Madness: DxD

Incident: Barbecue Protocol

Nice smell. Barbecue, charcoal, beer. The kind of combination that makes even me nostalgic. The gate creaks when I step through it, and half the crowd starts whispering like someone just brought a loaded weapon to a picnic.

They're staring again... they never stop staring. They want you dead, you know.

Thomas: There he is! Thought you'd ghost me again, Y/N.

Y/N: You throw one party and suddenly I'm expected to socialize.

Tell him you hate it here. Tell him you hate all of them.

Thomas (laughs): Fourteen years of watching your back, and this is the thanks I get? I even made ribs.

Y/N: Fourteen years. You've lasted longer than most.

He grins. I hand him a bottle.

Y/N: Gift. Don't say I never gave you anything.

You never give me anything.

Thomas (snickers): Whiskey?

Y/N: From my own brewery. Aged better than you.

He pockets it, shaking his head.

Thomas: Go grab a plate. Food's on the table. Beer's in the cooler. Unless the analysts got there first.

A crowd of people mill around. Every other one gives me a double take, then that knowing nod. The kind that says I've heard stories about you.

Because they're afraid. Which is good. Fear keeps them obedient.

Guest1: Holy shit. The Immortal Python.

Y/N: You say it like it's a compliment.

Guest2: Didn't think you showed up to social events.

Y/N: I don't. But the guy retiring knows too much about me to ignore an invitation.

Let him retire. You don't need anyone but me.

Laughter breaks out, uneasy but genuine. I fill a paper plate. Ribs, slaw, something that might once have been corn. I take a seat near the fence. Easier exit if I need it. Thomas approaches with two beers.

He sits beside me, handing one over. Warm, of course.

Thomas: You still drink those potions of yours?

Y/N: Yeah. Taste is vile, but it gives me strength.

It also gives you a reason to pay attention to me.

Thomas: You ever think about quitting?

Y/N: The job? Or breathing?

Thomas: Both.

Y/N: Tried the first one. But Uncle Sam is quite persuasive.

Thomas gives a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Thomas: Still the same bastard.

Y/N: Consistency's all I've got left.

He stares out at the crowd. Men and women laughing, arguing, drinking under paper lanterns. He looks older when he's not holding authority like a shield.

Thomas: I'm tired, Y/N.

Y/N: Then rest. You've earned it.

Let him wither. They all will.

Thomas: You know, they talk about you all the time at Langley. "The Immortal Python." Some of 'em think you're a myth.

Y/N: Good. Myths don't have to file reports.