Pact

Disclaimer: No one belongs to me.

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“Well, this has been entertaining – but unfortunately you don’t exist.”

Pupils shrink under the pale fluorescent burn of aging fixtures, his human eyes dulling in the endless white static of man-made light. Like staring into an artificial sun.

And in a windowless room, it was the sun.

He’s learned it would take thirty-six seconds before his eyes would burn – an hour before he begins scratching at them. Two weeks before the bandages could come off; half a day before he could see anything but inky blots dancing in the haze across his peripheral vision.

In Arkham, all you can really do is keep time.

Heavy scrape of brogue on bare concrete sounds hollow in the empty white space. “Ah. That certainly does complicate things, doesn’t it?”

He shifts his gaze to the creature standing across from him, arms folded loosely; sees him leaning against the wall in that impeccable black suit, looking more bored and well-bronzed in this light than he’d ever remembered him being. It irritates him – it shouldn’t, but it does.

Rustling uncomfortably in his straightjacket, he lets his head fall back to rest against the wall, ignoring the dull thudding his skull makes against the dense stonework. He’s not sure when, but he’s managed to back himself in the far right corner of the cell, crouching down to sit against the wall, putting as much white space as possible between himself and the vision. Not out of fear – no, never fear. He didn’t dread these specters; his mind was still whole enough to realise they were merely his fractured ruminations – splintered memories – spewing out from the recesses of his damaged brain.

These demons he could deal with – it was the bats that made him nervous.

“Balthazar wouldn’t come back here,” he informs the presence coolly, and stares into his imitation sun. Idle fingers pluck at the burlap mask lying across his lap; he’s already forgotten his mouth is still stained red from where he’d bitten through the other man’s thumb.

A laugh, soft. “Is that so?”

From across the room, the hiss of metal cuts through the air – that damned coin. Clinking dully against thumbnail, flipped once, then twice, glittering in the artificial light. He tries not to watch it; fails. “Well I’d hate to disappoint you doctor but I afraid I’m the real deal, fire and brimstone and all that lovely stuff.” He shifts in the jacket’s shackled confines. “Why?” It comes out more incredulous than he’d intended. “Even if you were him – which I’m going to assume you’re not – he betrayed me a long time ago.”

“Just a friendly visit,” the specter leers, “checking in on one of my more successful projects.” A slender wrist twists to palm the coin, smirk fading with the quirk of brow. “Besides,” and the purr dips low, “colour me unsympathetic, but I still think the shit you pulled just about makes up for whatever distress you feel I might’ve caused you…”

He found himself laughing, a short, bitter sound. “Right. Silly me. Still holding a grudge about being used to settle your score with Tifereth – how could I be so insensitive?”

“‘Used,’ doctor?” With the beginnings of a shrug the demon steps forward, rolling the coin along the backs of his knuckles. Either in anger or contemplation – he couldn’t say for sure. “And how exactly did you arrive at this pleasant conclusion?” he asks, voice a scant whisper above the clicking of leather sole against the bare concrete floor. Guarded eyes watch the demon’s shadow fall over him as he stoops to meet his gaze. “The exorcist,” his reply comes flat, shifting forward to look the creature in the eye, “he told me all about your little wager.”

The demon gives a slight shrug and reaches out with too-warm fingertips to wipe his drying blood from the younger man’s mouth. “So you’ve met my Johnny after all. I should’ve known he’d go behind my back – doesn’t handle competition very well, I’m afraid,” he says, and laughs, softly, “But I suppose that’s what comes of courting mental patients. What can I say, doctor? There’s just something about a Catholic boy in a straightjacket…” He feels the torn flesh of the offended digit wet against his bottom lip, sick warmth tingling at the base of his spine.

It’s hard to resist leaning into the touch – the demon flashes that grin, wide and white.

“Cute. Is there a point to all this,” he watches the demon straighten, “or do you just make a habit of breaking into secure facilities to fondle the patients?” The older man throws him a lopsided smirk, depositing the damaged extremity in a smooth-lined pocket. “Tempting, good doctor, but as much as I’d like to fondle you it’s just going to have to wait,” and the younger man gives him a look that could peel the plaster from the wall, “I still have some rather pressing business to tend to.”

“Let me guess, goats to sacrifice? Virgins to deflower?”

The demon’s mouth cracks wide in a saccharine smile, too-white teeth gleaming unnaturally in the artificial light.

Thin fingers dig into burlap.

“Why, you, of course.” The smile seems to brighten, eyes flickering with the faintest ruby tinge. “Let’s step outside for a moment, shall we? I’d like to make you a little proposition...”

Out of nowhere the coin returns, playing loosely across tanned knuckles.