Hello @lord-emerson :3c i had the joy of being your secret swap partner for the @fallenlondonficswap this year!!! So, with permission, i decided to write about Oz and Howie, based on the charming devil prompt, and a certain AU y'all have been talking about!!!!
read below the cut, or here on ao3!
wordcount: 1,236
general warning for vague talk of abstraction and the after effects, and lots of wine comparisons, though it is *not* wine.
Devilish Debauchery
The job of representing The Bazaar, Messenger Collector of Stories, was a difficult one at best. Its difficulty only increases when one is assigned to be its new Ambassador to Hell, after the previous one proved unfit.
The White City had its own Embassy in The Messenger's domain, filled with its own bureaucracy and hellish residents. In short, Devils lived in London.
Devils, as a whole, are charming, seductive creatures of an alluring warmth, and enticingly dangerous mystery. Therein, however, lies the problem. Though many of them may claim otherwise, especially should it be a convenient lie to an unsuspecting individual, Devils only lust for a singular thing: Your soul.
They will use whatever cunning and lies and mithridacy they need to separate a victim from their soul. They will equivocate its existence to that of gas. They will claim being without a soul makes one's life easier.
In some ways, this is true. Particularly if one finds themself burdened with unnecessary emotions, then the process of abstraction is rendered all the more an alluring prospect.
What a Devil will not tell you, however, is that divulging one's soul also lessens one's romantic inclinations. Of course, there are dozens of exceptions; Some folks choose to pursue romance anyway, some rely on other feelings, and some cases do not affect one's inclination whatsoever. However, regardless of this, Oswald's employer would vastly prefer that the majority of the populace kept their souls, as it had a need to quantity, and not quality.
This is where Oswald, Ambassador Emerson, came into play. Someone needed to negotiate the soul trade against the population of London, and ensure that Hell's economy didn't bleed the Bazaar's source dry before its time came, all while maintaining peace and diplomatic relations.
Now all Oswald needed to do was to avoid becoming a love story himself, at least, not with a Devil. To fall in love with a Devil was a good way to end up soulless, and, in his line of work, jobless.
In the warm, electric lighting of Hell's Ambassador's study, Oswald reminded himself of this fact. Falling in love with a Devil was inadvisable at best.
But perhaps, if the tables were to be turned?
"My own private soul collection." The Devil gestured to something that looked remarkably like a wine shelf, save for the 'vintages' being nothing approaching a bottle of Greyfields. "It's of very high value, though it make look modest at first glance. Come, take a look."
Oswald stepped forward, close to the Devil. His eyes scanned the bottles, and the Devil's eyes scanned him.
"Some of us prefer to be more discerning in our taste."
"Oh, is that so?" Oswald turned toward the Devil and raised and eyebrow. "Do tell what that means for one of your status."
Howard, for that was the Devil's name, as he was keen to impress, smirked. "Better, I shall demonstrate." He placed a wandering hand on the small of Oswald's back, as another hand came up to dance along the displayed bottles. With short deliberation, it settled on a soul, brilliant and blue. He pulled it from the shelf, and held it up for Oswald to inspect.
Oswald peered at the small, ghastly visage the floated around in the glass. "What makes this one so particular for you?" Oswald could not claim to see anything immediately special about it himself.
"This one took quite some time to acquire, Ambassador."
Oswald hummed thoughtfully, placing a finger to his lips. Howard's other hand was radiating warmth through his waistcoat.
"Here, let me impress upon you some of the special characteristics of this soul. Be a dear and uncork it for me, yes?"
"Ah, but won't it fly out?"
"Short of the glass being smashed, not without a brass conductor."
Oswald glanced sideways at the Devil. Everything about him was warm: his touch, his gaze, his voice. Now here he was offering Oswald the chance to uncork a piece of his collection.
Well, why turn down such an offer?
With a firm hand, and Howard holding the bottle by the neck, Oswald was able to uncork it easily.
If it were champagne, it would have overflowed with bright bubbles. But here, what it emitted instead was a dense blue fog. Oswald had never seen anything quite like it.
"Now, fetch me the glasses from my desk."
With Howard's hand removed from his back, Oswald found them easily enough. He presented the two glasses, and watched.
Instead of pouring out the soul itself, as he had expected, what the Devil seemed to pour was something else the did not deteriorate the bottle's contents, as if he was pouring from an infinite source, or pouring something that wasn't truly there to begin with.
"Ephemera, as we call it. A sort of miasma, shed by the soul. Normally, this feeds the body of the soul's host in an ever-constant supply, but here it has nowhere to go, so it can be drained quite freely." When Howard finished pouring, the soul was set aside on the desk. "Each soul has its distinctive qualities, and when sampled, as one might do with wine, even a human can discern them."
Oh, what a sinful delight. "To sample one's soul… my, that's quite remarkable. Rather frowned upon too I should believe." Oswald smirked as he swirled his glass around, watching Howard do the same.
"For a human? Yes, quite. But if you are the type to care?" he teased.
"No."
"Then first, a toast, to our careers, and new delights."
They raised their glasses together with a small chime. "To new delights, and our careers."
Howard brought his glass to his lips and sipped it, seeming almost disinterested in the soul itself.
Oswald raised his glass, and inhaled its scent deeply. "It smells of… brass. Though that scent is rather ubiquitous here, is it not?"
Howard looked amused, and pleased. "Yes, but there's more to it. Try again."
The Ambassador breathed deeply, and tried again. He directed himself to think not on the top note, but of what perfumed it beneath. "Sandalwood, and, if I'm not mistaken, sage as well. It's all quite faint though, is it not?"
" Good," the Devil purred. "That's all correct. Now, what of its taste?" His companion looked on hungrily, with eyes that burned into him.
Oswald knew Devils didn't need a soul in a wine glass to tell of its quirks. Yet there was an undeniable delight in this debauchery. He pressed the glass to his own lips, uncertain of what to expect.
The ephemera's texture was rather like wine, but a light one, thinner in the mouth than one would expect of a red. It was warming on the tongue, and in his throat. Yet, when he swallowed, there was something undeniably missing. So present was its absence, that the Ambassador was nearly unable to place what had been misplaced.
Then, it struck him. "It's entirely without flavor. How utterly peculiar. Are all souls like this?"
Howard's lips twitched, before he spoke. "No, most assuredly not. This one, as you have perceived, has quite the flaw in taste, and indeed smell as well. When one abstains from the seasonings and pleasures of life, so too does one's soul."
Oswald considered how his own soul must taste. Certainly it was better than… "Who did this once belong to?"
The Devil's smile was all teeth. "Your predecessor."
