The Devil You Know Pt 1, MugDevil RP with Lee & Skull

Lee - Mugman
Skull - The Devil
~*~First Meeting, Post Good End~*~

The Devil lurks like a craven thing in the shadows of the city that used to be his, nursing his oozing wounds. His right eye troubles him with the telltale burn of infection; his left horn sends shooting pains into his skull every time it knocks something, as a result of the unevenness of the break; and his right wrist is healing up with the help of a filthy, haphazard sling, though it remains tender to the touch, and to movement.

As he scrounges in alleyways, mortal folks walk the streets with nary a care, and neither leathery hide nor spiney hair of his old minions to be found. Fat lot of good they'd do the Devil, though. When Cuphead and Mugman spread word of his defeat, the cityfolk who had long lived in dread of his power wasted no time driving him out of his casino.

And the imps that failed him in that final confrontation had hung back, cackling gleefully at his misfortune.

So he had lost the loyalty and respect of even Hell's lowliest order of creatures, reduced to cowering in whatever darkness the city offers and rooting around in the garbage for supplies and sustenance. Tonight the kind moon and the gentle streetlights cast shadows generous enough to conceal him as he carries on, but he nevertheless has to be careful. No telling what kind of person he might encounter, were he to be spotted.

Sure as Hell, there's plenty of folks of a mind to take a swing at the devil while he's down, if they were to spot him.

---

Mugman didn’t like traversing the streets late at night, especially alone; but tonight was a special one, so he’d be willing to make the sacrifice!

Elder Kettle had wanted to spend some quality time drinking with his boys, but all the festivities, parties and visits from grateful folk wanting to personally thank the brothers for cutting off all contractual ties with the ruler of Hell himself had left little time for a personal celebration.

It's not too much of a trip down to the liquor store to grab a fresh bottle of moonshine, especially when the streets weren’t as busy. Being the good brother and grandson that he was, Mugman had offered to be the one to take the trip, and now found himself walking back home with paper wrapped bottle in hand. Despite his initial anxieties wandering alone, there was something peaceful about it too… Mugman begins to whistle as he continues on, slowing down from a jog to a casual stride.

However, when passing a particular alleyway, which was pitch black and made it impossible for him to see what lay at the end, something feels… extremely off. A shiver runs down the young man’s back, making him come to a halt as he stares the looming darkness down. He knows that feeling- it was the sense of being watched. There's malevolent presence, and Mugman knows not to linger. As curious as he is, he isn't a fool, and knows all kinds of riffraff came out in the dead of night to stir up trouble.

 Off he goes, heart starting to thump hard in his chest and his steps picking up their pace.

---

Tonight, the Devil hungers. And it is not for blood or bones or the pleasures of the flesh, or the souls of the wicked and innocent.

It's just regular ol' hunger -- same kind everybody else has.

The Devil never paid much mind to what he put in his body, so he's been wrestling with his appetite for the past few days to try and remember how it works, if he ever even knew. And it's because of this that when he catches a whiff of raw meat in one of the nearby garbage cans, he's already elbow-deep in its contents when he hears the sound of whistling approach.

The Devil rears back his hand and hisses as a beer bottle slices through his skin. His last good arm! He supposes he could try to grow another, but...

He nearly forgets to hide from the passerby at the shock of pain (and how long has he remained untouchable that the sensation is an unfamiliar one?), but at the last moment he scrabbles into the darkness and gazes out into the street.

In the opening of the alleyway, bathed by a horrid halo of self-righteous light, stands one of the Cup Brothers in silhouette.

The Devil rears back, a quietly animal sound burgeoning in the depths of his chest. Come to finish the job, has he? And where is his partner in crime? Gut plummeting with dread, the Devil whips his head around to the opposite end of the alley -- and sees the other Cup Brother, closing off his escape. The Devil's hackles raise, and his teeth extend as far as they can with such low energy reserves. They may kick him while he's down, but they won't finish him off without a fight.

Then the Devil blinks, and he sees nothing but the empty, dimly-lit street.

He shakes his head and turns around, and sees the opposite street is empty, too.

Hell in a handbasket, he thinks. He's losing his goddamn mind.

---

Mugman is just out of view, though. Still nearby, but not in plain sight for The Devil to be able to see from where he’s positioned. However, the young man wasn’t to know that it was HIM of all people that loomed in the alley, just that he should steer clear and keep on going.

Whistling some more would probably help calm his nerves, so he does, picking up a tune of a song Elder Kettle use to sing him and his brother to sleep with when they were kids. It was a cheerful melody, but may have had a slightly sinister ring to it if someone were to hear it in the dead of night without knowing the source of the sound.

It didn’t help that it echoed down the empty path, either.

---

The ominous whistling richochets off the brickwork, muddying its source. The Devil hunches back and snarls in defense against the threat. It doesn't come out as very intimidating, considering how dehydration and disuse have made his throat hoarse. Frustrated with his impotence, the Devil knocks aside the garbage can he had been rummaging in, sending it and its contents crashing into the street.

---

That gets his attention.

Mugman leaps out of his skin when the trashcan is tossed on to the sidewalk, turning around and watching as it continuously rolled. In spite of himself, the young mug let out a yelp, frozen momentarily in fear as he notices the pink blotches of blood that were reflected in the glow of the street lights.

It concerned him- despite his fears, someone could potentially be hurt, and Mugman couldn’t leave the scene without it weighing heavily on his conscience.

“H-hello? Someone… someone there? Do you need help...?"

---

The Devil's chest heaves with exertion. He examines his good arm -- or his slightly-less-fucked-than-the-other-arm arm -- and sees that he struck the garbage can right in the middle of the oozing seam of flesh that he had, only moments ago, inadvertently opened on the edge of a broken beer bottle.

Then he hears the Cup brother's voice ring out. He curses and spits, and he crawls between two of the remaining trash cans for whatever minor concealment they may give him.

He doesn't have the strength to flee, now -- he exhausted it by lengthening his teeth in perparation for a fight and knocking the garbage can clear out of the alley. The Devil's pulse thumps in his skull and pushes viscous pink blood out of his fresh, jagged wound. He tries to apply pressure to it, but the boundaries of the wound are larger than the span of his hand. The Devil hisses in response to the pain and discomfort, and tries and fails to control his quickened breathing -- but no dice.

He's a sitting duck for the Cup brother's vengeance -- if the young man's voice and appearance really aren't just a delusion of the Devil's mind.

His tail flicks and swishes in distress and agitation. His exhaustion robs him of the mental fortitude required to force it to stop.

---

Against Mugman’s better judgement, against his every instinct telling him NOT to pursue the source of the commotion, he decides that if there was a slim chance that there was someone in desperate need of his help, he at least needed to check; him and Cuphead were hailed as heroes now, right? And how unheroic would it be to just leave somebody potentially in peril to just bleed out on the street?!

He was equipped with magic, he had his wits about him… and maybe the moonshine bottle could serve as a weighty weapon in a pinch. But hopefully there wouldn’t be a scuffle where it lead to that liquor being wasted.

Mugman inhales a deep breath to calm his nerves, before heading into the pitch black alley, squinting as his eyes got used to the darkness. That sense of being watched was so palpable he could almost feel a pair of eyes boring into the back of his head, prickling up his spine and making him shudder, involuntarily.

“Hello?” Propping the bottle down, Mugman begins to peek in nooks and crannies, searching for the source of the blood. A little trail had formed on the pavement, and it gave some inkling as to where it could be coming from.  “I-I heard you back here! I saw the blood on the ground… I’m not gonna hurt you! Don’t worry!”

He crouches between two trash bins… and finds himself level with two yellow eyes shining at him like a pair of headlamps; he is struck with so much shock from the familiar, unmistakable stare of The Devil that it knocks the wind right out of him, making him stumble and fall. “OH--! Oh, no! Oh no! It’s—it’s you! It’s—!” He can’t even form a coherent sentence, covering his mouth with his hands as his pupils shrank down to tiny pinpricks as the full realization that he was staring down The Devil Himself hit him like freight train.

If Cuphead had been here, he wouldn’t have reacted as such… but as it was, Mugman hadn’t been prepared to be faced with someone who he KNEW probably wanted him dead more than anyone else on the island, and the lack of his brother’s presence had sapped all the courage he’d built right out of him.

--

‘Not gonna hurt him’, eh? The Devil need only take stock of the collection of injuries delivered to him by the brothers themselves to know the truth. Those little goody-goodies packed the beefiest knuckle sandwiches the Devil had ever had the misfortune of being served.

And they weren't shy about sharing.

The Devil’s eyes are wide, his senses hyper-alert, so when the lonesome Cup brother steps suddenly into view he jerks back in alarm, knocking his head into the brick wall.

But the young man -- Cuphead? Mugman? He can’t remember which one this is -- reacts so powerfully when he recognizes him that it makes the Devil feel powerful again.

Despite his injuries, he can’t help wanting to press his advantage.

The Devil steps out and stretches to his full height -- suppresses a wince at the way his spine cracks unnaturally on the way up. His hisses of pain can’t be concealed, nor his grunts of discomfort, but if the Devil grimaces hard enough he can pretend the sounds are meant to intimidate.

“That’s right, it’s me!” he growls. “And you without your partner in crime... Think you can take me on all by yourself?” The Devil punctuates his point by aiming a clawed finger at the cup’s terrified face. Blood splatters in the arc of the movement. The Devil sways and bears his teeth.

Maybe the lone Cup brother won’t notice.

---

Mugman covers his mouth to mask a whimper, stomach churning at the eerie sounds of the other’s cracking bones… He was right- would he be any match for The Devil without Cuphead by his side? The prospect was daunting, terrifying even.

Oh, how he wished Cuphead was here!

But he won’t come to Mugman’s rescue, because he was at home with Elder Kettle, blissfully unaware of the situation his sibling had gotten himself into! But if he knew… if he could see him now…! Actually… If he could see him now, Cuphead would probably slap him across the face for being such a whimpering coward. He would laugh at him, say something along the lines of ‘What?! You’re scared of this guy?! This big cry-baby? We already clobbered him once, didn’t we?!’

Mugman clenches his fist; he’d just have to accept that he was on his own now. He couldn’t keep relying on Cuphead forever, could he? He would just have to remember that there was a well of strength and courage that lay somewhere in his little mug body. The adventure they had gone on to save their souls from eternal damnation had been, in part, thanks to him after all, and he knew Cuphead wouldn’t have gotten as far as he did if he’d not been there to support him through it.

Getting to his feet, albeit somewhat shakily at first, Mugman straightens up in an attempt to look bigger (although even in this weakened state, his height pales in comparison to the demonic entity across the alley from him). Inhaling a sharp breath, he pulls down at the long straw that hung from his head and takes a sip of the substance inside.

Then, holds up his hand in the shape of a gun, the end of his pointer finger glowing blue. “I think the answer is can you take me on by yourself, Devil?”

Cuphead would have probably been proud of that little one liner.

---

The Devil hoped the young man’s shaking like a leaf meant he would be easily frightened off, spineless in the absence of his brother. Then he would ideally go on to tell others of his terrifying encounter with the Devil, which would help make a dent in the disgraced ruler of Hell’s reputation lately of being a cowardly crybaby.

But instead, the young man seems to gather his wits about him and stand toe-to-toe with the Devil for a second time.

The Devil falters. He didn’t plan what he would do if the young man rose to the bait, and he’s putting the Devil in a tricky spot by doing so. Curse him for calling his bluff! But the Devil’s pride won’t allow him to accede now that he’s issued a challenge.

He doubles down.

“With what, your little peashooter there?” Truth be told, the unhappily familiar blue glow makes the bruises from the Devil’s first encounter with those punch-packing pellets begin to throb in remembered pain and anticipatory dread. To conceal his discomfort, the Devil laughs loudly. And as he guffaws, he opens his mouth wide to show off his temporarily magically sharpened teeth, his forked tongue lashing.

The infection in the Devil’s right eye begins to bother him something fierce, and as he rubs it with his one good hand -- mindful of his sling -- he tries to play it off like he’s wiping away tears of mean-spirited mirth.

The Devil’s voice pitches lower and takes on a menacing, preternatural subvocalization. “I’d like to see you t-try,” he says with a sneer. Pain makes him stutter on the last word, but he thinks he conceals it well.

---

The Devil puts up a good front; even if his bark was worse than his bite, it was having an effect on Mugman, making him question whether he really was up to the task. But only for a split second- no, he had to focus. Had to be brave. It wouldn’t do for him to recoil now that he’d made it known that he wasn’t about to be intimidated by him.

He notices something though… was… The Devil also nervous? Mugman wasn’t easily fooled, always having been the much more observant of the two brothers, so that slight stutter isn’t missed.

His stance relaxes somewhat; maybe he should change his approach. “You know… you’re talking a pretty big game, Mr Devil, I gotta admit. ‘Specially since you still look pretty battered from our last tussle!” He doesn’t change the shape of his hand, knowing that letting his guard down for even a moment might cost him. “N-now I didn’t wanna get into no fights tonight, but I won’t hesitate if I gotta defend myself! …I think it’d be better for you if you… if you just, retreat on back to Hell where you belong, sir!”

Mugman gives a stiff nod, staring him down, refusing to yield.

---

It’s sad that the Devil has fallen so far that the basic respect of being referred to as ‘sir’ and ‘mister’ is enough to make his wounded pride perk up in guarded interest.

That aside, the young man has obviously regained his composure, and surely his eyes have adjusted enough to the darkness if he is able to see the sorry state the Devil is in. The jig is up -- the Devil can’t save any more face by acting tough.

Ordinarily the Devil would rage against the mere suggestion of being thrown a bone, or given an out from a challenge. Even now it makes him want to go all in, but the clever mug has covered his bases -- his finger gun remains steady, true and deadly. The former ruler of hell is ashamed to acknowledge his relief at the lone Cup brother’s bid to de-escalate the encounter. But he just won’t last in a fight in the state he’s in. He has no choice but to back down if he wants to live through the evening, pride be damned.

Slowly, the Devil’s raised hackles begin to settle. It’s terrifying to back down with a loaded weapon pointed at him -- the Devil has never suffered the like, not without seeking a swift and merciless recompense from the offender foolish enough to threaten him -- but he’s forced to concede that the young man has all the cards in his hand.

The Devil retracts his pointing finger and cradles the arm to his chest, pressing his other hand against the fresh, oozing wound. He keeps his eyes firmly on the young man in case he tries any funny business.

“I can’t,” the Devil replies peevishly. He doesn’t know why he even dignifies the order with a response -- but that’s because he’s determined to ignore the fact that he’s trying to acquiesce to the Cup brother’s demands, and all he can do for the ‘go to Hell’ bit is explain that he can’t.

---

This throws Mugman for a loop; in fact his whole change in attitude throws him completely off kilter, because he doesn’t expect The Devil to just… crumple like a fallen deck of cards. His stance, the way he held his eye and curled in on himself makes him think of a wounded dog, and though he’d tried bearing his teeth and snarling, that hadn’t done anything to get Mugman back off. So he’d simply given up, thrown up his hands and admitted defeated before anything had even begun.

He knows now that he’s not in any sort of danger. Apart from maybe launching some sort of surprise attack to momentarily disorientate him before fleeing, what could The Devil do to him, really? Another question that's nagging at Mugman- why was he out here? Why wasn’t he in the Casino, being patched up by that King Dice fella, or some of his skeletal minions? Instead, he hiding between trash cans like some down and out? And then… it clicks.

“You… can’t?” Mugman repeats. “Wait, are you saying… you have no home to go back to, Mr Devil?”  He can feel a clenching sensation in his chest at the thought; because he HAD a home to go back to, a warm fire, drinks shared amongst loved ones…

 “Gee, we really did a number on you, didn’t we?” He feels… bad. Really, really bad.

Hold up! No! This was The Devil, the being that would have forced him and Cuphead into an eternity of servitude if they’d not had their say! But… there was just something so… pathetic about this sight that the younger Cup brother can’t garner any  amusement or satisfaction from it, even though he probably had every right to. Sure, they had gleefully taunted The Devil at the time, laughed at his misfortune and Mugman knew that if Cuphead was here he would definitely laugh it up again, showing no sympathy at his sorry state. Mugman was a lot more… empathetic though. And it’s this empathy that makes him lower his hand, almost without thinking. He feels intense discomfort, and is suddenly unable to look The Devil directly in the eye.

“Golly, gee… karma really chewed you up and spit’cha out, didn’t it?”

---

The Devil doesn’t like the young man’s tone. A home? The Devil doesn’t want a home. He wants a casino, a kingdom -- his kingdom. “I was... driven out,” he grits his teeth and admits. And damn that good-for-nothing King Dice for doing it, too.

At the reminder of what a number the boys did on the Devil, he sneers. “Yeah, laugh it up,” he grumbles, misinterpreting the Cup brother’s moment of realization as one of mockery.

When the young man finally lowers his finger gun, a line of tension in the Devil’s stance loosens. He sags, exhausted, and he follows the movement to sit on the ground. His arm isn’t getting better, but there’s nothing around but garbage to staunch the bleeding. Maybe he could find a clothesline in a nearby alley and snatch some schmuck’s laundry to do the trick, but he doesn’t think he’ll make it very far.

The Devil licks the gaping wound to clean up the blood and accelerate the sluggish healing process. His tongue is awash with the taste of his own vital essence. He doesn’t feel the need to keep such a close watch on the other man now, but he nevertheless keeps one eye on him as he licks his wounds.

With his mouth full of blood and fur, the Devil can’t respond to the Cup brother’s observation about karma, but it does give him pause. The Devil has always considered himself immune to karma. Hell, he’s the one who dispenses karmic retribution, by a lot of folks’ reckoning.

But if all his actions in his eternity of living have been adding onto his list of karmic offenses?

The Devil has a lot to pay back.

---

“I see…” Mugman offers, a hand going to the back of his smooth mug head, rubbing the back of it like a nervous tick. He would have gone for the straw again to fiddle, but he’d been teased about that habit in the past, so stops himself out of reflex.

Despite The Devil demanding laughter, there was no humour to be found, at least as far as Mugman was concerned. Only… pity. This would have probably offended The Devil more than any insults or mirth ever could. Mugman watched, almost in awe as this giant beastly presence curled like a cat, staring him down avidly whilst his tongue lapped at the cut on his arm.

“You’re bleeding?” Mugman asks, snapping out of that odd trance he had found himself in momentarily. It was strange to see the ruler of Hell doing something so… human. And humanizing the concept that was Satan would lead to a troubling outcome in the end, most probably. But still… Mugman taps his fingers together, giving a few nervous glances out to where the alley opened up to the street, and considered… “Y-you should get that looked at, or um…”

He bites his lower lip.

“I could fix that up for ya. All of… that,” Mugman motions to the injuries left on him. “in a jiffy!”

---

The Devil laps slowly at his wound. He supposes he won't impugn the mug’s powers of observation for failing to notice the blood. It is dark, after all, and most diurnal mortals lack the keen eyesight the Devil’s creatures of the night are empowered with.

Blood drips from his mouth as the Devil laughs wetly at the suggestion he get “checked out” -- by whom?? Who in their right mind would serve the Devil, after everyone had been told he wouldn't bother them any more? Reverence for the Cup Brothers had taken the place of fear and respect for the Devil.

Considering how universally he is loathed, and how obviously weakened he is, no one would tolerate his presence without first giving him a few extra bruises for the road.

Not even his formerly loyal underlings.

The Devil stops what he's doing completely when the young man makes his offer.

The Devil licks the blood from his chops and narrows his eyes. “... Now, why in the world would you want to do a thing like that?” he wants to know. Nothing in this world, or any other for that matter, is free. And what this mug is offering is practically priceless. “I ain't got nothin’ to offer ya, shortstuff.”

---

"Well... yeah." Mugman says, casting his eyes over his sorry state. "I know that. I just... I don't know."

There's a pause; really, what did he get out of this? What purpose was there to offer such a thing to someone who definitely didn't deserve any sort of kind gesture after the things he had done to manipulate and ruin the lives of so many.

But... maybe, just maybe, an act of kindness, however small, would show The Devil that there was merit to being a good person? That maybe turning over a new leaf would be the best path?

Well, that would be Mugman's rationalisation of his mixed up emotions. In reality, his heart strings were easily tugged at, and could be played like a fiddle if the circumstances were right.

"I don't want anything outta you. Honestly... I just can't in good conscience leave you like this. I've taken on the role of a hero along with my brother, and that means extending a hand to anybody in need, even you!"

Mugman takes a few steps toward him, pointing at the opening in his head. "Take a sip of this brew. It's got magic in it that gives me that extra bit'a pep! Should clean all that up and have ya feelin' like a new man-- er, Devil?"

---

The Devil tries to translate the Cup brother's paltry reasoning into terms he can understand. So it'll... stroke his ego? That's hardly comparable to what he's offering, considering the young man could just walk the streets in the daylight and receive the adoration of everyone he passes.

This mortal really doesn't know how to make a deal. No wonder he made that fool deal with the Devil in the first place.

But, no -- that wasn't quite right, was it?

The Devil may not have a steel trap for a mind, but he remembers every deal he's ever made. And the Cup Brothers dealt with him just the other day...

*Good gosh, Cuphead, no!*

That makes the one in front of him... Mugman, right. So Mugman had been savvy enough not to make the fool deal in the first place. But then why was he trying to cut a deal so disadvantageous?

“Surely there's *something* you want,” the Devil insists.

---

Mugman wasn’t sure if he’d expected him to be so stubborn, but now he thought about it, it made sense; he was going to fight tooth and nail for the last bit of dignity and pride left, despite his fall from grace. To accept help from the person who put you in that situation would have been difficult.

“What? No! I—well… maybe. If by that you mean me wantin’ peace of mind and to be free from the guilt I’m feeling. Look.” Mugman gives a sigh, tapping his foot a little impatiently. It had been a hard choice to make, and if he was going to make him wait around, he might reconsider out of losing his nerve.  “If you’re looking for some ulterior motive, there isn’t one. Just…”

He points at his head a bit more vigorously. “Take. It. Before I change my mind!” That was his attempt at sounding firm, but it was likely difficult when he was such a well-meaning little fella. “Please? Then, I can be on my way and we can… forget this happened?”

---

The Devil finds it strange that Mugman is seeking absolution of guilt from the Devil, of all people. Isn't that what people go to church confessionals for? The comparison makes his skin crawl, but he supposes there's no foul as long as it's a service rendered...

Except to the Devil’s mind it's still not enough. How could it ever be? Essentially what Mugman is offering the Devil is a new lease on life; because left to chance and karmic forces, the Devil would surely waste away. Dying in ignominy and squalor is the only fate suitable for someone as rotten as him.

That, or perhaps, a life of servitude.

Realization hits the Devil like a freight train. Of course, it’s an obvious solution: one life for another is a deal he’s cut countless times. He’s just not used to being the one laying his life on the line, so it hadn’t even occurred to him. But if it’s a choice between an incompetently benevolent master and a near-certain humiliating death, the Devil doesn’t even need to think to decide which one he’d prefer.

The Devil looks down at Mugman. Stubborn goody two-shoes that he is, the Devil is certain the young man will never go for it. Without a contract, servility is something he will have to choose for himself time and again if he has any hope of repaying his debt to Mugman, and making a dent in his karmic fate besides.

“Take. It!” Mugman says, and in the wake of deciding Mugman will be his new master, does the Devil really have a choice?

Let the mug believe he’s being a good Samaritan by showing sympathy to the Devil. The Devil will take it upon himself to make sure his debt is repaid, one way or another.

“Your loss,” the Devil says with a shrug, as if he has not just decided on Mugman’s behalf what the terms of their deal will be. He reaches out to grab Mugman’s handle on reflex, but he stops himself short. “Uh. How d’you want me to...?” He shouldn’t just... grab it, right? What if that’s like pulling on his hair?

---

“… You can just use the straw.” Mugman mumbles, flicking it with a finger so that it rolled against the inner curve of his head and closest to where The Devil sat. “J-just a few sips, though! Don’t drink all of it.” Probably wouldn’t be wise to let on that draining him completely would be life threatening, but he couldn’t risk not telling him, either.

He waits, folding his arms, still tapping his foot more to get his nerves out than through impatience. Mugman truly had no clue as to what was going on in the mind of The Devil at this moment. His thoughts went to Cuphead and Elder Kettle; had he been gone long enough for it to be noticeable? Worrisome? And when he made it back, would it be wise to tell them of this encounter? … Probably not. At least, not tonight. Mugman would be too tuckered out to get into all of this, and possibly be on the receiving end of Elder Kettle’s scorn, warning him that it was a terrible mistake to help The Devil, no matter how sympathetic he made himself out to be.

And really, he should have been more aware of that.

It could all be a trick. All of this could be some ruse and it would have been Mugman who would’ve inadvertently caused the King of Hell’s rise up to power once again. But… he supposed, he and Cuphead had already stopped him once before.

---

Right, the straw. Obviously. The Devil supposes it's intuitive, but considering Mugman is a person and not an inanimate object it seemed prudent to ask. Plenty of folks with strange head situations around the isles, and it isn't wise to go around grabbing folks’ more phallic appendages willy-nilly.

Unless that is one's intention, of course!

It doesn't even occur to him to exhaust the contents of Mugman's head, considering Mugman's initial invitation had indicated only a sip. Now he's curious, but he doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The Devil crawls back on his haunches and cradles the slinged arm against his chest. He places his mostly uninjured arm on the ground like a foreleg, and he lowers himself to Mugman's level like a cat to drink from a saucer of milk. A Devil-sized sip and a mug-sized sip are probably very different, the Devil considers. He'll have to take care not to drink too much.

His forked tongue peeks out to wrap around the straw and draw it between his lips. Despite the care he takes with it, his enormous teeth still scrape slightly against the straw.

He sucks the liquid into his mouth and nearly chokes as he spits out the straw. The liquid hadn't steamed or bubbled in Mugman's head, yet when it touches his tongue it's hot enough to burn. And the Devil runs hot, so it must be hotter than Hell itself to put the Devil in such a state.

He rears back and grimaces, liquid dripping out of the corners of his mouth with how heavily he's salivating, and he clamps a hand down over his mouth to prevent the vital essence from spilling out.

Spirits, it's *revolting*. Is this really meant to heal him?! Or has he been tricked...? But the liquid burns up in his mouth with every moment he deliberates, and he decides he doesn't have time to question it when the gift may not be given twice.

The Devil grits his teeth and swallows the vile liquid. It drops into his gut like a fireball and makes his nerve endings sing. He gasps and his face twists up in disgust like a lightweight after a shot of vodka. What in the world is that stuff made of...?

---

It’s daunting, having the beastly presence lean over him to ingest the contents of his cup; even more so, when he feels sharp teeth scrape the straw, causing him to involuntarily shudder at the unpleasant sensation.

There’s not even time for pause after he’s drank that down- The Devil launches himself backward, and Mugman swears he hears some sort of hissing noise like a hot poker being doused in water.

That wasn’t the expected reaction at all! Normally, one would react with vigour, replenished and free of any illness or injury, but he was reacting like he’d ingested something toxic or acidic. Mugman covers his mouth with both hands, backing away as he watches him choke and splutter, unsure what could be done to help him as—well, THIS was supposed to have been the thing to help him! And even that was having adverse effects on his health.

“What’s wrong?!” He demands, unnerved. Did something get spilt into his head when he wasn’t looking that would have made the substance so deadly? But surely he would have noticed, right? To be sure, Mugman tugs the straw down to his mouth and takes a sip to test it. After smacking his lips, he concludes that there is no difference to the concoction whatsoever. Maybe the Devil was allergic to it? Who knew?

“Mr… Mr Devil?” He tries, cautiously, once he seemed to have settled down somewhat.

---

Despite the way it makes his stomach churn, he swallows the excess saliva his mouth is producing rather than indulging in the powerful urge to spit. He’s still banking on Mugman’s brew to fix him up as promised, so he refuses to let any of it go to waste.

As the burning in his mouth subsides, the much more innocuous sensation of tears rolling down his cheeks enters the Devil’s reeling mind. He scowls at himself, feeling pathetic. Did he lose his tolerance for alcohol along with his seat on Hell’s throne? But he hadn’t caught a single whiff of alcohol when he had been about to drink... “ ‘m fine,” he says with a sniffle, though he feels quite the opposite.

The Devil reaches with his left arm to scrub his tears away, and he notices something strange. Before, the infection in his right eye had caused it to be painful to touch.

But now it doesn’t feel like anything in particular.

The Devil pulls his arm away from his face to inspect his newly acquired wound. He watches in disbelief as the gash knits itself together into an angry red seam of flesh, until it vanishes completely and is covered by whorling curls of midnight fur. Even his fur seems shiny and clean, and he realizes he doesn’t feel like he’s been crawling around in alleyways and under bridges for the past few days.

His broken horn cracks and falls away -- the pieces resemble pencil shavings when they fall to the ground. The Devil feels an uncomfortable pressure as a new horn grows in its place, and he hisses and reaches up to touch it. It’s as tender as a newly grown nub, but it matches the length of its twin and is absent of cracks.

“I’m... fine.” Unraveling the bandages around his wrist will take some doing, but the vanishing gash and his healed eye and horn are evidence enough for him. “Good as new, at that.” The Devil grins at Mugman, his tail wagging like an eager pup’s. “Whaddaya know?”

---

It’s… uncomfortable to see him cry like that. He was no stranger to The Devil’s tears, having been on the receiving end of such a thing when Cuphead and he had beaten him into submission. It was just a stark contrast from the frightening, looming presence that he’d built himself up to be on their first encounter.

He’s about to ask him if he was sure that he was as fine as he said he was, but notices, before The Devil does, that his injuries were beginning to heal. Mugman feels relief when the intended effects start to kick in, his face stretching into a smile when The Devil gives a grin of his own; something else he’d never expected to see along with his tears, was a genuine smile.

“See? I was bein’ honest with ya!” Mugman insists, giving a few excited nods.

It felt… nice to have done a good deed. Maybe he could leave the scene without any regrets of helping his enemy back onto his feet. And with that, he takes a few steps toward the alley’s entrance, picking up the bottle of moonshine and cradling it under his arm.

“Welp… Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Devil, but I have to skedaddle on home. I’ve already been out too long and I wouldn’t want Cuphead and Elder Kettle worryin’ none!” He turns on his heel, but hesitates, looking back at him and feeling as if he should say something more. What could be said to the man who’s life you’d played a hand in ruining, really?

“… Take care.”

---

“So ya were,” the Devil observes quietly. He tugs at his sling, and he begins to unravel the bandages around his right arm as Mugman basks in the glow of his good deed.

The fabric drops away, and the Devil rotates his wrist and flexes his fingers experimentally: there’s not a scratch in sight.

When Mugman begins to say his farewells, the Devil resists the urge to say something cryptic and trite like, ‘Pleasure doing business with you!’ He can’t be too transparent about his decision to repay his debt. “Best not to keep them waiting, then,” he says instead, and he rises to his feet with a series of pops and cracks -- the good kind, though. Like stretching after a long and restful sleep.

When Mugman deliberates at the mouth of the alley, the Devil’s yellow eyes shine out of the darkness even more brightly than before, so much so that even his sharp-toothed grin seems to glow.

The Devil taps his temple in a casual salute. “See ya around, Mugman.”