Demoncember writing prompt — Demon who only accepts summons from girls who don’t know they’re girls yet/Demon who only accepts summons from boys who don’t know they’re boys yet
Valquazzit sticks her head into one of the admin offices, looking frazzled and clutching a sheaf of paperwork. “Zo,” she says, “I had a lunchtime slot but I can’t find the client anywhere, and I talked to tech and they swear the circle connected, so there’s maybe a human wandering around down here some-fucking-where unescorted—”
“Hang on,” Jurhazo says, and rummages in her intray. “I think I saw — ah.”
She squints at an illegible post-it note; Valquazzit’s expression pulls slowly into a terrible frown.
“I think the client’s down with Barbaj,” Jurhazo says. “I’ll, um — I’ll go and talk to her.”
“It’s my client,” Valquazzit says murderously.
“Yeah, but you hate her, Val,” Jurhazo sighs. “I’ll check the client’s there, get her to sign off the paperwork—”
“I’ve already wasted an hour hurtling around the department to a metaphorical Benny Hill soundtrack panicking that I’d lost one because somebody can’t be fucked to fill out a client transfer form,” Valquazzit snaps. “I’ll go down there and check that my client, who’s my responsibility until she does the fucking paperwork, is still in one piece—”
Jurhazo gnaws on the end of a pen. “Compromise,” she offers. “You check on your client, and as duty supervisor, I’ll tell Barb off about the transfer form. Okay?”
Valquazzit bares teeth, growls, and barges out, which Jurhazo accepts as a better reaction than it could be.
“Look at this self-aggrandising shit,” Valquazzit says crossly.
“We don’t have departmental heraldry,” Juhazo agrees, looking at the design on the doors.
“It’s not even proper heraldry,” Valquazzit says. “Vert, a crushing fist gules at fess point, leaking drops of fluid or and argent, my ass. You’re not supposed to put colours on colours.”
“How do you even know — what does that even mean—”
Valquazzit folds her arms and obstinately raises her chin.
“Val—” Jurhazo sighs. “I’ll talk to her, okay?”
They let themselves in. Barbajakh-Tzum has a sprawling studio, all complicated up and downs a few steps at a time, spaces open to one another but set off at odd angles. It’s bursting with rails and rails of clothes, walls of shoe-filled cubbyholes, dressing tables, and mirrors, mirrors, mirrors.
Barbaj and the client are shoulder to shoulder on a sagging, hot pink loveseat in the back of the warren, incongruously set in the centre of a dance rehearsal space, ceiling-height mirrors and barre and all. The client is crying quietly into a handkerchief; Barbaj is simply listening.
Jurhazo coughs politely.
“Oh,” Barbaj says, and glances over her shoulder at them, gives the client a soothing pat on the back; “I think I just need to take care of some paperwork. Just sit tight, and I’ll be back in a second, okay?” She stands, giving the tearful human a gleaming smile. “There’s a good girl.”
Valquazzit passes Barbaj halfway across the floor; they look sideways at each other, Valquazzit baleful, Barbaj smiling a faint apology. Neither says anything.
Valquazzit grimly throws herself onto the loveseat. “I hate that bitch,” she announces. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s great at this. Nobody ends up transferred over to Barb by accident.” She gnaws angrily on one of her talons. “Nice dress,” she adds grumpily. “But look, look at her, she gonna — there she goes.” Valquazzit points into the mirrors, at the reflection of Barbaj playfully chucking Jurhazo under the chin. “Ooh, handsome boy,” she mimics viciously. “Turn it off for once, bitch, we’re succubi, not clients — our gender’s pretty much succubus.” She scowls at Jurhazo’s laugh and lightly pinked cheeks.
The client blows her nose. “Which one’s your ex?” she says tentatively.
“The bitch is Zo’s ex,” Valquzzit says, sliding down in the seat, glowering. “Neither of them is my — what is this, an interrogation? What, you angling for a job down here? Psychological Torment? Because they had to suspend interdepartmental softball games because we beat them so bad, and by beat I mean we jumped them with bats—” She shoves the client’s shoulder. “You’re a bitch too,” she says, but softer, watching Jurhazo earnestly hold out a clipboard and gesture towards Valquazzit and the client, shaking her head a little. “Had me worried when you didn’t show up for our session. She treating you right?”
The client dredges up a watery smile and a tentative nod.
“Yeah.” Valquazzit pats her knee. “She is good at this. Just got to get her to do the damn paperwork and I’ll leave you to it.”
“I think she’s talking to your girlfriend about you,” the client says, and Valquazzit’s gaze snaps back to the mirrors.
“Zo’s not — fuck you, you are a plant from Psych—” she sputters, wrestling the squealing human into a headlock before Jurhazo sprints across the floor and tackles her.
“Val, Barb JUST signed for the client, you can’t molest her NOW—”
“I’m not hurting her,” Valquazzit grumbles, and gently, sulkily bites the nape of the client’s neck, provoking a fresh squeal and a hot blush. “See? She’s fine.”
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you down here,” Jurhazo says, hauling her off the loveseat.
