Sins of Our Fathers

one

"So, what kind of work do you do?"

Brown eyes peered up at the man, brows raised and something obscene on his lips. Argentina was not a fan of these questions, or any the morning after. Why was this asshole still here? Turning to face his bed partner from last night—who, now that he was slightly sober and seeing straight, was not as much of the seven he had thought the man to be—he scowled and put on a shirt. Throwing his legs over the side of the bed and shimmying into a discarded pair of jeans, he opened his mouth to speak. He reconsidered his words and shut his mouth once more as the man walked towards the kitchen area.

Argentina, for all his worth, could never really figure out why he always brought his meals home. Sure, it was a lot more convenient in that he didn't have to go through the whole "walk of shame" nonsense humans were so fond of, but it was a hassle to get them all to leave in the morning. Trailing after the stranger, he sighed, leaning against the door frame.

"I thought this was an agreed upon smash and dash," he stated, "Not a smash and let's talk. Get out."

His visitor looked offended, poised to say something when a knock on the door sounded. The stranger, still prepared to offer his two cents—which, Argentina really didn't need first thing in the morning, even if the person delivering them was a blond haired, blue eyed solid six—was left ignored in the posh gray kitchen. There were only so many reasons why someone would be knocking at Argentina's door at—quick glance to the clock signified the time as 8:35 am—8:35 in the morning.

And none of the people he could think of were any good.

Dreading the moment when he'd open the door, fingers encompassing the shiny silver knob and unlocking the upper locks, he froze at the sound of a key in the lock. Or something in there. Whatever it was, it wasn't good and every fiber of his being was on end. Would he risk looking into the peephole? He was already conjuring up an image of who it might be, and perhaps he was better off having just looked through the peephole.

Opening the door before the strawberry blonde woman could fully unlock it left them in an odd position. She, with her key still in the door, was neatly pressed against him. The look of indifference that composed her features was nothing new, but he noted that she was slightly taller since he'd last seen her.

"What do you want, Miriam," he asked, stepping away from her. He'd have to change the locks, but he doubted that would really work against the age old demon in front of him.

"I'm here to bring news," she replied, holding up a manila folder. Lips spread in a thin line as her gaze landed on the Argentina's other visitor. "Confidential news."

Without warning, or anything that could be considered as a protest, there was the soft squelch and the familiar splatter of liquid against a wall. The thud of a body falling, gravity bringing it to the ground. It was so simply done; it was just like her. Miriam was notorious for her disposal styles; sending a nickel through a forehead was her go-to. Brent, he noted absently, his name was Brent. The roll of the nickel was the only sound other than the blood rushing through his ears before he moved through the panic sitting in his chest to speak.

"Can I ask you not to kill my guests," he questioned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Can I ask you to shave that insufferable thing you call a beard," Miriam retorted, passing perfectly manicured nails over the short hairs on his jaw, "You have such a pretty face; it would be a shame to hide it behind a bush."

Miriam never smiled in her compliment, and Argentina never thanked her. She seemed as though she was nearly devoid of emotion at all times, incapable of much more than a scowl. Even then that didn't last for more than a few seconds. He'd always wondered how his father had found her, as she wasn't a mistress ("Mistress implies that your father and I engage in sexual relations," she'd said once when he'd called her that, "I am merely your father's secretary."). Though those last words fell short, as she clearly had duties that were not in the job description of secretaries.

Tossing the folder onto the counter, Miriam pulled off her black gloves and seated herself on one his lounge chairs. Her skirt suit, as per usual, was a red the color of blood. It made her stick out against the grays and blacks of his apartment, a beacon of violence. Her presence was simply a reminder of the family he had the misfortune to be part of.

"What did you have to tell me?"

"Your father wants to see you," she stated.

Silence held them once again, her gaze trained on a painting on his wall. Argentina's blood ran cold, a shiver sliding over his frame. She was joking. But, she wasn't; she never joked.

"Why?"

"He's...ill."

"He's dying?"

"Just ill, but he feels like he's dying, yes."

Of course he would; his father had a flair for the dramatic.

"Your sister, Helodine, wanted to escort you."

Fuck.

"She actually quite misses you."

Shit.

"I'm sure she'll be in to pick you up within the week."

Miriam chose then to get to her feet, smoothing down her skirt before slipping her gloves back on with ease. She left the folder where she had sent it, but spared a glance to be sure the contents hadn't spilled out. When she next turned her emerald gaze onto Argentina, her lips pursed.

He could just barely see the change in her expression, a fist around his throat. Thinking about any of his siblings set his stomach churning, and his mind hazy. He could feel phantom fingers lacing through his hair and trailing over his skin. He could hardly look at the other demon, too concerned with the fact that he had less than a week to run.

Argentina should have been grateful for the warning, but he knew that Miriam hadn't intended it as such. The click of her heels was the only thing keeping him grounded in the moment. He could feel himself falling apart, crumbling slowly. Once she was out the door, it would all come crashing down.

Pausing at the door, she turned to look back at him. What a sad, pathetic boy. She needn't say it; it was pretty much all that anyone had ever told him when he was growing up.

"It's true what your father says," she stated, giving him a solemn look.

Argentina could only look up at her, a smile forcing his lips up despite himself. His father saying anything about him was a gift.

"You are the weakest."

// late af, but here you go. let me know what you think, and anything I need to work on. cheers, rem.