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It's a pretty atmospheric restaurant/bar. That upscale speakeasy style that features red walls, leather chairs and an air of pretentiousness. The sort rich men come to have a ridiculously over priced cocktail or glass of some pricey amber booze along with a prime cut of steak. Exactly the sort of place a certain rich bastard feels right at home in.
Even on a Tuesday night, the place is pretty full. You need a reservation to even get a seat, unless you're rich or well connected. But tonight Simon is sitting at the bar instead of a table. No one is sitting beside him--or if they are, they're not looking at him. He exudes an air of menace and power that is more than a little intimidating, cause others to quickly look away. He doesn't mind, clearly. His attention is on the glass of over priced aged whiskey in front of him, a fingertip idly dragging across the rim of the glass.
He looks so much older than the last time Amon saw him. Silver streaks through his hair--grown longer than her ever wore it before, but swept back neatly. Lines frame his eyes and lips, which seems permanently set into a scowl, as if disappointed with everything in the world around him. But he's dressed very well: a dark sleek suit, perfectly tailored to his body, with a pop of deep green at his neck in the form of a silk tie.
Nothing quite resembles the cadence of the cloven hooved quite like the staccato click of heels on a solid floor. Click. Click. Click. Underlying the babble of the rich and privileged around them all came the unhurried steps of a figure stretched terribly tall.
A trick of the light, right? The flicker of a shadow cast looming over the sinner ready to take him in. The devil crowned in horns was perhaps the clue that the young and the mad might see - those sensitive to both things fae and diabolic. No, surely not. In this place of civility, there could be no such thing here. No one coming for Simon.
Whether or not he looked back didn't change the fact that his past was walking right into his present. Through the mists of the vape of those who couldn't be hassled by the laws of man, those drinking away riches beyond compare to escape the horrors of their mind, the incredibly tall Amon waded through sin and darkness to slide up next to the one who wore danger like a cologne.
"Is this seat taken?" The words wrapping around those meant to hear them like an intimate caress. The devil asks permission before he enters your life. Not always so openly as this one.
To Simon's gaze, the years came to clash with the older man. Or, perhaps better, younger man. Not a single worry line marred his features, but smile lines certainly held there. Those perfectly white teeth in a highly melinated beauty in Prada men's - besides those stiletto pumps. A vision of shades of black with undertones shimmering enough just to catch the red of their surroundings like firelight.
In an echo of that first night - and fuck if this didn't feel like that first night in a much seedier, darker bar with darker thoughts going through both heads, Amon continued with that sonorous melody he called his voice. "Drink for your thoughts?" Bringing the echo fully. Past met present, the cycle continued.
Simon didn't look up. He looked down as he heard the sound of click-clacking approaching. With only half interest at that, a distracted glance to watch the heels approaching. At the moment, that was the only thing that drew his attention--he did always appreciate a nice set of heels, especially when connected to a nice set of legs.
It's only when Amon spoke that Simon bothered to look up and see who it is--or even that it's a man wearing those heels. For the first split second he recoils a hint in surprise to find the tall masculine figure towering over him. And then he recognizes him.
To his credit, Simon doesn't throw his drink in the devil's face. But he doesn't completely hide the surprise from his face. His eyes go wide behind the glasses (which are a new addition to his wardrobe from years past), mouth hanging open. But there's no happy greetings. No hugs and no laughs of joy. Not even a smile.
His scowl deepens, and it's then that the real change becomes clear: his eyes. They stare like daggers, and Amon can't help but feel like his gaze really could cut, if he chose to. There's something mad and dangerous there.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he says in a low, bitter voice.
"Hopefully getting a drink with an old friend," comes the soft tone of familiarity. To his credit, Amon didn't shy away from the bitterness and pain. What sort of demon wasn't familiar with the concept?
Manicured fingers came up, reaching up but not touching the hair, the glasses, slowly taking in every small detail before he focuses back in on the man before him. If looks could kill, Amon would fall on this sword gratefully.
"Where were you?" came the question that wasn't a question. Words given shape by the beast and lost into the wash of humanity about them - their own chilly moment of pain untouched. "The flat's boarded up. No one's left. They cleaned house. Are you still you, I wonder?" The question an empty reflection to something beyond rather than the other.
He gestures to call the barkeep. He'd always had this way about him. Even now, Simon could see that not a thing had worsened over the years. If anything, scars had faded and youth touched gracefully. More muscle, more class, more control. "The Yamazaki single malt. Leave the bottle." A black card slid over. Then a smile to Simon. "Sorry, but they don't keep Makers Mark at places like this. You'll have to make do."
Simon looked a split second away from telling Amon to fuck off. But the funny how the offer of very expensive booze can tempt an addict's heart. Tempt. Not soothe. He bites back the venomous words, but it doesn't stop him from staring murderously at the taller, deceptively younger man.
He took him in bit by bit, a long up and down look. Not oogling, not admiring. It was piercing and evaluating, trying to pry apart puzzle pieces and figure out the riddle in front of him.
"No," he finally says, the words hissed out. "I am not still me. Where were you." A demand, not a question.
"Lockup," says Amon casually as they take the bottle to pour two fingers worth in a tumbler for each of them. He turned towards Simon to meet that anger and raged head on. Fire and fury straight from Hell itself.
The glass pushed over towards Simon temptingly. Left unattended. A peace offering unspoken, but a deal to be made nonetheless. The devil was inscrutable in his way. "At first - only for the first month or so - I wished you'd have found me. After that... I just wished you got away. Did you?"
His brows crease together faintly as he stares. He doesn't bother hiding his suspicion. "Bullshit," he mutters, voice low. "I looked for you. Spoke to near every damn cop in the city. Searched the whole damn country. You were just gone. What prison were you taken to? Where were you charged?" His voice is getting more heated, but he's not quite yelling yet. Not drawing attention.
"Then you didn't look hard enough." The way his words cut showed Amon more than capable of lashing out. If Simon's looks could kill, Amon's headstrong ways would butt against him hard. "Did you not notice? Not see how many people just went missing around then? Pinched. End of the lucky streak for most of us." He took up his drink to take a sip. "Now drink up before you cause a scene."
Simon doesn't touch the drink just yet. He keeps his eerie, sharp gaze focused on Amon, brows knit tightly together. Several seconds go by as he just... stares.
"You were... kidnapped?" His voice is softer now, a whole other sort of murderous intent hidden there now. One that really did threaten violence. But not to him.
Amon doesn't answer, but doesn't say no either. Just a tip of the whiskey to the other man before taking a drink. "Mmmm… good shit. The Japanese really know their whiskey."
That stare finally breaks, Simon's head turning to focus down on the glass of whiskey in front of him. His mind struggles to make sense of it all, overwhelmed by so many emotions at once. Some emotions Simon would never, ever admit to having, but mostly one he's very comfortable with--rage.
His hand clenches a little too tightly around the glass, lifting it to swallow it all in one go. His fingers remain white-gripped around it, even as it's set on the bar again. "Why are you here, Amon?" He's heard the dark entity's answer. Now it was time to hear the devil's.
"Because money likes money. The staff here have the good drinks, and Yolanda - she's the one with the Chanel #5 wafting off of her - she's got a thing for tall men," says Amon with a smile and a little wave towards presumably Yolanda.
"You look like you've finally gotten back on your feet. Showing off that body like you're begging for it, and that tie that I just want to - well," Amon leans in conspiratorially. "You remember all the things we could do with that, don't you?" Before pulling back.
Simon glances uninterestedly in the direction of the woman he waves to. "Ditched your date to come talk to me?" He turns back to the bar--to the bottle, grabbing it to drag closer and refill his glass. He doesn't answer Amon until after he's had another gulp, leaving him hanging and leaned in for a few seconds before he lifts his gaze, glaring through the glasses. "I remember. Want all you like. Things have changed, Amon."
Amon chuckles lightly. "So I see with that shaggy hair and, well, I'd hate to be the one to tell you about the crow's feet," he whispers with a wink. Dropping a bit of the humor, he leans down again. "Seriously. Simon. I haven't seen you in... years. Honestly, when you weren't back in Boston, I assumed... the worst." A hand lightly placed on the man's arm. "Let's me, you, and Margo go get some dinner. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen."
"Do you think I don't know what my own face looks like?" Simon replies with a scowl. The humor doesn't land well, apparently.
It's hard to tell if Simon would have jerked away if Amon hadn't said her name--but jerk away he does, his jaw rocking. Still so much anger, but there's a flicker of pain in his gaze now. "Like I said... Things have changed."
There's a long look from the devil as he studies the man before he reaches over to top off the other's drink. Unreadable, but with no trace of mirth now. "I'm going to go let Yolanda know I owe her a rain check. Then we drink."
Simon doesn't reply. Don't nod or even look at him. Just watches the amber liquid flow into the glass. Once its finished he picks it up for yet another gulp.
The devil saunters off to have some quick talk with someone before he comes back. Finally the tall one sits daintily at their spot together. The devil doesn't try to make Simon speak. No, no, he knows just how to loosen those lips. As time passes, the fine whiskey is poured again and again in that glass.
Simon has swallowed down his fifth shot by the time the bitterness has dulled from it's sharp, deadly point. Still capable of cutting if one were determined enough, but less dangerous.
He turns the mostly empty glass in his hand slowly, watching the remaining liquid slosh around, the color reflecting off the sides of the expensive glass. His grip is lighter now.
The silence is finally broken by a heavy sigh and a suddenly clatter as the glass is set down onto the bar top. "Margo died a year ago." No beating around the bush now. Cutting directly to the heart.
There's something unnaturally stiff about Amon in that moment. The moments just stop and the eyes go dead. For the longest moment there's no one home. The lights have guttered out, and that mantle feels even more isolated. The darkness grows ever closer as the hounds of hell bay their dark song.
Finally Amon rouses himself from this before looking back at Simon. "How?" A single word. An offering to take it back - some small chance to rewind and make it some terrible lie as much as bringing it to face the truth.
The glass gets refilled yet again, the bottle steadily drained. "Murdered," he replies. No gentleness. No attempt to soften the pain. Maybe Simon wanted the rest of the world to be as bitter as he is.
A chill wind seemed to gather as the Beast drew in breath. Dark eyes clouded with something darker - the nightmare creature that came from within dreams lingering in inn his soulless eyes. "Who did it? Where are they?"
"It's been taken care of," is all Simon replies with, setting the bottle aside again.
It seems Simon is being sincere--whatever happened to her, it's no longer a threat.
Such simple words seemed to take all the wind out of one's sails. Amon's head dropped by inches, his hands coming up to claw slowly at his scalp. A desperate pulling gesture before the Beast struck out, sending his glass flying to shatter in exactly the sort of display that he had hoped to avoid from Simon.
Money can't get you out of everything. The outburst noted, and attention paid, the Beast was already getting to his feet with a dismissive flick of his hand. "I'm going, I'm going already," he snarls at the poor mortals just trying to do their jobs.
Then he looked sharply to Simon. "Let's go." Like they were instantly locked in step and ready to go just because he was likely to get the boot for his outburst.
Simon blinks as the glass shatters and goes flying across the back of the bar, sending a few bottles with it. Whiskey goes splattering onto the bar as well as his hand holding his glass jerks. He stares down at the wasted booze in frustration.
"...Be out in a moment," he replies, apparently set on finishing this last drink. And maybe giving Amon a moment of fresh air to himself to calm down. Either way he remains sitting, sipping down the remains of the glass.
Amon looks like he might be about to take out his grief with a side of rage onto the one person who most understood the moment. Cruelty makes cruel people in turn, after all. He contains himself. Barely. Straightening the suit jacket and then clicking his heels on his power march out into the spring air.
A few minutes goes by. Simon isn't exactly hurrying to swallow down the rest of the booze, but he apparently is too proud (and maybe too stubborn) to follow orders. Or to just run out of a place. Only once his glass is empty does he push up to his feet. He pulls out a few bills to toss down onto the bartop to smooth over the poor staff's upset, then walks calmly away.
As he passes through the doors, something is discreetly slipped out of his pocket and palmed. He then brushes a hand through the back of his hair, seeming to scratch at his scalp as he looks around for the tall demon.
Amon is leaned against the wall, rather openly flouting the general no-smoking atmosphere. Unlike the old days of hand rolled goodness, Amon has something nicer and decidedly more clove-like in nature. Sweet and just slightly different from the expectation. Once Simon was in sight, the tall one nodded his head towards another block where he may have parked. Or, heaven forbid, they walk. In those 6 inch heels.
Simon seems to consider the offer for a few moments, staring down the street--then looks in the opposite direction. Making up his mind, he makes an 'after you' sort of gesture before pulling out his phone to quickly tap at.
Except, you know, he's definitely stumbling a bit, and trying to walk while drunk and type isn't the best thing. He nearly tumbles--but thankfully the texting is finished quickly and he tucks the phone away into his suit jacket.
Amon can't help it. He laughs at the stumbling wreck of a man and his friend. He doesn't reach out, just making his way slowly enough. "You lush. I'm the one in heels from hell, and you can't walk the straight line?"
Simon flashes a scowl, straightening himself up. He does manage to walk a little better once the phone is away, at least. "I have drunk... significantly more than you."
"Did I pour it down your throat? You can only blame yourself for your choices. Not your enabler," casts back Amon. He looks back. "Can I touch you or is that not... Are we... ?"
Amon gets a sharp, sideways look. "You expect things to go back to the way they were? For me to fall upon your cock? To kiss you like ten fucking years haven't gone by?" Now that they're out of such a public place, Simon seems less inclined to hold back the bitterness in his voice. Or maybe it's the booze. Or both.
"Get over yourself," snaps the Beast. "You're stumbling and I didn't want to make a fucking thing of it because you deserve to be a wreck right now, Simon. But if you fall, I'm going to laugh my ass off, and you're going to be pissed, so if you think putting my arm around you's for my fucking benefit instead of yours you'll be less of a fucking dick about it."
The steps increase just a bit as if to demonstrate the other might have more trouble keeping up with a faster tempo. "No. I don't expect that. Want it? I fucking wanted it for ten goddamn years so what's more waiting? But I do want my fucking friend back."
Simon laughs. It's bitter and... manic. Like someone was suddenly coming unhinged. "I'm so very sorry to disappoint you," he says, voice dripping with sarcastic venom. "I don't have friends anymore, Amon."
Amon whirls on Simon to glare down at him. The words that come are completely at odds with the general aggressive posturing in their softness. "You do now. If you want one, Simon, I... I can't help not being there. I can't help the missing time. I can only be here now if you let me."
"Bullshit," he spits back, eyes narrowing. A hand lifts to shove at Amon's chest. Hard, for someone with Strength 2, so you know... Not that hard. "Ten fucking years? You couldn't have found me, not once, over ten years? I'm not that hard to find, Amon. I'm a fucking Dubois."
The tall one stumbled back - the price of beauty in those pumps. Still with resting I might kill this bitch face so at odds with the words coming from his mouth. "You guessed it right at the bar. No, I couldn't fucking find you. By the time I got... back to Boston, none of our crew's left. I went to the fucking Dubois house - that fucking mansion you grew up in, and I demanded answers. You know what they told me? That you didn't want to see trash like me."
"So yeah." He holds up his hands. "I figured you got popped like me, which I hoped not, or you just... you just realized you and Margo would be better off without me so cut me out. You're a fucking Dubois after all."
Simon's brows knit together tightly, at first in disbelief. The suspicion never really leaves--shit, he's aged into such a paranoid fucker--but it does melt into a disappointed scowl. "You actually believed him?" he mutters, his voice low, betraying his own hurt. "You know that bastard would do anything to keep me unhappy."
"It's not like it didn't make sense, Simon," he says softly. "All of us criminal types go... away and you get pulled back in to the family? Better to protect his reputation. I'd bet he'd've legitimized you just to keep my off his lawn," says the devil as he crosses his arms, shoulders hunched inward. "You didn't leave a calling card so I left mine. The looking for people goes two ways, you know? I ended up in Baltimore... just been here a couple weeks at best."
"I searched for years," Simon hisses, fingers clenching into fists at his sides. "I thought you'd been killed. I destroyed everyone I thought could have done it--but I never found anything. No confessions. No evidence. No body. You just disappeared. No one knew what happened to you." He shakes his head quickly. "I burned all my bridges trying to find out. And without you, no one was willing to back me against my father. I had to run, like a fucking dog with its tail between it's legs. I've been here nearly ten years. And I rebuilt everything by myself."
Amon looks away. "It's not like I wanted to suddenly be gone," he murmurs. He closes his eyes slowly, then looks back to Simon. "Too much... weird shit. Shit you'd never believe. I mean it when I say I wanted to get back to you. I wanted... I want that back. Or as much of it as I can have."
Simon falls quiet for a few seconds, staring. His face doesn't soften. Still not gentleness offered. But he's not spitting venom for the moment.
"Weird shit," he echoes with a soft scoff. "Did you destroy them?" There's an echo of that darkness in his eyes, the same Amon had had when he asked who killed Margo.
There's laughter again, but there's nothing joyful about it. It's the laughter of the broken. The laughter that comes unbidden when you've reached the moment when you're lowering the noose on your neck and realize rats chewed through it so you're powerless even at your lowest point.
"No, Simon. I didn't. For a while, I tried, but that's not... if it's possible, it's through smarter ways than I was ever going to find like that. So now? Now I just try to undermine them at every turn. There's no winning, but there's always making it more painful for them."
"Fuck that," Simon replies darkly, eyes narrowing to slits. "The Amon I know would never give up. Or has the years broken you that much?"
"You don't know what you're talking about so you're going to want to stop insulting me before I lose my temper," warns Amon sharply. "The world's broken us both."
Simon deflates a little at that, unable to come up with a retort. He stares up at him for a moment, then looks to the side, scowling.
"Do you have somewhere to stay?"
"I'm not here for your money," says the devil defensively. He shifts his weight. "I don't need... charity. If you're asking so we can stay together, then ok."
"Not together," he corrects, hand lifting to push the glasses up enough to rub at his eyes for a moment. "But if you don't want to accept my help, very well. How are you taking care of yourself?"
"Like I always have. Making deals and staying one step minimum ahead." He eyes Simon. "How about you? Are you still... running game?"
"I am." He half turns away, hands sliding into the pockets of his slacks. He looks out over the road, watching a car or two pass by. "Not quite like it was in Boston. Yet. But I'm getting there."
There's a nod from the tall devil as he looks out to the traffic as well. Then before Simon can gut him, the Beast surges forward and has him wrapped in his arms for a hug that seems like it might actually be trying to smother them both in each other.
Simon hadn't been expecting it. The drunk nearly goes toppling over, and if Amon didn't have the benefit of size on his side, they very well both might have hit the pavement. He grunts, wobbling a moment, then goes rigid.
Still, he doesn't immediately pull away. Amon is allowed a few more seconds of unresisted squeezing before Simon starts pushing at him, trying to claw his way to freedom like an annoyed cat. "Get off me, dammit."
"Eat my entire ass, Simon," murmurs Amon as he squeezes harder despite the clawing. "I thought I'd never see you again either because you were just gone or because you hated me, and I'm taking this damn moment whether or not you give a shit about me in this exact minute so just deal with it."
You know who has Brawl 0? And is very, very drunk? This guy. He continues trying to pry his way out, but it mostly just results in his smooshing his hand against Amon's face and clumsily knocking his leg against the demon's in an attempt to kick at his shin.
If Amon still hasn't let go after about 30 seconds, Simon just... goes limp, a very sour expression on his face.
Amon has acquired a very sour, very limp Simon. It's a disgustingly long hug, and the drunk might even feel the tears pressed into the side of his head and hair from above before Amon pulls back just enough to say, "I missed you so much, Simon. I know... I know it can't be like before, but I need you in my life. So don't push me out. I'll do anything."
Simon doesn't say anything when he feels the tears. Nor does he try to comfort the other man. But he does lift his sharp gaze to meet Amon's eyes.
"I don't have time for sentimentality," Simon says softly in reply. "You want to be in my life? Then help me play the game." He tries to use Amon pulling back to get leverage enough to finally pry himself from his arms, jerking himself away with a stumble backwards. He manages to catch himself before he really falls, though. He takes a deep breath, then pulls out a shiny gold business card case from inside his suit pocket. A card is slipped out and offered over to him.
Amon takes the card, looking over it before handing it back. "I want the real number. Not the client number. You want my help? I'll help. But I get you one night a week. Dinner or something of my choice. A few hours to still feel... to remember the old times. You've got a year of hard drinking ahead of me. I need someone to be there when I catch up."
There's several seconds of staring before the drunk finally caves. A pen is pulled from inside the jacket, a number scribbled on the back of the card before it's offered back to him.
"I want to hear it," says Amon before he'll take the card. "Do we have a deal?"
"I can't promise you that," Simon replies, clearly growing impatient with this conversation. "The weeks that I have the spare time, yes. I travel often."
"Bullshit. If you're traveling, it's for work, and then you need me there even more," fast talks the devil. "You just want to pretend it doesn't sound as good to you as it does to me. So if you were traveling, it'd be even easier to find the time since we'd probably both be there."
Simon rocks his jaw for a moment, nearly about to bark out something venomous at the devil... But instead he lets out a weary sigh. "Fine. You get one day a week, only for a few hours."
Simon eyes him a moment, smoothing down his suit jacket. He doesn't say anything else--just turns on his heel and starts staggering down the sidewalk.
"Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you walk away," catcalls Amon after the swaggering drunk while very clearly taking in all the view.
...Simon does not gratify Amon with a response or look back.
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