A thin line of blood trickles down the face of the stone, mingles with the paint, fills the groove of an N that didn't belong.

He peers down from behind the gravestone, leaning heavily on the top with his forearms crossed, hair hanging in his face.

"...nice."

"Thanks. I was gonna bring flowers, but then I had a better idea."

"How's Purgatory?"

She's having a devout week.

"Hell's great. Thanks for asking."

She sits on the grass.

"I don't know how to thank you."

He puts one hand down to touch the spray-painted letter on the gravestone. (It exposes the inside of his wrist, sliced open, raw and bloody.)

"...pretty good start."

"...good hurt or bad hurt?"

He wiggles his hand a little, as he walks around the headstone to flop down next to her on the grass.

"These are the old ones. I like remembering I'm dead."

"Of course you do."

"Seriously, I -- you didn't have to do that for me, you know."

"...look. I want to hang out with you as long as I can. Can't do that if you're not...there."

He waves vaguely at her head.

"...as long as you can? Are you ... going somewhere?"

"You might be."

"Dude, with any luck I've got like sixty years. Maybe eighty."

"Yeah, but — forever's a long time, you know?"

"Not claiming to be a saint, but by the grace of God I think I can scrape by into Purgatory."

"...yeah. It wouldn't be hard."

"And then we'd have forever."

"I haunted a kid the other day."

"...like, someone you knew...?"

"Nah. Somebody new moved into our house. Kid in my room's, like — sixteen? Cute girlfriend. He steals her makeup."

"I showed him how I died."

"...oh, Z. Why would you do that? That's going to mess that poor kid up."

"He's already messed up. He cries in his sleep. But he's...trying, right? To be good."

"He deserves to be where I am."

"...oh, man."

"Dude, I ... that's messed up. You gotta ... you can't do that? You gotta let that kid make his own choices. Wearing makeup isn't even a sin. Go haunt his girlfriend and tell her to give him some so he doesn't have to steal it."

"Can't. I can show up for you, I can show up for this kid if I'm in my room reenacting some shit...that's it. So far."

"...fine. You stop traumatizing the kid, I'll smuggle him some makeup. Deal?"

"...deal."

She flops on the grass on his grave.

"Happy death-birthday."

"...deathday. Deathiversary."

He squirms over to the side so he can lay his head on her stomach.

(It has a little bit of weight, a little warmth.)

She makes petting gestures at his head.

"Merry deathmas."

He starts giggling.

On the third or fourth pet, his hair tickles her palm.

"...oh, hi. You need to show up and practice that more often."

"...did you just pet me?"

"Mmhm. I figured you were trying to be solid again."

He scrambles up to his knees.

"Push me."

"Now there's something I've never heard from you before. ...say please."

He clasps his hands in his lap.

"...please?"

"Oh, okay."

She puts her hand a quarter-inch away from his chest, and then gives it a solid shove.

It thumps solidly on his breastbone, for a moment, has him struggling to stay upright before it clips into him and passes through.

(The inside of his body is a little...gooey. And tingly.)

"...ha!"

He scrambles to his feet.

"Again!"

"Ew. Ew!"

She's rubbing her hand on the grass.

"Give me a second -- ew!"

"—oh my god did you feel it in there?"

"You got ghost guts on my hand! I'm all ectoplasmy!"

"...dude there's nothing there."

"Okay but like metaphorically."

"That is one hundred percent not what a metaphor is."

"Well maybe I'm hallucinating ectoplasm on my hand. I am psychotic. Don't judge."

"...wanna try again?"

She kicks him by way of answer.

When her foot connects with his shin, there's an impact, and then a sort of...crackle, as it passes through.

He stumbles, takes a second to regain his footing.

Yeah she's hugging him now.

She gets a good two seconds of warmth,

before they start to melt into each other

and he vanishes.

....oh.

She sits down on his gravestone and waits, not very hopefully.

He fades into view, a meter or two away, knees to his chest.

He looks very much like he did when he was alive. 

"Sorry."

"...It's cool. Honestly worth it for the hug."

"...the hospital thing really messed you up, huh."

"...yeah."

His body is starting to warp back into shape, chest flattening, skin regaining its color.

"Still don't regret it."

"I think you earned a stupid-idea veto. Save it for a rainy day."

"...I'd better. You're great at those."

(His voice isn't even a little wobbly.)

"I'm the best at those."

He’s going to try a hug again, because he never learns.

She's more careful, this time -- keeps it quick, lets go almost as soon as she has her arms around him.

After that, she has a board game for the two of them to play. She can move his pieces.

This, he likes.

By the end, he’s managing to nudge a few of them himself.

(People walking by with flowers give her sympathetic glances, as she sits there pushing around both sets of pieces. One older man asks her if there's anything he can get her.)

Eventually it's getting dark. She has a curfew, these days -- her parents watch her phone GPS, and demand nightly texts. They worry.

It means she has to head back to her apartment.

When she walks into her room, there’s a demon standing in the corner.

Or — he looks like one, at least. He has a polished little pair of horns peeking out through his bangs, and his pressed slacks give way to cloven hooves rather than dress shoes.

He has none of the diabolic presence of her other visitor, though. She doesn’t know him on sight.

"Ret...ro ... va....de ......... sa...ta...na?" she attempts, half-heartedly, putting the board game on the shelf.

"He couldn't make it today."

"Who does that make you? Beelzebub? Mephistopheles?"

"His PA. Does it matter?"

"--oh! You're the one my friend cries on!"

"—he talks about that?"

"Mentioned it once. 'Satan's PA' was a memorable turn of phrase."

"I guess."

He shifts his weight — his little hooves click quietly on the floor.

"I'm — supposed to check in on you until he's back."

"...back from where? Hell has vacations?"

"It's not a vacation."

"...but...I don't know what it is."

"Then how do you know it's not a vacation?"

"Have you met him?"

He's worried about him.

She turns and walks silently over to the freezer; twists the ice tray to pop out the cubes; fills a glass and offers it to -- apparently -- Satan's personal assistant.

“...thank you,” he says, evidently caught a little off-guard.

He sips it quietly in the corner.

She sits on the bed to take her shoes off.

"You got a name?"

“Cato.”

Sip.

"Like the Elder?"

He makes a face.

“Like the Younger, if I have to pick either.”

"I don't actually know much about either beyond carthago delenda est."

“The Elder banned women wearing more than one color and the Younger was a stubborn asshole. That’s all I have off the top of my head.”

"--oh, and Dante made the Younger a virtuous pagan. Put him in Purgatory and everything."

Shoes on the shoe rack. Socks balled up and tossed half-heartedly in the general direction of the laundry basket.

...

...

He walks over to drop the socks in the basket.

She takes her shirt off and tosses that just short of the basket, too.

He puts that in the basket, too.

Bra.

Basket.

(Really?)

"Huh."

She pries herself off the bed long enough to set the air conditioner to arctic.

“...can I sit in your chair?”

"...is this a polite thing, or a vampire thing?"

“It just...feels weird. To use your furniture. Without asking.”

"Uh. Go ahead, I guess."

She sits back down on her bed, and wraps herself in the blankets for insulation from the blasting air conditioner.

He sits down, huddles in a little on himself.

“Thanks.”

"So ... what's it like? Being, uh, Satan's PA?"

"It's a nightmare."

Sip.

"But I wouldn't do anything else."

"What do you .... do? Answer his phone calls?"

"Help with management. And with...some of the people who aren't going to be okay on their own."

"So you torture people yourself, then."

"—what? No!"

"I mean. Once in a while. Humans are weird."

"Don't worry, I don't expect you to admit it. ... Would you mind bringing me my extra blanket, if you're going to hang about? It's in the closet, on the top shelf, I'm freezing."

He looks between her and the air conditioner.

"...okay," he says, and trots off.

"Thank you."

She pulls the blanket up under her chin.

"Just on top of this one, please."

He arranges it there, carefully, smooths it out, tucks it in.

"You're very kind."

"...'s just what I do."

"You bring Satan blankets and put away his laundry?"

"He doesn't have laundry."

"He always looks like he'd have quite a lot."

"His clothes aren't — real. They just –"

He extends his hand, and mimes dropping something, then a poof.

"But he does -- ?"

She extracts an arm from her blankets to imitate his action.

"...some...times," he says, looking back and forth as if someone is going to overhear.

"And you see it."

How personal is a personal assistant to the devil? How kind is Hell to its demonic inhabitants?

"Would you like to spend more time here with me?"

"...are you trying to rescue me?"

"Don't worry, I'm aware you're a lost cause."

"—so you can do that."

"...do what?"

"Be aware of lost causes."

"Oh, this again. You're not going to convince me to despair of my best friend, give it up already."

"I didn't say despair of him. Just stop fucking keeping him up at night."

"So he can hear it when I pray."

"He doesn't have to hear when you pray for you to keep him up, genius. He loves you."

"I can't exactly help that, can I?"

"No, but you can stop fucking with his head."

"Can we skip the gaslighting for one night? Please? I'm tired."

"It's not, but I'll drop it if you will. Tonight."

"Thank you."

It's sincere. She is tired, and cold, and -- as always -- her best friend is dead.

"...do you want me to turn off the air conditioning."

"It's okay. It's warming up under the blankets."

...he reaches out and clicks it off.

"I said it was okay!"

"...was that for me?"

"No. It's not important. Forget it."

He sips his ice water.

She cuddles up to a pillow.

"Do you think he'll be back soon?"

He nods.

"It's never that long."

"It happens regularly and you don't know what it is?"

"Not regularly," he says, a little defensively.

"Have you asked?"

"...I know where he's going sometimes. Just...he didn't have time to tell me."

Definitely worried.

"Well. ...it's not like he can get hurt."

"...I guess not."

Spoken like someone who is desperately hoping that's true.

"He's the devil."

"What, do you know where he went?"

"You can't hurt the devil!"

"Are you sure."

"...what are you worried is going to happen to him? You know he's already being eternally tortured, right?"

"He has bad days. He could have worse days."

...he's scared of him, too, probably.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your—"

"Thanks."

Emmelia curls up under the blankets and closes her eyes and prays for the devil -- not for his conversion; not that he should, against all logic and tradition and teaching, be saved; not even for the mercy of God on him.

She prays for the devil to come home safely, and at the end of the prayer, she doesn't add but Thy Will be done, because in this particular case that seems like it would sort of undermine it.

When she wakes up the next morning, Cato is still there, curled up asleep in his chair, leaned against the wall.

Demons sleep?

She puts a blanket over him.

He snuggles into it, without quite waking up.

Demons sleep ... adorably?

What would happen, Emmelia wonders, if you baptized a demon, and then rejects the notion. He's an adult, it wouldn't work without consent anyway.

A broken-off hunk of cheese from an economy-sized brick in the fridge is like breakfast. This, Emmelia firmly believes.

Eventually, he gasps and sits upright, eyes darting around the room until he finds her.

"...is that just...cheese?"

"It might not be."

"...put it...on bread?"

Emmelia considers arguing this, decides it's not worth it, grabs a slice of sandwich bread from the pantry and wraps it around the awkwardly-shaped hunk of hard cheese.

He nods, apparently satisfied, and dozes off a little again.

"Just lie down in the bed."

His head jerks up again as he's startled awake.

"...no, I'm keeping an eye on you."

He sheds the blanket, folds it carefully to lay it on the chair.

"I'm going to class. I will come straight back when I'm done. Lie down in the bed."

"...fine," he says, suspiciously.

He lies down in the bed.

He is defeated very promptly.

Emmelia goes to class and tries not to notice the way people look at her, even halfway through the semester, when she walks into the room. Like they're trying not to stare at the way she walks, trying not to be impatient with the way she talks. She wishes they would just go ahead and stare. Point, maybe. Laugh. It would be more honest.

She walks home, after. Biking doesn't feel safe, not as shaky as she is these days.

By the time she returns home, Cato has gotten out of bed (and made it). He's curled up in the same chair as before, reading a book he pulled off her shelf.

"Hi."

"Hi."

Backpack, floor.

"Why exactly are you supposed to be keeping such close tabs on me, anyway? Is he worried I'm going to die in a state of grace or something?"

"He's better at keeping track of people than I am."

"How's your complex analysis? I need to go over my quiz from last week."

"...I don't know anything about that."

"I guess you've got plenty of time to get around to it."

"What's so important about it?"

"...it's math. It's, you know -- uh, I'd say the language of the divine, but..."

"Math is the language of the divine?"

"God's native language," she says, firmly.

"...I guess," he says, dubiously.

"It's -- the fundamental truths. The warp and weft -- no, the loom. The least veiled face of God."

“If you say so,” he says, not sounding quite convinced.

She makes a face, but can't be bothered to press it further.

"What're you reading?"

He holds the book up to show her. It's The Fellowship of the Ring.

"Good choice. ...weird choice. But good choice."

"I'm working with what I've got," he protests.

"...and it is good."

"You're a weird demon."

Dinner. What is dinner. She could not eat dinner. She probably should not eat dinner, she got powdery doughnuts from a vending machine at school and she still hasn't lost the weight from the antipsychotics and she hates-hates-hates the ways her thighs squish together.

"How many demons have you met?"

"Two. Both weird. You're weirder."

He seems unsure whether to be offended by that.

"How?"

"You're, like -- I dunno. Chill. Relatively speaking."

She abandons staring into the fridge and fishes her assignment materials out of her backpack instead.

"That's not hard," he says, resigned.

"Polite demon, I kinda get. Laid-back demon is just weird. If you're stuck with me, do you have to do my bidding?"

"No," he says, and then immediately — "what's your bidding?"

"What kind of makeup do boys who wear makeup ... wear?"

"...depends on the kind of boy. But eyeliner's a pretty safe bet."

"There's kinds?" she asks, despairingly.

"...what do you mean, there's kinds — what's this for?"

"Nothing."

She's not going to give the demons directions to a vulnerable soul. This week. Maybe next week.

"...sure. Good luck with your boy makeup."

He adjusts in his chair and opens his book again, keeping an eye on Emmelia.

She devotes herself to complex analysis.

Her handwriting, always atrocious, has not been improved by her lingering tremors. Also, complex analysis is her least favorite branch of math she's encountered, and she keeps ending up going in circles trying to find roots of complex numbers. The result is not terribly legible.

At intervals, she gives up on a page altogether, rips it out of her notebook, crumples it into a tight wad and lobs it at the opposite wall. There's already a small mound accumulated up against the wainscotting.

"...least veiled face of God, huh."

"Least. Not un."

He can’t argue with that.

He snuggles back down into his chair and keeps on watching.

"Stop staring," she snaps, after a while.

“I’m reading.”

"You're staring!"

“Well, give me something else to do, then.”

She has acquired a minion.

...

She should not abuse this power. This is a terrible plan.

"I'm pretty sure that delegating to demons is one of those things that traditionally goes badly."

“I’m not leaving your apartment. Not sure how much damage I can do.”

"...I mean, if you want to do the dishes..."

“Fine,” he says, seeming almost relieved to have been assigned a task.

Presently, there is a cloven-hoofed demon boy clearing out her sink with startling efficiency.

She's not sure if she feels guilty about (a) using slave labor, (b) consorting with demons, or (c) the moldy dishes in the bottom of the sink. Definitely at least one of those.

Stupid demons. Stupid complex analysis. Stupid makeup. Stupid ... what else does she have. Government. Fine. She makes flashcards.

Eventually, her minion returns, slightly wetter and soapier.

"I guess demons don't work like witches."

He half-laughs,

and then looks vaguely offended that she made him.

Cute!

-- demon, Emmelia.

"Are all demons dudes?"

He shakes his head.

“…lot of them haven’t even picked one.”

"...come again?"

“…they haven’t decided. To be a man or not.”

"...makes sense, I guess."

Incorporeal spirits. It's not like they're really men or women, any more than they really have cute blond ponytails.

"Do you always pick one and stick with it?"

He shakes his head.

“Lot of times they find one they like better. But some of them switch off a lot. And some of them just…don’t work like that. Or want to be a sunflower or something.”

"Checks out. How come those kinds don't show up in the Bible?"

“…what do you mean?”

"All the angels in the Bible are dudes! Definitely no sunflowers."

“Can’t tell you anything about what’s going on with angels,” he says, making a face.

"Sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities."

He makes another, different face.

“…I guess I could ask about it, if you really want to know.”

"...ask who?"

“Valentine. Or someone. Who was an angel.”

"......huh?"

Do demons reproduce. Demons aren't supposed to reproduce. This is a moral catastrophe of staggering magnitude.

“…I was a human. A while ago.”

He’s avoiding looking her in the eye, and he’s a little pink.

"Humans don't turn into demons," she contradicts, back on firm footing.

“I know that,” he protests, now fully red.

"...then ... oh. Oh."

"...hey! You let me undress in front of you!"

“—why does that make a difference!”

"Demons don't count! They don't even have, like -- bodies or sexes or sexuality or anything!"

“…demons definitely have sexuality,” he says, not sure where to start on addressing the first two.

"...whatever for?"

Blink.

“What?”

"...it's not like they can make little baby demons!"

“…I don’t know why they like sex. They just do.”

"...are you sure they actually like it?"

“…why would they pretend to like it?”

How to put this delicately.

"...their job is hurting people."

“…what? No,” he says, and then, after he’s had a second to process — “according to who, God?”

"According to everyone. -- I mean it's not really their job," she allows, "that's a popular misconception, they're being tortured too -- but it's what they do. And it -- seems like it might be worse. For most people. If they pretended to like it, I mean."

He catches up.

“That’s not — they don’t — why would they fuck each other, then!”

She tries not to flinch at fuck, which is a perfectly good old English word and not any kind of profanity.

"Who says they do?"

“Me!”

"...okay but how do you ... know."

“…because…I was there?”

"I mean them having sex with each other."

“…yep,” he confirms.

"...oh."

She contemplates this for a minute, and then stops deliberately entertaining impure thoughts.

"Maybe they were trying to scare you."

“They’re not jumping out of the bushes. And I walk in on people by accident. A lot.”

"Maybe you should ... knock."

This is really not the point but it feels like it bears saying.

“I knock if it’s a bedroom.”

"Clearly that's insufficient!"

“I can’t knock every time I go into the kitchen! It doesn’t even have doors!”

"Maybe it should have doors!"

“I guess.”

She nods, satisfied.

"...when were you alive?"

“…that one’s private.”

"...how is that private?"

“It just is. I don’t like talking about being alive to people I don’t know.”

"That's weird," she declares, officially giving up on her homework. "Turn around so I can put on my pajamas."

He turns around. Not worth arguing this one.

"I'm decent," she says, after a minute, and flops on the bed. "Does it count as talking about your life if I ask what you went to Hell for?"

“…kind of.”

He proceeds back to his chair.

“But I don’t know for sure, anyway.”

"They don't tell you? That sucks."

“I could probably go ask Lucifer. But I don’t really want to know.”

"...yeah, I haven't looked at my final grades from last semester either."

Pfft.

“…I think somebody asked me if I wanted to know? It’s kind of a blur.”

"That's -- nice of them, I guess."

Also probably a lie. She has to remember that he's probably lying to her all the time. But it's so hard to.

“Yeah. I guess.”

He curls up a little in the chair.

"...do you ... sleep?"

“Sometimes. Why?”

"You can be in the bed. If you don't try anything."

“I don’t even like girls,” he protests, automatically.

"--well you could have said that when I was upset about changing in front of you."

It would be very silly to feel disappointed about this, so she doesn't.

"...I should have said 'no, it's fine, I'm gay enough to see you naked'?"

"Yes!"

He takes a moment to process this.

“…I don’t really need to sleep. You don’t have to.”

"Just get in the stupid bed and stop making a federal issue out of it."

He gets in the stupid bed.

(His legs are much softer and fluffier than you’d expect.)

She is not snuggling him and wouldn't know.

...she is not snuggling him while she's awake. She might migrate in her sleep.

Then she may discover, if she wakes up in the middle of the night, that he is also very warm.

Warm with the flames of hell.

...also, soft.

She cannot actually think of any good reason to stop cuddling him.

He seems quite content with this.

When she wakes up, her bed is empty.

Her desk has a cheese sandwich on it.