"The wicked spies upon the righteous And seeks to kill him." -Psalm 37:32
It had been far too long since he'd allowed himself a taste of indulgence.
He'd tried once about a year into his recovery, tried watching the little bastard who'd put him in his positioning. It'd led to nothing but an enraged fit, anger spiraling out of control and wounds splitting back open, leaving him near-paralyzed yet again. He'd made a decision on that day, opting to internally vow to not pick up the habit until he was recovered, until he had a full-fledged plan set in motion.
After all, he'd learned. He knew that getting himself over-excited of the possibilities from looks alone could lead to his destruction. That unbridled enthusiasm towards achieving his goals could all-too-easily disillusion him, make him see a fortuity that was not nearly as achievable as he'd led himself to believe. He knew well enough by now that seeing his little experiment led him down an emotional rampage, left his mind swarming with different paths he could take to get his hands back on him where they belonged.
But such endless thoughts led to confusion, would push him astray into fields of unattainable kismet. Like his betrayer father had informed him whilst he was crafting his war path to glory: He got himself in too deep.
But not this time. No, no. This time it wasn't nothing but a pure thrill, it wasn't envisioning holding the world in his palm. He wasn't going to go for the top. He was going to do this the right way, and work his way up from the bottom.
The very bottom to be precise.
Damien closed his eyes for a moment, fangs scraping over his bottom lip as he mentally prepared himself for the delicacy he was about to enjoy. He'd been aching for it for years, wanting to see the fate of his kindred soul. If he had been driven mad by his happenstance, if he'd found himself stronger, more durable to the weight of the world. Either option would have Damien resting well tonight, he could easily rework his plans to suit the needs of his target. Once again, the redhead was the variable that he depended upon, but this time, he was more than prepared for the craftiness of his opponent. He'd pictured him so well in his time laid up, found himself spending days at a time doing nothing but envisioning what laid waiting for him in the other realm. It'd been a growing concern of his father's, how the obsession still ran deep, how Damien would still murmur for the mouse to return to the cat in his sleep.
"Damien, maybe it's time for you to refocus," he'd tried to encourage him. "Just buckle down on your healing and then you can redirect your energy into your duties down here when you're recovered."
It had been pitiful, Damien remembered with a sneer. The desperate pleading in his father's tone. A timbre so disgustingly familiar from his war-hungry preparations that it made the noirette sick to his stomach. Because he now knew what that inflection in his father's voice stood for: Weakness. It stood for fear and distrust in the ability of his son. It was a pure beacon for the notion of double-crossing his own flesh and blood, aiding the man who'd just barely been turned to harbor the soul they now all three shared.
It was an idea that made Damien shudder, thinking that he could have the same spiritual essence flowing through him. It was the price he paid for his conception, he surmised. Born in the same manner in which Adam was formed from earth, Satan molding him from brimstone and a portion of his soul and infecting a jackal to gestate him; Let him burst into life with claws slicing through his mother's womb and dropping him onto the coal and ash as she fell dead. Satan had raised him with that constant reminder, that their souls harbored the same elements inside of what was naturally grown within Damien's time before birth, that they were always part of each other whether Damien liked to believe so or not.
He'd never understood Satan's pure obsession with repeating that phrase to him. That is, not until he himself passed on the lineage. It was a feeling of power to be the one who first held the torch of who they were. Given, now it was spread within four beings, one of which Damien did not want to have such a connection to. But he supposed it mattered little. McCormick couldn't harbor the gift like the mouse could, it was only there as a fleeting light flowing through him, occasionally flickering but never staying lit enough to guide him in any way. No, Kyle had taken that brunt, and had further thrown his soul into a chaotic turmoil by taking on McCormick's own gifts. Damien was no fool when it came to the mystique of the soul, he knew that his mouse had done far too much to himself. A body could only take so much inner confliction, and the balance could be tipped if the right cards were played. It all depended on what assets were being utilized, and then he could let his favor play out however he wanted.
The demon took a steadying breath, a cruel smile creeping up his lips. He raised his hand listlessly, honing in on that oh-so-familiar pull guiding him towards his target, tracking him down at once and feeling a wave of nostalgia at the acquainted sensation. His hand flicked up with a snap, red eyes bursting open as he watched in thrill at his looking portal popping up before him. An over-excitement wavered the focus just a bit, biting his tongue and grin spreading at the blurred sight of those soft, red curls waiting for him.
Damien took a long breath, leaning back and sitting on his bed, watching in wonder as the vision steadily gained traction yet again. Kyle's bored expression came into his view all-at-once as he stared listlessly at his computer, typing away, unaware of just what was awaiting him within the realms of the underworld. "My, my," Damien murmured hungrily. "Little mouse, you've grown."
He took in the sight all together, enjoying the full taste before his eyes began gliding to various features. Kyle's hair sat just a tad shorter than he remembered, but still thick and full enough for him to envision grabbing by the handful. Green eyes glimmered as brightly as he recalled from their first meeting, pure pools of jade settled well against a pale complexion. His arms were more lithe and toned, posture straighter and surer than he'd been as a captive. Long lashes still fluttered as he blinked, pearl teeth still habitually gnawed on his lip.
That was enough to tell Damien what he needed: His mouse was far from broken. He'd grown used to his power, learned to hide it. Damien could feel the strength still swelling beneath his skin, how the toxicity of his blood still ebbed and flowed within his veins, those veins that he'd cradled and made his own. Kyle could take on all the angelic spirit he wanted, could put on spell after spell to alter his appearance, but he could never escape the poison still so deeply intertwined with what he'd become in his time under Damien's hand. The noirette grinned excitedly, wondering if that still broke his and Kenny's hearts, if he would wake up in the mornings and think of him. If he could still see Damien when he saw his own red eye, felt fangs poking against his gums and claws prodding his palms.
He wondered just how much hatred he felt, both towards Damien and himself. If Kenny blamed himself seeing his appearance, if Kyle harbored any resentment towards what his husband's fate had thrown him into.
And there it all was: The possibilities were just overwhelming. Damien was beside himself, swimming in the array of routes that Kyle had perhaps found himself thrust onto within the last five years. There was a plethora of directions, between hatred and acceptance, love and anger, power and weakness. But it seemed as though his mouse was far from powerless, still holding himself high as he sat distracted by his work. Though a part of the demon, the part still dumbfounded and humiliated by his defeat, had somewhat yearned to see Kyle a broken husk of a man, he couldn't deny that he got a certain pleasure out of seeing just how well the redhead had adjusted to his fate. After all, adjustment meant acceptance, and Kyle accepting what he was meant that he had to accept who he was, and Damien of all people knew that he would never be merely himself ever again.
He grinned, crossing his legs, bouncing the top one lightly as he watched Kyle continuing to type away at his transcription, the appearance of boredom more than evident. "You're going to wish you could stay so disinterested," he murmured. The redhead had let himself fall into the monotony of life, let himself settle despite all of the things that he could do that the rest of humanity considered only to be the things of folktales. It seemed as though Damien was going to have to reteach him just what he was capable of.
A sharp knock interrupted his gleeful wonderings, glancing towards his door and narrowing his eyes, feeling the familiar life force behind the barrier. "What?" he snapped.
The door was slowly pressed open, a gold-plated head poking in around the thick material. He cleared his throat, "Master Damien, I'm just here to check on you." Damien rolled his eyes, folding his finger and allowing Gragor to pass into his room. The demon cautiously stepped within the dwelling and shut the door behind him, carefully making his way over towards him. Dark eyes flickered to the vision as he rounded around towards Damien's side, catching the glimpse of red hair and his chest twisted. 'Oh no,' he thought miserably. He had really hoped that Damien would have moved past this by now. But, he should've known better, really.
The antichrist watched him with a sly smirk, "So, remember our little friend?"
He nodded solemnly, "That I do." Yes, he remembered him all too well. The little mutt who'd helped conquer their army, had sent them all falling back onto ashy ground to resume their monotonous lives. The one who'd played such a part in their second-in-line's personal destruction, had made the entire realm question whether or not he'd ever be able to make a recovery. The scars he'd impacted, both on Damien and on the domain as a whole, were still seen, were still talked about in passing. He'd been on the frontline for a whirlwind of chaos and had guided the winds of change himself, both him and that moronic immortal he was so attached to.
"So," Damien cut into his loathing and got his attention redirected back onto himself. "I know that look, Gragor. What has you so concerned?" he cocked his brow, sharp eyes slicing against his minion. Gragor knew that look well enough, that silent warning to tread very lightly, to select his words with care, lest he tap into Damien's easily riled temperament.
The demon gulped, charcoal wings snapping behind him in tension, paws folding behind his back as he forced himself to take a breath. He knew exactly what was wrong with what he'd walked in on, but also knew that he couldn't voice such concerns. He'd watched Damien's obsession fester, only seeing life sparking through him as he laid nearly slain when he'd mumble out the topic of the redhead. Anger and possessiveness ran deep within the recollections, pushed Damien to the brink of emotion his compromised health allowed him to reach. He'd sat and helped dress his wounds with Timpetan, both of them exchange worried glances as Damien would murmur out half-baked plans of revenge, just what he would do if he could grab his prize yet again. Half of the time, his words were completely incomprehensible, but his tone spoke well enough of the ill-will he was yearning to put the redhead through yet again, make damn sure that Kenny would be watching it all happen to him. He'd learned it was the best, the most efficient way to make both of them suffer, and he had no qualms with repeating such a tried and true method.
"Master Damien," he started slowly, eyes peeling off of the distracted third-breed and back onto his ruler. "You've only just found yourself upright again. Shouldn't this kind of path wait just awhile longer?"
"He's had five years," Damien reminded him bitterly. "Five years of me being laid up while he and that fucking angel prick lived. He's had far too long a serendipitous life, he needs put back into his place."
The demon winced, "Okay but… perhaps it's best to… to let him internally suffer," he tried. "Master Damien, McCormick has not lost his own powers in the time you've been wounded. He will not allow you to escape alive again should you go for the... mixed breed," he said with disgust.
The noirette snorted, glancing over at him with a smirk, "Oh, Gragor. He's not going to get a choice in the matter. I made a simple miscalculation last time," he shrugged casually. "I made the wrong person my goal. This time, McCormick isn't even part of the equation. Not until much much later down the line," he grinned deviously. "And by that point, little mouse will be so far torn from himself that even McCormick won't make a difference."
He shifted uncomfortably, looking back at the lean form on the other side of the portal. "You said that last time as well," he reminded him quietly, flinching at a sharp look from his better. "Master Damien, I'm just trying to look out for your best interests," he insisted.
"My best interest is to take back what belongs to me," he hissed. "I allowed my last mistakes to happen. Believe me when I tell you that I won't let it happen again."
They both turned their attention back towards the portal as a soft, "Oh for fuck's sake," broke between their tense argument. Damien's eyes brightened, smile forming yet again as Kyle cringed in the slightest, fangs and claws beginning to regrow and eye losing its false hue. The redhead let out a soft 'hmph', shaking his head and running clawed fingers up through his hair, letting out a long, irritated breath. "Always in the goddamn middle of a transcript," he muttered. He pushed himself from his desk, tossing his headphones down by his keyboard. "Val, c'mon," he jerked his head, Valefor looking up with his returned stunningly red eyes and hopping to his feet excitedly to get to his master's call. Kyle put a gentle hand on his head as he joined his side, leading him through the house towards the bathroom. Kyle snagged a dark towel from the rack behind the door and held the corner under the sink to soak down the fabric, looking down at him with a cocked brow. "Ready, Dickcheese?" Val yipped at him a bit and Kyle snorted, dropping down into a kneel in front of him.
Damien watched, interest completely piqued at a quick cut from his claw slicing through his pentagram. His marking. The one that made him shudder, the everlasting symbol of just where Kyle's path spawned from. Valefor shut his eyes as Kyle lightly smeared blood over his lids, placing his cleaned hand over top of them. Softly he murmured, "Creare iterum color, abscondas a veritate." His red eye glowed brightly, reflecting against Valefor's dark fur. He removed his hand, both of them scrunching their eyes shut before looking at each other, the dog's eyes fading back into their faux mahogany shade.
Kyle smirked, snagging the wet towel and rubbing it over the blood marks. "Good boy," he cooed, scoffing at a large tongue sliding over his face. He shoved him away as he was cleaned and got back onto his feet, scowling down at him and wiping the drool off his forehead. "You're lucky Kat loves you so much, Asshat," he scolded.
Damien narrowed his eyes in confusion at the statement. "Who the fuck is Kat?" he murmured.
Gragor shrugged, "Perhaps a literal cat. McCormick is not very creative." Damien snorted, nodding in agreement. They turned back at Kyle grumbling to himself and cracking his neck, pulling off his shirt and throwing it aside. Damien's eyes traced over the scars still mapping along his torso, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a lovely feeling, knowing well enough now that Kyle was just as doomed to remain marked as he was. They observed him smearing blood pooled in his palm across his eyes and mouth, letting a decent amount coat his throat and collarbone before focusing down on his claws and arms.
"So much work," he feigned a pout. "So much to try to pretend he's mortal. How adorable."
The minion beside him squinted lightly in confusion, "If it is only him and the hellhound, why is he hiding?"
"Because he hates what he is," he purred, watching Kyle ramble off his lengthy incantation with excitement percolating deep within him.
Kyle sighed, closing his eyes and clasping his tattooed hands as though in prayer. "Revertere ad quid illud esset, cutis de innocence, mortibus aegrotationum morientur non vident veritatem," he finished, face twisting in slight discomfort as his fangs receded back into place. He let out an irritated sigh, forcing himself to reopen his eyes to his bloodied form, once-more matching irises glazing over with a split second of sadness before he went to clean himself off. Damien caught the momentary downhearted gleam, grin slicing wider across his face.
"Oh, he's miserable," he said excitedly, his hands coming together with a loud, echoing clap. "Little mouse is suffering."
Gragor looked between him and Kyle nonchalantly scrubbing himself clean of blood and healing his hand. "He looks as though he's doing just fine?" he blinked.
Damien rolled his eyes, "Learn to pick up body language, Gragor. He quite clearly resents himself."
The demon hitched his brow, watching Kyle pull back on his shirt and sighing as Valefor hopped up with his massive paws on slimmed shoulders, annoyance breaking for a laugh and hugging the excitable hound around his neck, scratching under his ear and pressing their foreheads together with a grin. Gragor just wasn't seeing it, seeing nothing but complacency, even joy, from the small human. "If you… say so, my lord," he said slowly.
Damien just shook his head, knowing well enough that his companion had more than an issue with seeing the bigger picture, he'd made that perfectly clear throughout his lifetime glued to his side. He flickered his gaze back to Kyle as he lightly pushed the hellhound off his shoulders, leading him back through the house towards the kitchen and mindlessly talking to the excitable mongrel. His sharp eyes caught their dishrack to the side of the sink as Kyle made way towards the fridge, seeing small, plastic pink and purple plates and cups set to dry. His eyes widened, looking into the icebox as Kyle tore it open searching for a dish of rice and meat he'd made up for Valefor the night prior, catching the array of juice boxes and pre-prepped Ziplocs of cubed cheese and red grapes set upon the lower shelf.
He grinned, red eyes dancing wildly, "No," he whispered in astonishment.
"What?" Gragor blinked, still focused on Kyle pulling out the dish for the prancing hound and setting it on the ground, watching in disgust as the mutt dove into his meal.
"They have a child," he hissed in glee.
The plated monster cocked his head, "How do you know?"
Damien scoffed, "The dinnerware. The snacks. There's fucking crayons on the table," he pointed firmly. "Either there's a child in that house or McCormick has regressed further than even I would've thought possible," he rolled his eyes. "I'm guessing Kat is their daughter," he drawled, claws tapping rhythmically on his arms as he crossed them.
Gragor's face contorted in bewilderment. "Why would they have had a child? How? Whose is it?" he stressed.
The noirette chuckled, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's an adoption," he shrugged. "I doubt McCormick would want to risk his fucked up dying spells being passed down, and I know little mouse wouldn't inflict his own dismantled DNA on a child." Gragor silently let the notion sink in, Damien licking over his lips. "This is even better than I thought it would be," he murmured. "Hiding his insecurities by raising a child… I would've expected nothing less," he purred.
Gragor nodded slowly, "Or… they just wanted a child?" he winced, flinching at yet another cautionary glare from the antichrist.
"Gragor. Think before you speak," he snapped. "The want is minimal. He needed the distraction," he emphasized. "Needed something to project his energy onto." Gragor just went back to nodding, not exactly wanting to cause an argument with the temperamental demon. "He needs something to pretend that he's normal," he finished with a chuckle. "What better way to create such a ruse than with a husband and daughter?"
"None that I can imagine, my lord," he mindlessly agreed, continuing to watch as Kyle straightened up the minor disarray of their kitchen. "Though… it does seem he's done well at hiding himself," he continued cautiously. "Since he's not under scrutiny…" he paused and glanced down at the man. 'Aside from yourself, that is,' he thought exhaustedly. He'd been dreading this day. He'd known for a good while now that he'd come in and find this, find Damien lost within the mess of his own fixation with his creation.
He nodded sharply, "Exactly. He's been in hiding all this time. He may have a decent handle on his ability, but not well enough to prevent any discovery, not unless he was keeping himself locked away for only McCormick to know."
"What of the child?"
He smirked, "I doubt she knows. Otherwise, he wouldn't be hiding himself within his own home," he hypothesized. "No, little mouse is keeping everyone away from the truth…" a malicious smile took hold over his face. "And that's going to work so well in my favor." Gragor merely sighed in silence, shoulders drooping as they both turned their attention back towards the casual movements of the redheaded mixed breed, the byproduct of Damien's insatiable appetite.
Damien's bottom lip scraped between his fangs, feeling his scars and burns letting off their constant heat as his focus fell back quietly where he wanted it to be. 'Enjoy this normalcy while you can, little mouse,' he thought with a low-rumbling chuckle. 'You're going to miss it.'
A/N: Translations:
Creare iterum color, abscondas a veritate – Create a secondary color, hide the truth
Revertere ad quid illud esset, cutis de innocence, mortibus aegrotationum morientur non vident veritatem – Return to what it was, skin of the innocent, they shall not see the truth.
Thanks for R&Ring!