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Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

“Won’t be hard to make you blush, either. This insulation of this overcoat looks high quality enough to prepare you for an arctic expedition,” her hand made a demanding motion for the massive garment. Did she want to make up for her failure to follow simple wardrobe routines? It’s possible. But in contrast to him, she had no sleeves under her doctor’s coat und her skirt – wooly as it may be – didn’t exceed mid length. It was warm.

And – just maybe - she would prefer if he didn’t look like he would leave the next minute either. The urge to reassure by grabbing and holding had not completely disappeared. To… ask for that was NOT a normal thing… yeah. Anyway.

Back to concentrating on an archdemon who wasn’t distracting himself by looking at her while thinking. Until did and then he explained… politics and individualism. And irregularities. And his theory of identity (not surprising - he did have experiences with clones). All facts. And all very interesting, really.

But… she had tried to use the right words for her questions. ‘Feel’ and ‘guess’ and ‘love’ and ‘question’. It did convey he felt strongly about being incomparable – or separate from ‘them’. But not how he felt about them.

Except apparently surprise about some people with this ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that made him know this could have been him (under different circumstances). They took an entirely different path and he didn’t like it? Some awfulness of theirs he didn’t want to see in himself? Some regrets he – or they -  had that could make him learn things?

She tilted her head. There definitely is learning potential in seeing how different choices play out. But he felt uneasy about about some. Badly enough to come back here? She should continue talking about it, really. It was interesting in concept and might get him to order his thoughts about it, too.

BUT this only applied… if this was something like a ‘therapy’. And it was not. Today, he agreed to a ‘check-up’. And even that he kind of wanted to make into a social call.

She looked at him a bit too long. She might actually get something that rubbed him the wrong way out of him. For once. And then remembered what he’d told her a long time ago. Give your conversation partner something to work with. ‘Raw clay’, he’d said. And follow their lead. They won’t talk if they don’t want to anyway. Ugh.

“Other people would have called that a narrative hook, you know?” She pouted, at minimum showing she was very much willing to listen.

“Buuut if you insist.” She shrugged. “What… happened while you were gone. You left 2015. Mmmmmh.” And she was out of ideas already. ‘Raw clay’? Mnh. What was the least interesting thing while still…. being not too annoying? Somewhat informative?

She sat up and started counting on her fingers, emoting appropriately to each little tidbit. Silly, but… why not: “Rubella was eradicated in America. David Bowie died. The European Union broke – Britain and Gibraltar left. There’s an ebola vaccine. Donald Trump became president in the United States, got impeached, did NOT get reelected and now has to answer to… 95 felonies, I believe? Canada legalized Cannabis. The people in India can be legally gay now. The pope visited Arabia. Sustained remission from HIV happened a second time. A significant bit of Notre Dame in Paris burned down. Same sex marriage is legally happening in Ecuador. Boris Johnson became Prime Minister in the UK and it was… not great. So many hurricanes. An immune system eradicating pandemic forced people to stay inside for months - with… a baffling amount of human stupidity added. It’s not actually over. Child pornography Of 14 to 18 year olds is now defined as such by the pope? Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are too rich. There are too many Wildfires. Non-fungible-Tokens… exist. There is private space travel. Russia and the Ukraine started a war. Two most impressive Volcanoes eruptions. There’s eight billion people on earth now. Europe can’t buy diesel-cars anymore and… Twitter is now X?” It had been… a strange time. Now that she tried to remember. She put her hands back down in her lap and returned to actually looking at him.  

“A non-exhaustive list, of course. I did spend most of my time on earth. And I could spin some stories about each of those. But I think… that might not be the answer you wanted?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus said, suddenly remembering himself. He looked down at his body and emitted a resigned yet amused puff of air from his nose. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.” He gingerly set his cup of tea aside on the nearest surface and began hesitantly, almost reluctantly, sliding his coat over his shoulders and off his arms. It was hardly chilly in the doctor’s office but the change was noticeable to him anyway, despite his other layers of wool and cotton.

He’d preferred warmer weather ever since he’d first fallen, but over his travels he had begun to notice small adjustments in himself that he hadn’t made. He was cold sensitive, more than before - that could be chalked up to a change in corporation age (thinner skin, less collagen and subcutaneous fat,) if it hadn’t felt quite so thoroughly soul-deep, like the ache in his legs. He could feel himself, as the odd blue sphere of energy that he was at his very most basic level, degrading gently around the edges the longer he stayed in the in-between places, like a shard of glass tossed about in the ocean. Or perhaps more like a sanded sugar lemon drop. That sounded more appealing.

He folded the oversized coat and draped it over the arm of his chair. He looked… smaller, without it. Almost a little vulnerable. Almost.

He tried not to focus too closely on the expression on her thoughtful face, what it might mean. He wondered what his metaphorical froggy organs were telling her. It was difficult to remember that scrutinization didn’t always have to be a bad thing. He had to keep reminding himself that he had sat here before and left feeling better, and that Raphael had always met him, on those occasions, with generous understanding and kindness. Relax. Relax.

As she listed the semi-current events of the last decade, Asmodeus hummed and nodded along appropriately. Not a bad list, per se, certainly not humanity’s finest hour but he’d take it; it was certainly better than mass extinction. He had seen many of these things come to pass in various dimensions, in one way or another, and he’d seen alternatives to them as well but all of it, good or bad, left him feeling somewhat detached. They weren’t his humans, after all. His humans were, well… his humans were right here, weren’t they? On this Earth? And he was… relieved?

The moment his boots had once again hit the ground here he experienced a bit of a jolt, a click, like a puzzle piece popping into place, or a magnet sticking tight to the fridge. He was made of the very same breath that made this universe, and for one very intense half-second he could feel it. And then it was gone just as soon as it had come, and he shook it off as a sense of deja vu and went about his merry way. He remembered it now though, considering his humans and how they made him feel.

Maybe he would thaw? Maybe sitting here, in a familiar chair with a familiar friend and a hot cup of tea would melt that apprehension and sense of being a visitor away, given enough time. Maybe the click was something that mattered. He returned to the chai, taking the glass carefully in both hands. Warm.

No, it wasn’t really the answer he’d wanted, but it was a good answer.

When there was absolutely no quip about her wanting to get him out of his clothes – or something along those lines – she wanted to slap herself for kind-of expecting it. This was pure stereotyping. Mngh.

It still felt… a little off.

He didn’t even want to hand it to her, so she could make sure the fabric didn’t get wrinkled. Wardrobes existed for a reason.

And he kept the coat close to him. Easy within reach to take off and leave and-

…

This feeling was not going away, was it? She needed to do something about this. Somehow.

In her mind, she filled out one of the ‘recurring’ files. Maybe that might work. ‘Wardrobe etiquette… unclear(?)’. There. Like she might have a need to use it again. Sure. She’d later make it a reality. Evidence and all. Touchable.

She really needed to do something with her hands.

And then his posture opened up. To hear about Raphael, of all things.

She leaned back away from the question until she caught herself, reaching up to scratch the back of her head and laugh a little awkwardly: “Heh… that is…”

‘Not something a doctor should answer’ – didn’t they make a rule of this?

Ah, no. It’s her fault they stayed in the clinic. No doctor, functionally, right at this moment.

Now, what were normal conversation rules?

Stay on the same emotional level. Connect with common interests or occupations. Don’t overstep. Stay on topic, connect your themes.

Raphael looked over at him – he was honest in wanting to know, mh? – and leaned forward again, putting her hands on her knees, tapping: “… something I don’t have to answer often,” at least not honestly. She looked around as if the office might give an answer.

What things did he tell her about himself on an emotional level. Right now. GO! (And how voluntary it was)

Unease about people like him (regretted it?), has an assistant, came here because he wanted to show off he is doing well (??? EH truth?!). Non-linear time threw him off (not voluntary). Changed his modus operandi in hell, no seductions (is that healthy?, but freely given), UNERRINGLY polite, which is more for keeping in mind.

So. Surface level trust. Work and acquaintances are fair game. Probably hobbies, if seduction counted. Oh. And appearance. That was there for presentation, right? She could do that. Probably.

And so her gaze returned to him. This was difficult.

"I... discovered I have a hobby?” – there, that was a start.– “Meaning... there is something I can do to I genuinely relax and calm down, whatever the circumstances." She raised her hands and wriggled them, grinning awkwardly. "It's massaging people. Can't wear rings because of it," she shot a quick, slightly jealous glance at his, "Feeling the muscles and tendons under my fingertips, counting the ruptures under the surface level skin, take care of the connective tissue state and re-forming them with just pressure and warmth and knowledge... Lets me concentrate on the moment and sort my head. And, in the end, everyone feels better. However long it took. I also got a lot better at it, since we last met," here she could wink at him for once.

She put her hands on the table.

"Thing is... I'm mostly hanging around on earth these days. People come to me. I’ll take care of them. Angels and demons from here or other universes – yeah, it’s still terribly patchy – aaaand some humans. Humans never get more than one appointment. But there get to be more and more these days. Because rumors. Either for serious things or... This" Wriggle hands.

"And, you know, Amurel is usually very good at refusing those kinds of appointments - especially if it's unclear what they are about - but this time... Your assistant is REALLY good. Charming my poor angelic receptionist like that. Are they new? Amu didn't know them. Certainly do belong in your circle if they can dazzle over the phone"

“Massage?” Asmodeus repeated, displaying a rather subdued impression of a dog who had just heard their owner say ‘walkies?’

Well, isn’t that delightful? Now he had mental images to battle. And the way she’d begun to describe musculature and connective tissue… didn’t help. It was easy to imagine her soft hands as she spoke, providing a very different type of therapy. And then, oh, my. That little wink of hers did something to him.

Asmodeus cleared his throat and finished his last two or three sips of tea with one large swallow.

“The good things about rings,” he said, setting his empty cup aside again. “Is that they can always be removed, my dear.” He unceremoniously plucked one from his hands, turning the gold band over in his fingers like a shiny, bejeweled fidget toy.

“If you recall, I was something of a massage hobbyist myself, once upon a time.” Oh, that had been a fun one. He had needed the soul of the owner of a luxury spa and those of their associates. The quickest way there was with fancy credentials and especially talented hands, naturally; it almost always was. “I may have to come back here and test out those new skills of yours sometime,” he said, with a wink of his own.

Pressure, warmth, and knowledge. It sounded like her, didn’t it? He allowed himself to muse over it for a second, her warmth, her cleverness, the way she could push him into shape like a stubborn muscle knot. Not only in therapy sessions, but even today after all these years in between; her insistence on staying. And sitting. And drinking tea, and taking off his coat. Oh yes, he might even say it suited her.

“I’m pleased to hear you’ve found an interest, though I do hope you’re able to find a way to enjoy yourself outside the office, too. All work and no play, you know.” He’d taken up the mortifying pastime of kite flying, and had just come that close to admitting it out loud.

Some memory ticked by in the back of her head. Hobbyist. Hobbyist? That rang… untrue? They HAD talked about this. If she actually tried to recall…

She had been VERY tired. And Asmodeus… Asmodeus was certified? A certified specialist. ‘Ashton King’, was it? So… human things… it’s not untrue. Just his usual… underselling his abilities. Which – does not require overanalysing whatsoever. Especially not today. Good.

But what else did they talk about… they had...

It came back to her and she grinned, snapping her fingers and pointing at him: “I promised to massage your hands! Cause I don’t trust you to have someone look at your fingers!” That’s an off way of saying ‘I worried about you’, but it was true. “You never… explicitly agreed to it,” she squinted, trying to recall. “Not in a ‘you promised’ kind of way. I don’t think. But… you’re here now! And you even took one of the rings off” – she reached out her hand and smiled. And a second later this smile turned self-depreciating. With s a bit of a defeated posture. She needed to be honest. She HAD promised to be. Omission is also a lie: “… and I… really want to feel you are… here” Back. Alive. Safe. Something. “I’m reeling a little” She shouldn’t. It’s unreasonable. Very much so, but… it was just true… “So… I’d… do your palm? Stretch your fingers? You do fidget.”

She didn’t want to demand anything. She just… kind of did it anway. She’d be feel better, maybe. And he’d have something to do with his hands, too. And it might not even be a big deal for him, but everyone demanded selfish things from him. The other things she sort-of demanded were definitely for his benefit. This was just… selfish of her. Very much so.

So. With or without a hand in her palms, her hobbies would stay her own for a while longer. She didn’t quite get to leave the office, so… she only gave him a little shrug before her smile widened.

Asmodeus laughed, an easy grin spreading across his face upon seeing her brighten. The good doctor could light up a room with a smile like that, it was contagious. Almost without thinking he began to remove the other rings and set them aside in a nice little pile beside his empty cup. He paused, however, when he saw her smile fall.

She… wanted to touch him? And she almost seemed to feel guilty about it. Reeling. That was a strong word. There it was again, that feeling of having been an asshole.

Entirely without thinking, Asmodeus leaned forward and slipped his hand, free of rings, into the doctor’s hand, experiencing and ignoring another one of those odd little jolts from this morning as he did. He brought his other hand to the back of hers, gently clasping it between both of his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, genuinely, meeting her eyes with remorse and an especially tender expression on his face. “I…” he grimaced and took a beat as he considered what he wanted to say. What could he say? He found the void he’d been left with so absolutely intolerable he’d had to leave the whole fucking dimension, how could he do that to someone else? He wasn’t going to kid himself, he didn’t imagine the area he occupied in Raphael’s life to be very large at all, but it had been there, he realized. Big enough to notice, and that was plenty enough to feel guilt for.

“… Things didn’t turn out quite as I’d expected them to,” he confessed. If that wasn’t the understatement of the century. “But that’s a poor excuse. I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. It was wrong of me.” You are not a novelty.

Asmodeus gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting his fall away, leaving just the one on top, which he turned over palm-side up. And his easy smile returned, his eyes finally moving somewhere else. The wall. The table, maybe. His pretty leather shoes.

She watched his fingers ‘undress’, following the quick motions with her eyes. He seemed to have… practice with that. Theories about different meanings of the rings and how humans might interpret them ran through her mind, but… went mostly ignored for just… staring. They were nice hands. Barely any calluses. The indents of the rings were only visible if you knew. And they came closer and…

The request… was… not rejected. And two hands enveloped her offered one and…

The bit of tension she’d still held fell off. Wide eyes relaxed and became warmer, she looked straight at him instead of slightly up – barely a difference, really, but... she looked at his kind eyes and was… not sure what to see in them.

He was sorry? What… what fo-?

Oh. For leaving? For leaving?

Her thumb wrapped around his proffered palm, drawing circling patterns.

“… you… I missed you” Worried about. Wanted back. Same thing. “I didn’t… blame you for leaving?” She was genuinely curious. Leaving this situation of his - she was not entirely sure what it even was, just that it was too much - was probably the most honest-to-himself thing he had done since they had met for the very first time.

Under her thumb and fingertips – not letting go, this hand was at least noticeably grasped at all times – she felt the skin was… just a bit more structured. Not as perfectly smooth. And wasn’t that a thing to still remember. She also enjoyed feeling his pulse thudding along. No interpretation, nothing too privacy invading. It was just there and warm and alive. Such A relief.

She could check for trigger points soon enough. Just getting a feel…

“Don’t be sorry for being missed?” Wasn’t that a weird thought. “I mean… Grem and their colleagues might have missed you a bit more professionally, but…” She raised her shoulders for the tiniest shrug. Isn’t it their… god…taken(?) right? To go and say 'screw this' to everything?

There had been SO many complaints and grumbling and slight panic in the demons that had visited her clinic, but they had been somewhat… accepting of the circumstance? Most definitely not happy, with neither of the leaders leaving, but… well, her sample size was small. And she should feel bad.

Thmp-thmp.

She would undoubtedly feel the speed of his pulse pick up, but Asmodeus was far more preoccupied with thinking about other things to worry about that.

She missed him.

And she didn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t, would she? She just… missed him, that was all. Not for a purpose he served or a role he filled, just… his company? What an entirely backwards concept.

He had missed her too.

Could he say that? Would she believe him? Or would it just be hurtful and sound like lip service? He could’ve come back anytime. He just… didn’t.

Time moves in weird ways when you’re walking through it, and there had been many a bleak moment of hopelessness for Asmodeus during those walks, whether floating in the nothing or standing on the earth. You could stay forever in those bleak, hopeless moments, if you chose to. Sometimes he did, for a little while. He found it soothing at times to shout with no mouth and flail with no limbs in places where all the light had gone out, where no one could see him ache. He’d feel sorry for himself, and he’d feel pathetic, and he’d feel small.

And when it was time to carry on, to uncurl from the furious, desperate, raging and sorrowful ball that he’d become, he would remember his doctor telling him how. Breathe. He would need lungs for that. And oxygen. Feel the ground beneath your feet and center yourself. That required, obviously, both feet and ground. Count. Feet, lungs, ground, oxygen, and a thundering heart to reset - inhale one, two, three, four, exhale one, two, three, four, again, and again, and again. And then the light would come back. Never the light he’d been looking for, of course, but light all the same - shining through rustling trees or gleaming on cityscape windows, somewhere with his feet on the ground and a breeze he could fill his lungs with.

With time and circumstance, those healthier thought patterns would become more and more scarce. He would forget to breathe, forget to stand somewhere and feel the sun, forget that those were things that felt nice. He’d forget himself sometimes, leaving little bits behind him wherever he went like glitter.

As an impermanent tourist in everywhere he went, he had forgotten that he could be missed.

He felt… different, now, with his hand in Raphael’s and the shift in the atmosphere. Like he’d taken off another coat he hadn’t realized he’d put on out there, but… backwards? Warmer now, rather than cooler. Maybe it was her hands, he thought, rubbing nerves awake, pushing blood through veins. It felt nice.

“If anyone should have missed me Down There, I’d imagine it to be Beelzebub,” he said, humor in his tone as he watched her fingers work. Poor Bee was #3, the backup to the backup. If anything had required actual leadership while he’d been away, it would have been up to him. Though, Beelzebub had always been better at organizing armies and planning wars than he was at politics; Asmodeus really wouldn’t have been very surprised at all if he’d walked back in to nothing but rubble and brimstone and a sea of righteously pissed off demons. He’d been pleasantly surprised that things had, for the most part at least, remained unchanged.

Her thumbs wandered along his palm, feeling over the insides of his knuckles with no extra bone-growth, no traumata-causing damage, no ruptures that caused restructuring. They were perfectly well formed and maintained hands. Tendons flexed the expected amount. Muscles became pliant under the pressure. The first sign of ‘wear’ was a more prominent muscles growth for his index and middle finger. And of course the usual cramp in the ball of his thumb.

No need to think. Only be reassured. Grounded.

Maybe it had been worth being selfish. She didn’t even feel all too guilty for it. No interpretation of heartbeat frequency was a good thing to make up for that.

Could mean absolutely everything anyway.

“Never met them,” she shrugged. Flies, right? Lots of flies. ‘Wrath’ was the sin? Probably good they’d never met. Wrathy people usually get thrown out of the clinic.

Her inner doctor nodded along to the work-attitude and the routine and the faces and the office, checking a few assumptions as confirmed (and healthy).

And then her wandering eyes (occasionally glancing to his face before looking back at his hand) flicked to look at his. Her hands didn’t stop and there was no immediately visible reaction at all. Maybe that’s a reaction in itself.

‘Sure you do.’ Was the first uncharitable – for everyone involved – reaction in thoughts.

‘It IS a very nice office. Last time I was there.’ Was the reaction of apathetic avoidance.

‘Four years isn’t a long time. You mean ‘Raphael’?’ was maybe the most uncharitable reaction, especially since Asmodeus just said that ‘you are you’. Bad. Also a bit egocentric.

‘Therapy? Really?’ was ridiculous. They were not in therapy. ‘This’ could mean anything.

‘I wasn’t fishing for that, just being honest.’ Was also an egocentric reaction. VERY much. And defensive. And didn’t she constantly tell people that’s bad.

But honest. She’s supposed to be honest.  

And she was honestly happy. Not that he’d missed her – that had been terrible. But he’d thought about her and-

It was probably good that she always thought before answering in these rooms.

Her smile twitched a bit wider and she said, softly: “Thank you.” Because she’d waited too long to not let him know the words had an impact on her, somewhat shameful as it was. “… for feeling that way” At the moment. If it was reasonable or not. Or logical. But he probably didn’t even mean for it to be so personal, anyway: “You’re always welcome here. And to whatever I can provide of… ‘this’.”

But she was meant to be honest, and the truth was relatively easy. She spoke with a bit firmer tone: “Now. If you were here for an actual ‘appointment’ today. I’d ask you so many more questions. About all of that. As it stands… well. You’ve got even less reason to be sorry towards me. Wanting to come back and all.” She still didn’t quite get how he was sorry in the first place.

“Which you also did. So.” What were they talking about? Amu? ‘Grem’? Massages. Rings. Blushes. (Bad. She hoped hers was not too visible, given her current complexion. Her cheeks DID feel warm). So. Human history!

Recent human history. Sure. „Now… you have to stick around and deal with new technology. 3D-printing got easy to use, almost cheap and also non-toxic. It’s a wonder! Whatever you don’t have, you can print. Prosthetics are a marvel now – customized in a way that was never possible before. Astronauts survive even if they forget tools. Headphones can finally fit!”

“But… I have a clinic.” She continued, tone certainly lighthearted, but a bit suspicious: “A very discreet and trustworthy clinic. One to which you can come with any problem. And you are back… tell me… what do you think… will people get more or less creative with the things they print and use for… private entertainment?” Humans and orifices. She swore.

She might have looked a bit suspicious about the last bit. But her fingers still moved, smoothing out any muscle-knots.

Ah, she’d taken it badly. Yep. That seemed about right. Disappointing, but hardly surprising; he knew it wouldn’t come across the way he’d wanted it to. But… he’d said it. And he meant it. And that was better than meaning it and not saying it, which was the classic Asmodeus move. So, he’d give himself a point for that, at least. Even though he could practically see the ‘Raphael disapproved of that’ notification floating in the air.

He’d make it up to her. Somehow. Certainly not with more pastries. That was almost as bad as ‘I’ve missed you.’ Sorry, fucked off entirely for the better part of a decade, but here’s a box of fancy snacks. Ugh. His social skills had degraded, too. It was odd to feel so… lacking. How had that happened?

But she was talking about the humans again, steering the conversation into more neutral waters, and he couldn’t help but wear a fond smile as she did. She seemed so pleased for their little humans and the progress they’d made. A wonder, indeed.

“Something tells me you may know the answer to that already,” he said with a snicker, remembering an exhausted Las Vegas nurse he had shared a drink with once, who had spent the better part of an hour listing the objects she’d removed from varying depths of human bowel just that month. His favorite had been a string of Christmas lights, tied around a little porcelain baby Jesus in a manger. The month had been April.

People had been putting things they weren’t supposed to into their bodies ever since Eve ate the apple - it just had to be human nature, he supposed; the creation and usage of tools, and the shoving of those tools into holes.

“But should I hazard a guess,” Asmodeus mused, “mortal creativity has never ceased to surprise me. Wood, stone, glass, plastic. Where there’s a will, they find a way, don’t they? Accessibility and convenience, I would think, would be the major benefits of such a printer. The creativity has always been there.”

So, what would that answer mean, then? Less? The ability to download a file and push a button for your item of choice really would move the chipping and shaping of marble or clay into your very own fake dicks into obsolescence; but then, so had the invention of sex shops and they still did it, didn’t they?

Asmodeus paused, realizing that, perhaps, he’d contributed a little too much brain power to this topic already. He laughed at himself, the lightest dusting of pink crossing his cheeks. He would avoid talking about himself as if the concept alone were holy water, but 3D printed genitalia? Apparently perfectly worthy of a TED talk. Embarrassing.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

“Won’t be hard to make you blush, either. This insulation of this overcoat looks high quality enough to prepare you for an arctic expedition,” her hand made a demanding motion for the massive garment. Did she want to make up for her failure to follow simple wardrobe routines? It’s possible. But in contrast to him, she had no sleeves under her doctor’s coat und her skirt – wooly as it may be – didn’t exceed mid length. It was warm.

And – just maybe - she would prefer if he didn’t look like he would leave the next minute either. The urge to reassure by grabbing and holding had not completely disappeared. To… ask for that was NOT a normal thing… yeah. Anyway.

Back to concentrating on an archdemon who wasn’t distracting himself by looking at her while thinking. Until did and then he explained… politics and individualism. And irregularities. And his theory of identity (not surprising - he did have experiences with clones). All facts. And all very interesting, really.

But… she had tried to use the right words for her questions. ‘Feel’ and ‘guess’ and ‘love’ and ‘question’. It did convey he felt strongly about being incomparable – or separate from ‘them’. But not how he felt about them.

Except apparently surprise about some people with this ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that made him know this could have been him (under different circumstances). They took an entirely different path and he didn’t like it? Some awfulness of theirs he didn’t want to see in himself? Some regrets he – or they -  had that could make him learn things?

She tilted her head. There definitely is learning potential in seeing how different choices play out. But he felt uneasy about about some. Badly enough to come back here? She should continue talking about it, really. It was interesting in concept and might get him to order his thoughts about it, too.

BUT this only applied… if this was something like a ‘therapy’. And it was not. Today, he agreed to a ‘check-up’. And even that he kind of wanted to make into a social call.

She looked at him a bit too long. She might actually get something that rubbed him the wrong way out of him. For once. And then remembered what he’d told her a long time ago. Give your conversation partner something to work with. ‘Raw clay’, he’d said. And follow their lead. They won’t talk if they don’t want to anyway. Ugh.

“Other people would have called that a narrative hook, you know?” She pouted, at minimum showing she was very much willing to listen.

“Buuut if you insist.” She shrugged. “What… happened while you were gone. You left 2015. Mmmmmh.” And she was out of ideas already. ‘Raw clay’? Mnh. What was the least interesting thing while still…. being not too annoying? Somewhat informative?

She sat up and started counting on her fingers, emoting appropriately to each little tidbit. Silly, but… why not: “Rubella was eradicated in America. David Bowie died. The European Union broke – Britain and Gibraltar left. There’s an ebola vaccine. Donald Trump became president in the United States, got impeached, did NOT get reelected and now has to answer to… 95 felonies, I believe? Canada legalized Cannabis. The people in India can be legally gay now. The pope visited Arabia. Sustained remission from HIV happened a second time. A significant bit of Notre Dame in Paris burned down. Same sex marriage is legally happening in Ecuador. Boris Johnson became Prime Minister in the UK and it was… not great. So many hurricanes. An immune system eradicating pandemic forced people to stay inside for months - with… a baffling amount of human stupidity added. It’s not actually over. Child pornography Of 14 to 18 year olds is now defined as such by the pope? Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are too rich. There are too many Wildfires. Non-fungible-Tokens… exist. There is private space travel. Russia and the Ukraine started a war. Two most impressive Volcanoes eruptions. There’s eight billion people on earth now. Europe can’t buy diesel-cars anymore and… Twitter is now X?” It had been… a strange time. Now that she tried to remember. She put her hands back down in her lap and returned to actually looking at him.  

“A non-exhaustive list, of course. I did spend most of my time on earth. And I could spin some stories about each of those. But I think… that might not be the answer you wanted?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus said, suddenly remembering himself. He looked down at his body and emitted a resigned yet amused puff of air from his nose. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.” He gingerly set his cup of tea aside on the nearest surface and began hesitantly, almost reluctantly, sliding his coat over his shoulders and off his arms. It was hardly chilly in the doctor’s office but the change was noticeable to him anyway, despite his other layers of wool and cotton.

He’d preferred warmer weather ever since he’d first fallen, but over his travels he had begun to notice small adjustments in himself that he hadn’t made. He was cold sensitive, more than before - that could be chalked up to a change in corporation age (thinner skin, less collagen and subcutaneous fat,) if it hadn’t felt quite so thoroughly soul-deep, like the ache in his legs. He could feel himself, as the odd blue sphere of energy that he was at his very most basic level, degrading gently around the edges the longer he stayed in the in-between places, like a shard of glass tossed about in the ocean. Or perhaps more like a sanded sugar lemon drop. That sounded more appealing.

He folded the oversized coat and draped it over the arm of his chair. He looked… smaller, without it. Almost a little vulnerable. Almost.

He tried not to focus too closely on the expression on her thoughtful face, what it might mean. He wondered what his metaphorical froggy organs were telling her. It was difficult to remember that scrutinization didn’t always have to be a bad thing. He had to keep reminding himself that he had sat here before and left feeling better, and that Raphael had always met him, on those occasions, with generous understanding and kindness. Relax. Relax.

As she listed the semi-current events of the last decade, Asmodeus hummed and nodded along appropriately. Not a bad list, per se, certainly not humanity’s finest hour but he’d take it; it was certainly better than mass extinction. He had seen many of these things come to pass in various dimensions, in one way or another, and he’d seen alternatives to them as well but all of it, good or bad, left him feeling somewhat detached. They weren’t his humans, after all. His humans were, well… his humans were right here, weren’t they? On this Earth? And he was… relieved?

The moment his boots had once again hit the ground here he experienced a bit of a jolt, a click, like a puzzle piece popping into place, or a magnet sticking tight to the fridge. He was made of the very same breath that made this universe, and for one very intense half-second he could feel it. And then it was gone just as soon as it had come, and he shook it off as a sense of deja vu and went about his merry way. He remembered it now though, considering his humans and how they made him feel.

Maybe he would thaw? Maybe sitting here, in a familiar chair with a familiar friend and a hot cup of tea would melt that apprehension and sense of being a visitor away, given enough time. Maybe the click was something that mattered. He returned to the chai, taking the glass carefully in both hands. Warm.

No, it wasn’t really the answer he’d wanted, but it was a good answer.

When there was absolutely no quip about her wanting to get him out of his clothes – or something along those lines – she wanted to slap herself for kind-of expecting it. This was pure stereotyping. Mngh.

It still felt… a little off.

He didn’t even want to hand it to her, so she could make sure the fabric didn’t get wrinkled. Wardrobes existed for a reason.

And he kept the coat close to him. Easy within reach to take off and leave and-

…

This feeling was not going away, was it? She needed to do something about this. Somehow.

In her mind, she filled out one of the ‘recurring’ files. Maybe that might work. ‘Wardrobe etiquette… unclear(?)’. There. Like she might have a need to use it again. Sure. She’d later make it a reality. Evidence and all. Touchable.

She really needed to do something with her hands.

And then his posture opened up. To hear about Raphael, of all things.

She leaned back away from the question until she caught herself, reaching up to scratch the back of her head and laugh a little awkwardly: “Heh… that is…”

‘Not something a doctor should answer’ – didn’t they make a rule of this?

Ah, no. It’s her fault they stayed in the clinic. No doctor, functionally, right at this moment.

Now, what were normal conversation rules?

Stay on the same emotional level. Connect with common interests or occupations. Don’t overstep. Stay on topic, connect your themes.

Raphael looked over at him – he was honest in wanting to know, mh? – and leaned forward again, putting her hands on her knees, tapping: “… something I don’t have to answer often,” at least not honestly. She looked around as if the office might give an answer.

What things did he tell her about himself on an emotional level. Right now. GO! (And how voluntary it was)

Unease about people like him (regretted it?), has an assistant, came here because he wanted to show off he is doing well (??? EH truth?!). Non-linear time threw him off (not voluntary). Changed his modus operandi in hell, no seductions (is that healthy?, but freely given), UNERRINGLY polite, which is more for keeping in mind.

So. Surface level trust. Work and acquaintances are fair game. Probably hobbies, if seduction counted. Oh. And appearance. That was there for presentation, right? She could do that. Probably.

And so her gaze returned to him. This was difficult.

"I... discovered I have a hobby?” – there, that was a start.– “Meaning... there is something I can do to I genuinely relax and calm down, whatever the circumstances." She raised her hands and wriggled them, grinning awkwardly. "It's massaging people. Can't wear rings because of it," she shot a quick, slightly jealous glance at his, "Feeling the muscles and tendons under my fingertips, counting the ruptures under the surface level skin, take care of the connective tissue state and re-forming them with just pressure and warmth and knowledge... Lets me concentrate on the moment and sort my head. And, in the end, everyone feels better. However long it took. I also got a lot better at it, since we last met," here she could wink at him for once.

She put her hands on the table.

"Thing is... I'm mostly hanging around on earth these days. People come to me. I’ll take care of them. Angels and demons from here or other universes – yeah, it’s still terribly patchy – aaaand some humans. Humans never get more than one appointment. But there get to be more and more these days. Because rumors. Either for serious things or... This" Wriggle hands.

"And, you know, Amurel is usually very good at refusing those kinds of appointments - especially if it's unclear what they are about - but this time... Your assistant is REALLY good. Charming my poor angelic receptionist like that. Are they new? Amu didn't know them. Certainly do belong in your circle if they can dazzle over the phone"

“Massage?” Asmodeus repeated, displaying a rather subdued impression of a dog who had just heard their owner say ‘walkies?’

Well, isn’t that delightful? Now he had mental images to battle. And the way she’d begun to describe musculature and connective tissue… didn’t help. It was easy to imagine her soft hands as she spoke, providing a very different type of therapy. And then, oh, my. That little wink of hers did something to him.

Asmodeus cleared his throat and finished his last two or three sips of tea with one large swallow.

“The good things about rings,” he said, setting his empty cup aside again. “Is that they can always be removed, my dear.” He unceremoniously plucked one from his hands, turning the gold band over in his fingers like a shiny, bejeweled fidget toy.

“If you recall, I was something of a massage hobbyist myself, once upon a time.” Oh, that had been a fun one. He had needed the soul of the owner of a luxury spa and those of their associates. The quickest way there was with fancy credentials and especially talented hands, naturally; it almost always was. “I may have to come back here and test out those new skills of yours sometime,” he said, with a wink of his own.

Pressure, warmth, and knowledge. It sounded like her, didn’t it? He allowed himself to muse over it for a second, her warmth, her cleverness, the way she could push him into shape like a stubborn muscle knot. Not only in therapy sessions, but even today after all these years in between; her insistence on staying. And sitting. And drinking tea, and taking off his coat. Oh yes, he might even say it suited her.

“I’m pleased to hear you’ve found an interest, though I do hope you’re able to find a way to enjoy yourself outside the office, too. All work and no play, you know.” He’d taken up the mortifying pastime of kite flying, and had just come that close to admitting it out loud.

Some memory ticked by in the back of her head. Hobbyist. Hobbyist? That rang… untrue? They HAD talked about this. If she actually tried to recall…

She had been VERY tired. And Asmodeus… Asmodeus was certified? A certified specialist. ‘Ashton King’, was it? So… human things… it’s not untrue. Just his usual… underselling his abilities. Which – does not require overanalysing whatsoever. Especially not today. Good.

But what else did they talk about… they had...

It came back to her and she grinned, snapping her fingers and pointing at him: “I promised to massage your hands! Cause I don’t trust you to have someone look at your fingers!” That’s an off way of saying ‘I worried about you’, but it was true. “You never… explicitly agreed to it,” she squinted, trying to recall. “Not in a ‘you promised’ kind of way. I don’t think. But… you’re here now! And you even took one of the rings off” – she reached out her hand and smiled. And a second later this smile turned self-depreciating. With s a bit of a defeated posture. She needed to be honest. She HAD promised to be. Omission is also a lie: “… and I… really want to feel you are… here” Back. Alive. Safe. Something. “I’m reeling a little” She shouldn’t. It’s unreasonable. Very much so, but… it was just true… “So… I’d… do your palm? Stretch your fingers? You do fidget.”

She didn’t want to demand anything. She just… kind of did it anway. She’d be feel better, maybe. And he’d have something to do with his hands, too. And it might not even be a big deal for him, but everyone demanded selfish things from him. The other things she sort-of demanded were definitely for his benefit. This was just… selfish of her. Very much so.

So. With or without a hand in her palms, her hobbies would stay her own for a while longer. She didn’t quite get to leave the office, so… she only gave him a little shrug before her smile widened.

Asmodeus laughed, an easy grin spreading across his face upon seeing her brighten. The good doctor could light up a room with a smile like that, it was contagious. Almost without thinking he began to remove the other rings and set them aside in a nice little pile beside his empty cup. He paused, however, when he saw her smile fall.

She… wanted to touch him? And she almost seemed to feel guilty about it. Reeling. That was a strong word. There it was again, that feeling of having been an asshole.

Entirely without thinking, Asmodeus leaned forward and slipped his hand, free of rings, into the doctor’s hand, experiencing and ignoring another one of those odd little jolts from this morning as he did. He brought his other hand to the back of hers, gently clasping it between both of his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, genuinely, meeting her eyes with remorse and an especially tender expression on his face. “I…” he grimaced and took a beat as he considered what he wanted to say. What could he say? He found the void he’d been left with so absolutely intolerable he’d had to leave the whole fucking dimension, how could he do that to someone else? He wasn’t going to kid himself, he didn’t imagine the area he occupied in Raphael’s life to be very large at all, but it had been there, he realized. Big enough to notice, and that was plenty enough to feel guilt for.

“… Things didn’t turn out quite as I’d expected them to,” he confessed. If that wasn’t the understatement of the century. “But that’s a poor excuse. I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. It was wrong of me.” You are not a novelty.

Asmodeus gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting his fall away, leaving just the one on top, which he turned over palm-side up. And his easy smile returned, his eyes finally moving somewhere else. The wall. The table, maybe. His pretty leather shoes.

She watched his fingers ‘undress’, following the quick motions with her eyes. He seemed to have… practice with that. Theories about different meanings of the rings and how humans might interpret them ran through her mind, but… went mostly ignored for just… staring. They were nice hands. Barely any calluses. The indents of the rings were only visible if you knew. And they came closer and…

The request… was… not rejected. And two hands enveloped her offered one and…

The bit of tension she’d still held fell off. Wide eyes relaxed and became warmer, she looked straight at him instead of slightly up – barely a difference, really, but... she looked at his kind eyes and was… not sure what to see in them.

He was sorry? What… what fo-?

Oh. For leaving? For leaving?

Her thumb wrapped around his proffered palm, drawing circling patterns.

“… you… I missed you” Worried about. Wanted back. Same thing. “I didn’t… blame you for leaving?” She was genuinely curious. Leaving this situation of his - she was not entirely sure what it even was, just that it was too much - was probably the most honest-to-himself thing he had done since they had met for the very first time.

Under her thumb and fingertips – not letting go, this hand was at least noticeably grasped at all times – she felt the skin was… just a bit more structured. Not as perfectly smooth. And wasn’t that a thing to still remember. She also enjoyed feeling his pulse thudding along. No interpretation, nothing too privacy invading. It was just there and warm and alive. Such A relief.

She could check for trigger points soon enough. Just getting a feel…

“Don’t be sorry for being missed?” Wasn’t that a weird thought. “I mean… Grem and their colleagues might have missed you a bit more professionally, but…” She raised her shoulders for the tiniest shrug. Isn’t it their… god…taken(?) right? To go and say 'screw this' to everything?

There had been SO many complaints and grumbling and slight panic in the demons that had visited her clinic, but they had been somewhat… accepting of the circumstance? Most definitely not happy, with neither of the leaders leaving, but… well, her sample size was small. And she should feel bad.

Thmp-thmp.

She would undoubtedly feel the speed of his pulse pick up, but Asmodeus was far more preoccupied with thinking about other things to worry about that.

She missed him.

And she didn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t, would she? She just… missed him, that was all. Not for a purpose he served or a role he filled, just… his company? What an entirely backwards concept.

He had missed her too.

Could he say that? Would she believe him? Or would it just be hurtful and sound like lip service? He could’ve come back anytime. He just… didn’t.

Time moves in weird ways when you’re walking through it, and there had been many a bleak moment of hopelessness for Asmodeus during those walks, whether floating in the nothing or standing on the earth. You could stay forever in those bleak, hopeless moments, if you chose to. Sometimes he did, for a little while. He found it soothing at times to shout with no mouth and flail with no limbs in places where all the light had gone out, where no one could see him ache. He’d feel sorry for himself, and he’d feel pathetic, and he’d feel small.

And when it was time to carry on, to uncurl from the furious, desperate, raging and sorrowful ball that he’d become, he would remember his doctor telling him how. Breathe. He would need lungs for that. And oxygen. Feel the ground beneath your feet and center yourself. That required, obviously, both feet and ground. Count. Feet, lungs, ground, oxygen, and a thundering heart to reset - inhale one, two, three, four, exhale one, two, three, four, again, and again, and again. And then the light would come back. Never the light he’d been looking for, of course, but light all the same - shining through rustling trees or gleaming on cityscape windows, somewhere with his feet on the ground and a breeze he could fill his lungs with.

With time and circumstance, those healthier thought patterns would become more and more scarce. He would forget to breathe, forget to stand somewhere and feel the sun, forget that those were things that felt nice. He’d forget himself sometimes, leaving little bits behind him wherever he went like glitter.

As an impermanent tourist in everywhere he went, he had forgotten that he could be missed.

He felt… different, now, with his hand in Raphael’s and the shift in the atmosphere. Like he’d taken off another coat he hadn’t realized he’d put on out there, but… backwards? Warmer now, rather than cooler. Maybe it was her hands, he thought, rubbing nerves awake, pushing blood through veins. It felt nice.

“If anyone should have missed me Down There, I’d imagine it to be Beelzebub,” he said, humor in his tone as he watched her fingers work. Poor Bee was #3, the backup to the backup. If anything had required actual leadership while he’d been away, it would have been up to him. Though, Beelzebub had always been better at organizing armies and planning wars than he was at politics; Asmodeus really wouldn’t have been very surprised at all if he’d walked back in to nothing but rubble and brimstone and a sea of righteously pissed off demons. He’d been pleasantly surprised that things had, for the most part at least, remained unchanged.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

“Won’t be hard to make you blush, either. This insulation of this overcoat looks high quality enough to prepare you for an arctic expedition,” her hand made a demanding motion for the massive garment. Did she want to make up for her failure to follow simple wardrobe routines? It’s possible. But in contrast to him, she had no sleeves under her doctor’s coat und her skirt – wooly as it may be – didn’t exceed mid length. It was warm.

And – just maybe - she would prefer if he didn’t look like he would leave the next minute either. The urge to reassure by grabbing and holding had not completely disappeared. To… ask for that was NOT a normal thing… yeah. Anyway.

Back to concentrating on an archdemon who wasn’t distracting himself by looking at her while thinking. Until did and then he explained… politics and individualism. And irregularities. And his theory of identity (not surprising - he did have experiences with clones). All facts. And all very interesting, really.

But… she had tried to use the right words for her questions. ‘Feel’ and ‘guess’ and ‘love’ and ‘question’. It did convey he felt strongly about being incomparable – or separate from ‘them’. But not how he felt about them.

Except apparently surprise about some people with this ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that made him know this could have been him (under different circumstances). They took an entirely different path and he didn’t like it? Some awfulness of theirs he didn’t want to see in himself? Some regrets he – or they -  had that could make him learn things?

She tilted her head. There definitely is learning potential in seeing how different choices play out. But he felt uneasy about about some. Badly enough to come back here? She should continue talking about it, really. It was interesting in concept and might get him to order his thoughts about it, too.

BUT this only applied… if this was something like a ‘therapy’. And it was not. Today, he agreed to a ‘check-up’. And even that he kind of wanted to make into a social call.

She looked at him a bit too long. She might actually get something that rubbed him the wrong way out of him. For once. And then remembered what he’d told her a long time ago. Give your conversation partner something to work with. ‘Raw clay’, he’d said. And follow their lead. They won’t talk if they don’t want to anyway. Ugh.

“Other people would have called that a narrative hook, you know?” She pouted, at minimum showing she was very much willing to listen.

“Buuut if you insist.” She shrugged. “What… happened while you were gone. You left 2015. Mmmmmh.” And she was out of ideas already. ‘Raw clay’? Mnh. What was the least interesting thing while still…. being not too annoying? Somewhat informative?

She sat up and started counting on her fingers, emoting appropriately to each little tidbit. Silly, but… why not: “Rubella was eradicated in America. David Bowie died. The European Union broke – Britain and Gibraltar left. There’s an ebola vaccine. Donald Trump became president in the United States, got impeached, did NOT get reelected and now has to answer to… 95 felonies, I believe? Canada legalized Cannabis. The people in India can be legally gay now. The pope visited Arabia. Sustained remission from HIV happened a second time. A significant bit of Notre Dame in Paris burned down. Same sex marriage is legally happening in Ecuador. Boris Johnson became Prime Minister in the UK and it was… not great. So many hurricanes. An immune system eradicating pandemic forced people to stay inside for months - with… a baffling amount of human stupidity added. It’s not actually over. Child pornography Of 14 to 18 year olds is now defined as such by the pope? Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are too rich. There are too many Wildfires. Non-fungible-Tokens… exist. There is private space travel. Russia and the Ukraine started a war. Two most impressive Volcanoes eruptions. There’s eight billion people on earth now. Europe can’t buy diesel-cars anymore and… Twitter is now X?” It had been… a strange time. Now that she tried to remember. She put her hands back down in her lap and returned to actually looking at him.  

“A non-exhaustive list, of course. I did spend most of my time on earth. And I could spin some stories about each of those. But I think… that might not be the answer you wanted?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus said, suddenly remembering himself. He looked down at his body and emitted a resigned yet amused puff of air from his nose. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.” He gingerly set his cup of tea aside on the nearest surface and began hesitantly, almost reluctantly, sliding his coat over his shoulders and off his arms. It was hardly chilly in the doctor’s office but the change was noticeable to him anyway, despite his other layers of wool and cotton.

He’d preferred warmer weather ever since he’d first fallen, but over his travels he had begun to notice small adjustments in himself that he hadn’t made. He was cold sensitive, more than before - that could be chalked up to a change in corporation age (thinner skin, less collagen and subcutaneous fat,) if it hadn’t felt quite so thoroughly soul-deep, like the ache in his legs. He could feel himself, as the odd blue sphere of energy that he was at his very most basic level, degrading gently around the edges the longer he stayed in the in-between places, like a shard of glass tossed about in the ocean. Or perhaps more like a sanded sugar lemon drop. That sounded more appealing.

He folded the oversized coat and draped it over the arm of his chair. He looked… smaller, without it. Almost a little vulnerable. Almost.

He tried not to focus too closely on the expression on her thoughtful face, what it might mean. He wondered what his metaphorical froggy organs were telling her. It was difficult to remember that scrutinization didn’t always have to be a bad thing. He had to keep reminding himself that he had sat here before and left feeling better, and that Raphael had always met him, on those occasions, with generous understanding and kindness. Relax. Relax.

As she listed the semi-current events of the last decade, Asmodeus hummed and nodded along appropriately. Not a bad list, per se, certainly not humanity’s finest hour but he’d take it; it was certainly better than mass extinction. He had seen many of these things come to pass in various dimensions, in one way or another, and he’d seen alternatives to them as well but all of it, good or bad, left him feeling somewhat detached. They weren’t his humans, after all. His humans were, well… his humans were right here, weren’t they? On this Earth? And he was… relieved?

The moment his boots had once again hit the ground here he experienced a bit of a jolt, a click, like a puzzle piece popping into place, or a magnet sticking tight to the fridge. He was made of the very same breath that made this universe, and for one very intense half-second he could feel it. And then it was gone just as soon as it had come, and he shook it off as a sense of deja vu and went about his merry way. He remembered it now though, considering his humans and how they made him feel.

Maybe he would thaw? Maybe sitting here, in a familiar chair with a familiar friend and a hot cup of tea would melt that apprehension and sense of being a visitor away, given enough time. Maybe the click was something that mattered. He returned to the chai, taking the glass carefully in both hands. Warm.

No, it wasn’t really the answer he’d wanted, but it was a good answer.

When there was absolutely no quip about her wanting to get him out of his clothes – or something along those lines – she wanted to slap herself for kind-of expecting it. This was pure stereotyping. Mngh.

It still felt… a little off.

He didn’t even want to hand it to her, so she could make sure the fabric didn’t get wrinkled. Wardrobes existed for a reason.

And he kept the coat close to him. Easy within reach to take off and leave and-

…

This feeling was not going away, was it? She needed to do something about this. Somehow.

In her mind, she filled out one of the ‘recurring’ files. Maybe that might work. ‘Wardrobe etiquette… unclear(?)’. There. Like she might have a need to use it again. Sure. She’d later make it a reality. Evidence and all. Touchable.

She really needed to do something with her hands.

And then his posture opened up. To hear about Raphael, of all things.

She leaned back away from the question until she caught herself, reaching up to scratch the back of her head and laugh a little awkwardly: “Heh… that is…”

‘Not something a doctor should answer’ – didn’t they make a rule of this?

Ah, no. It’s her fault they stayed in the clinic. No doctor, functionally, right at this moment.

Now, what were normal conversation rules?

Stay on the same emotional level. Connect with common interests or occupations. Don’t overstep. Stay on topic, connect your themes.

Raphael looked over at him – he was honest in wanting to know, mh? – and leaned forward again, putting her hands on her knees, tapping: “… something I don’t have to answer often,” at least not honestly. She looked around as if the office might give an answer.

What things did he tell her about himself on an emotional level. Right now. GO! (And how voluntary it was)

Unease about people like him (regretted it?), has an assistant, came here because he wanted to show off he is doing well (??? EH truth?!). Non-linear time threw him off (not voluntary). Changed his modus operandi in hell, no seductions (is that healthy?, but freely given), UNERRINGLY polite, which is more for keeping in mind.

So. Surface level trust. Work and acquaintances are fair game. Probably hobbies, if seduction counted. Oh. And appearance. That was there for presentation, right? She could do that. Probably.

And so her gaze returned to him. This was difficult.

"I... discovered I have a hobby?” – there, that was a start.– “Meaning... there is something I can do to I genuinely relax and calm down, whatever the circumstances." She raised her hands and wriggled them, grinning awkwardly. "It's massaging people. Can't wear rings because of it," she shot a quick, slightly jealous glance at his, "Feeling the muscles and tendons under my fingertips, counting the ruptures under the surface level skin, take care of the connective tissue state and re-forming them with just pressure and warmth and knowledge... Lets me concentrate on the moment and sort my head. And, in the end, everyone feels better. However long it took. I also got a lot better at it, since we last met," here she could wink at him for once.

She put her hands on the table.

"Thing is... I'm mostly hanging around on earth these days. People come to me. I’ll take care of them. Angels and demons from here or other universes – yeah, it’s still terribly patchy – aaaand some humans. Humans never get more than one appointment. But there get to be more and more these days. Because rumors. Either for serious things or... This" Wriggle hands.

"And, you know, Amurel is usually very good at refusing those kinds of appointments - especially if it's unclear what they are about - but this time... Your assistant is REALLY good. Charming my poor angelic receptionist like that. Are they new? Amu didn't know them. Certainly do belong in your circle if they can dazzle over the phone"

“Massage?” Asmodeus repeated, displaying a rather subdued impression of a dog who had just heard their owner say ‘walkies?’

Well, isn’t that delightful? Now he had mental images to battle. And the way she’d begun to describe musculature and connective tissue… didn’t help. It was easy to imagine her soft hands as she spoke, providing a very different type of therapy. And then, oh, my. That little wink of hers did something to him.

Asmodeus cleared his throat and finished his last two or three sips of tea with one large swallow.

“The good things about rings,” he said, setting his empty cup aside again. “Is that they can always be removed, my dear.” He unceremoniously plucked one from his hands, turning the gold band over in his fingers like a shiny, bejeweled fidget toy.

“If you recall, I was something of a massage hobbyist myself, once upon a time.” Oh, that had been a fun one. He had needed the soul of the owner of a luxury spa and those of their associates. The quickest way there was with fancy credentials and especially talented hands, naturally; it almost always was. “I may have to come back here and test out those new skills of yours sometime,” he said, with a wink of his own.

Pressure, warmth, and knowledge. It sounded like her, didn’t it? He allowed himself to muse over it for a second, her warmth, her cleverness, the way she could push him into shape like a stubborn muscle knot. Not only in therapy sessions, but even today after all these years in between; her insistence on staying. And sitting. And drinking tea, and taking off his coat. Oh yes, he might even say it suited her.

“I’m pleased to hear you’ve found an interest, though I do hope you’re able to find a way to enjoy yourself outside the office, too. All work and no play, you know.” He’d taken up the mortifying pastime of kite flying, and had just come that close to admitting it out loud.

Some memory ticked by in the back of her head. Hobbyist. Hobbyist? That rang… untrue? They HAD talked about this. If she actually tried to recall…

She had been VERY tired. And Asmodeus… Asmodeus was certified? A certified specialist. ‘Ashton King’, was it? So… human things… it’s not untrue. Just his usual… underselling his abilities. Which – does not require overanalysing whatsoever. Especially not today. Good.

But what else did they talk about… they had...

It came back to her and she grinned, snapping her fingers and pointing at him: “I promised to massage your hands! Cause I don’t trust you to have someone look at your fingers!” That’s an off way of saying ‘I worried about you’, but it was true. “You never… explicitly agreed to it,” she squinted, trying to recall. “Not in a ‘you promised’ kind of way. I don’t think. But… you’re here now! And you even took one of the rings off” – she reached out her hand and smiled. And a second later this smile turned self-depreciating. With s a bit of a defeated posture. She needed to be honest. She HAD promised to be. Omission is also a lie: “… and I… really want to feel you are… here” Back. Alive. Safe. Something. “I’m reeling a little” She shouldn’t. It’s unreasonable. Very much so, but… it was just true… “So… I’d… do your palm? Stretch your fingers? You do fidget.”

She didn’t want to demand anything. She just… kind of did it anway. She’d be feel better, maybe. And he’d have something to do with his hands, too. And it might not even be a big deal for him, but everyone demanded selfish things from him. The other things she sort-of demanded were definitely for his benefit. This was just… selfish of her. Very much so.

So. With or without a hand in her palms, her hobbies would stay her own for a while longer. She didn’t quite get to leave the office, so… she only gave him a little shrug before her smile widened.

Asmodeus laughed, an easy grin spreading across his face upon seeing her brighten. The good doctor could light up a room with a smile like that, it was contagious. Almost without thinking he began to remove the other rings and set them aside in a nice little pile beside his empty cup. He paused, however, when he saw her smile fall.

She… wanted to touch him? And she almost seemed to feel guilty about it. Reeling. That was a strong word. There it was again, that feeling of having been an asshole.

Entirely without thinking, Asmodeus leaned forward and slipped his hand, free of rings, into the doctor’s hand, experiencing and ignoring another one of those odd little jolts from this morning as he did. He brought his other hand to the back of hers, gently clasping it between both of his.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, genuinely, meeting her eyes with remorse and an especially tender expression on his face. “I…” he grimaced and took a beat as he considered what he wanted to say. What could he say? He found the void he’d been left with so absolutely intolerable he’d had to leave the whole fucking dimension, how could he do that to someone else? He wasn’t going to kid himself, he didn’t imagine the area he occupied in Raphael’s life to be very large at all, but it had been there, he realized. Big enough to notice, and that was plenty enough to feel guilt for.

“… Things didn’t turn out quite as I’d expected them to,” he confessed. If that wasn’t the understatement of the century. “But that’s a poor excuse. I’m sorry I left so abruptly. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. It was wrong of me.” You are not a novelty.

Asmodeus gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting his fall away, leaving just the one on top, which he turned over palm-side up. And his easy smile returned, his eyes finally moving somewhere else. The wall. The table, maybe. His pretty leather shoes.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

“Won’t be hard to make you blush, either. This insulation of this overcoat looks high quality enough to prepare you for an arctic expedition,” her hand made a demanding motion for the massive garment. Did she want to make up for her failure to follow simple wardrobe routines? It’s possible. But in contrast to him, she had no sleeves under her doctor’s coat und her skirt – wooly as it may be – didn’t exceed mid length. It was warm.

And – just maybe - she would prefer if he didn’t look like he would leave the next minute either. The urge to reassure by grabbing and holding had not completely disappeared. To… ask for that was NOT a normal thing… yeah. Anyway.

Back to concentrating on an archdemon who wasn’t distracting himself by looking at her while thinking. Until did and then he explained… politics and individualism. And irregularities. And his theory of identity (not surprising - he did have experiences with clones). All facts. And all very interesting, really.

But… she had tried to use the right words for her questions. ‘Feel’ and ‘guess’ and ‘love’ and ‘question’. It did convey he felt strongly about being incomparable – or separate from ‘them’. But not how he felt about them.

Except apparently surprise about some people with this ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that made him know this could have been him (under different circumstances). They took an entirely different path and he didn’t like it? Some awfulness of theirs he didn’t want to see in himself? Some regrets he – or they -  had that could make him learn things?

She tilted her head. There definitely is learning potential in seeing how different choices play out. But he felt uneasy about about some. Badly enough to come back here? She should continue talking about it, really. It was interesting in concept and might get him to order his thoughts about it, too.

BUT this only applied… if this was something like a ‘therapy’. And it was not. Today, he agreed to a ‘check-up’. And even that he kind of wanted to make into a social call.

She looked at him a bit too long. She might actually get something that rubbed him the wrong way out of him. For once. And then remembered what he’d told her a long time ago. Give your conversation partner something to work with. ‘Raw clay’, he’d said. And follow their lead. They won’t talk if they don’t want to anyway. Ugh.

“Other people would have called that a narrative hook, you know?” She pouted, at minimum showing she was very much willing to listen.

“Buuut if you insist.” She shrugged. “What… happened while you were gone. You left 2015. Mmmmmh.” And she was out of ideas already. ‘Raw clay’? Mnh. What was the least interesting thing while still…. being not too annoying? Somewhat informative?

She sat up and started counting on her fingers, emoting appropriately to each little tidbit. Silly, but… why not: “Rubella was eradicated in America. David Bowie died. The European Union broke – Britain and Gibraltar left. There’s an ebola vaccine. Donald Trump became president in the United States, got impeached, did NOT get reelected and now has to answer to… 95 felonies, I believe? Canada legalized Cannabis. The people in India can be legally gay now. The pope visited Arabia. Sustained remission from HIV happened a second time. A significant bit of Notre Dame in Paris burned down. Same sex marriage is legally happening in Ecuador. Boris Johnson became Prime Minister in the UK and it was… not great. So many hurricanes. An immune system eradicating pandemic forced people to stay inside for months - with… a baffling amount of human stupidity added. It’s not actually over. Child pornography Of 14 to 18 year olds is now defined as such by the pope? Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are too rich. There are too many Wildfires. Non-fungible-Tokens… exist. There is private space travel. Russia and the Ukraine started a war. Two most impressive Volcanoes eruptions. There’s eight billion people on earth now. Europe can’t buy diesel-cars anymore and… Twitter is now X?” It had been… a strange time. Now that she tried to remember. She put her hands back down in her lap and returned to actually looking at him.  

“A non-exhaustive list, of course. I did spend most of my time on earth. And I could spin some stories about each of those. But I think… that might not be the answer you wanted?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus said, suddenly remembering himself. He looked down at his body and emitted a resigned yet amused puff of air from his nose. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.” He gingerly set his cup of tea aside on the nearest surface and began hesitantly, almost reluctantly, sliding his coat over his shoulders and off his arms. It was hardly chilly in the doctor’s office but the change was noticeable to him anyway, despite his other layers of wool and cotton.

He’d preferred warmer weather ever since he’d first fallen, but over his travels he had begun to notice small adjustments in himself that he hadn’t made. He was cold sensitive, more than before - that could be chalked up to a change in corporation age (thinner skin, less collagen and subcutaneous fat,) if it hadn’t felt quite so thoroughly soul-deep, like the ache in his legs. He could feel himself, as the odd blue sphere of energy that he was at his very most basic level, degrading gently around the edges the longer he stayed in the in-between places, like a shard of glass tossed about in the ocean. Or perhaps more like a sanded sugar lemon drop. That sounded more appealing.

He folded the oversized coat and draped it over the arm of his chair. He looked… smaller, without it. Almost a little vulnerable. Almost.

He tried not to focus too closely on the expression on her thoughtful face, what it might mean. He wondered what his metaphorical froggy organs were telling her. It was difficult to remember that scrutinization didn’t always have to be a bad thing. He had to keep reminding himself that he had sat here before and left feeling better, and that Raphael had always met him, on those occasions, with generous understanding and kindness. Relax. Relax.

As she listed the semi-current events of the last decade, Asmodeus hummed and nodded along appropriately. Not a bad list, per se, certainly not humanity’s finest hour but he’d take it; it was certainly better than mass extinction. He had seen many of these things come to pass in various dimensions, in one way or another, and he’d seen alternatives to them as well but all of it, good or bad, left him feeling somewhat detached. They weren’t his humans, after all. His humans were, well… his humans were right here, weren’t they? On this Earth? And he was… relieved?

The moment his boots had once again hit the ground here he experienced a bit of a jolt, a click, like a puzzle piece popping into place, or a magnet sticking tight to the fridge. He was made of the very same breath that made this universe, and for one very intense half-second he could feel it. And then it was gone just as soon as it had come, and he shook it off as a sense of deja vu and went about his merry way. He remembered it now though, considering his humans and how they made him feel.

Maybe he would thaw? Maybe sitting here, in a familiar chair with a familiar friend and a hot cup of tea would melt that apprehension and sense of being a visitor away, given enough time. Maybe the click was something that mattered. He returned to the chai, taking the glass carefully in both hands. Warm.

No, it wasn’t really the answer he’d wanted, but it was a good answer.

When there was absolutely no quip about her wanting to get him out of his clothes – or something along those lines – she wanted to slap herself for kind-of expecting it. This was pure stereotyping. Mngh.

It still felt… a little off.

He didn’t even want to hand it to her, so she could make sure the fabric didn’t get wrinkled. Wardrobes existed for a reason.

And he kept the coat close to him. Easy within reach to take off and leave and-

…

This feeling was not going away, was it? She needed to do something about this. Somehow.

In her mind, she filled out one of the ‘recurring’ files. Maybe that might work. ‘Wardrobe etiquette… unclear(?)’. There. Like she might have a need to use it again. Sure. She’d later make it a reality. Evidence and all. Touchable.

She really needed to do something with her hands.

And then his posture opened up. To hear about Raphael, of all things.

She leaned back away from the question until she caught herself, reaching up to scratch the back of her head and laugh a little awkwardly: “Heh… that is…”

‘Not something a doctor should answer’ – didn’t they make a rule of this?

Ah, no. It’s her fault they stayed in the clinic. No doctor, functionally, right at this moment.

Now, what were normal conversation rules?

Stay on the same emotional level. Connect with common interests or occupations. Don’t overstep. Stay on topic, connect your themes.

Raphael looked over at him – he was honest in wanting to know, mh? – and leaned forward again, putting her hands on her knees, tapping: “… something I don’t have to answer often,” at least not honestly. She looked around as if the office might give an answer.

What things did he tell her about himself on an emotional level. Right now. GO! (And how voluntary it was)

Unease about people like him (regretted it?), has an assistant, came here because he wanted to show off he is doing well (??? EH truth?!). Non-linear time threw him off (not voluntary). Changed his modus operandi in hell, no seductions (is that healthy?, but freely given), UNERRINGLY polite, which is more for keeping in mind.

So. Surface level trust. Work and acquaintances are fair game. Probably hobbies, if seduction counted. Oh. And appearance. That was there for presentation, right? She could do that. Probably.

And so her gaze returned to him. This was difficult.

"I... discovered I have a hobby?” – there, that was a start.– “Meaning... there is something I can do to I genuinely relax and calm down, whatever the circumstances." She raised her hands and wriggled them, grinning awkwardly. "It's massaging people. Can't wear rings because of it," she shot a quick, slightly jealous glance at his, "Feeling the muscles and tendons under my fingertips, counting the ruptures under the surface level skin, take care of the connective tissue state and re-forming them with just pressure and warmth and knowledge... Lets me concentrate on the moment and sort my head. And, in the end, everyone feels better. However long it took. I also got a lot better at it, since we last met," here she could wink at him for once.

She put her hands on the table.

"Thing is... I'm mostly hanging around on earth these days. People come to me. I’ll take care of them. Angels and demons from here or other universes – yeah, it’s still terribly patchy – aaaand some humans. Humans never get more than one appointment. But there get to be more and more these days. Because rumors. Either for serious things or... This" Wriggle hands.

"And, you know, Amurel is usually very good at refusing those kinds of appointments - especially if it's unclear what they are about - but this time... Your assistant is REALLY good. Charming my poor angelic receptionist like that. Are they new? Amu didn't know them. Certainly do belong in your circle if they can dazzle over the phone"

“Massage?” Asmodeus repeated, displaying a rather subdued impression of a dog who had just heard their owner say ‘walkies?’

Well, isn’t that delightful? Now he had mental images to battle. And the way she’d begun to describe musculature and connective tissue… didn’t help. It was easy to imagine her soft hands as she spoke, providing a very different type of therapy. And then, oh, my. That little wink of hers did something to him.

Asmodeus cleared his throat and finished his last two or three sips of tea with one large swallow.

“The good things about rings,” he said, setting his empty cup aside again. “Is that they can always be removed, my dear.” He unceremoniously plucked one from his hands, turning the gold band over in his fingers like a shiny, bejeweled fidget toy.

“If you recall, I was something of a massage hobbyist myself, once upon a time.” Oh, that had been a fun one. He had needed the soul of the owner of a luxury spa and those of their associates. The quickest way there was with fancy credentials and especially talented hands, naturally; it almost always was. “I may have to come back here and test out those new skills of yours sometime,” he said, with a wink of his own.

Pressure, warmth, and knowledge. It sounded like her, didn’t it? He allowed himself to muse over it for a second, her warmth, her cleverness, the way she could push him into shape like a stubborn muscle knot. Not only in therapy sessions, but even today after all these years in between; her insistence on staying. And sitting. And drinking tea, and taking off his coat. Oh yes, he might even say it suited her.

“I’m pleased to hear you’ve found an interest, though I do hope you’re able to find a way to enjoy yourself outside the office, too. All work and no play, you know.” He’d taken up the mortifying pastime of kite flying, and had just come that close to admitting it out loud.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

“Won’t be hard to make you blush, either. This insulation of this overcoat looks high quality enough to prepare you for an arctic expedition,” her hand made a demanding motion for the massive garment. Did she want to make up for her failure to follow simple wardrobe routines? It’s possible. But in contrast to him, she had no sleeves under her doctor’s coat und her skirt – wooly as it may be – didn’t exceed mid length. It was warm.

And – just maybe - she would prefer if he didn’t look like he would leave the next minute either. The urge to reassure by grabbing and holding had not completely disappeared. To… ask for that was NOT a normal thing… yeah. Anyway.

Back to concentrating on an archdemon who wasn’t distracting himself by looking at her while thinking. Until did and then he explained… politics and individualism. And irregularities. And his theory of identity (not surprising - he did have experiences with clones). All facts. And all very interesting, really.

But… she had tried to use the right words for her questions. ‘Feel’ and ‘guess’ and ‘love’ and ‘question’. It did convey he felt strongly about being incomparable – or separate from ‘them’. But not how he felt about them.

Except apparently surprise about some people with this ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that made him know this could have been him (under different circumstances). They took an entirely different path and he didn’t like it? Some awfulness of theirs he didn’t want to see in himself? Some regrets he – or they -  had that could make him learn things?

She tilted her head. There definitely is learning potential in seeing how different choices play out. But he felt uneasy about about some. Badly enough to come back here? She should continue talking about it, really. It was interesting in concept and might get him to order his thoughts about it, too.

BUT this only applied… if this was something like a ‘therapy’. And it was not. Today, he agreed to a ‘check-up’. And even that he kind of wanted to make into a social call.

She looked at him a bit too long. She might actually get something that rubbed him the wrong way out of him. For once. And then remembered what he’d told her a long time ago. Give your conversation partner something to work with. ‘Raw clay’, he’d said. And follow their lead. They won’t talk if they don’t want to anyway. Ugh.

“Other people would have called that a narrative hook, you know?” She pouted, at minimum showing she was very much willing to listen.

“Buuut if you insist.” She shrugged. “What… happened while you were gone. You left 2015. Mmmmmh.” And she was out of ideas already. ‘Raw clay’? Mnh. What was the least interesting thing while still…. being not too annoying? Somewhat informative?

She sat up and started counting on her fingers, emoting appropriately to each little tidbit. Silly, but… why not: “Rubella was eradicated in America. David Bowie died. The European Union broke – Britain and Gibraltar left. There’s an ebola vaccine. Donald Trump became president in the United States, got impeached, did NOT get reelected and now has to answer to… 95 felonies, I believe? Canada legalized Cannabis. The people in India can be legally gay now. The pope visited Arabia. Sustained remission from HIV happened a second time. A significant bit of Notre Dame in Paris burned down. Same sex marriage is legally happening in Ecuador. Boris Johnson became Prime Minister in the UK and it was… not great. So many hurricanes. An immune system eradicating pandemic forced people to stay inside for months - with… a baffling amount of human stupidity added. It’s not actually over. Child pornography Of 14 to 18 year olds is now defined as such by the pope? Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk are too rich. There are too many Wildfires. Non-fungible-Tokens… exist. There is private space travel. Russia and the Ukraine started a war. Two most impressive Volcanoes eruptions. There’s eight billion people on earth now. Europe can’t buy diesel-cars anymore and… Twitter is now X?” It had been… a strange time. Now that she tried to remember. She put her hands back down in her lap and returned to actually looking at him.  

“A non-exhaustive list, of course. I did spend most of my time on earth. And I could spin some stories about each of those. But I think… that might not be the answer you wanted?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus said, suddenly remembering himself. He looked down at his body and emitted a resigned yet amused puff of air from his nose. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.” He gingerly set his cup of tea aside on the nearest surface and began hesitantly, almost reluctantly, sliding his coat over his shoulders and off his arms. It was hardly chilly in the doctor’s office but the change was noticeable to him anyway, despite his other layers of wool and cotton.

He’d preferred warmer weather ever since he’d first fallen, but over his travels he had begun to notice small adjustments in himself that he hadn’t made. He was cold sensitive, more than before - that could be chalked up to a change in corporation age (thinner skin, less collagen and subcutaneous fat,) if it hadn’t felt quite so thoroughly soul-deep, like the ache in his legs. He could feel himself, as the odd blue sphere of energy that he was at his very most basic level, degrading gently around the edges the longer he stayed in the in-between places, like a shard of glass tossed about in the ocean. Or perhaps more like a sanded sugar lemon drop. That sounded more appealing.

He folded the oversized coat and draped it over the arm of his chair. He looked… smaller, without it. Almost a little vulnerable. Almost.

He tried not to focus too closely on the expression on her thoughtful face, what it might mean. He wondered what his metaphorical froggy organs were telling her. It was difficult to remember that scrutinization didn’t always have to be a bad thing. He had to keep reminding himself that he had sat here before and left feeling better, and that Raphael had always met him, on those occasions, with generous understanding and kindness. Relax. Relax.

As she listed the semi-current events of the last decade, Asmodeus hummed and nodded along appropriately. Not a bad list, per se, certainly not humanity’s finest hour but he’d take it; it was certainly better than mass extinction. He had seen many of these things come to pass in various dimensions, in one way or another, and he’d seen alternatives to them as well but all of it, good or bad, left him feeling somewhat detached. They weren’t his humans, after all. His humans were, well… his humans were right here, weren’t they? On this Earth? And he was… relieved?

The moment his boots had once again hit the ground here he experienced a bit of a jolt, a click, like a puzzle piece popping into place, or a magnet sticking tight to the fridge. He was made of the very same breath that made this universe, and for one very intense half-second he could feel it. And then it was gone just as soon as it had come, and he shook it off as a sense of deja vu and went about his merry way. He remembered it now though, considering his humans and how they made him feel.

Maybe he would thaw? Maybe sitting here, in a familiar chair with a familiar friend and a hot cup of tea would melt that apprehension and sense of being a visitor away, given enough time. Maybe the click was something that mattered. He returned to the chai, taking the glass carefully in both hands. Warm.

No, it wasn’t really the answer he’d wanted, but it was a good answer.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

‘What, this old thing?’ grated a nerve in her head. She knew he cared for his appearance. Was that still a pattern? Depreciating things he did care for? Or was it to get the first, thoughtless answer to his question…?

Would scruff suit him as an administrator and ‘grey eminence’ in… ‘the place he’s been, as of late’? She sorely missed her notepad to jot this odd little choice of words down. Did the other universes disconnect from thousands of years of living here? The change in personnel? Everything that… made him travel in the first place?

No. No matter, there had been an actual question, no getting off track.

‘You could make shaving cuts look good’ – was the first, actually thoughtless answer. Honest, but too much of a hyperbole. Not suited, anyway. ‘More surface to spread pheromones. Good for the occasional job?’ – Not an answer at all. And apparently, not even really his job anymore. ‘I’d love to feel it under my fingerti-‘ – ALSO not an answer. Or an option. Focus. “Yes. Scruff would suit you. If you commit to it. I mean… you just said you treat your body as an accessory, those can be styled to give the intended picture.” It… had sounded less utilitarian in her head. “Although the current picture suits you perfectly, too.” Maybe she was the worst person to ask that question. Ah well.

She took a sip of her own tea. Orange and cinnamon. Which was good! Refreshing. And she burned her tongue. Of course. Maybe it was instant karma. She put it back down with a twitch of her nose.

“It’s entirely your fault for being so interesting,” and for once she was not ashamed of it either. He is too damn interesting.

It was easy to get distracted by his accounts. She looked at him, with big, attentive eyes. So there were angelic versions of him out there. Not far fetched, in her opinion, maybe their Lucifer was not very persuasive. Or they weren’t even there. A mention of an Asmodeus-cat conjured the image of a silky-looking, elegant cat that checked all boxes of a true predator and such sharp claws. Princes and princesses. Well, that was a bit of a surprise. Asmodeus certainly was firm in this particular decision.

Raised the question how the universes he travelled to were chosen, actually. If the options were infinite… why those ones? It must have been ones that were somewhat close to his own incarnation, certainly? The lower ranking might have been a bit of a wish. The cat was – looking at him – just a fact of life. He certainly was more angelic than other demons, upholding his own code of honor, as hard as that is – seemed like that was an unerring fact. Good. Princess. Was strange, especially considering the former. But the worst… the thought of a universe without him… it made her feel… queasy. The urge to reach over and touch any part she could reach and be reassured he was actually here and safe became stronger. Nine years were a long time for her. Even two would have been.

Well, at least the nicknames were still a staple of conversation. ‘Angel’, ‘dear’ and ‘sweetheart’. What even was the intention? Mh… all diminutives, maybe? Establishes their relation more firmly? All looking fondly down on her? He also was the more experienced ‘doctor’. Mh. Whatever the case, THAT was not important. Perfectly healthy behaviour.

What would actually be important?

He was back. So. Why. And how did he feel about it.

Asmodeus smiled at her answer to his question, at least the last part of it, and he leaned back comfortably in his chair, unwinding his scarf from around his neck and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat. “Well, I’m glad to hear you approve of my… intended picture.” You’re always welcome to take a closer look, if you like. Oh, it’s so hard to bite his tongue. But then she burnt hers and wrinkled her adorable nose, and then she called him interesting and if Asmodeus had been made a peacock rather than a demon he’d be sporting a rather impressive fan right now.

“Now, doctor, you’re going to make me blush,” he teased with a wink. Part of him wondered if he was the kind of interesting assigned to great works of art, like oil paintings and marble statues, or if he was the kind of interesting reserved for dissecting frogs and other cadavers. Either way, she was looking, and he was pleased. He’d gladly be her frog if it kept her big, captivated eyes on him.

“Those are good questions.” He sipped his tea while he mulled over the answers, lightly clinking one of the rings on his fingers against the side of the glass in a slow rhythm as he thought. His eyes found a bit of wall behind Raphael to look at. “… Bit of everything.” He began, a little softer than before.

“None were me. Similar, of course, in the nearest ones, but no. I am… the only me.” He smiled again, his gaze returning to the doctor. “Which in turn means you’re the only you.” Every single one, a fresh individual, shaped by their own experiences. “I’ve been to a few where no Asmodeus had ever existed at all, Hells with no Circles, no Archdemons to rule them. But those are… further away. Many I could recognize immediately. We tend to have a bit of a…” his smile turned wry while he gestured his hand through the air. “Je ne sais quoi.” That was one way to put it. “But there were some that took me quite a bit by surprise, yes…” His eyebrows lifted and he raised his tea to his lips again, feeling the sudden urge to change the subject.

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

The lopsided smile relieved a bit of tension in her shoulders. She nodded seriously. This was… normal. For the amount of normal she could judge.

Normal enough to let her attention drift to some more warm beverages. Tea flavour privileges were revoked due to mild shock-symptoms, so a very spicy chai and too much honey wandered into his cup while the water cooker did it’s job.

She sat primly, leaned attentively forward and listened. And watched.

Her warm smile couldn’t be suppressed when he sat exactly like he did the first time he showed up. He treated the glass of warm water like something alcoholic. And the nicknames are back. Yeah. Yeaaah… familiarity and old coping mechanisms probably… helped? In some way?

She tapped her lips, took a breath, hesitated, and then shrugged: “For the sake of honesty on my part: I sincerely doubt that you are ‘alright’ at this very moment”

The water cooker clicked and she filled the prepared and an empty cup, threw something of the tea collection into her own: “But there’s nothing I’d like more than being proven wrong! Until then… please drink your tea,” which still needed to steep, but… it’s the principle of the thing. Getting the mind far away from alcohol, please.

Chatter helps, too? Maybe? To give him a bit of time to get comfortable?

“Aaaand… impress me. Well. We both know that I can’t get a proper impression of ‘how you are doing’ from meeting once. But for the things you can show me…” she took a few seconds to demonstratively look at him from propped up head to dangling toe “… you’ve raised your ‘identifiable’ age. Were first impressions with unknown demons easier that way? It does give you a more ‘mature’ or experienced look. Makes the playful moments feel more intentional, too. Dress style is still impeccable… I believe this would be called ‘business casual’? I’m sure Amurel will tell me all about it later. Especially your perfectly clean and fitting – in every sense of the word - shoes. So… you project a put-together, slightly more unapproachable – compared to last time we met - presence, which makes the flirting more effective. And since the projection is what we strive to actually be… well, yes! That’s a perfectly great version of yourself you have chosen.” She tapped her fingers together in a bit of an applause. The ‘terribly attractive’-part is implied, no need to say it. Maybe he even looked different for everyone – she wouldn’t know how, but maybe? Then this would have been telling about her and a bit foolish, but what else was new.

“Now, if you didn’t have a history of masking and dissociating you inner workings from your outer appearance, I’d call it a day. But as things stand…” She trailed off and shrugged a bit helplessly.

Like a hummingbird, Asmodeus thought fondly. So speedy and efficient yet calm and still, visiting every flower on the bush in the blink of an eye, no petal left uninspected, not a drop of nectar unharvested. Where Asmodeus is relaxed and leisurely, Raphael is immediate. She didn’t give his mind time to wander. Which was a little frustrating, actually, considering Asmodeus’s way of thinking had always been more aligned with a game of strategy than an honest conversation. He needed time to think if he wanted to win therapy, something that was both normal to want and possible to achieve.

He sipped his tea (she did ask nicely) as he listened to her chatter, his eyes following the movement of her soft hands while she prepared her own cup of tea. His was sweet, spicy and hot. Hard to ignore and not the typical taste profile of his preferred beverages, it assisted in keeping his focus pinned in place, reminding him exactly where he was and who he was with. By design, he knew. Raphael was a good doctor. Clever. Then she was looking him over, and he lifted his eyebrows with lazy intrigue, waves of fresh questions washing out the answers to the last ones he’d been forming in his head. But she was complimenting him in between the inquiries, and that felt nice. He did not enjoy hearing that the version of himself he had chosen to present was perfectly fine; he did, however, like hearing that his shoes were pretty.

“What, this old thing?” Ha-ha. “I like to shake things up a little every decade or so, keeps things from getting stale. I’ve been thinking of growing out a bit of scruff,” he mused with a smirk, scratching the underside of his chin. “What do you think? Would it suit me?”

Asmodeus had been fond of sporting an androgynous sort of form when human culture allowed it, something easily manipulated to suit… various needs, but long, long ago, he’d found himself as far as identity goes aligning firmly with the masculine. Something about the testosterone of the bull and ram, he’d say. Though on the rare occasion that he’s out of his human suit and accompanied by the two other heads, the royal we prefers to be called “they.”

“I’ve taken on more of a reserved role, back…” what was he going to say, ‘home’? He needed a new word. He wasn’t exactly sure where home was anymore. Everywhere he went felt like a visit. “… where I’ve been, as of late. I’m not doing as much tempting personally these days, spending more time behind a desk Down Below and minding the Circles, pushing papers.” He seemed pleased with this, though. Asmodeus had once quite enjoyed sticking his fingers into human affairs and meddling in the volatility of society, raking the higher value souls in with his own dirty hands, but at this particular point in time the humans seemed to be making plenty of messes on their own and no longer really needed his intervention to damn themselves. This meant that it no longer mattered to him if business men, members of the clergy, Hollywood elites, or politicians liked them young and boyish or not. A more distinguished form was more befitting of a king, a few grey hairs more suited to a man who walked with a cane half the time. Not today, though. Today it was just him and his shiny shoes.

Asmodeus was appreciative when Raphael pulled him quickly through topics of conversation like a struggling fish on her line. The time didn’t matter, really, not to him. But nine years can be significant to a human lifespan, sometimes the difference between visiting a retirement home or visiting a grave, and Asmodeus had always struggled with the terrible habit of growing emotionally attached to select mortals every once in a blue moon. But that was a problem to sort out another time.

“You certainly are full of questions for me, aren’t you, angel?” He chuckled, much preferring the ones that required explanation rather than introspection. He’d been to so many, though, in search of the unobtainable; how could he ever expand on the finer points of all of them? How could he be sure he remembered them all?

Nine years.

The comfortable warmth he’d been feeling was suddenly intruded upon by an abrupt jab of ice through his veins.

Nine… years?

With such a well-practiced pokerface, the shock he experienced was almost imperceptibly displayed with just the slightest widening of his eyes, and perhaps the tightness that suddenly hit his smile.

Nine years? Nine years?

He’d come into existence before anyone had ever started counting, 3,000-some-odd days were but a flash in the pan. But he’d always experienced that flash in real time, in chronological order. Perhaps he did need that check-up after all…

… What had she just said? He was listening, but hadn’t heard much of it. His pretty blue eyes blinked quickly back into focus, hoping she hadn’t noticed him falter.

“Ah, of course.” Asmodeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep the easy relaxation he was so well known for in place, and… struggling.

Social call it was! So, the friendly thing was to ignore the pupil reflexes without change of light (a pulse change). Or the slightly paler skin (blood pressure down).

“Mmmmhmh,” with a hopefully sunny smile she pushed herself off the armchair and walked in the direction of the door, just a few steps over.

Also ignore the indirect answer. (Surroundings unimportant). Or the emphasis on movement (restlessness).

She did walk a bit slower, anyway, even if she was certainly overanalyzing these things. Just looking too close because it was such a surprise Asmodeus was there.

Didn’t he have psychosomatic leg-problems, too (neurological symptoms reactivated)?

She stopped and put her hand on the door knob.

… minor shock symptoms can be safely ignored with a person who’s second nature is masking. Surely. Especially with a doctor’s consciousness of their own health. That… ugh.

Her whole deal is ‘better safe than sorry’.

“One moment,” she said, raised one finger, while the other hand filled a glass of hot water from the pandemic-sink next to the door and turned around.

“As a favor to me,” she handed him the glass, physically wrapping his fingers around the beholder if necessary, big eyes looking up at him, “Drink that and sit.”

Bodily blocking the door and crowding him towards the chairs seemed the safest choice. She’d give him space as soon as he did sit.

“So… really… how are you?” Nausea? Dizziness? ‘Offended by wrong assumptions’ works, too.

For the briefest of seconds he considered how he might derail that train of thought barreling right towards him. But then she was shoving a cup of water into his hands and herding him into the room like a beautiful, angelic cattle dog, and he couldn’t help but smile. The lumpy, sideways smile one does when they’ve been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

She was staring up at him with those big green eyes. Firmly. Like she could see right through him, at that one certain angle, and she was blocking the door with her little human corporation and her massive Archangel presence. And she told him to sit. As a favor to her. So… he sat. And obediently sipped his water.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cheeky, with a wink and a smile, the Asmodeus specialty. Stop that. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe this did need attention. Kicking one leg up over the other, he propped his elbow up on the armrest and held his chin in his hand. He swirled the water around in its glass like a fine whiskey, pausing, eyes locked on the doctor as his own gears turned in his head. How was he? How… to approach this?

It’s not an *unusual* feeling for Asmodeus, necessarily. Certainly not foreign to him. It happens to everyone, of course, but when you live as long as an immortal does it becomes inevitable, absolutely unavoidable, and it happens over and over and over again. At some point or another, absolutely everyone to ever live and breathe has had to feel… like an asshole. He wears that metaphorical hat today, heavy as it is, with a resigned sort of disappointment in himself. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

*Her smile widened and she chuckled again:”Yes. I know. I am a novelty. Those are always interesting. It will wear off… soon enough.  Yet as long as I carry that label… you’ll take your appointments.”*

The Great King of the Second Circle likes to think of himself as mysterious, intangible, enigmatical even. Complimentary words that stroke his ego and bolster his confidence. But every so often, by something or someone, he is reminded that from a certain angle he’s as transparent as a ghost, just as viewable through and through as a windowpane. He is beautiful and interesting, dazzling and alluring, but glass. Uranium glass, perhaps. Nice to have around and fun to look at, but just ever so slightly radioactive.

Stood at the door of the clinic, one arm holding a pink pastry box protectively against his side, he found himself to be… nervous. Now isn’t that something interesting? Nervous *and* guilty, all in one day! He’d had an assistant schedule an appointment for him, though under a pseudonym, so he wouldn’t be barging in on stolen time. But even still, a little bit of him felt like an imposition.

All right. He’s kept the doctor waiting long enough. Chin up, shoulders back. Attaboy, Asmo, big smiles.

They were terribly smart, these humans, after all. They only needed a nude. And she had it a little easier… more time to spend with the individual… no paperwork with insurers… and certainty of results due to angel-abilities. Also healthier to keep the earth mostly miracle-free. Not sustainable otherwise. Or fair.

She chanted it like a mantra. Every time a patient left her clinic – this time with an irregularity in her reproductive system. The humans COULD deal with that. And miracles on humans are not the answer. She could help, but not fix. Otherwise the system broke.

The mantra helped a little more since the specialists actually started to care about her opinion.

Each new patient was, of course, a challenge. This one was… interesting? It was a new file. ‘Check-Up’ was the reason for coming. And ‘male’ was circled. But otherwise? No anamnesis, no referral, not even a ‘first impression’ since an ‘assistant’ made the appointment? Even the ‘race’-letter was a mess: ‘A’ resolutely crossed out, ‘D’ got a circle, ‘H’ got a circle… ‘human? ??? ? Maybe?! >:( ’ was written in the margins.