When she moves, it doesn't look like walking.
Ghosting, maybe? The tips of her cloak hover just above the ground, less than a centimeter away from touching the polished marble floor. But her shoulders do not bounce at all, there is no hint at knees bending and straightening under the long, elusive fabric. Sometimes her arms don't even sway. He wonders if she's dead and simply floating around, making herself seen by human eyes. Or maybe her legs are so thin under that cloak – a human geography in which nobody has claimed to see, not even the other Arcobaleno – that they don't touch the fabric of her cloak as she walks, and can hide in all that space. In her infant form, she had obvious legs, but he never saw her actually walk on them anyhow. Always floating and phasing in and out, never actually using them. Maybe that was an illusion too.
Under all that black fabric, are there human legs? Or a ghost-trail of mist keeping her afloat? He wants to know.
Less-than-subtly does he place a hand on the hem of her clothes. Defying all human flexibilities, a hand slaps him away. Blinks once, then twice, and the hand was never present. A mind game, like usual.
"No amount of money in your account could condone you touching me or my clothing, Prince," her mouth turns and says to him. Over the years, he's come to accept that her face is nothing but the pair of lips and a nose, plus tattoos. When her hair began to grow long enough to peek out from her dark hood, he began to think that maybe there really just might be a pair of eyes under there.
"You walk funny, Mammon," Belphegor says.
"I walk just fine," she replies, "Your perception is just sub par."
He crouches again, reaching for the evasive fabric just about where her knees should be. An invisible force slaps his hand away again.
"Apparently your hearing is faulty as well," she grinds, "Don't. Touch. Me."
"How much?" He looks up, grinning as always.
"Even you couldn't afford it."
"How much?" He persists.
"I told you," she says, "too rich a price for even your candy-coated blood."
"So there is a definitive price, and you're not just hiding your body?" He hums, and stands up straight. A lot taller than she, he is when he does that. Even if she weren't short, the hint of fingertips one could see from a wave of her sleeves is slight. He can imagine her entire frame is like that.
"I bet you're flat and shaped like a box and you hate it."
There is little change in her mouth (read: facial expression), save for a slight twitch in her cheek, a minor deepen of her frown. She makes a rude clicking noise with her tongue – unbefitting in the presence of a prince – and sweeps the cloak in front of her legs away with a lazy flick of her unseen wrist.
He doesn't flinch at the sight of empty fabric, but his grin disappears. There is nothing underneath the cloak but marble flooring. No legs. No ghost trail.
"Is that what you were expecting?" Just as quickly as the cloak was raised, it drifted down once more like the closing of a curtain.
"So you really are a ghost?"
"Idiotic. Ghosts can't hold money," She says, turning on her heel that may or may not exist. "I'm just showing you what your imagination wants. The fee will be ciphered from your account by tonight."
"But I never actually touched you."
"Irrelevant." She doesn't seem phased as he follows along, trotting a step behind her. (Only one pair of footsteps echoes in the halls, he notices.) "You have no right to chastise me about my appearance anyhow. Nobody sees your eyes but you."
He snorts. "But I'm a hypocrite. And because I'm a prince, that's okay."
He can imagine, as she faces his direction for a prolonged second, a pair of blue-y, indigo eyes half-lidded and glaring at him from underneath that hood.
"Can I see your eyes then?" Belphegor tries again.
"No." She begins to walk away.
"You're weird, Mammon." He follows.
"I realize."
"So you accept that you're weird?"
"By society's definition, yes." And he can imagine an eye roll. "And because words mean nothing."
"Really?"
"Words can't pay bills."
"Maybe instead of a girl, you're a miserly old man under that hood?"
"Think what you like."
"Ew, there's an old man in the Varia." He makes a disgusted face. "I thought Levi was enough."
She halts. He halts. She faces him again, and by the position of her mouth (facial expression) she is more irate than ever.
"Are you done? I've got work to do."
From behind his blond, messy curtain, he blinks a few times. She doesn't give him a chance to answer, and continues to float (walk) away.
"I like you, Mammon."
He grins. He follows.
AN:
This is . . . I don't even know. It's a drabble, probably a little out of character, and goes nowhere. But I just love Mammon so much, and I don't know why. Femmon is appealing to me because, well, it's just so easy to picture without changing his canon appearance. He'd be an adorable girl. Ah, well, I can dream~
Anyhow, I'm getting off topic. This ficlet is probably, I don't know, some kind of TYL!AU, being Adult Mammon and TYL!Bel. I don't know if this can really be seen as BelxMammon, but I like that pairing anyhow. (This is more about Bel's amusement.) Please point out any grammar or spelling errors~
Reviews make you super cool and stuff.