Author: simian gibbet (Stephen)
Fandom: Dogma
Pairing: Bartleby/Loki
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Archive: If you want it, which will come as an /incredible/ surprise to me, email me. E-mail address for feedback: derangeddrainpipe@hotmail.com or simian@kermit.net
Disclaimers: Kevin Smith runs the show. Yep. As much as I'd like to say I /do/ own them, I realise it's never going to happen. -Sniff.-
Notes: Bartleby's POV. Words encased in /'s are emphasized, not thoughts. Thought-marks really don't exist, being that this is essentially all in the character's head. ;D And this is un-beta'd. So, err... mistakes and so forth really go unnoticed by me. If anyone's willing to beta it, mail me?
Warnings: Language, Supernatural Themes (Really!), Sex between two of the same sex... heh?
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Hell. Cold, dismal, deserted Hell. A morbid tune of pained screams and pleas for help wafted from below my feet, it depressed me, but at least it allowed me to become aware of where I was. A shuddering ache coursed through my body, and I became helplessly aware of the fact I was very, very alone... and very, very wingless... and very, very human. Fuck. I wish I'd never convinced him to do it. A little late for regrets, isn't it, Bartleby. I turned a full circle, unsurprisingly timid eyes glancing over the 'plains' I was standing in the middle of. They had a certain indigo tinge to everything here. Even the ground's dusty components glowed in the color. And the temperature, it was cold. Funny, that. I would have suspected Hell to be anything /but/ cold. Then again, Heaven's Gates are very misleading, also. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if this was the tamest part of the place. The only cloud I'd ever seen up there was on my way down. I should really kick that Grigori habit of mine. I had little time to continue my surveyance, as an almost violent groan shifted the ground beneath me. Earthquake, presumably. Collapsing to my knees, I paid little mind to the fact that dusty particles were swarming about near my eyes. Once the tremor was over, I was prompt to get to my feet, assisted by a hand I didn't recognise until I met it's owner face to face. Azarel. The pimpin' bastard was still here. I would have thought as punishment he'd be sent to... well, Earth.. or something. One can only die so many times, you know. I wasn't expecting to see him, really. As Satan is much more judgemental than She could ever be. I didn't have the time to spare taking note of the circle of earth that had crumbled away to reveal the entrance to the fiery bowels of his home, I was far too busy grasping his collar in a fist and yanking him back from the edge. I would have to ask him how he kept his suit such a stark white... later. Questions were far from my mind, but punching his lights out were not. His immediately startled cry went unheard as I tackled him to the ground, straddled his waist and went about taking my frustration out on him. He wouldn't feel it, but I didn't care. My heart ached from being separated from the two things I needed most in my life, Loki and the Divine Presence Herself. My wings... no wings... I truly came to the realisation I was mortal. I paused my beating, inspecting my hands. Bleeding, swollen knuckles... and my breath, I had breath, was shallow and fastly paced. This, gave him time to speak.
"Bartleby... you crazy asshole," he seemed irritated, but unphased by my attack. "You don't even know why I'm fucking here, do you? Never were a wholly rational bastard." Unhurt, he shoved me away. Demon strength compared to now mortal persistence, guess which won out. I, eventually tired of the continual loss, collapsed to the hard, gravelly floor back-first. He could have done what I had to him, but I knew he wasn't feeling the angst I was. He had no reason, really. Had I been the Prophet that 'killed' him, however...
Exhaustion. It was new to me. But, I revelled in the adrenaline that accompanied it. Feelings I was so unaccustomed to, but felt incredibly good. I was left to wonder if I truly disliked being human. It had it's advantages. Since losing my wings to that /other/ Prophet, the sex-obsessed blonde, emotions and feelings came and went. Regret, Sadness, Pain, Love, Hatred, the list went on. I was what, 12 hours old as a human? Funny, thinking that. I was milleniums old before all this happened. What was also funny to me now was thinking of myself as unfamiliar. I was scared, of myself. I never thought that could happen. I might as well be an eight year old ventured too far into the woods thanks to a daring game. Azarel took my silence as a sign he could speak without being attacked a second time.
"Bartleby... man. I didn't expect that from you, a Grigori... if this is how you're reacting, I'd hate to see how Loki would. Oh wait, I did." He talks too much. He always talked too much. At the mention of Loki, all thought of creative insult rushed from my head. Loki. My humorous, flawless, /wonderful/ partner... was here? At once, thoughts of what they could have done to him entered my mind. My upper lip curled into a snarl akin to something the Angel of Death himself would recoil fearfully from.
"What?" The first time I'd spoken since I... died. I sounded parched, scared and even lonesome. Once again I felt compelled to compare myself to a child. Typical. Then again, being seperated from them was beginning to take it's toll on me.
"Loki's here, too. I don't think you should see him juuuust yet, though. The Big Guy wants to see you first, alone. Then the both of you. After that, you guys can tango or fight or whatever the fuck it is you do when you're at home..." I assumed by 'The Big Guy' he meant Satan... or some overweight human I threw from as high as I could get with their added weight on my wings. I stared at him blankly before focusing as he chose to continue.
"He misses you, y'know. He's just been mopin' around. Hasn't made one smart-alec fuckin' quip all day... like he usually would." The fact that my fun-loving Loki could possibly be depressed brought a frown to my brow. Then I remembered. The knife. His innocent eyes welled with... tears? Tears for them? The way he stumbled and fell against me as I withdrew the blade I had plunged into his side ruthlessly in a gush of dark, crimson fluid. His... wings... I... I was the reason he was here in the first place. Earlier, at the airport, the way he simply refused to risk anything that might end us up in Hell... I should have listened. I really should have. Oh God. I wanted to apologize for the power-hunger way I'd hacked through his ivory, feathered wings, tainted by his own blood. Insanity hurt. Azarel was waving his hand in front of my narrowed eyes, now. I was drawn back out of my thoughts at his command.
"Loki's here." I stated dumbly, repeating what he'd informed me moments before. I didn't seem to fully comprehend the amount of shit I was in, much less the amount of shit /he/ was in. Not even my killing spree compared to what he'd done in the past few millenia. Azarel had helped me to my feet before I realised I'd extended my hand to him. Again. He seemed to be regarding me as though I were still 'insane'. Heh. I wasn't certain I was done with it myself. Shifting uneasily, I tried again to focus my glazed over vision, but everything was a blur whether I wanted it to be or not. I was still amidst flashbacks, it seemed. Mortals, sinful and otherwise, being thrown from as far up as the clouds. My hands, coated in blood, Loki's. Screams of terror and pleas as I rose upwards and as they plunged. One by one. A blood bath everywhere but above. It was not my place, nor had it ever been, to judge humans. That was always Loki's job. Always Loki. Shit. It was always ABOUT Loki. I was only looking out for him when I convinced him to tell her he quit. It all seemed so irrational now. Hell made me realize I should have been happy with Wisconsin. And Loki. It was closer to Heaven than this. But no, I had to go and try to win back our positions. We were so blind. Me for even considering it, and him for following. I moistened my lips and canted my head towards Azarel.
"So, is Lok enjoying the tropical heat below?" Grinning, Azarel stepped towards me, his far-too -warm hand searing me through my jacket /and/ tee-shirt as it settled on my shoulder. "He, unlike those... mighty duck fucks I had for assistants... isn't being tortured. He's in the suburb with Air Conditioning. The cool kind." Stifling a laugh, I took a step closer to the abyssmal -seeming opening my... friend... had popped out of. It had an eerie blue glow around the rim which blended into a painfully bright apricot-red that could only be classified as 'flame-colored' pit. That was all I could see as such, but by the colors expressed, I could tell Hell would be every bit as clichŽ as I expected it to be. Judging by Azarel's description of it, anyhow. I also figured that if I was wrong, I would find out sooner or later.
"You want to see him, doncha? I know. He wants to see you, too. You'll be at each other's throats. You guys are in a lot of shit. But don't worry. There's always a way out..." I glowered, regardless of the fact he couldn't see me. He was trying to be gentle, I could tell. But... something wasn't right. I wondered if Loki was okay, and if /I/ was going to be okay. Eternal torture didn't quite appeal to me.
"I need to see him," was my toneless statement. Even if we /were/ going to bicker, or fist-fight, or whatever, I needed to know he was okay. Azarel was rubbing his jaw with the back of his hand the next time I glanced at him. I only saw the blood as it was wiped away. My own, presumably. I regretted my decision to direct my aggression at him in such a way. Even if he /had/ tried to get us to end the world and all. We were friends long before that. He knew as well as I did that there would be a time when we would be able to hang out as easily as Loki and I had in Heaven. Admittedly, I was fond of him. He was attractive, charismatic, witty... and one of few that seemed almost neutral in the war of Heaven and Hell. There would be a time in which one side would eventually kill instead of constantly making tiny holes in one another's hides. It seemed fate was on Heaven's side. The Holy Army was vast in comparison to the few Demons that actually gave a damn about fighting. I wondered why they persisted. It wasn't as though they had much chance of winning. Then it struck me. Did He have plans for myself and Loki? No doubt he would do unthinkable things to any Angel caught within his 'Web' until they spilled information that would be either helpful, or useless. I was prompt to sigh, something that went unnoticed by my present company.
"Let's go, B... it's fucking cold up here," naturally, he's a Demon. Blah. Swirling around in all my menacing bulkiness, I regarded him thoughtfully. If he was sincere about making me jump down /that/ thing, he had another thing coming. But I would be proved wrong, as Azarel grasped my hand and had already propelled me in motion vertically. I landed with a resounding thud on the cavern's floor. I groaned, something I'd probably never done before that I could remember... from pain, anyway. Getting to my feet, I glanced over my limbs. No broken bones. Some unseen force had cushioned my fall, saving me from possible death. Ha! Death. No, /pain/. Azarel appeared behind me, having opted for the far safer option of teleportation. Of course, he could do that. His position allowed him to. I refused to look at him, now. Childish, certainly, but he had pushed me. I could always claim he started it. It'd only be the truth. But I wondered if truth really mattered down here. Here, yes. I took a moment to observe where I was. I'd seen so many different places in the past three days, it was hard to take it all in. Cave. Heat. Searing heat. Caused by the fire licking at the walls in several corners of the crudely carved room. Perspiration was already beginning to form on my forehead, and in several areas of my torso. Insipid human conditions. My hair felt damp, limp and lifeless. I must be going crazy. I'm actually thinking about how much I miss my shampoo right now. My demon friend seemed intent on getting me moving again, perhaps before I melted into a puddle of liquidated goo. I complied, whether I was conscious of such, though... I couldn't say.
We were now in the depths of another cavern, one littered with many doors, and bars. Reminiscent of a cell block. I hadn't been to prison, but it seemed a natural thing up there to know trivial things like that. The walls were the same color, and maybe the same mineral, as what I'd encountered on the surface. It basked the area in an oddly appealing light, which would otherwise seem intimidating. It was also cooler now, and the sweat I had obtained was turning cold against my flesh. I was shivering, only slightly, but enough to be noticed by Azarel. His hand against my shoulder a second time was a welcomed reassurance, and source of heat for all of two moments. We were still in motion, I don't think I could have stopped now. A far more visible tremor coursed the length of my lanky frame as my gaze roved over Loki's huddled form. His head was buried in a cradle his arms provided, those were supported by his propped up knees. He looked as perfect as ever, even in all his misery. He was confined in a cell, or something that resembled a cell. Bars and all. I was frozen in place. Terrified, concerned and adoring all in one frightful jumble. He shifted slightly, and I was aware of terror surpassing my concern and adoration. Terrified of him seeing me. I wasn't ready for that yet. Azarel was frowning beside me, and as though reading my thoughts, had grabbed and dragged me into a room on the opposite side of the hall.
This room, a waiting room? Hm. There wasn't anyone lurking, but chairs were provided, as well as copies of some tasteless magazine that probably had gossip about Matt Damon and Ben Affleck being lovers in it. He had opened the door over the other side of this room that camoflagued his suit nicely in its' walls and disappeared inside, leaving me to my thoughts. Bah. I was pacing, now. Back and forth like some impaitent moron. Considering what to say to him, my comrade-in-arms, when I eventually faced him. Would he cry? Unlikely. Would he laugh? It's a possibility. Would he try to kill me? Ugh. Thinking about it was making me nauseas. Head swimming, I sat down and flipped through one of the said magazines, finding almost exactly what I'd expected inside. Sigh.
After reading a considerable amount of one such article, and being distinctly pleased by the contents for some unexplained reason, Azarel sauntered back from the other room in atypical demon sway. He was accompanied by a woman, I noted. As I did such, I groaned indiscreetly, mentally chiding myself for closing the door to 'The Big Guy's' sexuality so quickly. Of course, it would be a woman. That would make sense. Seductive is the dark side. Yoda wasn't kidding. She was attractive alright.
Now don't go calling me a sexist pig or anything. I love women. Well, I've lived around them long enough to learn there's little hope for some poor bastard who underestimates them. After all, She's a woman... in a sense.
Depositing my reading choice on the small coffee table shuffled close to the sofa, I stood appropriately, awaiting introduction. Like I needed it.
She was giving me an oddly bemused look, which I returned with as much intensity as I could muster. It was like meeting your mother's twin sister for the first time, the darker beauty who seemed to be her every opposite when in fact they were almost identical.. just on other sides of the room, or in this case, other sides of the war.
(to be continued)