#the high priestess (agent seraphim)

[agentargus]

So this was in my drafts and I figured I’d finish it up. @thatdamnokie and I had talked about the possibility of Seraphim interacting with more of my characters and this was the result. It’s intended as a sequel to Morgan’s Drabble about Seraphim’s first mission with Nova.

Loath as Dante was to doubt Caroline’s judgement, especially in matters of their shared trade, he could hardly pretend that he didn’t have questions. Exorcists were Repubblica’s bread and butter—or rather, bread and wine. What could possibly be so special about this one’s injuries for Caroline to suggest such desperate measures? He found cold comfort in the fact that she trusted him with a task like this, but he only hoped that this whole trip would prove to be unnecessary.

“Agent Seraphim?” Dante poked his head into the examination lab, scratching at the sigil at the back of his neck absentmindedly at the sight of her, “or would you prefer ‘Morgan?’”

“Morgan’s fine, thanks,” she replied You must be Dr. Argenti.”

Oh no, darling,” Dante laughed, “I’m barely a soccorritore* Dr. Argenti is my mother,” already finished established in her field at his age, in fact. The unwelcome reminder unfurled itself from the corners of his mind like the first clouds of a storm. Swallowing hard, he busied himself with washing his hands to keep the thunder of his thoughts at bay. Remember your training, as much a prayer as it was a constant reminder within the Societies. “Looks like you’ve got your shoe off and your foot propped up already. Sei propiro in gamba...”**

“What?”

“That was supposed to be a pun, but it doesn’t make sense in English. Anyway, let’s sneaker a peak at that foot of yours.“ She did not laugh, but he’d hardly expected her to, not if she was in pain, anyway. “Beautiful work,” he studied the tiny spiral of scar tissue with consideration, “no less than I’d expect from Cara. You could say she toes the line—toes, as in feet? Never mind. But it’s still hurting you?”

Morgan turned away from him at this “It’s not that bad. I’m only here because Caroline insisted...”

“You flatter me, but just because you made your hospital bed, that doesn’t mean I’ll let you lie in it.”

“What?”

“You’re lying,” Dante could only hope that his squint would mask the crimson glaze that always seemed to fall over his eyes at the realization of a hidden sin, “about how bad the pain is, I mean. I’m a fool, not an idiot. If it wasn’t crippling, Cara would have given you something for the pain and sent you on your way. Perhaps she already did, but you’re still hurting enough to have come back to her. She flew me out from the Vatican, darling—and boy, are her little cherub wings tired. If the pain wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be here.”

I...” Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly and she pursued her lips for a moment before finally sighing, “...okay fine. My fiancé insisted I go back to medical. It doesn’t hurt all the time, but I get these really awful flare-ups...”

“When you feel particularly guilty, yes? Or when you’re attacked during an exorcism.” When she didn’t respond, suggesting to him that he was right, he continued, “you blame yourself for Agent Nova’s injuries too, and the fact that she had to remove the needle, though all of that was hardly your fault.”

Morgan raised an inquisitive eyebrow, “how did you..?

“You didn’t read the release form that Cara gave to you for to sign? For sign? To sign?” English, always a welcome distraction with its many idiosyncrasies, “To sign! That’s it. But you did sign it...” again, no response. As silent as a priest upon hearing a particularly scandalous confession. Fitting for an exorcist, really. “You know,” he continued, “it was very tempting to pretend that I was reading your mind, but I’m beginning to think that the joke would be as lost on you as...well, as lost as an angel in hell.”

Morgan flinched slightly, steadying herself with almost indecent haste “...Sorry.”

“Marone! I’ve gone and made you feel guilty,” then more to himself than to Morgan, “I just make things worse! This is why I can’t get into med school...”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine...”

Not so much a traditional confession, Dante realized. Rather, it was as though the confessional vestibule stretched between them like a volleyball net, guilt and forgiveness bouncing from one side to the other...Well, it was an amusing visual at least. “I expected you to say that. You knew it would hurt you more if you projected it outward, because the ultimate guilt is that anyone else should hurt the way you do, which makes the guilt worse. A...circolo vizioso...a vicious circle?”

“You mean a vicious cycle? Yeah, I guess?”

“I see. Well, it isn’t infected, the scans in your file don’t suggest any traces of the poison left inside. Cara is beyond compare when it comes to these things. The bulk of the damage that remains is spiritual, rather than physical in nature. Then again, we could simply amputate your foot; it could give you a leg up...”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

“Only partially,” he forced a smile, hoping to God she didn’t suspect that he was stalling, “anyway, I’m imagining you’ve already been to see a therapist—and that gorgeous priest of yours, Agent Exorcist. Incidentally, have you heard the one about how a priest is like a Christmas tree? The balls are only for decoration!”

Finally, a good solid laugh from Agent Seraphim. Maybe this would be alright after all. Agent Cherub wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn’t trust him, and who was he to question her taste?

“The very business of hell is the separation of guilt from pain, yes?” Dante continued, “for what are true sinners but people who feel no guilt from the pain they inflict? Your guilt isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, but we might be able to separate it from the pain. I suspect a summoner might transfer the pain into their own body when the demon left them, so that eliminates the average magic-user. Sending you back through the hellgate is out of the question, of course...” this new boost of confidence was more fleeting than he’d realized, draining with the reasons he could muster to keep stalling. His heart raced in his throat and he took several deep breaths before conceding, “there really isn’t a better option, is there..?”

“A better option than what?”

Just blurt it out, he told himself, don’t think it through, don’t dance around the truth anymore. Then, deciding himself better off throughly ignoring his own advice, he replied as carefully as he could, “I’m a terrible liar so I’m not even going to try: I’m afraid. Why do you think I haven’t stopped talking the entire time you’ve been here? You’re an exorcist. Once you stop hearing me, you’ll feel me. You’ll know what I am and what I’m made of and you’ll understand why Cara thinks I can help you. She thinks that this...this part of me can do something other than punish people, other than hurt people, scare people into running—thank God I didn’t wear eye makeup today, because that would be running too if I had.”

He hadn’t expected her to take his hand, much less that her grip would be so firm. “Wait...just let me...” Morgan’s voice was soft, more gentle than authoritative. Her gaze, by contrast, rippled through him, awakening the dormant forces beneath his skin now struggling against their tattooed restraints. An anxious lurching, like the flutter of wings, pulsed within his stomach. He could see her lips purse and her shoulders tense in pain, but she never turned from him, not once.

“I’m sorry, Morgan...” never enough. Eventually, the realization always came.

“Hey, like you said, I was going to find out anyway,” Morgan’s forced smile was a mirror of Dante’s own, “it’s alright. I know how to handle demons...”

“But if we both doubt ourselves...”

“We have to believe in each other instead,” she finished for him, “I’m an exorcist. Literally been through hell. I’ve got this.”

Dante heaved a deep sigh, pulling up a stool to the examination bed, “alright. How did you want to do this?”

“Close your eyes. Let your heart rate slow. Relax your shoulders and think of something calming. Let go of your inhibitions. I’ve got you. You’re safe... Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

His mind filled with memories of home. Far away, among the souls of the dead, towering and sequestered in blue—was it sky or water? Heaven or Poveglia? Did it even matter?

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Home that was not home, that place where he could not be what his creator intended, never quite fit, so he couldn’t stay.

“Vefa mena Murmux ayer...”

Too much for heaven to contain, too much trapped within a prison of flesh frozen in time. He’d broken through the shell of his cosmic egg, transformed, a baptism of fire, of his own destruction and rebirth. Graying plaster dust and fallen stars, fraying straps on a white straightjacket, an angel’s robes singed...and smoke. So much smoke...

“Duke Murmur?”

Fluorescent light swam around her with an angel’s glow. A little star bereft of the warmth her light might have exuded long ago. Now she sat before him, cold and small and fragile as all humans were. “Pretty little seraph,” he hummed, “fell and hurt yourself, did you?”

“I was injured restoring Prince Krueger to his position. The court of the Fallen owes me a debt. Will you pay it for me?”

He reached his neck as long as it would go, lips stretched white in semblance of a smile...“I was a throne, once, I think; if memory serves, I would have served you.”

Unflappable, she was. “And will you serve me now?”

“I live to serve,” this abject truth should have come up bitter. Perhaps it would have, when he was young and falling, drowning—sky or water, toward Hell or the bottom of Venice Lagoon? He couldn’t remember—all for a creator who would sooner let him fall than accept failure. But now, now he found himself in service to a trade to which he was uniquely suited—and in service to humanity.

He struggled against the shackles tattooed upon his human body’s flesh, trying in vain to grow. Such tiny hands to carry so heavy a burden...but perhaps, just this once, he could be enough.

Slowly, he caressed the seraph’s wound with one of those tiny human hands. She tensed beneath his touch as he found the throbbing agony within her, drawing it out like a splinter until it became indistinguishable from his own. “The debt has been paid.”

“Thank you, your grace,” she hummed, lowering her head in what seemed to be more relief than reverence.

Then, his chest tightened; pang of fear, a sinking doubt. Human insecurity or fear of God, he could not tell, “are you going to try where the others have failed, little seraph, going to send me away, little exorcist? You wouldn’t be the first to waste the effort.”

“That depends entirely on what you do to me.”

He could see her, really see her, even with just two eyes, perhaps with greater clarity than either one of them could see themselves, “I remain here because humans wished to be more than they were. You remain here because humans feared that they couldn’t be more than they were. A fallen angel is her own inner demon. The only thing I can do to you that you’ve not already done to yourself is ease the pain of the fall. I revel in the knowledge that we’re more alike than could ever be entirely comfortable...and that, little seraph, is why we’re both here...”

It was closeness that the both of them desired, warmer, like Icarus to the sun. Was it the sadism and masochism equally present within the fallen that relishes the suffering he shared with her? Or was it the desperation of his humanity that valued what companionship might arise from that suffering? Perhaps both.

Perhaps not comfortable, but fitting. Doubt and guilt and pain, suffering for something distant and divine. Perhaps there was solace in the bonding, mutual discomforts canceling each other out, community among the outcasts for whom the binaries of heaven and hell had been shattered into the sands of the earth. Demons and angels and humans.

After all, he was human, wasn’t he? He was small and fleshy and hungered for Morgan’s friendship, or at least her approval. One bleeding into the other, the separation imposed only by the limits of the human body. Slowly, the star’s glow faded, Morgan coming into back into focus.

“D-did it work?” Dante asked apprehensively

“I think so. My foot feels better, anyway. Do you remember anything?”

Dante pursed his lips “I... I think so. Sort of...should I be worried if I remembered?”

“Why would you be?”

“Because it would mean that Murmur isn’t as separate from me as I’ve been trying to convince myself. Demons, they’re supposed to possess you completely, but I am still myself when I’m him, in a way. Does that make me evil?”

“I don’t know as much about this stuff as you give me credit for...” Morgan signed, humbling herself as usual.

“You are an exorcist. You see me. You see him. When you look, where does he end and I begin?”

“Honestly, I can’t tell. More importantly, I’m not sure it matters. It’s what you do that’s important, not who you are.”

“I don’t think I did anything I wasn’t supposed to...Did I hurt you? I don’t remember hurting you...”

“You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

“A miracle from heaven, then. Gloria patri!” It was as though a weight had been lifted. No longer drowning, floating to the surface, as close to heaven as a demon reborn human could manage... “And now, lunch! Carter—Agent Thorn— and I were going to get Chinese food when I was finished working on you. You should come. It’ll be...”

“Let me guess, chow-fun.”

Dante beamed “I was actually going to say the ‘mein event’ of my trip, but ‘chow-fun’ is much better.”

“Chinese food sounds great. Thanks—for everything.”

“Well, I had a bit of divine intervention.”

——

*An emergency medic who works in a specific kind of ambulance. The closest English equivalent would be an EMT or a paramedic.

**”in gamba�� literally means “on leg,” but is an idiom meaning that someone knows what they’re doing.

[agentargus]

The better part of forty years ago, Merlin would have given him all manner of hell for knowing the lyrics to “Holding Out for a Hero.” Given that Harry’s youthful forays into the local discos usually resulted in anxiety, ill-fated fistfights, or both, Harry had little business dedicating valuable brain storage to such frivolity. That was, of course, in theory. In practice, countless hours sweeping his apartment with the local pop stations blaring in the background had had a lasting detrimental effect on his psyche.

At least, that was how he would describe it to Rae once he’d sobered up a bit. At the time, he hadn’t given his knowledge of the lyrics much thought. He had, however, spared a thought for Merlin, incredulous that his best friend had managed to go this long without Harry discovering the truth. For a man who claimed to find pop music saccharine and boring and extolling the virtues of nearly every other genre by comparison, this had come as a pleasant and humorously ironic surprise.

When Harry had the wherewithal to ask Merlin about it, the answer was some vague muttering about some pop-punk group called Emery, but Harry knew his friend well enough to tell when he was lying. Nevertheless, he didn’t push the issue, instead, making great note of the fact in his own mind, lest he need to recall it again.

concept: it’s karaoke night at an ancient pub in southern london. harry and merlin are drunkenly singing holding out for a hero to seraphim and succubus, who can’t quite stop giggling.

[agentargus]

“Broanoke” moodboards: @agent-succubus and @thatdamnokie

[agentargus]

//Testing an idea I had.

[agentargus]

//I have no self control. @thatdamnokie

[agentargus]

Agent Seraphim EGL outfit. @thatdamnokie

Blouse by Dear Celine

Purse by Angelic Pretty

Jumperskirt by Soufflé Song

Shoes by Liz Lisa

Crown by Hysteria Machine

Ring by Angelic Pretty

[agentargus]

//Harry and Morgan wholesome friendship moodboard. @thatdamnokie

[agentargus]

White Hymnals moodboard for @thatdamnokie.

[agentargus]

Royals and Robots

Tilde doesn’t really do pet names (notice how she doesn’t really have many for Eggsy in TCG) but she might throw around “baby” on occasion. Pru usually hates being called “baby” because she finds it infantalizing, but she makes exceptions for Tilde.

Pru tried all manner of Swedish pet names at one point or another, but since Swedish is a downloaded language rather than a regularly spoken one, she has a tendency to sound a little too much like Siri for Tilde’s comfort. They’re still both figuring the whole thing out. They both occasionally call each other “cutie pie,” too. Yeah, they’re soft.

—

Hymns and Holograms

Hamish has no shortage of pet names for Morgan: “dear, darling, Quine/queen, love, lass, chickadee, dove, angel, little bird,” etc. he mostly only uses them when Morgan isn’t feeling too great and he’s in caregiver mode (or occasionaly in bed lol.)

Morgan doesn’t use pet names very much, probably because she still feels on guard a little. When she slips and calls him “love” or “darling” or “babe,” he not-so-secretly loves it. Morgan probably thinks his giggling is at her rather than with her, but he’s actually really happy whenever she’s openly sweet with him, even when he feels silly about it.

—

Butterfly Knife

So we have two cute, soft, lovey-dovey ships—and then there’s Rae and Harry who call each other “daddy,” with very little irony.

Okay, but seriously, they require a bit more explanation because of how compartmentalized Harry was before he found some sort of equilibrium with Rae. As a mind-wiped lepidopterist, he was very effusive and affectionate with people he trusted. He’d get all shy and look away and call Rae “beautiful,” as a pet name. He started calling her “my love” when he got a little bolder. She called him, “honey” and “baby,” and stuff and he got all blushy.

Then his memories came back and he was a great deal more no-nonsense even than usual to compensate and prove to both the world and himself that he wasn’t vulnerable and weak. He got very frustrated with himself and kind of took it out on everyone, Rae included. She was pissed when he shot Whiskey, even more so than Eggsy was (and yes, she believed Harry that Whiskey wasn’t what he seemed, but rightfully thought that Harry didn’t have to shoot him in the head.) She said things to him when he came back from Cambodia and he had a lot to think about.

And then Pennsylvania happened and Harry got his shit together and had a long talk with Rae and there were a whole ton of feelings. Now, they’ve kind of settled into their lives together and things come more naturally. They have fun and call each other silly names (he calls her his Audrey Hepburn and she calls him her Liza Minnelli, he calls her “witchy-poo” and “succu-bum” and she calls him “princess” and “old fart”) and sexy names (see the first paragraph of this section) but sometimes he shows his age and classicism and calls her “darling,” or “beloved.” They’re cute trash royalty.

tell me about their pet names for each other.

[agentargus]

“Morgan, wait!”

It wasn’t uncommon for Morgan to keep her feelings inside for long periods of time. She was like Harry in that regard. What was it about people who suppressed their emotions to the point of bursting that appealed so much to Hamish? He shook his head, laughing ruefully to himself as he followed Morgan out into the snow. This hadn’t been the first time, but it had been the worst since their marriage. She’d been loath to tell him what was wrong, try as he might. Tonight, it had proved too much. She had rolled away from him in bed when he’d reached out to touch her, all but bolting out into the night the moment he’d asked her what was wrong.

“For God’s sake, lass, if you’re going to be running out on me, at least have the brains to bring a jacket with ye,” He wrapped the coat about her shoulders, “merino wool, cotton broadcloth lining and a bulletproof polycarbonate interlining. I was saving it for Christmas, but it’s warmer than any of the coats you’ve got.” Finally, after a long silence, she slid her arms into the sleeves. Merlin couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it draped about her body. The fit was perfect.

“Y-you made this for me?” she sniffled.

“Used a commercial pattern,” he muttered, “I was afraid that measuring ye proper would spoil the surpri—” she was kissing him, up on her tiptoes, arms draped about his shoulders

“This is what you’ve been doing at the tailor shop all those late nights?” she sobbed into his neck, “t-there wasn’t anyone else?”

“You’re the only one for me, dove,” he murmured, running his fingers through his hair, “that’s never going to change. I love you, Morgan, but you’ve got to tell me if something I do bothers you. We cannae all be psychic mediums,” he laughed and, fortunately, she shared his laughter and followed him back inside.

That night while she slept, he put in a call to Borely, “the coat’s finished now so I’ll nae be putting in anymore of these late-night shifts. I’ll be staying home with Morgan from now on. If the EVP meter breaks again, ye’re on your own. I wasn’t even s’posed to be a part of your little resurrection experiment in the first place. You’ll have to carry on without me. If our man really is some sort of ghost haunting the tailor shop and you think you can bring him back, you’ll need to do it on your own.”

tell me about the time they passionately kissed outside in the snow.

[agentargus]

Royals and Robots

When Pru gets viruses, she’s usually a little loopy for a bit, sometimes spouting off like an infomercial, but Ginger gave her some of the best antivirus protection in existence, so she tends to recover relatively quickly. Tilde is used to it by now.

What Tilde isn’t used to and may never get used to, is when Pru gets broken and repairs herself in the bathroom. Imagine walking in on your lady friend only to see part of her skin peeled back while she fixes her bones with a screwdriver. Yeah, some weird shit.

Pru, however, has never bothered to unlearn any of the caregiving programming from her Stepford Wife days, so whenever Tilde gets sick, Pru basically becomes Baymax. Total helicopter doctor with WebMD-level knowledge and paranoia to match. The same thing always happens when Tilde so much as coughs:

“I have taken the liberty of engaging the ten best doctors in Europe to assess your symptoms and have scheduled tests for the ten deadliest diseases associated with those symptoms.”

“Thanks but...”

“Organic human bodies are very fragile and susceptible to a near-infinite number of ailments. Please don’t die. I love you.”

—

Hymns and Holograms

Morgan and Hamish are both impossible to take care of, lol. They secretly crave affection but refuse to ask for it. Both are healers (Morgan in a spiritual way and Hamish is a registered nurse—what hasn’t this guy done amirite?) so they’re both knowledgeable enough to know what is and isn’t serious. Hamish has the self-awareness to seek help if he knows it’s serious and if seeking help won’t compromise anyone else. He knows that if anything happens to him, things are more likely to happen to the people he works with so he tries to take care of himself when it impacts other people.

Morgan, on the other hand, could have a knife sticking out of her and wouldn’t do a damn thing about it. Hamish is protective of her and plays doctor for her more often than necessary. She secretly loves it but is afraid she doesn’t deserve it. When she says as much, Hamish is like, “so are you questioning my judgment then? I didnae think so.”

Morgan can get similarly worried when Hamish gets sick. Like most people who generally repress their anxiety in order to better get shit done, Hamish gets stress-related stomach aches. They can usually be remedied with a cup of chamomile, an antacid, and a heating pad and they don’t generally interfere with quartermastering, but Morgan worries and makes him healing teas that he drinks without complaint, even if they taste terrible.

—

Butterfly Knife

Rae doesn’t get sick as often as she parties too hard and gets hangovers and post-party migraines. Harry shows his age and goes into, “this is what you get for drinking that much,” mode. He doesn’t say it outright but he just sits there looking smug while pouring tea for Rae and himself. (He, of course, spent a fair amount of his youth in a similar position and sometimes forgets how much younger Rae is than him.) Kingsman has instilled a tendency toward tough love in him and he’s very much, “come on now, get out of bed and drink your tea before it gets cold,” even at his sweetest.

That said, he’s also a cuddler. If it’s obvious that Rae is really sick, he’ll pay no regard to her being contagious and climb into bed with her. Think peak big spoon mode, stroking her hair and stuff. If she gets injured, he spends a great deal of time blaming himself, but won’t let on that he feels that way. He’ll just be frustrated in general.

Rae is more of a mom. She worries for Harry when he gets visibly sick or seriously injured. He’s had decades’ worth of practice hiding any sign of distress so any ailment he can’t either fake or fight his way through worries Rae pretty seriously. When he’s visibly sick of hurt, Harry shows his age more and generally seems much more fragile than he actually is. She starts thinking about his mortality and clings to and generally fusses over him, even when he asks her not to. Like I said, she’s a mom.

(When Harry was younger, he could be a right drama queen when he got hurt. Merlin could tell you stories. Harry makes up for it by being ridiculously stoic now lol.)

tell me about a time that one half of your ship got sick and the other took care of them. tell me about a time that they took care of another handle when they were sick or injured.