## Leslie POV I folded the contract into a careful square and tucked it into the pocket of my apron. Enough rereading; if I was going to do this, I just had to do it. The idea came in the wake of Egelon’s latest call. On the whole, the call was a disaster — he’d berated Aurelian for their stunt at GreenHaven, cut our pay, and extended our hours. But finally, with morale sufficiently tanked, he’d made an announcement: he was reducing the scope of Aurelian’s role to Operations Manager, and promoting me to Deputy Manager of Special Projects. For the next three weeks until his return, I would lead our staff in planning a heist, with intent to destroy the artifact powering GreenHaven’s magic by any means necessary. Now I wouldn’t have blamed Solomon for hating the punishment; he was far from alone. The room was tense from the moment Egelon dropped his friendly facade to the *click* of the transmission’s end, and it hardly seemed fair to punish us all for Aurelian’s mistake. But I saw how the look on his face shifted at my promotion. He’d made a valiant effort at maintaining a courteous smile, but years of proximity will reveal a man’s tells eventually. The quirk of his brow, the sudden tension in his jaw — he was not pleased. And my first instinct was to resent it. Egelon needed a heist planned; I was certainly the right man for that job. But once the kneejerk frustration had passed, I realized how irrational it was. Because really… what better reaction could I have expected? Solomon didn’t *know* I was fit for this — and how could he? By my own design, he knew next to nothing about me. He knew I could follow orders, manage a schedule, fill out a cocktail dress… what part of that qualified me to manage a heist crew? In truth, I’d never even given him reason to think I wanted this — that I wanted *anything*, really, besides the occasional lay and the approval of my betters. So irritating as it was, his contempt was perfectly justified. I’d intended to play my cards close, and in that I’d succeeded… but perhaps there were downsides to keeping so many secrets. So I had to convince him, then — if not yet of my competence, then at least of my drive. But of course the most obvious way to do so was out of the question; however I was to prove myself fit, it could not involve sharing the rest of my résumé. And I *did* need to convince him. Aurelian was hardly a threat, at least for now, and I got no sense that the others resented my rank. But I’d seen how eager Solomon was to throw Aurelian under the bus, the smug satisfaction he’d seemed to take in besting her. Solomon was our best negotiator, our strongest tie to Morax, and the most experienced among us in matters of business. He was also the target of our most volatile enemy — an enemy he already suspected me of selling him out to. If he refused to work with me (or worse, considered me a threat), my hands would be horribly tied; to make the most of Egelon’s favor, then, I needed Solomon on my side. …and then I remembered the pen he’d given me. The one he’d so cheekily called “training wheels,” and its activation phrase that had made my blood boil: “This contract is sealed by the power graciously granted to me by the distinguished Mr. Solomon Malphus.” Solomon liked responsibility; he’d liked seeing his name on things for as long as I’d known him. And as much as I chafed at the thought of his claiming my victories, I couldn’t deny that was *useful*. So what if I used it? If I stroked his ego and asked him to train me in his image — in leadership, negotiation, combat, all those skills in which I knew I fell short of his standards… then not only would he witness my drive firsthand, but what choice would he have but to root for my success? …and besides — perhaps some mentorship could be a good thing. Solomon *was* more practiced than I in these matters. So what was a bit of shared credit in exchange for a new set of skills? It wasn’t as though I’d owe him *all* of my successes, anyway. He’d see soon enough that he wasn’t the better of us at everything. But of course, he would have to agree to it first — and that was easier said than done. Because thanks to Pris, I now had a bit of a problem: Solomon now knew there was more to my past than I’d previously deigned to share, and he didn’t trust me. If he didn’t trust me, he wouldn’t follow my lead, and he certainly wouldn’t train me. Fair enough. How could I change that? --- And so I came to the proposal in my pocket: 24 hours of contracted obedience, redeemable at Solomon’s discretion, in exchange for his mentorship. It was a shockingly, *stupidly* generous offer. I knew that. And I knew he would think me foolish for making it — would probably condescend to me for it and make it a lesson. But that was the point. How else to prove my intentions beyond doubt than to hand him a blank check? Either I was fantastically naive (and why turn down an adoring devotee too stupid to pose a real threat?), or the thought of betrayal was simply so far out of mind that I couldn’t *imagine* ever being at odds. Either way, it was the only offer I was sure he couldn’t refuse. And of course there were stipulations. After all, if I showed *no* regard for my safety, or secured too little benefit to myself, that would look suspicious in its own right. So he couldn’t kill me; he couldn’t make me kill my contractor; he couldn’t make me sign another contract; and he would have to commit to regular training, in mutually agreed upon sessions, in order to keep his prize. But that was all. Just enough thought in the terms to show there was no trick or accident: I knew what I was asking for, and I meant it. And so came the time to ask. Fidgeting with my apron to calm my nerves, I glanced at Solomon across the main floor. He was stacking glasses, wiping down countertops, putting the bar in order for the dinner rush — but if his usual rhythms held, he’d be stepping out for a smoke break soon. And before long, yes: as expected, he excused himself, put down the work, and slipped out the back door. I waited a minute or two for good measure, then followed him out. The sky was overcast, the November air frigid. He was seated on the back steps, a freshly lit cigarette tucked between his fingers. He glanced up at the sound of the door. “May I join you?” I asked. He eyed me ambiguously. “...Sure,” he said after a moment, and pulled another cigarette from the pack balanced on his knee. “You want one?” —I balked for a moment, halfway between sitting and standing. My uncertainty must have been obvious, because he raised a brow and asked: “Why, have you never smoked before?” “I…” I hadn’t. And if I tried now, there was a *very* good chance I’d just cough it back up and look like a fool. But… would that be so bad? I didn’t love the idea, but this *was* about ingratiating myself — surely a humbling gesture of goodwill couldn’t hurt my case. I settled next to him on the step. It took barely a moment for the chill of the concrete to bite through the seat of my trousers. “No, I haven't,” I admitted. He hummed. “That's surprising.” …Was it? I was tempted to find that flattering, but I couldn’t imagine he meant it that way. “Hand me one,” I said. He did. (Along with a lovely iridescent lighter. Was this new? It looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.) I held the cigarette between my middle and index just as he held his, lit the end, and took a drag. —and predictably coughed on the mouthful of smoke. It tasted… unpleasant. Acrid and bitter, just as it smelled. I’d never understood how he could enjoy this sort of thing. Smoke, liquor, black coffee… he’d always taken them eagerly. Just as his friends had, and his clients — everyone who’d ever ignored me across a dinner table as Solomon ordered himself a whiskey and me something fruity and sweet and garnished with a little umbrella. And I *could* choke down the bitter things. Not always with grace, (practice would make perfect,) but I knew how to grin and bear it to please a crowd; in fact, I liked to think I was quite good at that. I suppose I’d just thought I’d someday learn to like the taste. …But I could dwell on that later. Now, he was watching me with interest, something between amusement and doubt. So I took another pointed drag, steady as I could, and held my breath until the urge to cough passed. In a shaky exhale, I let out the smoke. It was surely inelegant — if the twitch of his lip was any indication, I was glad I couldn’t see the grimace that was certainly painted on my face. But if this show of commitment might mean… something to him, then it was worth it. The burn in my throat, like all unpleasant things, would pass. “I’m— not sure I see the appeal, but… I imagine it grows on you,” I finally managed, as best I could through a wheeze. “It does,” he said. …Was that for my benefit, or did he speak from experience? “...Thank you,” I said instead of asking. “So. There’s something I wanted to ask you about.” ## Solomon POV The most recent meeting with Egelon was an absolute disaster. He had extremely little patience for hearing out anything from us: the troubles we faced the previous day, the lack of corporate support and communication which made it near-impossible to appease the various forces threatening to shut us down, and the ingenuity with which I nevertheless navigated us through our predicament despite several wounded staff members and an MIA manager. Instead, Egelon berated us for Aurelian’s fuck up at Greenhaven, laying down a heavy-handed pay cut and increasing our hours for *all of us* as a result. (*What*?\! *He* was the one to put that foolish angel *in charge of us*, so why is he expecting *us* to keep *her* in check and *punishing* *us for being unable to do so—*?) Then, he proceeded to thank and promote Leslie as the captain of the newest feat we are supposed to accomplish — a heist of some sort of artifact from Greenhaven. …look, I would be more bothered by this if I had a stronger interest in climbing the ranks here. I might have reached out to the Duke after, just to note that recent events may indicate that Leslie is not *quite* as trustworthy as he may appear. But the way Egelon handled this whole affair betrayed a certain brutish incompetence and a lack of business know-how, and past experience taught me that there is only so far you can go with a Duke like that. And while I certainly wouldn’t turn down a promotion — in the end, what would that make me anyways? The restaurant manager of some New Jersey diner? The hospitality industry has been a fine enough temporary gig considering my past work running a casino resort, but I don’t intend for the Deviled Egg to be my final resting place. I had taken this offer in an emergency, to get me out of Greed and back on the surface in any way possible. Apart from that, there is nothing for me here. There are many things to miss about my old life. The freedom of my old rank, for one; the status and respect that comes from running my own law firm, for another; and of course, the countlessly varied beauties and luxuries one could choose to indulge in while living high in a shining, bustling city. But more and more, I find that what I miss the most is simply the practice of my craft. I miss masquerading under the veneer of practicing law and writing contracts. I miss the push and pull of that dance, that subtle art of sparking desire and fanning it into this terrible single-minded determination to satisfy it by any means possible — until finally, my words and I are asked to bring into existence this reality that they crave. And of course I am happy to\! Finding something to carve out for myself is the easy part. I tire of these dishes, this diner, this city. Time to look to new waters. —— Pris mentioned that the Morax syndicate was looking for a lawyer, and Lenny wanted to formally work with the diner as it is the only official devil business in town. I imagined that convincing the diner to formally work with the syndicate would be a suitable show of good will from myself to the syndicate. Since part of what Lenny requested was a tribute, I would require some managerial cooperation and access to the diner’s financial documents. So ironically, as a first step in my bid to gain some outside employment, I found myself knocking on Aurelian’s office door prepared to make my case. In all honesty, I had expected more resistance, if only because *I* was the one suggesting the alliance to her; even in our brief conversation, she was determined to make it clear to me what she thought of working with devils. Sure, fine — I’ve heard far worse from far closer people. What matters is that in the end, she offered no strong opinion on syndicate matters and deferred perfectly to my judgement, handing over all access necessary for me to “redirect” funds to the right places, and ordering Jonny to perform the anti-ward ritual on my behalf. This works well enough for me. I suppose I will continue looking the other way when I see her shirking her duties every other lunch to take the truck out to who-knows-where. —— I just had the most fascinating conversation with Leslie. I was on my smoke break when he asked to join me. I have to admit that I was quite surprised by this: he had so readily rejected my help a few days ago when we were two devils struggling under angelic presence, and for a *number* of reasons I was not in the mood to entertain his company as much as I had been before. He apparently had never even smoked before, so I offered him Aurelian’s iridescent lighter to light up his first one. It lit up well. So he *does* trust me — whether to be a fool or to be myself was the question. Silently, I resolved to at least hear out what he had to say and see which it was. And boy, *did* he manage to say many, many words while hacking through his first cigarette. He started off with some base flattery, conceding credit to me for resolving the Pris situation, and expressing hope that Egelon will recognize me for my contributions in the future. I’ll hand some credit to Leslie — it was true that I had been miffed about this the past few days. But I also no longer thought Leslie would choose to sit by me to exchange empty platitudes. I asked him what he was really after. In the time I have known Leslie, he had never said anything about his own desires, and frankly I was beginning to think that he did not have any, other than the base ones that came from being a succubus. It was new — refreshing, even\! — to hear that he had wanted to be fitted with position like this for a while, and that he had ambitions to become more powerful and command respect from others, *‘like you,’* he said. So he says he wants to be *like me* … it is true that a few weeks ago, I had resolved to take Leslie under my wing; I’ve already mentioned here that it would be useful to both of us, and the diner, for him to learn a thing or two about standing his ground and honing his skillset. After all, it is why I had gifted him his own contract-magic pen in our “Christmas” exchange. And in any other circumstance, I would have loved to hear him *finally* confess his admiration for me out loud. But in the back of my mind were still the cloudy details of Leslie’s past, revealed to me in dream form. The possibility of him being an opportunist and traitor at heart, of having acted like this for many, many years, just for me to let down my guard, and that I might still not know anything about him … perhaps I had been too easy on him. And now he wanted me to train him to be *stronger*? He *knew* what I saw in his dreams — what *audacity*. I would *never* — not without some sort of assurance, some information. I was about to give him a piece of my mind— ….OK. Interesting. I could bite. Did he know what I was about to use it for? If he knew what I was going to use it for, would he have made this offer? I would have almost preferred to pressure and interrogate him on the issue of his past right then, and see if he would agree to sign a truth-telling contract for the explicit purpose of detailing his history. That *willingness* to submit to interrogation is the best indicator that he would not be a repeat offender, in my opinion. Dragging the truth out of him while he is under a spell of complete obedience is different; I would learn the facts of his past, but not how he feels about me knowing it. I *could* tell him right now that information on himself is what I’m truly after, and gauge his reaction then … but he is a secretive creature, and a full day of obedience *is* tempting. Perhaps I don’t want to spook this offer away. Besides, it was entirely possible that Leslie already knew that that was what I would want, and decided to make this offer anyways. He had been fairly decent at inferring what I am after so far, more than I had given him credit for in the past. Very well. Leslie had offered something too steeply and stupidly valuable for much argument now. I made a minor counteroffer by breaking up the 24-hours into one 1-hr session and another 14-hr session; I would get the truthful information I want from Leslie in one, and still have my full workday’s worth of subservience for later. He looked too pleased with himself as we signed the contract. I hope he still is after our first hour. —— We had been working late into the night at the diner when Emil approached me and asked if he could spend the night at my place. That was the *one* benefit of Egelon’s fit from earlier — Emil’s new contract actually expanded his freedom, so it made sense that he would want to get out of this claustrophobic diner. And his living situation here is atrocious — on Halloween night, when I had slept on Emil’s couch at the diner so he could watch over my recovery, I found the couch horrendously stiff and far too short, and my feet dangled over the edge. I can’t possibly imagine having to sleep there night after night. He arrived at my apartment in the diner’s van after our midnight shift. To be fair, there isn’t much here, either — just a sparsely furnished living room with a couch and TV that leads into a rickety balcony, and one bedroom. I wasn’t even sure if I owned enough blankets for me to take the couch, but I started sifting through my closet anyways. Given how modest this place was compared to my usual rooms, I haven’t been exactly eager to host anyone here — but I did owe Emil one. I was bringing out some spare pillows I found into the living room when he brought up the kiss from “Christmas.” My blood ran hot, then cold. What about it? *Don't you want more?* he asked. …did I seem like I did? What was he getting at? He fixed me with an unwavering gaze. Now, I know my Emil to be a surprisingly gentle and unsure man, despite his earthly profession — at every turn, he had always been afraid to take up space, and eager to apologize, pleading me for reassurance that he is indeed a good man. This Emil in front of me was different. He approached me steadily, with an unusual determination — where was this boldness coming from? Though I *know* he is only a sinner, I still took an involuntary step back, my mind unhelpfully supplying in a delirious flash that amongst many other things, Emil had also once been a hunter. He reached me, and placed his hands on my shoulders — their pressure was insistent, but still *gentle* — and he kissed me again. Had I wanted more of that kiss from Christmas? I don’t know if I had an answer to that question, and everything was happening too quickly to think. Thankfully, where the mind struggles to make sense and keep up, the body often instantly knows what it wants — and with that heat of another body, *those warm, deft hands on me again* — that baser instinct remembered what it craved. I kissed him back — encouraged, he pushed us against a wall and tried to kiss me again. I held him off briefly, just to see how he’d act, just to give my mind a moment to catch up. “Jesus Christ, aren't you eager?” He didn’t bother to respond and wasn’t even looking directly at me anymore; following his gaze, it was obvious where his full attention now lay, what he wanted more of. *I’ve been wanting it for some time*, he had said. An amused fondness came over me — so *this* is what makes my dear Emil bold\! The influence I have had unknowingly over him all this time, that he had just willingly admitted to me — how delicious\! — how intoxicating\! — how could I ever deny him anything he wants as badly as this? I yanked him down to kiss him, finally giving in to the frenzy of my own hunger. —— Looking back, I am all too aware this affair is rather *different* from my previous ones, and I had given that aspect relatively little thought in the heat of our moment. Though even now, in the privacy of my own mind, I find that I have not much more to offer on the subject, other than this: I know that in my old life, this is not something that I would have even considered indulging in. But here, as some anonymous bartender hidden far away from those who have known him, in a small, dark, curtained bedroom where there is not much — I am glad I have him.