Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It has been two weeks, five days, seventeen hours, and forty-six minutes since the day he lost his most powerful adversary. Every passing second ticks in Alfred’s head, reminding him of the damage caused, the funds lost. Annoying is the word he’d best use to describe the aftermath; what with the banks constantly in his ear, hounding him with useless advice on how to catch his enemy. Currently, he’s fighting an internal battle to stop himself from shouting ‘ Two-thousand and eight called, they want their crisis back!’ , but he settles with pulling faces at them once their backs are turned. Really, how was he supposed to know when The Sheriff of Nottingham would strike? Alfred was one of the few heroes in the city who was even willing to try to stop the villain, let alone succeed. Highest success rate in the world right here, folks. 

Still, highest success rate doesn’t mean he manages to catch the supervillain every time. In fact, more often than not does The Sheriff slink back into whatever snake-pit the man came from, thousands of dollars richer than when he arrived. He’s sporadic, too, never striking the same place twice, always on random dates and times—he avoids major holidays, anything that could potentially clue people in on his schemes. Hell, all Alfred knows about his nemesis is his adeptness at sorcery and his alias; The Sheriff announced himself over the rooftops, green fireworks firing from his palms from the sky before bursting in a cascade of light. His entrance had people fooled, the masses cheered and whooped as he lowered himself to the ground, face covered, and robbed them blind. His sorcery put the city to sleep, allowing the villain an easy escape as even Alfred was knocked unconscious. Although petty robbery is a minor crime in the grand scheme of things, especially when others are massacring and destroying his city bi-weekly, it was the sorcery that unsettled the public.

Sorcerers aren’t common, all but extinct. Magic, now, is artificial—coming from machines or surgeries or, on special occasions, terrible accidents. And even then, the world is much more technological, with some fringe conspiracists even believing it never existed. Alfred himself questioned its existence until meeting his arch rival, who quickly and gleefully proved him wrong; he could only speak in limericks for a week after that particular encounter. So, a rogue sorcerer robbing banks and trust funds wasn’t exactly the best person to lose track of, leading to him being stuck in this very situation. 

“Listen, Jersey Devil, we know you’re trying your hardest, but it’s been weeks. The public are wanting answers, and they’re a-bangin’ at my door to deliver ‘em.” The mayor, a man late in his life with little hair to show for it, says wearily, adjusting his star-striped tie. 

Alfred sinks back into the plush chair a little bit, thankful his mask obscures half of his guilty expression. It’s not as if he hasn’t been trying, it’s just extremely difficult to track a supervillain on the run—especially if said supervillain can use magic to lead you on a wild goose chase. 

“I understand, I’ll get him in ‘cuffs before you know it!” He injects some pep into his voice, flashing a charming smile more for the camera than the mayor.

“And that bastard needs to return the money! The trust funds!” A banker pipes up, not important enough for Alfred to remember his name, his only distinguishing characteristic being his grease-slicked hair.

“Not to mention the growing… I don’t want to say ‘supervillain enterprise’, but there’s certainly an uptake in crime recently. We really can’t afford that, not right now.” The mayor heaves a sigh.

“No worries, Mr. Mayor. I’ll fix that, pronto!” 

Waving the man away, Alfred takes his leave through the window. A quick flight through his beloved city never fails to raise his spirits, and that is exactly what the doctor ordered. He doesn’t go too high—he doesn’t want to disrupt any aeroplanes, not after that one time—just barely skimming over rooftops and manoeuvring between skyscrapers. Of course, he keeps his eyes peeled for any criminal activity, but tonight is unusually quiet. Suspiciously quiet. After a year and a half on the job, Alfred likes to believe he can trust his gut about these sorts of things, and currently his gut is telling him something is amiss. 

Quietly, he drops himself to the floor, his feet silent as they patter through puddles and potholes in the pavement. Still being in his hero costume, he isn’t exactly inconspicuous, but thankfully there are no civilians around to spot him—not that there are usually civilians wandering the abandoned dockyard, anyways. It was abandoned for a reason, that reason being the crumbling warehouses and severe lack of industry. The warehouses are plentiful here, usually full of squatters and runaway teens who have nowhere else to go; rainwater drips in from their caved-in ceilings, shattered glass and soggy cardboard coating the cool concrete that makes up the floor. When he has the time between work and his hero duties, Alfred likes to hand-out whatever leftovers he has to the people staying here, doing his part for his community. But now, the usual chatter of those down on their luck is gone, as if the people living here know something inherently is wrong. Only the dull pitter patter of water upon the tin ceilings fill his eardrums.

With the grey clouds blocking out the sun, the atmosphere is gloomy as Alfred investigates, ducking behind broken doors just like he had seen in James Bond. As much as he investigates abandoned warehouse after abandoned warehouse, he doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary, aside from a few used needles and muddied food wrappers. Finally, he approaches the closest warehouse to the ocean, saltwater licking at his boots as the door creaks open. Grey light falls in through the large, broken windows, glass crunching beneath his shoes as he steps around the warehouse. There’s one intact wall left, splitting the place in two, surprisingly solid for being so decrepit. On his side, Alfred bends to pick up a half-eaten sandwich, the ham coated in mould and the bread long since stale. He drops it immediately, wiping his hand on his cape and sticking out his tongue in disgust. The air is thick here, heavy in his lungs as he breathes and twinged with the smell of the sea.

There’s no door separating the two rooms, only a rotten frame. Alfred steps through, silent as can be, eyes scanning every nook and cranny of this new space. Initially, he doesn’t spot anything, just a few more cardboard boxes here than in the previous room. Then, on his last quick look around before turning to leave, his mouth is left agape at the discovery he makes. There, tucked away in a corner and surrounded by damp cardboard, is his arch nemesis. The man he’s been hunting for two weeks, five days, nineteen hours, and thirteen minutes. The Sheriff of Nottingham. 

He looks worse for wear, his costumed cloak tattered and torn, his bandana-like mask hanging on by a thread, all of his visible skin coated in a layer of grime. He’s sitting on the floor, saltwater surely leaking through his clothes, most of his weight leaning against the flimsy wall behind him. From where he’s standing, Alfred can just about see the villain’s eyes are a weary green, forlorn, dark circles etched into the skin beneath. Alfred is sure that once he steps closer, he’ll truly see the extent of the man’s disarray. Although, for a reason unbeknownst to him, seeing his arch nemesis like this pains him; not too greatly, he still remembers the chaos caused by the man, but enough to feel almost a pity for him. Clearly, these weeks on the run have not been kind. 

Slowly, he unholsters his pistol, the handle moulded to fit his grip perfectly. This familiar comfort eases him as he approaches The Sheriff, hiding in the shadows, inching nearer and nearer—it’s in moments like these he’s immensely grateful for his boots' light tread. As soon as he’s close enough, he presses his pistol into the villain's temple, stepping into the light just enough to illuminate himself. 

“Howdy there.” 

The man sighs, more annoyed than afraid. His tired eyes flick up to meet Alfred’s blues, thick eyebrows raising just enough to hint at haughtiness. After he receives no reply, Alfred pushes the barrel of his gun slightly harder into The Sheriff’s temple, causing a stuttering breath from the man.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Alfred shifts his weight onto the other foot, looking down expectantly at his arch rival.

“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think I’d lost you. Or, better yet, you’d given up.” The villain rolls his eyes, somehow still full of snark in spite of his predicament. Despite himself, Alfred always finds he enjoys the backchat.

“On you? Never.” He crouches down, now eye-level with his opponent, his gun still firmly pressed against the man’s matted hair.

“Guess it’s time to turn you in, huh? Shame, you’re one of my favourites. I mean, out of all supervillains, I’d rather fight you over anyone else.” And it’s true, after countless battles with the man he’s come to appreciate the cleanness with which he organises his heists—rarely does anyone get hurt, plus Alfred gets an exhilarating fight out of it. A win-win in his book.

“It’s pointless to try to convince you to let me go free, so I won’t bother wasting my breath. Just arrest me already, I haven’t got all bloody day to spend chit-chatting with you.” Now, although The Sheriff’s bandana covers the lower half of his face, Alfred can clearly see the concealed scowl. It also helps that he's crossed his arms over his chest, an annoyed position if Alfred’s ever seen one.

He’s already moving to grab the handcuffs he keeps looped on his belt when an idea strikes him. It’s so ludicrous, so slapdash and unprofessional he can’t help the laugh that bubbles from him. At The Sheriff’s inquisitve expression, he runs a hand through his hair, stopping to fiddle with the little horns he adds for effect.

“Well, that works.”

The villain scoffs, as if something working for the hero is the doubtful part.

“And what, pray tell, would that be?” He cocks a busy eyebrow, expectant.

“I’ve decided you’re coming home with me. That way you’re staying out of prison and I’ve still captured you. Of course, you’ll have to return the money-”

“Not likely.” The Sheriff immediately shakes his head, opposed to the very concept.

“-and help me defeat all these new supervillains, but that’d be easy. Really, you’d be more of a… double agent! That’s it! Like an inside agent, feeding the heroes all the intel to help bust the whole operation!” As Alfred explains his idea, it takes on more of a solid shape, seeming a bit more feasible.

The villain pauses, levelling Alfred with a disbelieving gaze.

“I’d rather not, thanks. Those villains happen to be my- well, I wouldn’t exactly say friends but they’re certainly my colleagues! I’ll chance prison over being some hero’s lapdog, especially yours.” Contempt coats his voice, before he pauses, spluttering.

“And you can’t just say you’ll take me home with you! I am a gentleman, I’ll have you know!”

At this, Alfred lets out his own disbelieving huff, giving the man a quick up-down look. 

“Yeah, don’t think villains can be gentlemen: kinda opposes the whole ‘holding the door open for a lady’ thing if you mug her afterwards.”

“Tch. Be that as it may, I still refuse.” Stubborn as an ox, The Sheriff sneers up at him, green eyes laced with scorn.

“Here’s the thing, you aren’t exactly in any place to refuse. Like, I’ve got a gun to your head here dude. Oh, and did I mention that you wouldn’t be sent to a regular prison?” Alfred says cheekily, waving about his spare hand idly as he speaks.

The villain pales.

“Nah, I know how easy you escape from those with your magical mumbo-jumbo. This time, the plan is that you’d be sent to one of those supermax, magically reinforced prisons. Y’know, the ones with the major high mortality rate?”

The villain pales further.

“The ones with collars that block off any special abilities, like sorcery. Where only the strong survive. Hardened villains built like The Rock rule as those built like Justin Beiber suffer.”

Alfred didn’t think it was possible for one man to become so pale.

“So, whaddaya say? Wanna stick to the straight and narrow with me or drop the soap in supermax?” He holds out a hand for his arch nemesis, eagerly awaiting the villain’s certain ‘yes’.

Instead of an immediate reply, The Sheriff tugs and fiddles with his bandana, staunchly avoiding Alfred’s gaze. He swallows thickly, his heavy eyebrows furrowing as the villain clearly doesn’t like his circumstances. It’s in moments like these that Alfred wishes he could peer into the minds of his enemies and find out what exactly they were thinking. On the face he can see, Alfred watches the internal debate the villain is having, caught between a rock and a hard place. Really, Alfred would sympathise with him if it weren’t for all of the robbery and mayhem the man has caused—and because he’s pretty excited at the prospect of turning The Sheriff of Nottingham into a double agent just like in the spy films he watches. 

After so long that Alfred begins to doubt whether the villain will answer at all, The Sheriff finally lifts his head in what could be construed as a defiant gesture, if it weren’t for the weary look in his eyes.

“I suppose I haven’t much of a choice. Fine, I accept. But just know the second I spot the opportunity I will leave you in the dust.” With the slightest moment of hesitation, The Sheriff takes Alfred’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet in tandem with the hero, only somewhat stumbling before he rights himself. 

“Ha! Alright, man. Whatever you say!” Alfred keeps hold of the villain’s hand, using it like a leash to pull The Sheriff along.

It’s with a hard grunt that the villain stumbles over his feet, clutching tightly at Alfred’s hand before his knees give out.

“Shit-” The Sheriff promptly falls on his face, his hand slipping out from Alfred’s.

Alfred sucks in a breath as he sees hot blood spill out from the villain’s squashed nose, crouching down to get a better look. His hands hover over the villain’s lax body, occasionally poking his cheek to elicit some kind of a response.

“Stop that.” The Sheriff mumbles, not bothering to lift his face or even swat Alfred’s hand away. In Alfred’s humble opinion, it’s a bit pathetic.

Heroically halting his poking of the villain’s cheek, he waits another minute for him to move before it becomes apparent the man isn’t going anywhere. With The Sheriff laying face-down, this lets Alfred examine the full extent of the damage done to the villain. Various tears in his costume create an almost striped pattern as they travel up his calves and into the inner parts of his thighs, the skin tight material not having held up against the elements. The villain’s linen shorts are frayed and stained, in desperate need of replacing. Even his cloak, which Alfred had once considered indestructible, has pieces missing and scorched ends. However, The Sheriff’s bandana stays as secure as ever, even if it looks as if it’s about to fall off at the slightest gust of wind. 

“You planning on sleeping here all night? I mean, you can tough it out here if you really want, I’m not gonna stop you.” Alfred shrugs despite the fact that he can’t see him, beginning to make himself comfortable next to the man.

The Sheriff mumbles something, shame colouring his cheeks. 

“What was that? You’ve gotta speak up, man.” 

“I can’t get up!” The villain snaps, refusing to meet Alfred’s eyes. 

Silence. 

“Pfft-”

“It’s not funny, you wanker!” He just about manages to move his head to make eye-contact with Alfred, shooting the hero the most venomous glare he can muster.

Sitting crossed-legged next to the villain, Alfred shakes his head. He really doesn’t want to be stuck in this dank warehouse all night, and it really seems as if the villain doesn’t intend to move a muscle. Surely laying face-down in a puddle can’t be comfortable.

“Any reason for that, or just enjoying the breeze?” He quirks an eyebrow, actually curious. 

Alfred didn’t actually plan on remaining here, of course. If it came to it, he was prepared to bring The Sheriff of Nottingham home kicking and screaming. And wouldn’t that be a strange sight.

“How long have I been avoiding you for?” The villain asks instead, ignoring his question entirely.

“Two weeks, five days, nineteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes.” Alfred’s answer is immediate.

The villain’s surprise is easy to see, even with his face squished against concrete.

“Uh- yes. Give or take. So that’s two weeks I have been surviving off of food scraps, little water, next to no sleep, in the same clothing the entire time, and all whilst trying to lose you. Forgive me if I’m a little tired.” The Sheriff huffs, a derisive sound, blood finally beginning to stop trickling from his nose.

Alfred snickers, before stretching out his arms in preparation. “I think you’re more than ‘a little’ tired.” 

In one quick movement, he picks up the villain by the hood of cloak like a kitten. Before he even has a chance to complain Alfred pulls him into his arms, carrying the man bridal style with one arm tucked under his legs and the other supporting his back. He’s surprisingly light, thanks to the lack of food Alfred assumes, the villain’s body rigid and wet.

“Well, you’ve gotta move somehow.” At The Sheriff’s incredulous expression, Alfred smirks.

Immediately, the villain begins to flail about like a fish, weakly kicking out his legs in protest. 

“Let go of me! Bastard! Twat! Prick!”

At the incessant insults, Alfred laughs, adjusting the thrashing man in his arms slightly, holding him flush against his chest.

“Will you calm down? Jeez. You can’t walk, so I’m carrying you.” Alfred explains this like how one would tell a child the sky is blue and the sun is yellow, as if he were an idiot.

“I never asked for that!” He snaps, crossing his arms over his torn chest and looking away.

“If you don’t quit moaning I’ll drop you.”

That shuts the villain up.

Alfred walks carefully, mindful of the extra person in his arms. He steps over muddy puddles, avoids shattered glass, weaves through collapsed warehouses on his quest to get home. Briefly, he wonders if showing a renowned villain where the only hero who can stop him lives is a good idea, but brushes that thought aside. It’d probably be quicker, he reasons, if he flew, yet he’s certain The Sheriff wouldn't enjoy the trip very much. So, feeling the slightest bit miffed that he has to walk all the way to his house with a hundred and twenty pound man in his arms, he starts on his journey back home.

Chapter Text

Arthur must say, The Hero’s house is rather disappointing. He’s heard stories of bases inside volcanoes, of secret underground passages, of whole rooms filled to the brim with stolen villainous gadgets and gizmos, but apparently those were all tall tales—proves him right for trusting a frog. Instead of the grandeur and opulence he was expecting, Arthur is carried up four flights of stairs all to see a barren flat numbered four-hundred and forty-four. The door hasn’t even opened yet and he already can picture the place in his mind: a one bedroom one bathroom nightmare. A scuffed welcome mat sits beneath The Devil’s feet, likely second hand. A golden peephole is the only interesting thing decorating the door, if one ignores all the scuff marks. Suffice it to say, any hopes he has of this working out have been squashed.

“Well, home sweet home!” The hero says cheerfully, opening his door in one quick movement.

Briefly, Arthur wonders why the front door wasn’t locked, then decides he doesn’t care enough to ask. He keeps his lips sealed, not wanting the hero to know his thoughts—the action may look more petulant than intended, but that’s neither here nor there. They step through the doorway and into Arthur’s new prison. 

The first thing he notices is just how barren the place seems. There are a few family portraits, or at least what he assumes to be, hammered into the grey walls. One raggedy brown sofa is pushed against the foremost wall, with a stitched-up armchair placed opposite it. Much to his surprise, the flat appears to be a two bedroom abode, with a door to his left and one to his right. A single lightbulb hangs from the low ceiling, looking more fitting for a Saw film than a front room, turned off. He couldn’t spot any bookcases, which was an immeasurable sorrow. A little kitchenette, fully equipped with an oven and toaster, is tucked into a corner near what Arthur assumes to be the bathroom, a horrid teal colour that screams early noughties. All in all, it’s where somebody working an ordinary nine-to-five would stay, not a superhero insistent on foiling all of his schemes.

The Devil walks into the centre of the room, glancing down to the man in his arms who finds great joy in ignoring him. Arthur’s train of thought is this: if he has to collaborate with the hero, he might as well make it the most difficult process possible. Call him a sadist, but any bit of cooperation between them he’ll ensure to be as painful as possible. And if that means pretending to be asleep so that the hero leaves him alone, then Arthur is more than willing.

“Hey, you awake?” The Hero’s voice is just as loud as always, Arthur having to bite back a scowl at the noise.

Instead of answering, he continues to feign unconsciousness, a task surprisingly easy considering how much he distrusts The Hero to carry him. The dark room certainly doesn’t help his almost sisyphean task to stay awake, and what with the way The Devil’s chest makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow, he has to struggle for every moment of consciousness. 

***

Arthur wakes more warm and safe than he’s felt in weeks, and that alone is strange, because he expressly remembers trying not to fall asleep. A pillow is tucked under his head, faux velvet and tassels tickling his nose as he slugs through unconsciousness to the world of the living. A throw, made of felt if he had to guess, covers him almost entirely, just his feet sticking out awkwardly. Still feeling his bandana covering the lower half of his face, his worries ease slightly, even if he is very confused. His eyes are still heavy, so he refrains from opening them just yet, opting instead to enjoy the comfort whilst it lasts. That is, until he feels a pair of eyes on him.

If he hadn’t just woken up, and maybe hadn’t been on the run for the past however long, he probably would’ve reacted much calmer. Instead, he darts up from where he’s laying and gets himself tangled in the duvet.

“Fucking-”

He ends up splayed on his side, his leg somehow bent yet also stuck underneath him, working up an awful cramp. Arthur would just use his hands to free himself if they weren’t currently in handcuffs; he hadn’t noticed that before, too busy almost strangling himself with his cover. 

“Having fun there?” An all too recognisable voice calls out, amused.

Arthur doesn’t manage to hide his scowl this time, choosing to give up on his feeble attempt to escape the throw and huff out an annoyed sound, melting back into the sofa he was apparently laying on. The handcuffs jingle as he adjusts himself slightly, not managing to free his pinned leg. 

“Are these really necessary?” He holds up his hands for The Devil to see, an indignant expression on his face.

“Duh. Can’t have you running off on me.” The hero is sitting on a metallic fold-out chair backwards, his crossed arms resting on the back, legs spread either side.

“Right.” Arthur doesn't bother to dignify that with a proper repose, rather deciding to search the room for a clock. As far as he remembers, it was nearing the middle of the night when they entered The Devil’s house, the whole place shrouded in darkness. But now, with the windows open and natural light filtering in, it must be around half-past eleven at the latest. That would mean Arthur managed to get almost twelve full hours of rest. He hasn’t had that much in weeks. No wonder he woke up so startled. He doesn’t feel nearly back to full strength, and he doubts he will in the coming weeks, but it’s a good place to begin.

Arthur’s stomach grumbles, and if possible The Hero’s smile grows. 

“Hungry huh? I’ve got just the thing!”

“I’ll pass on whatever greasy concoction you’re sure to make. I like my arteries how they are, thanks.” He staunchly ignores the way his stomach is all but begging for a meal.

The Devil shrugs, levelling Arthur with an expectant stare, same smile still on his face. In all honesty, it freaks the fuck out of him. Instead of giving in to The Hero’s silent demands, as Arthur was sure there was more hiding behind that smile, he chooses to attempt to untangle himself once again. Whatever material this duvet is made of, it’s nigh indestructible as far as Arthur’s concerned. It may just be a symptom of near-starvation and chronic dehydration, but no matter what way he contorts himself he cannot free himself. If he had the energy, he could always set the whole bloody thing on fire, but alas he was spent magic-wise.

Maybe eating some food would be best… He thinks with a sigh.

As if The Devil can read his mind, which Arthur isn’t entirely certain he can’t, The Hero perks up. 

“I was thinking burgers for breakfast. Nice and meaty, sure to get you back in fighting shape in no time!” Before the villain can even respond, likely with another snarky comment, The Devil abruptly stands from his chair.

Arthur tracks the man’s movements with narrowed eyes, watching unblinkingly as he makes his way towards the small kitchenette. First, the man turns a dial on his poor excuse of an oven, then pulls something out of a freezer Arthur hadn't noticed. Sadly, it was a packet of cheap frozen patties. It seems The Hero was true to his word. Hamburgers for breakfast. How delightful.

A frying pan fizzles on the stovetop as Arthur stares a hole into the back of The Hero’s head, certain he can explode the man with his mind; because nothing goes his way anymore, The Devil is sadly left in one piece. The Hero flips the patty surprisingly well, Arthur half sure it was going to fall to the floor before he manages to save it with a boisterous laugh. The rest of the food takes no time at all, and by the time Arthur has come to terms with the fact he’s having hamburgers for breakfast they’re already plated before him, garnished with some All-American cheese. Despite wanting nothing more than to spit out the foul attempt at food and laugh in The Hero's face, Arthur’s mouth waters at the smell. 

“I know, the burgers smell delicious. You must be thinking: ‘what can’t he do?’ And the answer is nothing!” He grins down at Arthur cheekily, watching, waiting for him to try the food.

“Except capture me for two weeks, it seems.” He raises an awfully thick eyebrow, smarminess emanating from every pore. 

The Hero’s eye twitches and Arthur can feel a satisfied smirk settle onto his face. 

“Anyways, we’ve got some stuff we’ve gotta discuss. Mostly about the terms of our agreement.” The Jersey Devil is as close to seriousness as Arthur has seen him—that is, before he takes a bite out of his burger and smears ketchup all over his face.

Arthur’s previously smug mood sours. 

“I wouldn’t call it an agreement, seeing as I didn’t agree to anything.” He scoffs, going to cross his arms over his chest before remembering the handcuffs hanging from his wrists.

“Tomato–tomahto. What matters is you’re here now and there are some things I’ve gotta make clear. First and foremost, your name!” A smile once again graces The Devil’s face, the man not bothering to wipe off his face as he takes a large gulp of some fizzy drink.

At this, Arthur can’t help his disbelieving laugh. He even goes so far as to wipe away his fake tears, still cackling all the while. The simple fact that The Devil would think Arthur, a criminal, would tell him anything even close to his name was absurd. If The Hero in front of him was known for anything, Arthur would bet his life that it wasn’t his smarts.

“I’m not giving you my name, you idiot. Why would I ever do that?” He has to catch his breath after his rampant laughter, letting out a waning sigh as he calms himself down.

The Hero rolls his eyes, as if Arthur is the one being unreasonable in this situation, as if he is the one who has to put up with this nonsense. 

“‘Cuz I’m not calling you ‘The Sheriff of Nuttingham’ casually, dude. That’s weird.”

Arthur blinks.

“Nottingham.”

“Yeah, Nuttingham, like I said.” The Hero repeats, and Arthur genuinely cannot tell whether he’s mocking him or not.

For a split second, he contemplates stealing The Hero’s gun and shooting himself in the head.

“No, you’re saying– whatever! I’m not giving you my identity. You’ll have to torture it out of me! And even when I’m screaming and writhing in pain I’ll never give it to-”

The Devil interrupts him with a frown. “Yeah, I’m not doing that. Jeez, dude, what the hell?”

An embarrassed blush colours his cheeks as Arthur is left with his mouth open, cut-off halfway through his awesomely amazing villain speech.

“Erm. Right. My point still stands!” He tries to recover, pointing an accusatory finger—and other hand since they’re both still handcuffed—at the man.

The Jersey Devil doesn’t bother to dignify that with a response, instead opting to take another comically large sip of his cola. Honestly, Arthur doesn’t know how one man can eat so messily, especially with something as simple as a burger. Speaking of, he has his own odd breakfast to eat. Being the gentleman he is, despite what The Hero may think, he holds the hamburger carefully in his hands and takes a tentative bite.

Shit, he thinks. It’s good.

In response to The Hero’s smug expression, Arthur chooses not to voice his thoughts on the surprisingly passable burger. A Full English Breakfast would be much better, of course, but in this god-forsaken country Arthur has come not to expect anything nice. If anybody asks, he’s eating it to be polite. The only reason he even attempts to finish the thing is simply to not hurt his host’s feelings, and being the good houseguest he prides himself in being, Arthur metaphorically licks his plate clean.

After that, they sit in silence. Arthur makes no move to start a conversation, and after about five minutes of The Hero unblinkingly staring at him, the man clears his throat.

“As I was saying before you interrupted me with your weird masochist rant, we need to set some boundaries here.” 

Arthur doesn’t enjoy the insult but keeps his mouth shut. Sometimes saying nothing is better than saying anything at all—at least, that’s what his brother says.

“You can sleep in the spare room. Don’t worry, there aren’t any cameras or anything! It should be comfortable enough. Breakfast is whenever I wake up, lunch is usually around midday, and dinner is whenever I’m hungry after lunch. I hope you don’t have a day-job, Sheriff, ‘cuz there’ll be no going out without my supervision. Don’t look at me like that; you’re a villain. For all I know you’ll go out and turn someone into a frog!” The man indicates wildly with his hands as he speaks, almost knocking over his drink.

Arthur doesn’t comment on the irony of that last sentence. He does, however, feel more than happy to comment on the rest.

“Right. Listen here you oversized oaf, I only agreed to this to stay out of prison! That doesn’t give you the right to order me around like some kind of scullery maid! I do have a day-job, I’ll have you know, and I have no plans on giving it up anytime soon.” He scowls at The Hero, which isn’t hard to do when near everything the man says pisses him off.

There’s no longer a smile on The Devil’s face. His hands ball up into fists by the side of him, and Arthur can just about make out a twitch of the man’s blue eye.

“Whether you agreed to stay out of prison is irrelevant, what matters is that now you’re here! And if you’re gonna be living under my roof, you’re gonna listen to my rules! So shut your mouth, you caterpillar-eyebrowed wizard!” The Devil raises his voice, not yet a yell but enough to feel demeaning.

Arthur can’t help his reaction. He summons forth the meagre amount of magic he has left and uses it to slap The Hero across the cheek, brilliant green light acting like a whip. Honestly, he didn’t think he had enough power in him to manage such a feat, but he proved himself wrong.

“How dare you speak to me like that, you wanker! I am a witch, not a foul wizard! Do I seriously look like I need some magic staff and billowing cloak to use my magic?! The answer is no! Think before you speak, you Californian prat!” Somehow, he manages to say that all in one breath, leaving him quite red afterwards.

Now, The Hero looks truly angry—because of the slap or Arthur’s words, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that the man now has a hand-shaped mark on his cheek, and a pissed off look on his face.

And that’s when everything goes to Hell