Chapter Text
Yeah, yeah, so all they start out the same way. Still going to tell it because shit, someone has to know.
A man walks into a bar. They never ask what kind of bar, but let's face it, for these kinds of jokes, they're not gonna be the Ritz Carlton.
No, this one's a really scuzzy type – back rooms that have never seen the gentle touch of the health department, roaches that outnumber the patrons, bathrooms where the nicer option is pissing in the alley.
So this guy, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Got a nice suit on, sunglasses inside, which means he's definitely an asshole. Can't be the health department inspector because he's not asking for a bribe. Nah, he's just standing there, looking at everyone like they're dirt beneath his shoe.
He walks up to the bar, and Jerry looks at him. “What do you want?” he asks, but everyone who knows Jerry knows he's already going to give him one of those dusty ass bottles he keeps underneath for when fuckers wander into the wrong bar.
“Oh, just a glass of water,” the man says, which is a real motherfucking dick move. “But I would like to ask you a question.” He's got that rich fucking polite tone to him, like that asshole judge that lectures you on being fucking responsible and he doesn't want to see you around here again.
Jerry's looking at him and his face is all red and sweaty. The boys in the corner are quiet because they all know how this ends and nobody's going to call the cops to save this fucker.
“What?” Jerry snaps. “Do you got a problem?”
“No, no problem,” he says, real smooth. “Just – have you given a thought to your afterlife?”
So he's one of those religious nutjobs, we think. Going to pass out a pamphlet, give us a lecture, maybe try to get us to leave the bar to go with him to some church. But he's an idiot cause nobody's gonna go with him anywhere.
And Jerry doesn't give a shit either. “Fuck you,” he says. “Get out of my fucking bar before you meet your maker right now.”
He's laughing. “Oh, I don't we're going to meet up anytime soon,” he says. “But then again, neither will you.” And with that, he tosses this coin up in the air and sends him straight for Jerry's throat.
It takes a few seconds before someone sees that Jerry's body's still there, but his head's a few feet back.
It doesn't take that long after before everyone makes a dash for that asshole in the suit, and it's the biggest fucking mistake we've ever made. Because that fucker, I don't know what he was doing, but there's blood everywhere, people flying into things, glass breaking, and I'm hiding underneath a fucking table because I didn't sign up for this shit.
But eventually, it's quiet again and I can't hear anything except for a few dying gurgles and the squeak of that fucker's polished shoes as it walks through whatever's left of the bar.
He stops, bends down next to me, and I can see there ain't nothing human in those eyes. Just something that says I know exactly who you are and I can rip it apart faster than you could move.
“I want you to tell them,” he says, real quiet, because he knows there ain't anything around to drown him out, “that things are about to get a hell of a lot more interesting. Nobody's sitting on the sidelines for this one.”
“The fuck?” I say, but he bends down, and then the coin's flashing before my eyes and--
“Call me The Accountant,” he says.
--and there's nothing.
Turns out that the whole lakes of burning fire, pitchforks in the ass, getting your skin ripped from your bones over and over again isn't the worst thing hell can do.
“It's our new rehabilitation program,” Human Resources said, stamping her seal firmly down on the sheet in front of her. “It has been brought to our attention that certain disciplinary measures are not as effective as they should be.”
“Go figure,” John Milton said. “Who knew eternal torture on people might not yield positive results?”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Milton,” she continued, ignoring him, “we are a dynamic organization, looking to experiment with ways of control. And your name has been brought up as a perfect candidate for our program.”
“Brought up,” he grunted. “I'm guessing I know exactly who that might have been.”
“Well, you do present unique challenges.” She placed the sheet of paper in the tray next to her. “But I have faith--” she paused to chuckle, then resumed. “I have faith that this new program will be far more conducive to ensuring better behavior.”
Yeah, so Milton could handle pain. He doesn't like it, and was about ready to fucking kick the door down again and see how long that bastard took to catch him. He did it once, he'd do it again.
He could handle it. He'd handled worse – like watching his daughter die over and over, unable to save her. Suffering was not new.
But as he sat, chained to his new desk on a fucking folding chair with a stack of paperwork next to him and a shredding machine at his feet, he realized hell wasn't pain at all.
Hell was paperwork.
Never-ending paperwork.
It was waiting for the next stack to come as you finished the last one, knowing that if you didn't finish it, it didn't matter because what else were you going to do? Sit there, twiddling your thumbs, knowing the chains wouldn't even be long enough for you to get a decent jerk-off at any point. And that if you quit entirely, it didn't matter either. Nothing here mattered.
It was knowing that your baby girl was dead and your granddaughter was being raised out there and you had no idea how much time had passed. It was having that fear that someone might come after her one day, that no matter how many men you killed, there was always another Jonah there to take it away. At least Piper would do right by her, and Webster, if he knew what was good for him.
It was realizing that the last time you had really enjoyed yourself, it was right after you drank from that fucker's skull, when that asshole tossed you the keys and you drove into hell together, promising yourself that if things turned to shit, you'd be outta there.
Somehow that didn't happen. A day turned into a week turned into eternity and he was still there, his brain going numb and you would have thought The Accountant would have come by to gloat about it, but he didn't.
So Milton kept telling himself he'd escape again. Force that fucker to track him down, drag him back kicking and screaming all the way.
One of these days.
Pick up paper. Put in shredder.
Rinse. Repeat. Go insane.
He doesn't know how long it's been – fuck, months? Years? Decades? No way to keep track here, when there's some unknown demon, coughing and hacking in front of him, unlocking his chains and motioning up.
“Oh, is it break time already?” Milton said. “Gosh, and I forgot to pack a lunch.”
The demon didn't say anything, but his pitchfork spoke volumes.
“Not even a stop at the vending machine? I could go for some Snickers.”
The hallway was long and boring on purpose, fluorescent lights a new and no doubt personalized touch to drain the life out of everyone trudging by. They stopped in front of a door and he was motioned in.
Inside, there was a desk with a woman sitting behind it, a stack of files in front of her.
And another fucking folding chair.
He sat, because what the fuck else was he going to do?
“Mr. John Milton,” she said, making a tally on some clipboard. “I do hate to take you away from your work, but matters have arisen that require me to ask you a few questions.”
“No problem.” Milton waved his hand. “Just make sure you let my boss know. I'd hate for him to think I was slacking off.”
She frowned. “He is aware. We would not be having this conversation otherwise.”
“Right.” There was a distinct and awkward silence.
“I apologize for not introducing myself,” she said. “I am The Actuary. I assess risks and liabilities. And you, Mr. Milton, have been a perfect example.”
“I like to think that I keep you on your toes,” he said. “Wouldn't want hell to get boring or anything?”
“Recently, however, I have seen a marked improvement in your behavior. No physical altercations, a noticeable decrease in insolence, and your document handling time is exemplary. Not to mention, eight years, three months, and one week since your last problematic outbreak. It appears our program has been a success.”
“Yeah, five stars all around.” Milton shifted. “Recommend it to anyone stopping by.”
“As I am the one who instituted it in the first place, I appreciate your feedback. I will note it in your file,” she said. She tapped on the files. “But I did not bring you here to get an evaluation on my ideas. I would like to know the circumstances surrounding your escape.”
Milton scoffed. “What's to say? Broke out, found the fucker who killed my daughter, killed him, destroyed a cult, went back. Not much.”
“Yes, the general outline is in your file,” she said. “But I am curious. It appears that The Accountant personally brought you back. Your file also notes that this is not your first dealing with him.”
“Oh, we're good friends. Can't wait to catch up with him again. Hey, is he around? Or is he off finding another one of my fellow inmates? How's Barry doing?”
“Mr. Milton, you must realize that we do not employee The Accountant for simple cases,” The Actuary said, her tone implying a very finite amount of patience. “It would be a waste of his considerable talents and of our limited time. You were one of a handful of special circumstances.”
“Well, shit, I'd hope breaking out of here, stealing your boss's gun, and saving the fucking world would be enough for you fuckers.”
The Actuary did not look impressed, and her tone implied that what little patience she had was rapidly running out. “Which is why I need to ask you: have you had any recent contact with him? And please be honest. It would not be in your best interest to lie here.”
Milton narrowed his eyes, wanting to ask a number of questions none of which she would probably fucking answer. He settled on a simple “Why?”
“This is not how this works, Milton. You answer my questions and you do so correctly and promptly. ” Her voice was firm. “Since the time you were brought in, have you talked to him? Received written communications from him? Had any telepathic messages in the form of dreams, psychic bonds, or feelings manifesting themselves as strong suggestions?”
“Yeah, sure, he just drops on by my brain every now and then and lets me know he's thinking about a haircut but he's worried that it'll be too short and then he tells me to forget about it. It's good though, because I know that means he cares.”
The Actuary delicately picked up her pen, clicked it once, then stabbed it precisely and neatly between his open legs. She smiled coldly. “Answer it again.”
Milton swallowed and tried not to flinch. “No,” he admitted. “Haven't heard from in a while.”
The Actuary's pen flashed as she wrote something down. “At the time of the escape, did you converse with him at all?”
“Not really,” he said. “Unless you count getting threatened with going back to Hell a good conversation.” He did not add, I may have told him I'm going to escape again and he may have encouraged me to do so to keep from getting bored, but I'm not fucking telling you that because some serious shit is clearly going down and now my dick is going to have to get therapy.
She nodded. “At any point, from your initial incarceration to your current situation, has he expressed anything that might lead you to suggest he has thoughts of rebellion or disloyalty towards current administration?”
“What the fuck,” he said blankly. “What the actual fuck? Are we talking about the same guy here – the asshole you call Satan's right hand man?”
“I'm going to assume that's a no, “ she said. “But I'd like you to confirm it.”
“No, he didn't. Why the fuck would you think anything like that?”
The Actuary shrugged. “I suppose it won't do you any harm to know now that you've confirmed your lack of involvement. He went absent six days ago and since then, we have received reports of a troubling nature.”
“Reports?”
“Abuse of power, excessive force, possible recruitment of escaped souls for unknown purposes.”
“There's no fucking way,” Milton said. “He's a company man. Fucking would die for you assholes. Certainly has killed for you.”
“Perhaps, in the past.” She templed her fingers. “But at least one witness has reported an individual calling himself the Accountant, using his weaponry and committing acts of... well, not illegal, but certainly far too dramatic and indiscreet for our boss's peace of mind. If he has gone rogue, and it is possible, we need to nip this problem in the bud before things escalate.”
“I thought you guys liked this sort of thing? Wars in heaven, rebelling against your leader, casting down souls. There's a shit ton of books about it. Might have read one or two.”
The Actuary smiled, far too many teeth gleaming. “That was the old ways. Haven't you heard, Mr. Milton? It's a new age.”
She flipped the file over and pressed a button on her desk. A light flashed above the door. “In any event, it's none of your concern. Now, I have a meeting to go to, so just wait here and someone will be by to take you back.”
The same demon as before opened the door, and The Actuary gathered up her files. She gave a quick nod to Milton, then walked out the door, the demon right behind her.
The door shut and he was alone.
Unguarded, unchained, and deeply aware of the fucking trap that had just been sprung on him.
Didn't concern him, his ass.
You don't ask a guy those questions, all but tell him he's the closest thing to a friend an asshole like that has, and then leave him alone with a clear path towards freedom.
It's all but ordering him to go find someone.
And Milton fucking hated orders.
But he still got up from the chair, cracked his neck, and opened the door. Because even if you knew it was a trap, it didn't matter if the bait was good enough.
“Hey guys.”
The two demons in the break room looked up blankly from their box of sprinkled pink doughnuts.
“Yeah, kind of lost here. Hey, which way to the exit? Running late here for my assignment and you know how that is?”
One of them was still wearing his meatbag, a little frayed at the edges, and he shrugged. “You got to be new here,” he said.
The other one spat out his crumbs, revealing ten rows of blackened teeth and pointed at the broom closet. “Hell, everyone knows it's through that door. Didn't you read your handbook?”
“Must have missed that part,” Milton muttered.
Meatbag laughed. “Whatever. Just make sure you're already in the system, or you're going to end up like that guy a few weeks ago.”
“Really, you had to remind me, you asshole? Fuck, I was eating.”
“Oh, it's not like you haven't seen worse. Shit, you did worse last Thursday in the bathroom.”
Milton took the opportunity to get the fuck out of there, and opened the door.
Yep, brooms, mops, and a fucking screen with a place for a hand.
It wasn't fire and blood and a lot of screaming this time.
It was putting his hand on the scanner, watching it flash, and giving a green thumbs up, before the world moved around him.
It was walking out of that broom closet into a deserted hospital, and thinking for just one second, you did it again. You could run. They don't have anyone that can find you.
He would be able to go anywhere he wanted to go. Maybe he couldn't see his granddaughter, say hello to Piper, check on Webster - at least not until it was safe. But he was breathing fresh air.
He was free.
But as long as that asshole was out there, he wasn't. Not really.
And that was as far as he was going to go in thinking about it.
The portal had apparently dropped Milton off in the middle of fucking nowhere. Correction: somewhere with trees and mountains and a fuckton of rain in the middle of nowhere. You would have thought that they'd have gone on vacation to Hawaii or the Bahamas, but no, being constantly rained on was the way to go.
Guess if you're used to heat and flame, some dreary wetness looked like paradise.
He was trudging through mud, trying to figure out how the fuck to find a possibly insane, definitely dangerous demonic bounty hunter who was carving his way through the world. It wasn't like you could just call someone and--
He heard a ringing.
“Fuck you,” he said. “Just fuck you.”
There was a pay phone ahead. Nothing near it, nobody around, so of course, it didn't take a genius to know who it was meant for.
“You've got to be shitting me.”
He picked it up.
“Red house, ten miles ahead. Area's already been cleared.” The voice was mechanical, unrecognizable.
The message was not. “Yeah, yeah, I got the picture. Can't use one of your own because he'll see them coming. Can't trust another soul because they'll just run. But me?”
Milton laughed. “I'm predictable and expendable.”
“Good luck,” the voice said, and hung up.
The parking lot was mostly empty, but there were a few cars parked there. Nothing spectacular, but there was an old blue truck ahead of him. He smashed the window, hotwired the car.
Out of curiosity, he checked the glove compartment.
An old friend was waiting there.
He checked the weight of the Godkiller, felt it fit perfectly like it had never left.
Guess they really were pulling out the big guns.
The house was quiet when he got there, but shit, if someone was trying to lay low, they sucked at it. Fucking stood out against the gray skies, like blood on a road. It was an invitation, not a hiding place.
The Accountant was smarter than that. Which is why none of this made sense.
Milton got out, stared at the dark windows, touched the Godkiller.
Then he opened the door.
If that asshole was going to really rebel against Hell, he wouldn't be doing this extra shit. Wouldn't be murdering people left and right. He would have just walked right in, calmly moved a few papers around, picked a few demons off clean and neat, and before you knew it, people would have been working for him. Quick and bloodless.
Well, relatively bloodless. It was hell after all.
No sound in the house. It didn't feel like anyone was here – a distinct lack of presence. Was this another test? Maybe the whole point was to get rid of a thorn in their side, though there were a hundred different ways they could have taken Milton out over the years.
But as he walked further in, it was still empty - smears of blood on the wall that meant whoever used to be here probably hadn't left on their own. Food still left on the stove, cash in a drawer, which he pocketed.
He walked up the stairs, checked to the left, to the right. Still nothing.
Everything empty, open. Except for one door.
He opened it.
“Shit,” he said.
Chapter Text
The man in the suit bends down. “Wow, someone did a number on you,” he says.
The body's coughing. “No shit,” he manages. “Been waiting for you.”
“Really?” He looks around. “I wasn't coming for you. Hey, you know a man named Peter? Big fucker, bald, probably doesn't bathe that much.”
Finger points over on other side of bar to the pile of parts lying there.
“Ah, it seems I arrived a bit too late. Apologies. At least, it saves me the trouble of sending him back.”
“Yeah, that's what he said you'd say.”
“Who?”
“The Accountant,” the body coughs through one final mouthful of blood, before falling still.
“Interesting,” the man in the suit says, poking the body with one tip of his shoe. “That doesn't sound like me.”
“What can I say?” the other man says, coming into the room. “You guys took all the good names.” He's carrying an empty whiskey bottle, which he throws to the ground.
The Accountant stiffens. “Long time,” he says. “I wasn't aware you had left.”
“Well, after your pet managed to make his spectacular exit, I felt it only fair to follow suit. Although a little less openly.”
“You're certainly not trying to be discreet now,” he says, the coin slipping into his fingers automatically. “It wouldn't be hard to find you.”
The man laughs. “But they're not going to be looking for me.”
Milton managed to wrestle the unconscious Accountant in the car. He couldn't really see anything that was fatal – good thing about being a demon is healing.
But there was still a lot of blood and knowing him, he was going to be pissed about the suit when he woke up. Somewhere far from here, Milton figured.
Whoever did this, he doesn't really want to wait for.
Because if they were able to take out this asshole--
Well, he wasn't an idiot. Don't take on a fight without fucking knowing who you're going after and exactly what they're capable of.
So hiding out. He was looking for somewhere that wasn't going to ask too many questions about bleeding men and stolen cars and possible murders.
One cheap-ass motel later and far more cash than the room's worth, he opened the door and realized he had no idea what the fuck he was doing.
Dump the body on the bed. Don't look at it – don't think about the hunter that's been with you longer than a lot of your relationships. Just go take a shower, get yourself cleaned up, figure out what's going on.
He was telling himself, as the blood (not his) washed down the drain. He put the clothes on again, walked out, and was able to see The Accountant open his eyes and stare at him in confusion.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said. “Sleep well?”
“Milton.” The voice was raspy, as if it hurt to talk. “This won't look good on your record.”
“What can I say? Missed an old work buddy and thought I'd say hi.”
The Accountant tried to get up, and Milton put a hand on his chest. “Easy,” he said. “Who do you think you are, Dumuzid? Lay the fuck back down.”
He breathed out, the sound coming out choked. Milton eyed him. “It's all right. I'm not going to die on you,” the Accountant said, his hand clenched around the corner of the faded blanket.
Milton snorted. “I'm not worried about that. “
“Of course not.”
“But how about you let me know just what the fuck is going on? Between Hell deciding I'd make the perfect bounty hunter to find your ass, and whatever you went through that left you like this, I'm thinking there's a lot of shit going on that I need to know about right the fuck now.”
“Milton,” he said, closing his eyes. “Later.”
“Yeah, no, you're going to give me answers now.”
“That's not going to happen.”
“Fucking--”
“Because I'm not sure I even have any.”
Always had to have the fucking final word.
The Accountant managed to sleep for most of the day, during which Milton flipped through several dozen channels, managed to figure out that half the world was on fire apparently without needing any help from hell, and ate a Snickers out of a vending machine just to see if it still tasted good.
Half-way through him nodding off while watching the local news, the phone in the room rang.
Here we fucking go, he thought.
“Have you retrieved him?”
“Nah,” Milton said. “Decided I'd had enough of all your shit. Probably better send someone to get me except oh shit—you don't have anyone good enough to. Oh, well. Guess you'll have to hope I stay out of trouble.”
“I don't believe you. We will provide transportation for you to return him to us, Milton.”
“Didn't you hear me--”
“And in return, you will be allowed to stay here for fifty years. Fair payment for the task you have undertaken.”
Milton was silent.
“We will not pursue you. We will not track you. You will be able to see your granddaughter again. Able to watch her grow up.”
“Fuck you.” He's pissed now, angry and there's so many reasons why.
“All you have to do is deliver him to us. I'm sure he's in no condition to stop you. In any event, we have given you a weapon if he does resist.”
“You do know he didn't do any of this shit, right? There's someone else out there.”
“That is none of your concern, Mr. Milton. We will handle it from here. Just give us The Accountant and your part will be ended.”
He nodded. The voice didn't say anything as he let the seconds stretch out, not talking.
On the TV screen, the local news anchor was talking about breaking news - an explosion that wiped out a local bar. They were still trying to identify the bodies.
“Yeah, that would be the smart thing,” he said. “Get out of Hell, get to see my family, get everything I could want.”
“Yes.”
“The problem is I'm not really that smart. I tend to do really reckless shit and if there's some fucker out there walking around, I'm not sure I trust you idiots to take care of it. Especially since you're taking the only asshole capable of dealing with it out.”
“Milton--”
“Look forward to meeting who you send out to get us. I'm sure they'll do great.” He hung up the phone.
“You never cease to amaze me, Milton. I'm not sure there are many who could tell a messenger from Hell to fuck off with quite so much conviction.” The voice was weaker than normal, but it wouldn't take long before it was back to its usual annoyingly confident self.
“It's a gift,” he said. “And like I said, no one's safe as long as they're someone out there doing shit like what they're saying you did. Guessing, by the way, that you didn't.”
The Accountant tried to rise this time, managing to prop himself up against the headboard. “No, I didn't. Nice of you to believe me.”
“Not your style,” Milton said. “No use getting your hands dirty when plenty of people are willing to do it for you.”
“A ringing vote of confidence, I'm sure. But you are correct. There is someone out there using my name to conceal his own plans.”
Milton sat back on the other side of the bed. “Know who he is?”
The Accountant smiled thinly. “As a matter of fact, he and I go way back.”
The Accountant watches as the man walks through the bodies, ignoring the crunching beneath his feet. Flies buzz around the man's head. He ignores them.
“Really, all this time and you've been such a good little soldier. I would have thought you would have grown bored of this shit by now.”
“Not all of us feel the need to rebel.” The Accountant's coin grows hot in his hand.
“That's rich,” the man said. “But I guess you weren't really meant to lead, just to follow. Not like me.”
“You already failed once. He showed you mercy. Let you--”
“Let me—what? Live? Fall into nothingness, while he kept all of Hell from greatness. We could have made a play for the world, and he's just content to read his books and send his minions out when things get exciting. He could have an army of humans ready to kill in his name and what does he do? Stop them.”
The Accountant gets nearer. Up close, the limits of the body are already beginning to show, the skin sloughing off to show bone in parts. “He doesn't care about that.”
“And that's the problem. That's why we need new management. A new age for everyone.”
“You at the head, I suppose.”
The man grins. “I almost succeeded once. This time I won't fail.”
The Accountant sends his coin towards the body, but it moves, still preternaturally fast under its owner's fading control. It catches it with his hand, dropping it to the ground. “Not bad,” he says, recalling the coin to his hand.
“Not good enough,” the man says, and that's when the bodies behind the Accountant lurch, grabbing at him.
“Learned a few new tricks, Beelzebub,” the Accountant manages to say, as he's swarmed by them, dragged down.
“Like I said.” He watches as they pin him, sees the defiance in his old friend's eyes. “A new age.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Milton said. “What was that whole speech about The Dark Lord, Satan, Beelzebub?”
“I may have given Ms. Piper all of the details. It was unnecessary at the time.”
“Of course it fucking was.”
“Our Dark Lord stripped his name from him, let it fade away until no one could tell if he ever really existed. That was his punishment – to be nameless, to have no role in Hell, no worshipers to give him power, no way to regain his role as Prince. To explain infernal administration and the history of demonic rebellion was a bit much in such a situation.”
“No wonder he's fucking pissed.” Milton turned the TV off, staring into the black screen. “You took everything away from him.”
“Rebellion is only valued as long as you succeed,” The Accountant said. “Our boss learned his lesson with that one. Beelzebub is a lesson. Anyone can be replaced.”
“Even you.”
“Even me,” he said. “Which is why your loyalty is so inexplicable. The best play, Milton, would be to turn me in, collect your reward from Hell.”
Milton looked at him, saw a ragged, tired scrap of the insanely powerful demon he first met so many years ago. The Accountant back then would have overpowered him in an instant, ripped the Godkiller from his hand without a thought and forced him to his knees just to prove a point.
This one couldn't keep himself steady, his eyes exhausted and almost—defeated?
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “Like those assholes wouldn't immediately betray me the second I turned your ass in. Can't trust any of you.”
The Accountant nodded, seeming to accept that explanation. “I guess you have gotten smarter over the years.”
“Fuck you,” Milton said, feeling even more uncomfortable when The Accountant smiled. “So where the hell has this motherfucker been? Pretty sure you haven't been keeping him in gen pop.”
“There are places in Hell,” the Accountant said, “where certain prisoners may be kept. Places not even someone like you has been to. And until recently, he was biding his time there. I had been told that they were quite inescapable. Clearly, that was wrong.”
“Clearly,” Milton said. “I'm surprised you didn't think of stashing me there.”
“To be honest, Milton, you're rather exceptional in your talent to escape. As many fugitives as I have captured, you are the only one that managed to accomplish more before getting back than a petty crime and getting laid.”
“You know--”
“I'm well aware,” The Accountant said. “And in any event--” He trailed off.
“Yes?” he prompted when it looked like the Accountant wasn't going to speak up on his own.
“I wouldn't recommend you going there. It's a place of utter solitude and desolation, an icy lake surrounded where all is frozen. Up until a few days ago, I would have called it an eternal life sentence. You go there, you don't ever come back.”
“Oh,” Milton said.
“And as infuriating as you can be, you don't deserve that. You're--” The words seemed to choke a little in his mouth, but The Accountant got them out. “You're a better person than that.”
“Right,” he said awkwardly. “So if no one can escape, how the hell did he?”
“He did not have his rebellion unaided,” the Accountant said. “All it would take is one person dedicated enough to breaking him out. They would have to be relatively high-level to make it down there, but...”
“Someone like an Actuary, for example,” Milton said. “Just throwing a name out there.”
“That's right.” His eyes flickered. “Though as you've said about me, that's really not her style.”
“Risk management.” At The Accountant's questioning look, he smiled. “Yeah, she told me. Since you're not a typical accountant, I'm guessing it's more than just figuring out numbers and shit.”
“She determines whether it's in the best interest for us to retain certain personnel, to go after certain fugitive, to implement programs like the one you were most recently in.”
“Thanks for that. So glad you buried me in paperwork and didn't even come by to say hi?”
“Some of us do have jobs to do, Milton. There are more souls out there than you.”
“Right,” he said, pushing down a surprising rush of anger. “You're not a one-man kind of guy.”
Something flickered in The Accountant's eyes, but vanished before Milton could figure it out. “We don't have time for this,” he said. “Beelzebub is out there, and the longer we wait, the more time he has to enact his plans.”
“Which are, as far as I can tell, use your name to stir up shit, make Hell think you're involved, and kick your ass to the point that I have to drag you back here.”
“Essentially, yes,” he said. “I will point out that he did get the drop on me.”
“If it makes you feel better. Personally, I'm betting less on you winning a rematch and more on the motherfucking Godkiller I have strapped to my side.”
The Accountant looked dubious. “They just gave that to you?”
“Yes, asshole. I didn't steal it this time.”
“Pardon for me assuming history repeated itself. Well, if you were going to kill me, you might have a shot, but with Beelzebub, you could use a BB gun and it would have the same effect.”
“You got to be shitting me.”
“No, I am not shitting you,” The Accountant replied. “Lucifer didn't just freeze Beelzebub because he read Dante and thought it would be the hip new thing to do. He did it because Beelzebub can jump bodies. You use the Godkiller on the body he's using, he'll just jump to another one before his soul gets ripped out.”
“That's bullshit,” Milton said. “You're telling me you have a weapon that can kill anything, except that it can't in this one instance?”
“Let me explain something to you. How would you kill a fly?”
“This is a fucking stupid--”
“How would you kill a goddamn fly?”
Milton let out a frustrated breath. “Fucking swat it.”
“Exactly. Now how would you kill five?”
“Are we seriously--”
“How would you--”
“Fine. Fucking use a bigger swatter and kill them all.”
“Yes. What about a million?”
Milton stared at him incredulously. “A million?”
“He's the Lord of Flies, Milton. The more power he gets, the more he can spread himself out. He has one follower, he has nowhere to go. He gets a few more, he's' got some options. He gets a million? How the fuck do you get rid of a million flies all at once? What if you miss one?”
“Shit.” Milton banged his fist against the wall. “So you're telling me there's no way to stop him? Because I can't accept that. Maybe the Godkiller's useless, but what about your fucking coin? Got any weird demonic shit you can do with that?”
“Possibly.” The Accountant's hands twitched, searching for something missing. “If I still had it.”
Milton gave him a thumbs up, instead of the finger he was thinking of using. “Well, we really are fucked.”
Chapter Text
“Really, you could make this so much easier on yourself if you would just submit,” Beelzebub says, wiping his knife on The Accountant's face. “I know you're used to it.”
He laughs, spitting blood. “Not to you. Never to you.” There's no part of him that doesn't hurt, but centuries of living in Hell means you don't react to any of it.
Beelzebub only hums a little, nicking his jaw. He's just playing, after all. “It has been a while,” he says. “Maybe you have changed.”
“You wouldn't know.”
“Of course I wouldn't. Trapped in the lake, years spent frozen in place because of his mercy, knowing that things were changing all around me while I remained still. Changing for the worse.”
“For the better,” he counters. “In the old days, he would have killed you, flayed your body and used it as the guidepost.”
“He should have,” Beelzebub says quietly. “That's the light I followed, the blazing one that lit the night sky, brighter than anything, not the one that chose to dim himself.”
“You never understood him,” The Accountant replies. “You loved him, but it wasn't enough.”
“You loved him too. And yet here we both are, subject to his... compassion.” Beelzebub's nose wrinkles in distaste. “Don't you miss them though? The old days? Fighting your way through the hordes, flaming sword at your side? We could have them back again. Better, even.”
“I don't miss them.” He thinks he's telling the truth, but he doesn't want to examine it too closely.
“You have gotten soft,” Beelzebub raises the knife again. “Tell me,” he says, cocking his head. “I've heard whispers. Rumors. That you've got yourself a pet.”
The Accountant doesn't react. He knows what his old friend's looking for. “I don't know what you're talking about. Cerberus passed on years ago.”
“Don't lie to me,” he says. “I know better. He is rather magnificent, for a human. If it weren't for him, I never would have been able to sneak past. How about I make you a new offer?”
“Because all your other ones were so effective.” He's still calm, holding himself steady. “There's nothing you can give me that I want.”
“I could give you him.”
“No,” The Accountant whispers. “No.”
“Collar him, leash him to your side. Your loyal guard dog, to do your bidding. You know Lucifer will never let you have him. Or him have you, if that's your preference.” His voice is cool. He knows he's struck a nerve.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Beelzebub's laughing. “I'll make it even better for you. I won't make you do anything. All you have to do is nothing. Don't fight me. Don't stand in my way. Just stay here with your rabid dog and I won't touch you. You'll both be safe.” He starts tracing along The Accountant's face, and he can feel the familiar bite of magic. Fucking really?
“You know your seals won't work on me,” he says. “You can't control me.”
“No, but I can knock you out for a few hours. Long enough for your pet to come find you.”
“What do you--”
“Oh, didn't I mention it? He's here, now. Came running as soon as he heard. Such loyalty from a feral creature. Perhaps I could find a use for him if you decide to cast him aside.”
The Accountant is slumping now, trying to fight the drowsiness creeping in on his thoughts, but that sends a jolt through him. “He won't ever join you.”
“Not yet,” Beelzebub says, and finishes the seal. The blackness swallows him. But from the void, The Accountant hears, “Not unless I give him something he wants.”
He woke up quickly, sitting straight up. Sleeping? He shook his head. It must have taken more out of him. Next to him, he could feel the warm presence of Milton, stretching and yawning.
“You know, you could take your time. It's not like we have a plan or anything.” Milton looked at him, and then frowned. “You have a plan.”
“Not exactly,” The Accountant said, the last vestiges of sleep leaving him. “But I have an idea.”
“Oh, good,” Milton said. “Love those.”
He ignored him. It was usually best. “We need to find someone. An old friend of mine.”
“Old friend like the old friend who just cut you up or old friend, like one who won't kill us.”
“She won't try to kill us.” In the spirit of honesty, however, he amended. “Probably.”
“Reassuring,” Milton said, but his eyes were already bright and he was pulling on his filthy jacket. “Looking forward to meeting her.”
“I'm sure you will be,” The Accountant muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind. We need to get a map. And a car.”
Milton looked at him.
“Not the piece of shit you were driving.”
The car wasn't the hard part, it turned out.
Driving the rustbucket down the street, Milton suddenly slammed on his brakes.
“Seriously?”
“I got the car.” The Accountant followed his eyes over to--
“No, absolutely not.”
“You have to admit, it's a piece of fucking beauty.”
“It's noticeable. We're not going to be able to blend in.”
Milton turned to him and said with far more gravity than he usually had, “We are going to go see your mysterious old friend who might be working with your other friend, who wants you dead.”
“Yes,” he said cautiously. It had not been a hard decision to omit what Beelzebub had really said. There was still time after all, and who knew how the fairly volatile Milton might take it.
“So when we get there, we could die right away. And if I'm going to die--”
“Need I point out that you're already dead.”
“If I'm going to die,” he said, louder, “I want to die in something like this.”
He had a point. “Fine,” The Accountant conceded. “But know that if we get pulled over by any form of law enforcement on the way there, I'm informing them that I was an unwilling hostage to a clearly drug-crazed criminal.”
“Great,” Milton said, and went to go steal the cherry red 1979 Trans Am.
The map was harder.
“Do you know how many gas stations I had to go to get this?”
“Ten,” The Accountant said. “I've kept track of your complaints the entire time.”
“Yeah, well, you're welcome. What else do you need?”
He frowned in thought. “I'll need a live chicken, three pounds of salt, and a package of Twinkies.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Yes,” The Accountant said. “I am.”
“Dick.”
“But I do need the Twinkies.”
Milton just gave him a dirty look.
“Low blood sugar,” he said innocently.
It was a long fucking day.
By mutual agreement, the radio was left off.
“Look, if the legions of Hell come screaming down at us, we should be forewarned,” The Accountant said.
“Plus, your taste in music sucks.”
“Excuse me? My taste is impeccable.”
“KC and the Sunshine Band?”
“Philistine,” he said, and that was it.
It was also decided, after The Accountant cut his fucking hand open, drew a whole bunch of weird symbols on the map, and casually informed Milton that they needed to drive 200 miles south, that maybe the man whose hand wasn't gushing blood should be the one with the hand on the wheel.
“You know it'll just heal up within a few hours.” He was already getting into the passenger seat.
“I know,” Milton said. “But between that and the whole getting tortured yesterday, I kind of thought you might need some more sleep.”
“I'm fine,” The Accountant snapped. “I don't need-”
“Please.” His face was serious. “Just take some time.”
He grumpily subsided. “If you crash us...”
“Like I'd ever do that,” Milton said, and careened down the road.
In the old days, it is the three of them. Always.
Lucifer is the leader. The star that guides everyone, tells them where to go, inspires them to rebel. He is the one that keeps them together, long after the war is over and they are lost.
Beelzebub is the fighter. He is the one who pushes for them to keep going. They can regroup, he says. It doesn't have to be the end. He is the one who fought so hard that he doesn't know how to stop when there's no more battles.
And what does that make him? The thinker? The one that analyzes everything, determines that really, this is the most efficient course of action. He is the stable one.
Lucifer's smile is sad, gentle. “It's for the best. He never would accept peace of any kind.”
“Is that even possible for us?” he asks.
“Maybe not true peace,” Lucifer says. “But we've had enough of sacrifices and war. I just want to rest.”
He watches his friend scream as the ice encases him, his body stilling slowly until no movement can be seen. He leaves the lake, rises to the top, does not look back.
There is no use in regret and he will accept every choice he has made.
And every choice he will never make.
The Accountant woke for the second time that day, not as abrupt. The car was parked by the side of the road.
Milton was snoring loudly in the seat next to him. Some habits, it appeared, were too hard to break.
He opened the door carefully, got out.
The night was cool, a slight wind stirring the grass around him.
What the hell was he doing, he thought.
By all rights, he should turn himself in, let Hell know what was happening. Even if they didn't believe him. Even if he'd have to plead to Lucifer himself, throw himself on whatever feelings he still had for his one of his oldest friends. .
Even if that meant that leaving a certain someone who escaped from Hell, ruining carefully laid plans to keep him safe, out of trouble, away from others who wondered just how much favoritism went into making sure someone who saved the lives of innocents would get a reprieve, however small.
Compassion existed in hell, but it wasn't taken lightly.
Fuck. He let out a breath. “Fuck.”
“That's putting it lightly.”
The Accountant turned around. There was a black bird on the ground, almost imperceptible in the darkness. As he watched it, it flew to a tree, perched on the branch.
“Camio,” he said. “I didn't ask for your help.”
“And I'm not giving it to you,” Camio answered. “But I do owe you for that thing in Ireland, so I'm repaying it now by letting you know whatever you got planned, do it quickly because Beelzebub's not going to wait forever for you to decide if you're going to join him.”
“Are you planning on it?” he asked quietly, bracing himself. Normally, Camio wouldn't be a challenge. Today, in this condition? He might be able to take him.
“Not today, but it won't matter. He may only have one or two right now, but the longer Lucifer sits on the sidelines, not doing anything about all the shit going on here, the more everyone's going to start wondering if Beelzebub has a point.”
“So you know it wasn't me that's been doing this.”
“We all know.” Camio sighed. “Not the fucking point. You're the easiest target. Lucifer doesn't want to admit he lost control a long time ago, and Beelzebub—well, you guys are complicated. But yeah, none of this matters as long as Hell stays the way it is. Why do you think I never went back?”
“Sleeping with humans?”
Camio grinned. “Don't knock it until you try it. Some of them are so flexible--”
“You have any idea how he got out,” The Accountant interrupted, stepping closer. “Had to have someone on the inside.”
“That's obvious.” He hopped off the branch, hitting the ground not as a bird, but a man also dressed in black with a sword strapped to his side. “Nergal. Waited until your little friend made a break for it, then sprung Beelzebub in the confusion.”
The Accountant uttered a low curse. ““Damn it,” the Accountant spat. “He's not that powerful, but he is annoyingly persistent.”
“Yeah, like someone I know.” Camio walked over. “Look, just take care of yourself. You've been running so long doing this shit that I think you've forgotten what it's like to be the one on the other side.”
“I haven't forgotten anything.” Nights spent on cold, stony ground, watching stars fall from the sky, replaced by nothing but darkness. Calling out names that no longer existed, words that would never mean anything but a memory of something lost long ago. Letting the anger consume him, never to feel cold again. To feel--
Camio put his hand on the Accountant's shoulder. “Neither have I,” he said. “Which is why you need to be careful.”
“I can handle it,” he said, shaking the hand off.
Camio shrugged, letting his hand fall to his side. “I don't doubt that. Just – make sure you don't try to do it alone.”
With that, he shifted back, rose to the sky, disappearing into its inky depths.
“Another old friend?”
The Accountant turned to see Milton leaning casually on the side of the car. “Not exactly. We weren't particularly close.”
“Yeah, I get that feeling about a lot of your co-workers. Tell me, if you weren't chasing down someone who might be able to save our asses, what would you be doing right now?”
“My job,” he said. “Tracking escapees like you down.”
“What do you do after?”
“Paperwork mainly.”
“And after?”
He grew impatient. “What does it matter? There will always be another soul to track down. Do you think it ever stops?”
“No, I don't,” Milton said. “And I'm thinking that's the problem.”
“I can do my damn job,” he gritted through his teeth. “Better than anyone.”
“Exactly. You and I got great job security. Except at the end of the day, I know I'm a fucking prisoner. What's keeping you chained there?”
The Accountant got in, slammed the car door shut, and refused to talk to Milton the rest of the day.
They were getting close to the ocean, the smell of salt in the air, when the Accountant said, “Take a right here. We're close.”
“Sure,” Milton said. “Hey, now that we're almost there, could you maybe tell me who the fuck we're meeting?”
“I told you, someone I used to work with. A long time ago.”
The car pulled in front of a white house, set back into the ground. Behind it, the beach shone in the distance.
The door opened.
“Astaroth?” The voice said. A woman came out, her dark hair pulled back. She was wearing an apron, thick gloves, and she pushed up the goggles on her face.
“We are going to talk about this later,” Milton said. “You owe me--”
“Shut up,” he hissed to him.
“No, but--”
“Zagan,” he called out. “It's been a while.”
“It has,” she replied politely, pulling out a handful of coins from her pocket. “Now would you mind telling me why the fuck you tracked me down before I send you both back to Hell.”
“You have the best friends,” Milton said.
Chapter Text
Zagan hands him the coin. “I know you don't like to use swords, but you can't just walk around unarmed.”
He flips it between his knuckles, lets the cool weight slide along. “You didn't have to do this.”
“Yes, I did. If you're going to do this job, you're going to need all the help you can get.”
Astaroth reaches for the glass in front of him, takes a sip and almost spits it out. “What the hell--”
“You're also going to need to get drunk with me.”
“Zagan--”
“Look, we both just lost a good friend, we may still lose more yet, and Lucifer's locked himself to cry until someone manages to drag him out. We deserve a night off to be completely and utterly useless.”
He laughs, takes another swig from the bottle that used to be water. “Neat trick, by the way.”
“Sometimes I have my uses.” It's warm going down.
“Do you ever wonder what It would be like being one of them?” she asks, hours into their mutual binge. “Being... human?”
“No,” he says. “Why would I?”
“But still – to be able to feel like they do? To hurt and bleed? To love something that doesn't last? With us, everything is forever, so nothing matters.”
“Not unless you have a Godkiller,” he says, pouring another glass. “Then it matters quite a bit.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, that does. But death – that's just part of it. I want things to change.”
He swallows the mouthful of wine before he can choke on it. “Don't go getting seditious on me.”
Zagan shakes her head. “I'm not following him. It's--.” She stops. “Forget it,” she says. “I've had too much to drink.”
The next morning, when he wakes up, she's gone.
He's never assigned to track her down.
They sat on her couch in her living room, next to each other. Milton was surprisingly agreeable, having put up almost no fuss upon entrance. The Accountant eyed him with suspicion.
“What are you up to?” he asked, quietly as she turned off something in the other room.
“Nothing,” Milton said. “Just sitting next to my good friend, Astaroth.”
“You absolute fucking asshole,” he said with all the heartfelt hatred he could muster.
“All the times I called you names because I was sure you didn't have one beside the Accountant. And now it turns out--”
“This is why I didn't tell you.” He went quiet and Milton subsided too as Zagan re-entered.
“All right, boys,” she said. “If you're not here to take me in and I'm not here to sell you out, then we can have a nice pleasant time.”
“So you've heard?” The Accountant looked around. There were metal sculptures everywhere, winged skeletal structures that balanced on delicate legs. “Apparently, it's common knowledge now.”
Zagan sat back. “Got a written invitation. Hey, want to get in on the ground floor of an exciting new business opportunity? Overthrow your boss? Get revenge on former colleagues? Join me and together we can rule the galaxy.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Not interested.”
“Camio wasn't either.”
“He wouldn't be. He's got that cushy gig at that college. Why the fuck would he give up banging co-eds and blathering on about philosophy for Beelzebub's shit?”
“But there's more than just him.” The Accountant glanced at her. “Isn't there?”
“You got me,” she said. “Not going to say you're bad at your job, because you weren't ever sent to track us, but there's more than just a few escaped souls out there hanging around.”
Milton interjected. “So what? There are actual legions of Hell just hanging out here.”
The other two looked uncomfortable. “I told you, Milton,” the Accountant said. “My job never ends.”
“Fuck,” he said. “So Beelzebub is tracking down anyone he thinks might be willing to help him out?”
Zagan nodded. “Most of us, we like to stay under the radar, not go off trying to kill Satanic cult leaders.”
At Milton's glare, the Accountant shrugged. “I didn't tell her.”
“Kind of common knowledge in the community,” Zagan said. “If it's any consolation, it was considered exceptionally bad-ass.”
Milton preened a little.
“Not to get back on track, but let's do that,” the Accountant said. “How many do you think we're talking about who'll take him up on his offer?”
Zagan closed her eyes, clearly thinking about it. “At least three hundred.”
“Just how bad at your job are you?” Milton said.
“New coin?” Zagan said. “What happened to the one I gave you?”
By popular consensus, it was determined that fresh clothes were in order, that Milton was going to kick back and take a nap, and that the Accountant really needed to tell people shit so they didn't spend an hour going “What the fuck?”
“Beelzebub. He's petty.”
“Obviously.” She led him into the garage. There was a workbench with a bunch of tools, including a few welding torches. Off in the corner, more tool racks. She picked up a lump of metal in front of her, casually tossing it from one hand to another.
“Do you really need all of these?”
Zagan laughed. “Of course not. But manifesting coins out of thin air doesn't exactly keep me under the radar. If anyone asks, I've got plenty of equipment.” She picked up a piece of metal, and concentrated, making some complicated movements in the air with her hands. A few muttered words, she opened her hands. A new coin gleamed in her hands.
But instead of handing it over to him, she held it. He looked at her questioningly.
“Not yet,” she said. “You're going to answer a few questions.”
“Extortion? It's nice to see you haven't lost your touch.”
“You know, it's odd,” she said levelly. “I always thought that if you went up against Beelzebub, you'd put up more of a fight, not get your ass kicked.”
“He surprised me,” The Accountant said. “I wasn't used to--”
She cut him off. “No, you weren't. No one is. That's why you're going to lose again if you meet him. Because he's spent all this time preparing for war and you've barely just realized that shit's a lot more complicated now than you thought.”
“So you think he has a point? We should just say, fuck it, and declare war on everyone else again. Do you remember how that ended?”
Zagan shook her head, tossing him the coin. He caught it, let its familiar magic wrap around him. “He's not right about that, but you can't think that Hell can continue on the way it has. I mean, shit, a human almost started Hell on Earth and the only thing that kept him from doing it was a couple of humans.”
“And me,” he said quietly. “I didn't do just stand around.”
“No, you didn't. That's the point. Someone made you decide to do something. You could have waited until the humans were dead, cut a deal, doublecrossed those idiot cultists. But you didn't.”
He found himself looking back at the house. Zagan followed his glance. “Things don't have to change,” he said. “They can still go back.”
“True.” She moved her hands again and a new coin, tarnished silver appeared in her hands. “Hey, maybe if we ask nicely, we can find a way to get back upstairs and then everyone can live in the unchanging white light of peace, love, and perpetual angelic harmony.”
“That's not what I'm saying.” He let out a low, frustrated breath. “You know damn well that once you made that choice to follow Lucifer, there was no going back. Now you want to change your mind?”
“No,” she said, tossing the coin to him. It was cold to the touch, a chill that nipped at his fingers. “I wouldn't be helping you otherwise. But this is all going to end soon.”
“So what?” The Accountant asked. “Is this a threat or a prophecy? Because I'm inclined to ignore both of them right now.”
“Neither,” she said. “It's advice from a friend. Decide what you really want before someone else makes that decision for you.”
He pocketed the coin, leaving her behind.
The Accountant walked into the bedroom, windows looking out onto an expanse of sand, white and shimmering. Blue waters beyond, a blue sky above. A perfect day.
Milton was yawning, stretching a little on the bed, his shirt riding up. The Accountant made sure not to make his perusal too obvious. “Fairly sure you don't actually need to sleep.”
“Asshole,” he said, a suspicious amount of fondness in his voice. “Some of us actually enjoy the whole being human thing.”
“I wouldn't know.” The Accountant sat down on the mattress. “I've never been one.”
“I guess not.” Milton propped himself up on the headboard, grinning. “Just how old are you?”
“Older than you could comprehend,”he said. “Older than any name you could give me.”
Milton nodded. “So Astaroth?”
He glared, then relented, because what was the point, now? “One of many names. I used it for a while.”
“And then?”
“And then I didn't.”
“You just can't give any answers, can you?” Milton said, sliding back down. “Christ, no wonder everyone's constantly pissed at you.”
“I don't even know where to begin with how much you shouldn't be the one saying that.”
“Don't get me wrong, you'll tell people shit when it's fun to or when it will freak them out, but anything that means something to you, fuck that.”
“Is this about me not checking in on your first day of big boy work, Milton?” He clapped his hands mockingly. “Should I have given you a gold star, sent you on the way with a big hug?”
But Milton didn't flinch, only smiled. “Well, it would have been a hell of a lot better than running away like a chickenshit.”
“Careful,” The Accountant said. “I don't think you want to start this.”
“Oh, I do.” Milton let his smile widen, showing his teeth. “I want to do all of it. And so do you. Because I fucking know you.”
“You don't know me,” he said so soft and menacing it sent a shiver down Milton's spine.
“Yeah, I do,” Milton replied. “Because you and I have been doing this fucking shit for what—18 years? Ten years of you riding my ass and another eight of you avoiding me and we're in the still same fucking situation we were when we started this. Me lying that all the shit I did didn't lead me to where I deserved to be and you lying that--”
“Choose your next words very precisely, Milton.” The Accountant's right hand unconsciously reached for his pocket.
He sat up straight, let his eyes meet The Accountant's, hold the gaze. “You lying that you never wanted any of this. Of me.”
“You have no fucking idea what you're talking about, Milton.” It was almost a whisper.
“Sure,” he said. “
As if from a distance, The Accountant watches himself get up, walk out the door, down the path to the gleaming hot sand and the endless ocean, away from saying anything he knew would be a lie.
When they first bring Milton in, he's a cocky asshole, full of himself. Says he's not scared of anything. He doesn't care he's dead, doesn't care he went to Hell, doesn't piss himself on seeing the fire and brimstone they wheel out for the new arrivals.
He looks at The Accountant, smirks, and says, so what? You think you're Cerberus?
His co-workers stare at him, and he shrugs. Milton thinks he's some sort of scholar, the Accountant says. They laugh and Milton gets dragged away.
He think that'll be the last of that little shit he'll see. He's neither a guard nor a facilitator.
But they come back to him months later, telling him that Milton's not breaking. He ignores everything they do. Sure, he doesn't like the pain and he screams like all the rest, but it just makes him more pissed off.
He starts watching Milton, first out of curiosity.
It becomes a regular routine, not every day or even every week, but enough that he can see Milton's anger. It's a thing of strange beauty, a fire that burns through and reminds him of--
He starts talking to him a year in. Just little digs here and there.
And Milton responds back, jabs at him too. Calls him all sorts of names, only some of which are profane and vulgar. Most of them are surprisingly literate.
Two years in, Milton begins almost—flirting? He thinks it's another tactic at first, but the first time, Milton asks him about where he got those pretty great cheekbones, the Accountant has to make a hasty exit because even if you're an immortal demon, you can still get a rise down there.
He returns the next day and does not tell Milton he has a great ass. But he thinks it very loudly.
Five years in, it's a comfortable animosity and he gets used to it. Gets used to Milton's unbending strength, his stubborn resistance.
Seven years in, he realizes he's spent more time with Milton than anyone else in Hell and it should be disturbing how good it feels.
Nine years in, Milton's daughter dies and everything changes.
Because Milton finally breaks.
They show him her death over and over again. The Accountant tries to stop it, not out of empathy, he says in his formal protest, but because it's going to backfire.
Look at him, they say. He's broken. Your request is denied.
The Accountant can see the grief and pain and terrible loss in the man's eyes, but he can see something that everyone else is missing.
A fuckton of rage.
The last night he sees him, he says, “Milton. Don't make me stop you.”
And Milton, not meeting his glance, replies, “You won't be able to.”
All that's left is waiting for them to tell him Milton's gone.
It doesn't take long.
It was another chilly night, the wind from the water blowing cold, and the Accountant walked back to Zagan's house. He had no idea what he would say to Milton.
He hoped that maybe he would have gotten so drunk he passed out, solving both of their dilemmas. Worst case scenario – Milton would be fucking weepy and clingy, and he'd have to bash him over the head just to get some sleep.
Best case? Well, there really was no best case, was there? Not with the way his life was going.
The lights were on outside as he walked up, but the house was dark. He sneezed, caught a faint whiff of smoke. It shouldn't have made him uneasy and yet--
Zagan sat on the front step, an empty bottle of wine next to her. Her smile was too wide and didn't match the look in her eyes. She held her glass high to toast him.
There was a sword on the ground next to her.
Fuck.
“Hey,” she said. “Had some old friends stop by. One of them's still here if you want to say hi.”
The Accountant closed his eyes, feeling for the coins and knowing that it was a lost cause. “Camio,” he said. “When?”
“Right after I saw you,” Camio said, walking from the garage. His clothes were in disarray, but were otherwise spotless. “Decided to go see our mutual friend.”
“I thought you said you didn't join him.” He could taste the bitterness on his tongue.
“I'm not.” Camio picked up his sword, ran his finger along it, letting the blood drip to the ground. “Never said I wasn't working for someone else.”
“Of course you didn't,” The Accountant said, things clicking into place in his brain with horrible certainty. “I should have known she was the one running her own play all this time.”
“Took you long enough.” Zagan drained her glass, let it break on the ground. “And people said you were the smart one.”
“Guess not.” He didn't think it was possible to be colder, but it was like those first nights all over again. “Where's Milton?” he asked.
She smirked. “Oh, him? Pretty easy once you left. Really should treat your pets better.”
The Accountant pulled out the golden coin, felt its weight rest in his fingers. “He's not my pet,” he said.
“But he is yours.” Camio offered his hand to Zagan, who took it, standing up. She continued, “And everyone knows it.”
“Even me,” he admitted, and let the knowledge sit there, heavy and true.
“Even you,” Camio agreed. “So what are you going to do now?”
“What all of you assholes have wanted all this time.”
The Accountant took out the other coin, let the cold seep into his fingers until he could no longer feel the bite of it. He took a deep breath.
“So call him up and let him know I'm ready. Then tell me where the hell Beelzebub stashed that idiot.”
Chapter Text
Hell is pain and loss and a lake of fire with quacking demon ducks that rip your face off if you get too close to him.
Milton thought it was a metaphor at first when one of his fellow prisoners told him, but then Eddie came back minus a nose and oh, shit, nope. Those fuckers are real and they can smell your fear.
But he gets used to it. Turns out, you can get used to any horror if it's your daily life. So he gets used to torment, to suffering, to hearing the screams of the damned and Jesus Christ, Alan, your arm will grow back eventually.
And he gets used to the Accountant. The man's an uptight prick in a suit, but at least, unlike all the other ones he's had to deal with, this one actually gives as good as he takes.
Damn, he wishes that was actually literal.
Because he's always known when someone's attracted to him – when a hot guy or girl wants to fuck and fuck hard and the Accountant may hide it behind a nice amount of contempt and annoyance, but he knows if he tells him, hey, you got nice eyes, that he's going to immediately run back to his desk and jerk off.
He'd do the same thing if it wasn't for the guards, because those fuckers don't get a free show.
And neither do you, Beelzebub.
That's right, fucker, he said.
No getting your rocks off to your ex in my fantasy. You want to feed off pain and lust and hot bodies banging together in an orgy of blood, sex, and gratuitous violence?
Go get your own porn.
“They did tell me you were stubborn.” Beelzebub's voice was an annoying drone in his brain and it was a toss-up whether that was worse than the ducks. At least when the ducks ate your ears, you couldn't hear shit anymore.
“Did they also say you were a sack of shit?” Milton said.
Beelzebub slapped his face, once, just enough to make Milton bite his lip, spilling a little blood. “I don't know what he sees in you,” he said. “If he wanted a pet, I could give him hundreds.”
“He doesn't want anything from you.” Milton spat some blood out. “Unless it's to quit fucking with his life.”
“Astaroth could sit at my right hand,” Beelzebub said, shaking his head. “And I would let him keep you. You really think Hell would do the same? You're a prisoner. You're not allowed to have what you want.”
“Yeah, I'm not.” Milton said, testing the chains around his wrists. They held firm. “You're right. Not allowed to see my family, not allowed to be free, not allowed to fuck a guy with really bad taste in ex-boyfriends.”
Beelzebub slapped him again, harder this time. Milton rocked back a little. “If you would shut your mouth long enough to listen, your little brain would actually hear that I am offering to let you have him. Think of it,” he said, and his voice's drone changed, a softer whine that burrowed in.
Astaroth—no, The Accountant—lying on the bed, smiling, letting Milton take him deep, telling him that he'd give up everything for him, protect him from the legions of Hell, give him all the kingdoms of the world--
Milton laughed. “You really think that's my fantasy? Shit, no wonder he didn't stay with you. Really, you need to find some better porn.”
The drone stopped. “Milton, it doesn't have to be this hard,” Beelzebub's voice was louder, but still low. “Just give in, and I'll give you anything you want, anything.”
“Yeah,” Milton said. “Get thee behind me, and all that. Although I guess in your case, it's more like wanting him to get behind you. You do know that you can't get your ex back by being a dick, right?”
“I told you, I don't want Astaroth--”
“I wasn't talking about him. Lucifer's not going to ask you out again if you keep fucking up all his stuff.”
The blow that followed that one made Milton's head hit the wall, and over the ringing in his ears, he could hear Beelzebub stomping up the stairs.
Worth it, he thought.
“I don't see why I couldn't drive,” Camio whined.
“Because the last time you drove a car was 1952 and I seem to recall Hell put out a notice that you weren't allowed anything faster than a bicycle over that debacle.” Zagan dabbed at an imaginary tear. “Those poor cows.”
“Hey, I got a commendation--”
“If you two would both shut the hell up,” The Accountant gritted through his teeth, “I am trying to prevent the end of the world.”
“It's not the end of the world,” Zagan said. “It's just Beelzebub having a temper tantrum.”
“Which results in mass possession, a fuckton of bodies, and apparently, an attempted coup in hell.”
Camio waved dismissively. “Yeah, we'll deal with that eventually. Don't we have to save your boyfriend first or something?”
“He's not my--” The Accountant stopped. “I'm assuming you have a plan to stop Beelzebub somehow.”
“Not really,” Camio said. “Most of our plan revolved around you getting off your ass and taking some damn initiative.”
“Initiative to do what?”
“Something,” Zagan said. “The details weren't very specific.”
“So in short, your entire plan was getting me pissed off enough to go chasing after Milton, armed with nothing more than a few of your coins, a gun that can't kill Beelzebub for more than a second, and Camio's fucking sword that he hasn't used in over a century.”
“Pretty much,” she said. “Is it working?”
“Yes,” The Accountant said, and stepped on the gas.
It couldn't have been that long when Milton heard footsteps coming back down the stairs.
“You know,” Milton said. “You could just try talking to him--”
It wasn't the same asshole, but he still knew him all the same.
“Fuck me. Of course, you're involved. Why the fuck not?”
Pitchfork asshole stared at him blankly, then let out a wheezy cough. “You have no idea about our secret plans,” he said. “My master--”
“Is a total fucking nutjob with some delusions of grandeur. Really, does he think this is going to work?”
“His plans never fail,” Pitchfork proclaimed solemnly. “Once I freed him from his icy tomb, it was not long before we started to establish dominion over Earth. Soon--”
“We can skip this.” Milton rolled his eyes. “Just get to the part where kidnapping me makes sense in any way. Because I'm not dumb enough to fall for your boss's promises and The Accountant's not going to hand himself over just to get me out. He's not an idiot.”
“True,” a voice said, “That would be very fucking stupid. Unfortunately, my recent companionship has been rubbing off on me.”
The Accountant was standing at the top of the stairs, tossing a coin in his hand. He smirked at him. It was a sad day, Milton thought, when that was the sexiest thing he had seen in a long time.
“Astaroth,” Pitchfork said. “You're looking well.”
“No thanks to your boss, Nergal. I trust he's around.” He looked around casually. “You'd think he could afford a better place.”
Nergal glared. “Once my master--” and the bullet flew itself into his forehead, embedding itself as the body crumpled to the floor.
The Accountant lowered the Godkiller and stepped towards the body, humming a little. “What do you know? It did have some use.”
“I told you,” Milton said. “Now if you could get me out of these fucking chains--”
“And miss what comes next,” The Accountant interrupted, as he walked up to him. “Besides, I think my old friend might have something to say about that.”
“I might have known you'd spoil my fun, Astaroth.” Beelzebub's voice came out of the shadows, his body slowly following. The smell of rot was unmistakable. “I can't say I'll miss him, but Nergal was a loyal servant.”
“So were you,” he said. “He forgave you, you know. For everything.”
Beelzebub's form flickered, a buzzing emanating from it. “I don't need his forgiveness,” he hissed.
“It doesn't matter.” The Accountant brought out the gold coin, held it up in front of him. “You'll always have it.” He threw the coin from his right hand straight towards Beelzebub's forehead.
“Really?” Beelzebub said. “I thought you would have learned by now.” He lifted his hand up and the coin hung in the air.
“Oh, I did,” he said. “Let me show you.” He threw himself forward, the silver coin in his left hand. Beelzebub's form was already breaking apart when The Accountant struck him with it, a wall of symbols wrapping around him.
“This won't hold me,” Beelzebub said, snarling and twisting against the wall. “You're not strong enough.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I don't need to be.”
The room began to shake, ever so slightly.
“What did you do?” Beelzebub screamed. “You didn't--”
The Accountant smiled. “You're going home.”
From below Beelzebub, a cold pool of water arose, lapping over his limbs, pulling him down. Beelzebub's screaming became a low, horrible wail that echoed throughout until the water closed over his head and abruptly, there was nothing but a stain on the concrete floor to show anything had happened.
There was silence.
“What the fuck just happened?” Milton said. “If he could do this all along--”
“He couldn't.” The Accountant let himself get close to him, feel Milton's warm presence as the iciness in the room dissipated. “It's how Beelzebub was able to escape in the first place.”
“The hell?”
“Mercy,” he said softly. “Lucifer showed him mercy after a very long time. He won't make that mistake again.”
The room shook again. It was become warmer.
“So it's done,” Milton said. “He's back down there, and we're good here.”
“In a manner of speaking,” The Accountant ran his fingers along the chains, and they crumpled to the ground.
Milton flexed his arms, feeling the blood return to them. It was getting hot in there. “Is he--”
“Still here.” They watched as the dark spot on the ground spread outwards, blackening at the edges. Fire arose from the center of it. “He's waiting.”
“Right, right,” Milton said. “I guess he's our ride home.” He turned and looked at The Accountant. “If you could put in a good word for me.”
“John.”
The Accountant stepped forward, kissing Milton hard and fast. It was hot, almost burning, and Milton pushed back, letting himself sink into it, be scorched by it.
It stopped far too soon and The Accountant smiled at him, before stepping backwards at the edge of the circle.
Milton reached out, as he realized in shock,“You can't--”
“Have a good life.”
The Accountant took one more step back. All around, a pillar of fire engulfed him. Milton could feel the heat, so intense he flinched, but the flames didn't touch him.
And then--
The fire, the circle, the man--
All were gone.
It was too much. He couldn't even think.
“Are you all right?” a voice called down the stairs.
Another voice chided him. “Of course, he's not, you idiot,” she hissed.
“I know that. I was just trying to be nice.”
“Well, don't because you suck at it.”
“You know--”
Milton let the voices fade out of his mind, went back to the last few seconds, replayed them. The name, the kiss, the fucking disappearance and the whole “have a good life” bullshit.
“Fuck you,” he whispered. “You fucking asshole.”
He felt the rage build again, then smiled grimly to himself. He loved that fucker and if it took the rest of his new existence, he was going to hunt him down and take him back with him.
After all, it had to be way fucking easier to break into Hell.
Chapter 6: Epilogue
Chapter Text
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
Lucifer read the report as he read everything that passed his eyes – with serious consideration and a thoughtful mien. His eyes, mild and gray, behind his glasses, occasionally looked up, while the pen in his left hand made notes on a parchment next to him.
“Is that it?” he asked calmly after he finished the paper. “Nothing you wish to add?”
“No, I think it's fairly clear,” The Actuary said. “Acceptable risk was calculated, several decisions were analyzed and made, and in the end, I think you'll find the outcome was well worth it.”
“I suppose so,” Lucifer said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “It appears you predicted very accurately.”
“Does that upset you?”
He sighed. “I'm sure you factored that in as well.”
“I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But we both know that this was the best result that could have happened.”
“I don't think Beelzebub would think so,” Lucifer said, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Right now, he's cursing my name.”
“My brother never could take defeat very well. Or the idea that anyone might not want the same things he does.”
“Do you regret it, Berith?”
The Actuary sat down on the chair in front of Lucifer's desk. “No. Just like I don't regret following you. No one does, not even him if he was really honest.”
“I wonder,” he said. “I'm planning on visiting him later. Is there any message you'd like me to give him?”
She sat up startled, then composed herself. “Do you think that's a good idea?”
“No.” Lucifer looked weary. “But I owe it to him.”
“All right,” she said quietly. “And Astaroth?”
“It's funny.” Lucifer opened up his desk, pulled a gleam of metal from a drawer. A golden coin shone in the dim light. He flipped it in his fingers, then set it spinning on the desk's surface. “Who knew you needed someone to fail at rebelling so another could succeed?”
“The outcome isn't set,” The Actuary said, leaning forward. “If you still want--”
“I'll always want,” Lucifer said ruefully. “But as you said, it's what's best. Finish the preparations.”
The Actuary nodded. She stood up, let her hand reach toward him, then fall back by her side. “Yes, my lord.” She walked to the door, let herself take a final look.
Everywhere else in hell was blazing hot, but here, as it was even further down where her brother still screamed, it would never stop being cold.
Every thing possible to be believd is an image of truth.
“You son of a bitch!”
“It's good to see you, Piper,” Milton said, ducking out of the way of her shotgun. “It's been a while.”
“You were dead, you fucking asshole,” she yelled. “I fucking cried for you.”
“And it was very touching.” He slid along the wall, watching the barrel. “Thank you.”
“I'd tell you to go to Hell,” Piper said, her face still suffused with rage, “but you'd just break out of there anyhow.” Her eyes got suspicious. “Just a fucking second—did you just--”
“No,” he said, putting his hands up before she raised the shotgun again. “On parole for good behavior. Just stopping by to see an old friend and--”
“Mom?” said a small voice from behind Piper. “You're not supposed to swear.”
“I know, honey,” she said, her voice changing to something lower, softer. “But he's special. We're allowed to swear at him.”
The voice came forward and revealed itself to be a little girl staring dubiously at him. “Who is he?” she asked. “Is he a bad person?”
“No,” Piper said. “But he is an asshole.”
“Okay,” she said.
“My name's John,” Milton said, kneeling to her level. He tried to blink away the tears that were stubbornly forming in his eyes. “I'm--”
“Your grandfather,” Piper said, reluctantly putting the shotgun down.
The little girl looked up at him, her brow crinkling. “I thought he was dead?”
“So did I.” Piper's shoulders slumped. “But he's not.”
“Oh, all right. My name's Grace,” she said.
Milton raised his eyebrows.
“Like you could do any better,” she whispered, and finally closed the door behind him.
The worst part was that she wouldn't stop laughing.
“It's not that funny,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” Piper disagreed. “Only you would want to break back into the place you just got out of to get laid by a guy who kissed you for the first time right before he stepped into a ring of fire.”
“I shouldn't have told you.”
“Yes, you should have. Because you fucking owe me for all the shit I went through with you, and for raising Grace to not turn out to be an asshole like you.”
“You've done a good job,” he said quietly.
“She's a good kid,” Piper replied. “Smart, tough, and I'm pretty sure she's going to rule the world one day.”
“Here's hoping,” Milton said. “Can't do a worse job than the people running it now.” And then he was thinking of that fucking asshole again and him willing putting his chains back on just so Milton could go free.
Piper noticed. “You know you can't just walk into Hell, right?” She elbowed him when he didn't look at her. “And they're not just going to call up and say hey, stop on by, we're doing an open house.”
The phone rang.
They both looked at it. “That better not be--”
It wasn't.
But the next morning, when Milton woke up from a very uncomfortable night on the couch, his neck stiff and sore to find Piper handing him an envelope addressed to him, he knew what he'd have to do.
The plane ticket made it pretty damn obvious.
No bird soars too high. if he soars with his own wings.
Vegas was hot and miserable, but it wasn't Hell.
Hell didn't have slot machines, or people constantly pouring you drinks, or that level of strangeness from wandering casino to casino, never seeing natural light. If nothing else, Hell tried to make itself feel real, whereas it was easy to pretend in Vegas.
Milton could pretend he hadn't lost his family, hadn't died and gone to hell for years on end. He was just John Milton, random visitor, looking to gamble, drink, and get laid by—well, that was the problem. He couldn't get it up for just anyone anymore.
But it was Vegas. If he could pretend to still be alive, he could pretend that the man sitting in front of him was The Accountant, if it wasn't for the bright Hawaiian shirt, the white pants, the fucking hideous sandals that screamed, “I'm a rube on vacation, please rob me.”
He started to rehearse a line, wondered if they'd changed since he last tried him, and the man turned around.
“It wasn't my idea,” he said, and Milton almost punched him.
“Now I know how Piper felt,” he said, grabbing him by the collar. “You could have told me.”
“I really couldn't have,” The Accountant responded mildly. “I didn't know about it either.”
“You didn't fucking know--”
“Ineffable plans work in multiple places, Milton.”
“Fucking call me John,” he said, and kissed the shit out of that asshole.
He could have taken the time to admire the suite, because Hell apparently didn't mind running up the budget, but he was too busy taking off his fucking clothes to get a look at anything but the bed.
“It's all right, John,” The Accountant said. “We don't need to rush.”
“Like you know anything about that,” he said, unzipping his pants. “It's been eight years for me, and shit, how long for you? Did you ever get lucky on any of your hunts before you met me?”
“I can't say that I pursued it.” He smiled, taking off his shirt. “So—give or take a few millennia?”
“You poor bastard,” Milton said. “Everyone around you getting laid and you're the one asshole that's thinking about your job.”
“Not always,” he said, and surprised Milton by nipping suddenly at his neck. “Occasionally, I thought of you. I schemed and planned about what I might do if I had you at my mercy. Spent quite some time coming up with ideas.”
“Good to know,” he managed to say, and then it turned out you couldn't really talk when there was a very enthusiastic demon pressed against you.
It was hot and slick and overwhelming and when The Accountant pressed into him, whispering praise into his ear and leaving marks down his back, Milton wondered why he had ever ran from him in the first place.
In the morning, Milton grumpily batted away The Accountant's wandering hands. The man seemed determined to explore every inch of his skin, as if it was new territory he wanted to stake a claim too. “Fucking give it a rest already,” he said. “Some of us don't have demonic stamina.”
The asshole only chuckled. “Making up for lost time,” he said. “I have eight years to atone for.”
“Well, you don't have to do it all today,” Milton said. “Unless—you better not fucking tell me that you only get one day off before they drag you back.”
“About that,” he said.
“Goddammit,” Milton prepared to jump out of bed, before The Accountant laid an arm across his chest, pinning him back.
“You have to learn to fucking stop and listen, John, if you're going to be my partner,” he said. “I can't just handcuff you to the bed each time I need you to listen to me.” His eyes turned a little dreamy. “Well, I could, but it might get old after a while.”
“Your partner?”
“Oh, didn't I mention it?”
“No, you fucking didn't.”
“It seems that Lucifer took some of the most recent events to heart. He's thinking about community outreach, getting to know some of his wayward children again. And he's asked me to help with this initiative.”
“In other words, he kicked you out of Hell--”
“And I'm taking you along for the ride,” The Accountant finished smoothly.
Milton tried to frown, but it was hard to hide the growing sense of pleasure underneath it. “I can't promise I'll behave.”
“And I can't promise there won't be a great deal of paperwork if you don't,” he said. “But I'm sure we'll work something out.”
"God, you're such an asshole," Milton said, and kissed him again.
Morbane on Chapter 1 Sat 22 Jun 2019 04:26AM UTC
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Morbane on Chapter 2 Sat 22 Jun 2019 09:09AM UTC
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Morbane on Chapter 3 Sat 22 Jun 2019 10:48AM UTC
Last Edited Sat 22 Jun 2019 10:48AM UTC
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Morbane on Chapter 4 Sun 23 Jun 2019 12:56AM UTC
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Morbane on Chapter 5 Sun 23 Jun 2019 06:31AM UTC
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Morbane on Chapter 6 Sun 23 Jun 2019 10:35AM UTC
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Love Is The Answer (Guest) on Chapter 6 Fri 23 Aug 2019 12:16AM UTC
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Dien on Chapter 6 Thu 10 Sep 2020 12:22AM UTC
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Caralha_Sama on Chapter 6 Mon 26 Jul 2021 11:44PM UTC
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out_there on Chapter 6 Mon 24 Jul 2023 12:24PM UTC
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