The Devil You Know Pt 2, MugDevil RP with Lee & Skull

Lee - Mugman
Skull - The Devil
~*~Second Encounter~*~

The clock face on Mugman’s wall read one o‘clock in the morning, but despite his best efforts, he couldn’t fall asleep.

His nightly routine always consisted of some reading to help along with the process of winding down, usually aided by candle light. A thick volume rested on his lap, his eyes scanning over the same few passages repeatedly, trying to take them but to no avail; this story had been an engaging one that last time he’d picked it up, but he just couldn’t become invested right now.

Every small sound outside, from a gust of wind to the creak of the house settling made him jump.

He’d been on high alert the past week- odd things had been happening. As if someone was messing around with things when he wasn’t paying attention. One of the most common occurrences was that any messes he would leave if he vacated a room would be mysteriously cleaned up by the time he returned, even when Mugman was most assuredly home alone. There had been that one time he’d been cooking, asking who he assumed to be Cuphead to pass him a spatula; he’d gotten one, only hear his brother entering the house moments after.

There was nothing… malevolent about these occurrences, but it was making Mugman incredibly uneasy, because he hadn’t been able to shake the sensation of being watched on and off for the past few days, and it was incredibly prevalent tonight. The air was heavy with just a very odd atmosphere that he couldn’t put his finger on… and yet he felt a familiarity to it that he just couldn’t quite place.

Eventually, though, when a particularly loud sound of the wind knocking something over outside made him physically lurch up in his bed, he’d had enough. Fear turned into slight anger, as he snapped his book shut, gazing around his room with squinted eyes.

“Alright… who’s there? I know there’s somebody in this house that shouldn’t be, a-and you best show yourself right now!”

---

Considering the brothers were depraved enough to be visiting casinos, guileless though they may appear to be, the Devil assumed they got into their fair share of trouble on a day-to-day basis. He expected it wouldn’t be long after he began following Mugman that the mug would need his demonic assistance to get him out of some scrape or another.

Yet in the aftermath of their days-long celebration of the Devil’s defeat (during which the Devil dares not show his face), Cuphead and Mugman seem content to putz around the homey little cottage where they live with their grandfather. Maybe their debacle with the Devil has scared them straight? The Devil certainly hopes not! He’s back in full health! He wants to test the limits of his powers against Mugman’s enemies!

But of course, Mugman doesn’t need the Devil for that -- he’s stronger than the Devil. Anyone the Devil could dispatch for him would only be a matter of convenience, since Mugman could almost certainly do the same in half the time and effort. It’s a mortifying realization to come to, but the Devil must accept it. He wouldn’t be in this position at all, if Mugman hadn’t bested him alongside his brother.

Perhaps his impatience is another karmic trial -- will he wait until Mugman has need of a service the Devil wants to provide? Or will he put himself at the young man’s disposal for every inconsequential and menial need, and make a genuine effort to repay the life debt he owes?

Begrudgingly, the Devil hunkers down in the shadows of the cottage and keeps a pointed ear perked for whatever Mugman might need. He thinks he overdoes it, a little -- he’s so antsy at having nothing to do that he can’t help but answer every request with a promptness that clearly unnerves the mug. It would help if Mugman knew he were there, but he still isn’t sure the young man is ready to accept what the Devil is offering.

Boredom and the subterfuge aside, the Devil has come to enjoy some aspects of domestic life. Mugman settles down almost every evening with a book and a flickering candle, and the shadows it casts are so deep and wide that the Devil can emerge from the liquid darkness and exist in his own skin for a while, all without being noticed. He has to hide under the bed, or sit in the corner and keep his eyes closed so they don’t shine like street lamps, but it’s.... The Devil would call it meditative, if he were familiar with the concept: just the sounds of the house settling, pages turning, and Mugman’s occasional murmured reaction to the book in his lap.

One particular evening, the Devil finds the experience one of the most calming he’s ever known. He has taken a seat on the floor across from Mugman’s bed -- a risky position, but the Devil feels confident that the shadows will conceal him. Heck, he draws them around himself like a shroud for good measure!

A storm rages outside and whips against the house. He feels a kinship with the raw force of nature which invigorates him, while the knowledge that he’s safe and sound inside makes him feel smug in his superiority over any unfortunates caught in its tempest.

(The Devil has never spoken the word “cozy” with sincerity, and he isn’t about to start.)

He’s used to Mugman asking nothing of him, wanting for almost nothing, and the Devil is ashamed to admit that he grows remiss in observing the mug. For he hasn’t the slightest inkling that the storm disturbs him or that his presence has been noticed, until Mugman speaks into the darkness with alarming awareness of his surroundings.

“Alright… who’s there? I know there’s somebody in this house that shouldn’t be, a-and you best show yourself right now!”

The Devil feels something in his chest jolt, and if there was any doubt regarding the binding nature of their agreement -- due to Mugman technically not agreeing to anything -- the compulsion to obey removes all doubt.

Show yourself right now!

A direct order.  The Devil sighs. Finally.

“Ah, ya got me,” he says. The Devil releases his hold on the room’s shadows and opens his eyes so they can shine with the candlelight, pupils flickering with good humor.

---

Mugman was unsure how he should feel, at first. In a way, he was relieved that the presence that he knew had been looming had finally showed itself, only to be someone that he recognized and not some other sort of sinister force… then again, though, what got more sinister than Satan himself?

However, he also felt… violated, because he knew for a fact that he’d been lurking day and night, and that the feeling of being watched hadn’t been him being paranoid. It called to mind situations where he may have been alone and done something embarrassing or what he thought had been private… he tried desperately not to consider the times he’d bathed and gotten undressed, but now that intrusive thought had planted itself in there and he was actually rather cross.

“You…!” Mugman slammed the book on to the surface of the quilt, hopping out of bed. He was in his striped night gown and bare foot, with a face flushed with embarrassment and anger, but still managed to come off as intimidating. “W-why are you in my house?! Why have you been spying on me?!”

He still didn’t trust The Devil one bit- and these actions only fuelled the idea that he might have been lurking to eye his enemies and pick up on what it was that made them tick, look for a weak point, an opening to finish them off when they were alone and unassuming. Then again… he’d been that way all week at different points each day. Why hadn’t he simply gone through with it then? And why reveal yourself so openly when you were caught if you were trying to stay hidden?

And… what about the frankly helpful little favours he’d done? Those were not the habits of a vindictive man… unless this was some convoluted mind game to get Mugman to fall into some trap, but it didn’t feel like that, somehow.

---

“Me,” the Devil agrees. The fact that Mugman doesn't simply up and open fire is promising. Granted, it's possible it's simply a matter of doing as little property damage as possible to the place he lives. But the Devil will take his small victory at face value for now.

The young man leaps out of bed to confront the Devil in his pajamas. It could be comical if the Devil weren't aware of how formidable Mugman is, regardless of how he's dressed. And Mugman has a pretty good evil eye. The Devil’s hackles raise at that tempestuous expression that makes him want to brave the storm outside.

The Devil steels himself. He refuses to cower. He's not going to be a servant so useless that he quails when an explanation is demanded of him, or when the threat of punishment rears its head.

“I'm just trying to do ya a good turn, Mugman. I owe you my life, after all.” That isn't really the half of it, but the Devil isn't sure Mugman wants to hear the other half. The Devil forces himself to relax his body language to appear as unthreatening as possible. “Just... keepin’ an eye out for ya. Wouldn't wanna miss an opportunity to square my debt if you got into trouble while I wasn't looking.”

---

Mugman folds his arms. The Devil didn’t seem to realize (or care) that that sort of behaviour wasn’t acceptable. Trying to justify following him home in secret and spying on him without his knowledge didn’t reassure him, but made him angry…

“How about I stop you right there?” The young man asks, although it wasn’t a question or a request. “Y’know how jumpy I’ve been all week because’a you? I knew—I knew something was watchin’ me. That something weird was going on. This whole week, I’ve been lookin’ over my shoulder, fearful of what might be in this house with me and… No.” He takes a step forward, although it's more of a stomp, which actually makes the old wood rattle a bit from the impact. “No, you know what? I bet that’s funny to you! Bet that’s how you get your kicks!”

The actions of The Devil and the implications of not having an actual private moment the entire week was hitting him in waves. A rage slowly building, that only those foolish enough to cross him and upset him to that point were ever privy to. Mugman is embarrassed and furious, not wanting to listen to any nagging thoughts of how he didn't seem to have any malicious intent, and just… let his temper take control. There were a lot of THINGS he wanted to say to this beast and now was as good a time as any.  He’d tricked them into giving him their souls, and he's not about to let The Devil take anything else from him without his consent or knowledge.

“Do they not teach manners down in Hell? Is it a common thing for people to just LET themselves into a house without being invited inside?” Mugman takes another step forward. “Or, OR, do YOU feel as though you’re entitled to do whatever you want, because, hey, I’m The Devil! I’m all powerful! Rules don’t apply to me here on the surface!”

Before he can stop himself, he grabs one of his horns, dragging him forward and glaring into his devlish face, contempt and disgust present on his features as he speaks in a murmur, a deep, low voice that was very unbefitting of the usually baby faced, softly spoken mug. “You better be thankful that I don’t wanna make noise and wake up the rest’a the house. Cuphead and Elder Kettle don’t need to know about this whole ordeal. And if you do anything to them, I will make you wish I didn’t save the life you owe me.”

---

The Devil has a wellspring of all kinds of cloying explanations waiting, in case Mugman is dissatisfied with the ones he provided. Maybe he could even tell a lie of omission by implying he might have steered a life-threatening danger away from the mug already. He may not have had many opportunities to demonstrate his usefulness yet, but he wouldn’t want Mugman to fail to understand what the Devil could do for him.

But when Mugman starts chastising the Devil for making him paranoid (before he has a chance to make more excuses), the Devil winces. “Ah, I did start to suspect...” he begins, but he trails off when Mugman says, ‘no’. The Devil hoped remaining relaxed would prevent the mug from perceiving him as a threat, but it seems instead to have given the young man the impression that he’s indifferent to his feelings, and -- well, the Devil isn’t sure he does cares about Mugman’s feelings, really. He just cares about what he wants. If he feels tired, but doesn’t want the Devil to make him coffee, for example, then the information is of no use to him. Right? The distinction is a bit muddy, but all the same... “I gotta admit, it is pretty funny. But that’s not why I was doin’ it.”

The Devil frowns at the question about ‘manners’, because no, obviously manners aren’t taught in Hell -- although the implication that the Devil needs to learn a lesson is irksome. Who the hell needs manners? All they do is get in the way of actual shit gettin’ done. But he doesn’t voice his thoughts, because he can barely get a word in edgewise with Mugman on the warpath like he is.

Mugman takes another step toward the Devil, and the Devil flinches back. He can’t deny that Mugman is spot-on about his entitlement. No one has ever had the gall to deny him or stand in his way, and he’s always simply taken what he wanted. Maybe his formerly elevated rank and title have left him out of touch with what is expected of a servant...? Perhaps he presumed too much, after all...

He grunts, though it’s very nearly a yelp of alarm when Mugman grabs him by the horn and yanks him forward, forcing him to land on his arms like forelegs. “Ah, tch-ch-ch! That’s still tender!” he complains, forked tongue wagging as he hisses in pain.

But the pain is nothing compared to the way fear and dread wash over him in the face of Mugman’s unbridled contempt, and the sincerity of his threats. Where before the Devil resisted the urge to cower, this time he indulges it: his furry ears droop, and his tail curls between his legs as he lowers his body as close to the ground as it'll go in the awkward position he's in. His eyes and attention are fettered to Mugman, unmoving from his stormy expression.

The Devil’s body burns with an unbearable heat -- it must be shame, he realizes. He’s never felt the like before. “I ain’t gonna do anything to them, Ma--er, Mugman.” He pulls gently at the hold Mugman has on his horn, a meek plea for the young man to release him. He’s still entirely uncomfortable with the situation at hand, and Mugman’s thinly veiled threats of horrible torture ring in his ears as dreadful as church bells -- but something he says catches the Devil’s interest.

“You’re... not gonna tell ‘em?”

---

There’s a pause for a few moments where he gives the other a warning glare, before obliging to let go of his grip on him. Mugman places his palms together, eyes closed, drawing them up to his face and inhaling a long, long breath, before breathing out through his mouth.

Once that’s was over with, the gentle expression usually seen on the young mug’s face is present again. He wasn’t smiling, but nor did he look angry, as he had merely seconds prior. He gives a clear of the throat, and continues, his tone steady and frankly pleasant, in complete contrast to how Mugman had been acting less than half a minute ago.

“They don’t need to know.” He says. “Cuphead won’t listen to me even if I try and tell him that I don’t think you’re out to get revenge on us for what we did… and Elder Kettle doesn’t need any more added stress on top of what my brother got us into only a week ago. He worries about us enough as it is.” There’s a definite emphasis on the phrase “what my brother got us into”, implying that was something he was still rather angrily holding over his sibling’s head; which he was. Mugman hadn’t chewed him out about it, because he knows that Cuphead would just rebuttal with the fact they’d gotten out of it, something he always mentioned when they got themselves into trouble and escaped by the skin of their teeth.

It’s one of the reasons he never learns his lesson, because very rarely did he suffer consequences. And it would make Mugman feel like a nag. …Ugh, he didn’t need to open that can of worms. His strained relationship with his brother is not a priority right now.

“Alright, so… you feel like you owe me, or something? I… appreciate the thought, Mr Devil, but like I said, there wasn’t a catch when I gave you that brew!”

---

The Devil remains still when Mugman releases him, and he flinches as he awaits what is sure to be the next bout in the young man’s castigation of his behavior, or perhaps an outright physical strike.

But the lashing (verbal or physical) that he prepares for never comes.

When he looks at Mugman, he thinks he must have traveled through time, because there’s no trace on Mugman’s face of the anger and contempt that was there a moment ago. It’s as if a switch flipped in Mugman's personality: once before when he went off like a shot, and again just now, when the man had apparently mustered all his faculties of endurance and hidden a hurricane in the palms of his hands.

The Devil tries to think back to when he and King Dice had been watching the young men gather up their debtor’s contracts from the comfort of the casino. They had mostly focused on Cuphead’s exploits, due in large part to how the cup’s brashness drew the attention of everyone around him -- even if he didn’t know they were watching.

In retrospect, Mugman had been the only force keeping Cuphead from dying as a result of his own foolishness: as they fought their way through debtors, Mugman held his brother back when he got too reckless, watched his back when he charged ahead anyway, bailed him out when he put himself in a corner, and patched him up when they escaped from danger by the skin of their teeth.

That in mind, is it any wonder the Devil hears a thread of resentment in Mugman’s tone when he mentions his brother’s mischief?

The implication that Mugman holds resentment for his brother is... useful. Driving a wedge between the two would backfire if Mugman so much as suspected that was the Devil's intention, but...

Perhaps he can use this information some other way.

The Devil gathers his wits about him. Mugman still isn’t sold on this deal, regardless of it already being made. He needs to be a salesman right now.

He straightens up into a seated position and listens carefully to Mugman’s dismissal. “‘’Fraid I can’t leave it at that,” the Devil says apologetically. “Demons don’t really jibe with the concept of... charity. Barely understand it, really. It’s all quid pro quo in the flaming pits.” The Devil brings his clawed hands into activity, gesticulating in tandem with his cajoling.

“But let’s say I retake my throne one day -- if you come along to cash in on that life debt, I’ll have to pay up right then and there. That, or risk losing the respect of my subjects and being ousted again, putting me right back here where I started: a destitute vagabond with nothing but his wits and his magic about him.”

The Devil smiles at Mugman as if to say you understand, don’t you? “It’s unwise for demons to leave unfinished business. And if it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, don’t think of it as a ‘catch’,” the Devil suggests. “Think of it as a... ‘vested interest in your quality of life’. I can offer more than just protection and a swift death to your enemies, y'know."

---

So… from what Mugman could grasp from his little explanation… The Devil was, at the very least, offering to be his bodyguard. Thing was, though, there was very little that The Devil could protect him from, because most of the source of the fights he and Cuphead had gotten themselves into had been caused directly or indirectly by him. The debtors, which they’d burnt the contracts of and therein any animosity along with it, his lackeys, who had lost all respect for him, so wouldn’t dream of fighting in his stead, and then… the big man himself. None of them were threats to him and Cuphead anymore.

So, in all honesty, it was rather superfluous. And even then, if they were to run into any unruly individuals,the two of them were capable of taking anybody who crossed them on now that they were trained in the art of magic.

However, The Devil then goes on to point out he can offer more than just that. He squints, curious, suspicious and uncertain as if he should really be asking anything of him, or just shut this conversation down and demand he remove himself from the premises.

Curiosity wins out, though. “Such as?”

---

The Devil resists the urge to sigh with relief. Good grief. It’d be easier if he ended up owing his life to Cuphead -- with how much trouble he gets into, the Devil would’ve had his debt repaid ten times over by now. Then again, Cuphead would be the worst kind of exploitative master. Better he doesn’t suggest anything to put the idea in Mugman’s head of passing his life debt off to his monstrous brother.

“I can do anything you can think of to make your life easier! Running errands, er, reaching high shelves...” The Devil falters. What kind of offer is that?!  He casts his thoughts out like fishing lines to try and think of something to tempt the young man, and it hits him: Cuphead. Mugman’s resentment.

The Devil offers Mugman a Cheshire grin. “Even somethin’ as simple as lendin’ a sympathetic ear.” And with a bit of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shapeshifting, the Devil transforms his legs into something appropriately cat-like. He stands on all fours and begins pacing in circles around Mugman. “Who d’you confide in about yer Cuphead troubles, Mugman? Sweet fella like you wouldn’t want him to overhear yer grievances... I expect you bottle it up and keep it all to yourself. Izzat right? Well, ya won’t find a soul less judgmental than the Devil himself!” He can’t help but snicker at the turn of phrase.

“And forgive me for presumin’, but it seems like you’ve got a lot of pent-up aggression... How many outlets you got for that? Not a lot, I’d bet, judging by earlier...” Thinking better of the insinuation that Mugman only blew up on him because he has anger problems, the Devil is quick to backpedal. “Of course, you were right to be mad! I deceived you, after all... Shoulda’ been more adamant about establishin’ proper terms back when you offered, but you were adamant about it bein’ charity... Impatient, too. An’ well, I don’t really have an excuse to give ya for the deceit. I just didn’t wanna die.”

The Devil slinks behind Mugman, but he keeps sweet-talking. “An’ I understand that. Can’t stand being double-crossed, m’self. So if you wanna lay into me, let out some of that aggression... I’m at your disposal for that, too.” The Devil can’t help that every invitation sounds faintly obscene. He is the Devil, after all, and sin seeps into everything he does. “Don’t worry -- I can take what you dish out.”

The Devil sidles up to Mugman like a cat to its master and butts the young man’s shoulder with his own. His soft fur brushes faintly against the back of Mugman’s head. “And I can do it quiet-like, too,” he promises.

---

Alright, The Devil was getting a tad bit too close for Mugman’s liking, and through the entirety of his little speech, he squints, the corner of his mouth curling just a tad. He’s not about to take his eyes off him though, and listens with apt attention, not wanting to miss anything.

Look at him, trying to butter Mugman up. Calling him a “sweet little mug” in that honeyed tone of his is what gets the frown to slip into a small smirk, because it finds it somewhat humorous that he, of all people, was attempting flattery. But… some of his words did ring true- there was a lot of things he kept bottled up, especially where Cuphead was concerned… He was being careful not to insult his brother directly, but the words Don’t talk about my brother that way. briefly pass through his mind, not appreciating the fact that The Devil talked about him in any negative light whatsoever.

But, he forgets all about that thought when his other proposition is brought in… and there’s just something about his tone, and the touching, and compliments all muddled together that makes Mugman feel that his intent might be a little flirtatious. The fur tickling the back of his head does nothing to perish the thought, and he actually steps forward to get some distance between them, whipping his head around, face burning as he rubbed it to stave off the tingles the soft fur left behind. “W-what exactly are you getting at?!”

Did he just have a dirty mind? No… this was The Devil, and there weren’t many obscene things that could be put past a guy like him. “N-no, I think I’ll be perfectly fine, thank you very much.” He dusts off his night shirt, and shuts the conversation down right then and there, heading over to his bed to seat himself back on it, climbing under the covers, arms crossed.

---

The Devil blinks. “I’m just sayin’ it sounds like you could stand to blow off some steam...” But Mugman disengages and goes back to bed, and the Devil deflates like a balloon. He doesn’t know what went wrong. “What? What did I say?”

The Devil takes a step toward the bed, but he has the sense to stop a few feet shy of it. He’d be a fool to press the boundaries of Mugman’s personal space after he reacted so strongly to the Devil’s little nudge earlier. The storm whip-cracks outside, and the trees howl like baying wolves. The Devil lays on the ground like a scolded dog and watches the lump of Mugman on the bed.

“Um... So you’re not interested... in any of that?”

It’s stupid that it does, but it stings, a little, because the Devil is perfectly capable, and he’s sure he could be a damn good servant if Mugman would give him the opportunity! But the young man is living an idyllic country life out here. He doesn’t want anything the Devil could offer...

And the Devil is stuck in limbo until he repays this debt -- even if Mugman swears he’ll never collect, one of the Devil’s enemies vying for the throne would surely dig it up one day, and use it to impugn his integrity.

The Devil may cut cruel deals, and unfair ones, but if it came out he doesn’t even honor their terms? That he can’t even square with something as simple and time-honored as a life debt?

Well, there’d be Hell to pay, to say the least.

---

He was sat up, at least, so he’d not completely shut him out. Mugman feels a lot more comfortable in this position, especially when The Devil bowed down to the ground like that… it made him feel like he had more control over the situation.

Such a stark contrast it was to the domineering, intimidating and frankly terrifying form of the boss of Hell’s Casino he’d once been. Now he just looked like a dog gazing sadly at an owner wouldn’t let him nap at the foot of the bed with him. Mugman grips at the edge of his quilt, fiddling with the fabric a bit. “Look, I appreciate the gesture. I don’t understand all the, uh, rules down in Hell but… clearly, it’s important for you to show me your gratitude at the very least.” He looked away, staring at a wall as he pondered.

His intentions were well meaning, even if he’d been effectively stalking him for the past few days. It was very clear he was  defeated by his attempts at persuading him having no visible effect.  Mugman had helped him out at his lowest point, of course he would be eager to show how genuinely grateful he was, and might have been offering this in an attempt to bury the hatchet, make it known that bygones would be bygones and there’d be no reason for him to distrust or have animosity with him in future.

A part of him feels bad again now he thought it over. It wouldn’t feel right to just turn down his attempts at paying him back completely…

He had just been coming on a little too strong, too soon.

“… Can I sleep on it, at least?”

---
The Devil’s ears perk up at Mugman’s carefully-worded response. The young man is clearly struggling to come to terms with the Devil’s offer, but he’s not saying ‘no’ this time, either. The Devil is hanging on Mugman’s every word, waiting for him to pass down a verdict. He has to remind himself not to stare, knowing how sensitive the mug is to being watched.

*Can I sleep on it, at least?*

Fireworks burst triumphantly in the Devil’s chest, but he tamps down on his outward reaction. If he’s been overwhelming the mug with gestures he himself considers tame, now is not the time to get over-excited about a ‘maybe’.

The Devil rises fluidly to stand on all fours, and he arches his back and curls his tail in a full-body stretch. “Sure, I don’t see why--”

Thunder booms, and a sheet of rain patters and crashes against the walls of the cottage.

“...not,” the Devil finishes. He almost forgot about the storm. It was nice enough when he thought he had the privilege of being protected from it, but now that Mugman’s discovered his presence... The young man might send him back outside for one last evening of privacy, before he commits to have the Devil as a semi-permanent presence in his life.

The Devil glances at Mugman, and he considers asking if he can stay. Charitable as the young man is, he’s unlikely to deny it. But what if Mugman resents the request?  Surely a single night of discomfort is worth it if it’s liable to make Mugman’s answer a more favorable one.

The Devil clears his throat. “Anyway, take your time! Just say my name when you’ve decided, and I’ll appear.”

---

The crash of thunder makes Mugman jolt a little bit, the flash of lightning that came with it illuminating the room, and his look of shock. It was a little embarrassing to admit but… he’d never been great in storms. Elder Kettle’s kindly explanations when he was a child as to it being nothing but natural weather phenomenon unfortunately never did much to help. And although he didn’t weep or hide under his covers in terror anymore, that anxiety remained. It was a childhood fear that still played a role now in adulthood.

Not wanting The Devil to pick up on that moment of fright, he clears his throat, attempting to play it off like it was a momentary reaction to a sudden loud sound. “U-uh… right, yeah,” Mugman gives a nod. “I will. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He nibbles his bottom lip; did that mean he was leaving? That thought didn’t sit right with him. Although he was initially an uninvited guest, The Devil had lingered in his home long enough already. And he was offering him a service- protection, assistance, a listening ear… it would be rude to kick him out now, wouldn’t it?

Besides, he knew full well the guy had no other roof over his head. How awful an experience to endure, especially in this weather! “Actually, Mr Devil? … You… can stay, if you want to. If you don’t make noise or let yourself get caught.” And… he had to admit, in this storm? It would be reassuring to have another person in the room. Just as a comforting presence.

---

The Devil knows that as Mugman's self-appointed servant, the impulse to serve and obey is bound to be strong. He's seen it at work in his own servants: any demon or mortal, after swearing a vow of fealty and binding it with his own Devilish brand of magic, would be powerless to resist a direct order. Even the most ill-tempered and insubordinate of creatures would bow and scrape to the Devil's whims under the strength of such magic.

But the way Mugman momentarily shrinks away from the storm makes the Devil feel a compulsion nearly as powerful -- to slink up onto the young man's bed and curl around him, providing him comfort and protection from the light and sound.

And that, in the Devil's experience with compulsory servitude, is entirely unaccountable.

He hesitates, then, because there's no reason he should be feeling so -- so doting, so damn solicitous in the absence of orders. Nearly everything Mugman's said so far has been a question, or an idle ponderance, for fuck's sake -- so what's his problem?

What was in that brew in the mug's head?!

"Ah, that'd be..." the Devil trails off, sitting back down on his haunches as he searches for words. "... That's to say, I'd be mighty appreciative of yer hospitality." The Devil hopes Mugman will continue being kind enough to overlook how he's technically been exploiting his hospitality against his wishes for the past few days.

The Devil glances around the room for a suitable place to bed down. He smiles at Mugman, teeth glinting in the candlelight. "S'pose I'll curl up under the bed -- make sure I'm the only monster lurking around here. If that's all right with you, a 'course."

---

At his gratitude, Mugman gives the smallest of smiles. Although still rather jarring to see The Devil himself so… humbled, acting so polite and courteous, it’s not unappreciated. It could be seen as quite the thing to flaunt, the ruler of Hell that you had had a hand in dethroning now being in your debt. But he’s a humble mug; he liked to keep to himself, and would think it rather uncouth to parade around such a thing. He’d … suffered enough, he reasons. At least for the actions involving his brother and he; there would be a lot of karmic retribution for The Devil to endure for all the other crimes he’d committed over his long existence. Mugman didn’t want to be the one to inflict that, though. His past wasn’t his business. Frankly, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know about all of the things The Devil had once been capable of.

“Yeah, that works.” Mugman agrees, nodding at the suggestion of him taking shelter under his bed. “It might be a bit dusty under there, though, sorry about that.”  He curls up under the covers, facing the direction of the candle, which still flickered warmly in the small room.

“Good night then, Mr Devil.” With that, he blows out the light, and lays his head down to get some proper rest.

---

The Devil doesn't mention that he's already slept under Mugman's bed a couple of times, so the worst of the dust has already been cleared away by his frequent passage. He simply replies, "Not at all. Little bit o' dust ain't nothin' to this ol' Devil." Part of his brain niggles at him to insist that Mugman let him clean his room, but he quiets it. Mugman had been kind enough to give him a 'maybe'. Better not press his luck by behaving like a nuisance.

When the candle is snuffed, the Devil's eyes are the only source of light in the room. He pads over to the bed, and when he is beside it, he says, "Pleasant dreams, Mugman." And he slithers under the bed like a snake, half-submerging his body in shadows to make the narrow space accommodate him.

The Devil closes his eyes, unsure if he'll sleep, but not wanting to shine his headlamp eyes across the floor while Mugman is trying to.

Curled up under Mugman's bed, the Devil can't help but notice it feels different this time. Rather than feeling like an interloper in Mugman's home, now that he has the mug's approval to be there, he gets the distinct impression that he's exactly where he belongs.