Who didn't think there must have been something going on between Sebastian and Claude after the infamous grope in the water? Features various fictional demons, all of which are copyright to their respective creators (though for one of them the expiry date has passed quite some time ago).
Part I.
Claude Faustus would never ever admit it but he was in a pretty foul mood. Well, to be precise, he would never ever admit that he had moods at all to start with, placing the probability of the previous admission somewhere between the asymptotic and absolute zero.
The acid rainbow colors constantly shifting on the intricately carved walls did little to improve his disposition and neither did a mug of questionable beverage that the barman's sixteenth hand, if it was indeed a hand, placed in front of him, its owner not even bothering to spare a glace at the customer. Claude stared resolutely at the oily swirls on the surface of his drink trying his best to ignore the other visitors of the establishment. It wasn't that he generally disliked the company of his own species; he just rather preferred those among then that were already tangled in one way or the other in the proverbial web of his. That was hardly the case here, and did not make him particularly comfortable. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.
One would wonder why Claude chose to come to the place at all, to which, if he were suddenly inclined to be honest, he would gravely reply that it was a result of misunderstanding. He was, after all, nothing but attentive to his current master's wishes.
"May plague rot her greedy guts!" the man had exclaimed after a particularly heated argument with his aunt. Claude saw to it that it did*. It was hardly his fault that master had forgotten to add "but only after she rewrites her will in my favor" now, was it?
He had found it exceptionally hard, however, to make his contractor see it that way. The man had been positively livid, screaming obscenities and hurling anything he could reach at the demon, while Claude tried to keep the attitude of polite attention. Inwardly he was quietly bored. At least until the moment his master managed to calm down slightly and spat out: "Go to hell! And that's an order!" Claude hadn't been expecting that and unfortunately there wasn't much he could do except mutter "Yes, my Lord" and excuse himself.
Which had brought him, by a fairly straight route, here. "The Four Horsemen" was located on the very outskirts of hell but he did not feel that it was necessary to venture any deeper to comply with his master's order. There were just a few too many demons further down who would be very, very happy to see him indeed**. He would have to wait here until his contractor's wrath passed, which, given man's needy nature, would hopefully happen soon enough.
A mostly human-shaped demon, wearing a hopelessly old-fashioned cloak with red lining, manoeuvred himself into the empty stool next to him.
"Here we go," Claude thought with a tinge of exasperation.
"What seek'st thou here, Claude Frollo?"
Claude had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. The guy should really get out once in a century. "It is Claude Faustus, nowadays."
"Dost thou endeavour to slander me?" the other intoned menacingly.
"Of course he doesn't, he just has zero imagination." chimed in a smug newcomer, promptly occupying the empty chair on the right. "Consider it a tribute". He winked at Claude. Well, at least, you could listen to that one without cringing.
"For thine own sake I hope thou mean'st it thus," Mephistopheles muttered darkly.
Claude turned to the snake demon, who was predictably dressed to a T, noting sourly that the fabric of the insufferable creature's jacket was finer than that of his own. "And what do you seek here, Crowly? Got yourself discorporated again?" Crowly was one of the few demons outside the soul-eating fraction that spent most of the time among mortals***.
"It was a result of a... a... errm, of a fierce battle with the adversary." Crowly shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Claude snorted, suspecting that the "fierce battle" really meant that Crowly got smashed with that angel again and forgot that trains had been invented.
"What about you, Claude, did your latest master finally get fed up with you?" The snake demon recovered pretty fast.
"I have a day off," Claude explained shortly. Crowly shot him a look that suggested that he did not believe it for a second, but left it at that.
For the moment it seemed like they had exhausted the topic; and since neither of them were going to ask Mephistopheles what he was doing there****, Claude went back to staring at his drink, which by now had developed a pair eyes and was glaring back at him.
A loud cheer from the crowd, which sounded more like a whole forest inhabited with rather unpleasant creatures trying to outcry each other, distracted Claude from the staring contest and brought his attention to the small stage to the left of the bar.
A needle-thin heel, sharp and glittering, was digging into the soft tissue of what was not a stage, as Claude had first thought, but a huge leaf growing from the branches half-sunk into the bar's walls. His gaze crept upwards, along the midnight-black leather encasing a slender calf, the preternaturally pale skin of the exposed thigh and stopped right on something that strongly reminded him of … well, a feather duster. Except unlike the one he used at the mansion, this one was composed of stiff black feathers and was currently describing little circles in the air along with the very shapely organ it was attached to. For some reason Claude found the sight utterly mesmerising.
To his right Crowly gave a low whistle of approval.
"Well, isn't that an improvement!"
Claude chose not to comment on the how obvious the statement was. Compared to Big Berta nothing could possibly constitute a decline*****.
The dancer spun around, balancing expertly on the tip of the heeled boot, came to a halt facing the audience and bent down to give the leather-clad ankle a sensuous caress. Claude found himself staring into the eyes the color of drying blood glittering though the fringe of raven hair. Little devils of amusement danced in them along with the marvelous hint of a challenge, and…
The dancer straightened, giving the audience a chance to admire the hard lines of his body before they were obscured by a shower of black feathers.
"I have to concede he hath a truly fine backside," Baritone to his left said.
It was hard to argue with that. A single shiny feather landed next to Claude's mug. The drink had given up on staring at its potential consumer and was slowly creeping up his sleeve. Claude caught it absentmindedly and started to chew on it, ignoring the muffled squeals of protest. His gaze was trained on the figure that continued to swirl around the impromptu pole created by the interwoven vines. Maybe it was not a complete waste of an evening after all…
TBC
* While it was not exactly the plague, the effect produced was very much the same.
** That is to say, happy to see him dismembered, his various limbs put on stakes and slowly roasted to tenderness.
*** Crowly also preferred to actually inhabit a human body rather than morph his own into a replica of one.
**** For fear of getting a half an hour lecture on the organization of the universe.
***** No, you don't want to know.
A/N: As you can imagine this is going into rather M-ish direction in the next chapter.