Disclaimer: With the exception of the unfortunate Dr. Darryl, I own none of the character or settings mentioned herein.
A/N: I wrote this little series of ficlets about a year ago, but completely forgot to post the to my account.
The therapist, a balding middle-aged man named Darryl Birkett, who had numerous accolades and several television appearances to his name, was already considering high wire trapeze artist as an alternative, less stressful career option.
"So, I'm sensing that there's a lot of friction in this relationship," he said, as the taller of the two clients, a very thin man in a badly fitted suit, clenched and unclenched his fists. The building shook, as if in warning.
"He's been lurking with other people," said his companion, a short, squat man, whose face was filled with something that might have been deep hurt but had about an equal chance of being homicidal mania.
"It didn't mean anything, Ligur," snarled the thin man. "It was just a bit of casual skulking, nothing serious."
The one identified as Ligur sniffled; it was a horrible sound to be forced to listen to. "That's not what Belphegor said. And I heard Belial and Dagon laughing about how some succubus had told them that you keep meeting Pazuzu for a few hours loitering by the Lake of Fire every Thursday. "
For a moment the tall man looked well and truly cornered. "That… that's just business loitering. It's not like it's proper lurking or nothing. Besides, it's not as though you ever want to go lurking anymore. Every time I ask you keep saying that you've got an 'eadache or you've got some extra tempting to do or you've to fiddle your accounts."
"There's more to damnation than lurking Hastur," said Ligur, looking as though he were about to burst out of his too tight, grubby mac at any moment. "There's tormenting and threatening and shrieking."
"You should know by now that I'm not a shrieking sort of demon. If you wanted one of them you should have stuck to incubi."
"Well, maybe I'll go and find one then."
"What! You wouldn't."
"I bloody would."
The one called Hastur was suddenly holding what looked to be a ball of fire in the palm of his hand.
"Hah, don't like it when I threaten to go off and lurk with something else do you?" called out Ligur, voice filled with sudden triumph.
"I think," ventured Dr. Darryl, in a terrified whisper. "That what you need to do is find common ground, something you both enjoy."
For a few seconds both of them seemed to think about this.
"What…"
"You mean like…"
"Gutting snakes?"
They looked at each other with something akin to tenderness - albeit a very horrible and disturbing variety of tenderness of the kind you really wouldn't want small children to see - in their eyes.
"If that's… er… the sort of thing you like," said Darryl whom, strict vegetarian and animal rights activist though he was, wasn't about argue.
"We could go and gut some now," said Ligur, face bearing a frighteningly ecstatic expression.
Hastur, seemingly placated from his earlier outburst of near mass destruction, looked briefly at the ball of flame still in his hands and casually tossed it out through the open window.
There was a very loud explosion.
Darryl dived under his desk and didn't re-emerge until the sirens had finally stopped and he was absolutely certain that the two terrifying creatures had vacated the surrounding area. He was already planning what he was going to wear for his first trapeze act.
After gulping down nearly half a bottle of Jack Daniels he plucked up the courage to look at his schedule for the following day.
His heart immediately froze.
Pencilled in for the 9:00 a.m. through till 10:00 a.m. slot were Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell.
He groaned.
It was going to be round fifteen of the 'You've been thwarting me behind my back' 'Well you're the one who left coffee stains on Dorian Gray' argument.
Time to start seeking out an available circus school.