that says so. But I trust her! I do believe I've changed, Damien, maybe you can give me a chance,"
"Give you a chance for what?" Damien inquires, looking down to me with a slightly offended look.
"To...be your friend, of course," I say, smile fading some from the accusatory glare he holds. "unless you don't want to." I quickly add.
"Do you have a place for me to stay?"
"Like, a bed?"
"No. A place. I don't sleep."
"Ah, right. I do."
"Fine then, Pip. I'll stay with you. Not because I like you, I hate you, but because you're the only person dumb enough to do it."
"Splendid!" I say as I pick up the canvas, easel and bucket. "Can you help me carry this? I don't want to smudge the wet paint, it's very awkward to hold all of this."
"I didn't say I would be your lackey." Damien says while starting to walk, flicking his tail and making a whipping noise with it. I huff, smile, roll my eyes, and quickly follow him, bucket clanging loudly against my leg.