Chapter Text
Mammon wakes to the unearthly shrieking of a cherub-faced terror and a heavy book to the side of his head. He’s past the point of being surprised by the concrete walls of his garage room (he tells himself, he’s never been a fan of waking with the sun in his eyes anyway), but still not quite used to the malicious purple energy this kid emits in waves.
It feels like he’s drowning in a choppy sea with each breath, inviting a new mouthful of salt and liquid to fill his bursting lungs.
“WAKE UP,” Satan growls, a low, awful noise that no child should be capable of making, “I’M HUNGRY! MAKE ME SOMETHING.”
Mammon chucks a pillow at him while still half-asleep, “Stop yellin’ you little jackass, or else I’m going to starve you.”
Bad response. He rolls on his side in time to watch long black claws tear into his pillow, sending fabric and feathers flying in a whirlwind of fury.
He’s tired. This kid never seems to sleep. Whether it’s to spite him, wear him down, piss off Lucifer, or a devious combination of all three Mammon isn’t sure. All he can really focus on is his tense muscles and dry eyes and the ever-present ache that seems to define his very being.
“Feed me,” Satan says. His voice is a bit more resigned, wary even. “I’m hungry. There’s no food in the fucking fridge.”
Mammon sits up, throws his legs over the bed, and hops up onto the cold concrete floor. A shiver runs up his spine. He’s awake now, still tired, but awake.
...
Satan is right, there's no food in the fucking fridge.
Instead, Beel stands wearily in the kitchen looking like the cat that ate the canary eyeing the empty cupboards in a way that made Mammon concerned he may try to eat the wood.
The kid stands behind Mammon, peering at Beel from between his legs. It's cute in a way. He's shy in the way many children are around strangers.
But unfortunately, this wasn't a stranger.
A low rumble comes from Beel's stomach and Mammon hears Satan step back.
Any words of reassurance die on his lips because as much as he wants to say, It's okay, he won't hurt you, he can't guarantee anything.
And lying would set back any progress he had made by years. If not longer. Demons can hold grudges which is fine because Angels and Father can too.
"There's no food," Beel says in lieu of a greeting, he stares at Mammon with such pain and desperation in his eyes that Mammon feels like he's falling all over again. "I'm hungry."
His stomach growls again, louder.
That's the most they've spoken in at least a week. It's a start.
Mammon sighs, he's tired and hungry, and Asmo was supposed to go shopping yesterday. Maybe he did or maybe he got distracted.
It doesn't matter. It's his problem now.
"We'll go out," Mammon says and Satan kicks his shin, he doesn't even blink, "Give us an hour."
"Don't sign me up for shit, asshole!"
"I'll put your tiny ass on a fuckin' leash if I have to."
He won't. Probably.
...
Michael put him on a leash once.
That intrusive thought comes courtesy of his brain soon after he gets off the phone with Lucifer. It had been after the Pigeon Feather Incident (or maybe it was the Angel Chess Prank?), and Michael decided the punishment should be public humiliation in order to humble him.
Jokes on Michael, it was never Pride that drove him.
A collar around his neck while tethered to a pole like a rabid dog was certainly public, but the whipping seemed a bit extra.
For Mammon the main event wasn't the punishment itself, rather it was what came after, the pain and humiliation turning into arousal in his defective brain. His tears matching the heat of his body when he was finally alone and the memory came rushing back.
Michael was right. Mammon was always meant to fall.
Now, he's sitting cross-legged on his bed, holding a gold card between his shaking fingers as the rush of wanting and possibility makes him dizzy with desperation.
Charity had never been one of his virtues, but he's always known the cure for greed is content. Nobody can want for everything while being happy with themselves. Fuck of a lot of good that does him.
"HEY, SHIT FOR BRAINS OPEN THE GOD DAMN DOOR!"
Mammon nearly tumbles off the bed.
With a flick of his hand, the door flies open, revealing a small child holding a stack of books towering above his head. "I'm ready." He says.
Mammon steels himself before saying, "You only get to take one book."
Nine others come at his head and eight miss.
...
Twenty minutes later the pair are ready to walk out the door with one encyclopedia on illusion magic tucked securely under Satan's arm, and several new bruises on Mammon's.
Satan looks up at him, poisonous green eyes glowing in the dim lights on the roof of the cave, and asks, "Aren't you going to put me on a leash."
His tone is mocking. It's not a question, it's a challenge.
"No," Mammon says a bit too forcefully, "No, I won't. Ever."
Satan appraises him for a moment.
He scowls, "I was joking, weirdo, I know you don't have the balls."
...
Mammon hopes he can manage not to impulse buy everything at the market. It's easier with the food in the Devildom because nothing sounds remotely appealing compared to the jewel-like fruits and magnificent feasts of the Celestial Realm.
Here it's like a twisted parody of reality; screeching creatures rattle wire cages, produce stands are lined with the carcasses of malformed abominations, colored smoke, and bizarre magic fill the air while demons with sharp smiles beckon you closer.
A thousand sets of lantern eyes illuminate his every step.
"Is any of this even food?" Mammon mutters at one point. He pretends not to hear the snickering of passersby.
"Why are you all so fucking prissy?" Satan bares his sharp teeth at Mammon. "If it's there eat it."
"You sound like Beel."
He glares, "Don't compare me to him, I'm not like any of you. I hate walking around with your things, you all glow down here, and they," he gestures at the shadow creatures behind wooden shelves and neon signs. "They stare and follow like moths."
"Are you scared?"
"NO," Satan says adamantly. "But neither are they. You may have defeated their previous avatars, but to them you're nothing. All of you are going to be eaten alive."
"Still think I'd taste better than that," Mammon says with a vague gesture to a stand selling small wrinkled gray creatures that resemble a pig fetus with the long, stiff, and hairy legs of a spider. He picks one of the cold things up. "What does this taste like?" He asks the vendor.
The vendor's mouth pulls wide open, revealing a thousand yellow and orange speleothem teeth, "Bite into it and find out."
Before he can utter the words, I'll pass, he hears a crunch and wet, fleshy tearing.
Half of the creature is gone, stuck in Satan's open mouth, chewing, its intestines hanging limply out of the back end. Blood coats his pale face. Bits of the carcass are wedged between his fangs.
"Do you like it?" Mammon asks.
Satan shoots a bloody smile up at him and nods enthusiastically.
"Okay," Mammon brings home sixteen of them, so they could each have two and Beel could have six.
The rest of the trip goes smoothly with Satan acting as the taste tester and Mammon following suit. In the end, he's even a bit excited to try the Hellfire Hot Sauce (it's derived from a pepper that only grows in soil contaminated by dragon blood). One drop made Satan's white face go ten shades of red. Mammon loved it.
It isn't until he feels a familiar warm swelling in his chest that his brain decides to self-destruct.
He's happy.
Earnestly happy, having fun while in Hell.
His good mood is instantly dwarfed by shame.
"We should get more of the newt eyes," Satan says, crusted blood flakes stick to his big pink cheeks. "The dog tongue was good too-- and what the fuck's up with you?" His cute face crinkles like a tiny gargoyle.
"Just tired," Mammon says. "Let's go back."
"Fucking why? There's nothing for us to do there."
"Because it's almost time for dinner."
"Nobody except Gluttony even eats your damn food. Hell, nobody but me even wants to talk to you after you pawned that necklace--"
"Satan, please," It feels like there's cotton stuffed inside the empty cavity in his skull. He's floating. "Let's go back."
He growls up at him, "Make me, moron."
...
Mammon manages to tackle the kid while he's destroying his fourth stand.
It should have taken less time, he'll admit that, but he spent the time it took Satan to destroy a shelf of strange luminescent fruits trying to talk him out of it, and the next stand he happened to destroy had several dozen cages containing several thousand insects the size of his palm. And of fucking course they had teeth because, why not? And then the fire at his fingertips and then using the illusion spellbook to create five thousand mirror images of himself and so much biting that might have been Satan or the beetles (why did they keep growing--). By the time he grabs the kid by the scruff, the castle guards have arrived and the market is rioting, and someone (probably him) is screaming.
Five minutes. It had been five minutes.
Then there's Lucifer, standing with his arms crossed unaffected amongst the chaos. Purple hellfire illuminates his pale face.
"Mammon," his voice is low and cold. "Bring that child back to the house, now."
Mammon holds Satan against his chest. Satan shakes.
Two pairs of black wings unfold casting a thousand tendrils of inky shadows that wrap themselves along the appendages of anyone unfortunate enough to be within reach.
Mammon's not anymore. He's clutching the kid while moving back to the House of Lamentation at impossible speeds and he doesn't take a breath until they're in the door.
...
Dinner is silent.
Forks scrape against plates and poke at overcooked pig-spiders with an air of suspicion.
At the head of the table, Lucifer observes, his hands folded, two spider-pigs sit cold and uneaten in front of him. Mammon and Satan flank either side of him.
"I'm still hungry," Beel grumbles. Four isn't nearly enough for him, Mammon expected that, but he didn't expect Lucifer to join them.
He pushes his plate at Beel. At the same time, Asmo and Levi declare they're not hungry and follow suit. Belphie stirs from his nap.
"We need to talk," Lucifer says as Beel devours everything-- including the plates-- and the rest of the table vibrates with impatient energy. "About some ground rules involving our new brother."
Satan glares, "I'm not your brother, asshole."
"Mammon, I expected you could handle this task, but today's events have shown me that's not the case."
This task. Task. The 24/7 care of a being that wants nothing more than Lucifer's undivided attention. A ball of wrath and vitriol Mammon is terrified will end up poisoning his very being like it had Lucifer's.
He's already rotten on the inside, there's nowhere left for him to fall.
"I-I can--"
"You can't, obviously," there's no room for argument in his tone. "What happened today was an embarrassment on Lord Diavolo's reputation, as well as our own, and will not be taken lightly. From now on, the little D's will take care of mundane tasks outside the house such as grocery shopping or retrieving other necessary supplies. Satan is not allowed in public until he has been tamed and properly trained."
"Tamed?" Satan says, at the same time Mammon says, "You've got to be kiddin', Luci--"
"DO NOT SPEAK BACK TO ME," Lucifer shouts, "You can't fathom of lenient I am being at this moment, Mammon. Especially, given your other transgressions."
He can feel the air go heavy, all his brother's eyes are trained on him, and he knows none of them will be on his side no matter how much he apologized.
He still sees Beel's big, watery eyes, and hears the confused devastation as he asked, "How could you?"
It was a necklace. A stupid necklace. He couldn't even bear to look at it, let alone wear it, so why did it matter if he sold it?
"What does that have to do with the kid?" Mammon asks. "He doesn't need tamed and you should know that."
"He destroyed the marketplace," Lucifer glances at Satan for the first time since dinner started. "His aura was contagious enough to start a riot that spread throughout several blocks of the Devildom."
"He's a child," Mammon says weakly, "Things happen."
"Lucifer's right Mammon," Asmo adds, sounding tired, "He's not an angel spawn like we're used to dealing with."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"You're right, he's Lucifer's 'spawn' and correct me if I'm wrong, but somebody else used to get pretty cranky when Father wouldn't pay attention to them--"
"That's a non-sequitur, Mammon," Lucifer stands. "And from now on we each take turns teaching Satan to manage his sin."
"Anyone could do that better than Mammon," Levi says.
"What the fuck, Levi--"
"YOU SOLD HER NECKLACE!" Belphie springs in, he looks more awake than Mammon's seen in weeks. "SHE GAVE THAT TO YOU, WHY WOULD YOU--"
"I DON'T KNOW!" Mammon shouts. His chest hurts, he's in a corner, and it feels like the only way to win is to be louder than the last person. "WHY THE FUCK DO YOU SLEEP TWENTY-THREE HOURS A DAY? WHY THE FUCK DOES IT MATTER IF I SOLD THE NECKLACE IF YOU'RE NOT EVEN AWAKE TO SEE IT IN THE FIRST PLACE?"
Belphie leaps across the table and tackles him, butting him with hard coiled horns and baring his sharp teeth. His talons are sharp, shredding Mammon's jacket like paper, but they don't even manage to leave a mark on his skin.
Whatever Belphie's saying is lost in the cacophony of shouting around the room reverberating off the ornate gold walls, Mammon would push him off, but he's tired. His head hurts and not from hitting it on the ground.
But he doubts that helped.
Everything snaps back into focus at once, sharp and awful, over everything else he hears Lucifer's voice, "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"
For a moment, Mammon thinks Lucifer is talking to him.
And he agrees.