Death and the Devil Arc.
--In God's Bar

Pairs: yaoi fangirls will scream 2-6-2, but in reality, it's gen.

Warning: language, semi-religious, maybe a little blasphemy (maybe), adult situations, dark, possibly OOC

A/N: This is an arc thatwas built using both the gw500 and gwjeopardy communities on livejournal. Although each "chapter" can act as a stand-alone of sorts, the fics will be posted back to back as a story to save space and confusion. The arc focuses on Duo and Zechs' first meeting one year after EW, and though the men do grow a little close before the end, this is NOT shounen-ai. Or at least, it's not intended to be, but you can assume whatever you want. Safe for both the yaoi and non-yaoi alike, and dedicated to anyone to loves a little generality. Thanks.

'In God's Bar' was originally written for the gw500 lj community, challenge #47 'signs.'

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The Good Bar. I suppose it's a stupid name for a bar, but I wasn't here when they named it. It makes me wonder what the hell bar was ever good, but really I have no say in the matter. What do I have to stand on, bitching about names? I've got two of them and they're both crazy mother fuckers. Right? So the media tells me.

I stare at the electric neon sign hanging out the window. One the of the O's are missing and it says, "the God bar," in bright blue neon letters. Open from 9am-2am, last drink at 1:30, we start tossing whenever we damn feel like it. If you aren't here to drink, don't come in, and if you do get drunk, don't complain to the bartenders. God doesn't like that very much.

I snort.

It's a very small bar, one of those back street dumps that people run to when they don't want to face the cruelties of main street. They've got a bunch of whores that hang out in the front, and most of them do their business in this rutty little bathroom behind the cash register, the bartender only giving disapproving glances every now and again as he lets his john become the local fuck-pit. Not that I care. If a man wants to waste himself away on cheap pleasure, who am I to stop him?

I watch silently as a woman in a cheap fur coat (falling apart in several sections) drags a man by his necktie, a faked hungry look on her face, about as real as the title of Prince of Sank. She takes him to the pre-mentioned bathroom, and I catch the gold flash of a wedding band on her delicate ring finger. I don't bother to comment on it, and I ignore everything, turning back to the bartender with what I hoped was a neutral expression. I was angry at the world, but I didn't want the world to know it. The world was already angry at me as it were.

"Sir," he says innocently.

"Don't ever call me that!" I wince at the violence in my tone, and try desperately to soften it. "Call me--" I have to think about this seriously. Everyone knows who Milliardo is, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out Zechs. I wave vaguely into the air and sigh. "Call me Joe. Good name for a drunk."

He nods stiffly, like a damn soldier.

I sigh again, and bitterly, and turn back to the neon sign hanging out the window. I ordered light beer because I didn't come to drink so much as just wallow in the atmosphere of city life. It was where I needed to be, where I could feel sorry for myself without having to drown in Noin's disapproving glare, without having to look at the shame in Relena's eyes, without having to be called fucking Milliardo everywhere I went. I think the tender knew that, because he's tried to kick me out several times. Problem is, he's scared to death of me and I have no idea why.

I mean... I'm not going to blow up the world or anything.

A fly beside me mutters into his beer. I don't catch the slurred statement, but I know he's talking to me because he points to the sign I've been staring at for several minutes now. When I raise my brow in confusion, the man thumps his pint back on the counter and spins, waving at the blue neon as if hailing a cab. In a slightly slurred voice he says, "Don't you think it's ironic that the devil would brood in God's bar?"

I frown. "The devil? Hm. I don't believe in the devil and I don't believe in God."

He spits a wad of yellow phlegm on the wooden floor, scrapes his stool back and looks at me with a knowing expression. Even in the drunken haze, he seemed to know me very well--or rather, perhaps because of it.

"Bullshit," he says firmly, surprising me. "You are the devil, and the devil doesn't believe in God, but he knows him on a personal basis and loathes the very thought of him. Believe me, I know."

I snort. Hypocritical propaganda. "I'm not buying a bible from you," I counter rudely.

But he doesn't even blink. "I know who you are and I know what you did. The whole fucking world knows what you did. Do you know what you did?"

Suddenly, I'm getting very angry. I glare at him, but it has no effect.

He sighs and slumps back on his stool, drowning himself with his beer again. "You don't remember me, do you?"

I shake my head. The anger is gone, as fast as it had come. I'm left with confusion.

He shrugs. "I was one of the men you almost slaughtered with Epyon." I gasp and he waves a hand vaguely. "One of the many, I guess. Weird how I got out alive, but I guess God likes me." He looked at me significantly, like he was spelling it out for me to read. It was like reading another language. "God doesn't like you, though."

"Why not?" It was all could say. I really wanted to know for some reason.

He shrugs again. "You're the devil, I told you."

I grunt and drown my beer, motioning the tender for stronger alcohol. The tender gives me a shot of whiskey, and I nod my thanks, silently ignoring the other man sitting next to me. It was a full minute or two before I finally mutter "...Is the devil always born from a pacifist family?"

He laughs and nods. "Every fuckin' time man."

"And does he always feel guilty about what he does?" I do feel guilty. I always have and probably always will.

He sobers and says, "That's what the devil is all about."

I nod slowly and ask my final question. "Does the devil always brood in God's bar?"

He laughs again, this time heartily. He shakes his head and his voice is heartfelt. He is not angry that I almost killed him during the war, and it makes me wonder why. With a grin, he says, "Does the Devil always flirt with Death?"

That makes my heart lurch.

The fly I've been speaking to was wearing a black cap over his head, mahogany bangs spilling over jeweled cobalt, as if hiding. I suddenly frown, thinking that I'd seen him before somewhere, that his voice was suddenly so damn familiar...

"Fuck Zechs, will you ever learn?" He pulls off his cap and one long braid tumbles down his back, brushing against his ass as he shifts on the stool. He grins even wider and sticks out his hand. I cannot breathe.

"Duo Maxwell, at your service. It's nice to finally meet you, Satan."

Without a word, I take Death's hand, warm and oddly comforting. We make our greetings, a pact between the Devil and Death alone.

In God's Bar.