an old, sweet song [The Devil Went Down to Georgia; Devil/Johnny; Gen]

[sodomhipped]

Title: an old, sweet song

Fandom: The Devil Went Down to Georgia

Pairing: Devil/Johnny

Rating: Teen

Warning: None

Tags: Post-Canon, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, The Passage of Time

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Georgia is hotter than hell, and if anyone would know, it would be the devil himself. His linen suit does nothing to abate the heat, but at least he’s well-dressed for the occasion. He strides through the muggy summer air, which persists despite the lateness of the hour, until he arrives at the worn porch of an old, familiar home where a man sits.

“It’s been a long time since I last heard you play,” he says by way of greeting.

“I quit a long time ago,” Johnny says. He looks at the devil, squinting into the dark, shading his eyes with a weathered hand as if it will help clarify the darkness.

“Wish you hadn’t,” the devil replies. “You once told me you were the best that’s ever been. Why don’t you break out your fiddle for old time’s sake?”

“Why don’t you step out of the dark?”

“It’s like you don’t recognize me, old friend.” But the devil climbs the porch until he stands under the dim light cast from the window of the house anyway.

“Goddamn, you haven’t aged a day.”

The same cannot be said of Johnny. The devil looks at how the toll of years gone by have begun to show. He’s not an old man, not yet, but he’s getting there. It doesn’t really matter, because his soul, of course, still shines the same as it always has—gleaming and bright.

Johnny notices the devil’s scrutiny. “I’m not sure why you bothered comin’ around. As you can see, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” the devil says, waving a dismissive hand. “Why would I care about your mortal years when, if you said the word, I could hold your soul for an eternity?”

Johnny looks stumped at that, so the devil prods again, “Where is that golden fiddle I left you?”

“I locked that thing away,” Johnny says. His jaw tightens, and then he adds, “You never asked about it before.”

The devil hums, noncommittal. “Everything has its time—and I think tonight calls for a song.”

It’s true that all those years ago, when the devil went down to Georgia, he was looking for a soul to steal. But as with how things go with the devil, it wasn’t the whole truth.

The truth was: it was the second time he’d been to Georgia in recent days—and he had a particular soul in mind.

The first time he went, he’d been checking his ledger, cursing the downward trend. He knew where souls grew ripe for the picking, though—those dimly lit establishments where the walls smelled of whiskey and music burst through the seams. Local bars reeking of forgotten dreams, gambling halls leaking men who lost more than just their wallets in an unlucky bet, and brothels full of men trying to forget just how lonely they are.

He didn’t find Johnny in any of those gloomy places.

Instead, the trilling voice of a fiddle caught his ear as he passed through a crossroads. He followed it, telling himself that these sorts of detours tended to yield new opportunities, and came upon a young man with a fiddle tucked under his chin. The devil watched dexterous, calloused hands as they flew across the strings.

Two things were immediately obvious about this young man. First, his music was beyond a talent, it was a marvel. Second, his soul shone like a beacon, blazing even in the middle of the afternoon. It was rare for the devil to feel much those days, lacking a soul of his own, but he was struck to the core with a rare, genuine desire.

The devil wanted—not only the soul, but the man and his music, too.

So he went back home and made plans. It was a stupid thing to do—a singular soul, no matter how brilliant, would not affect the bottom line—and yet he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he daydreamed what sort of specific temptations he might fashion for a particular man.

The usual bait seemed so paltry. Fame. Fortune. Power. Artists always required a more precise touch.

What could a young man with such perfect music in his soul want?

In the end, he crafted a golden fiddle in the very forge of hell. The instrument was no simple thing, the precious metal woven through with enchantment. As a last flourish, he recklessly bound the fiddle to his own essence. Every melody would summon him, every song an undeniable siren call.

Of course, the devil didn’t plan to lose—it was always more enjoyable and easier to win—but, in this case, he wanted insurance. If he lost the wager, then the young man would take the fiddle. And each time those fingers danced across the strings, the devil would appear, ever ready to offer new temptations. He would wear down the young man’s resistance note by note.

But the devil miscalculated. He went into the duel with arrogance and left the fiddle in Johnny’s hands with equal hubris.

Every time Johnny played, year after year, the devil was called by his song.

And every time, Johnny stubbornly turned him away.

And every time, the devil retreated while Johnny’s tune haunted him, a beating ache in his chest.

On Johnny’s porch, several decades later, Johnny asks, “Why are you here? I didn’t use the fiddle this time.”

The devil raises an eyebrow. “And just how long have you known that tidbit of information?”

“A while now,” Johnny says. “It’s not hard to figure out when every time a man plays a reel, the devil follows as sure as the tide.”

“Tell me: how many times did you play it, knowing I would come?”

“Too many, probably,” Johnny says. “I always knew why you left the damned thing, but it was easier to not care when I was younger.”

“And you were never tempted?”

“I didn’t say that,” Johnny says, and there’s a look in his eye that could keep the devil going for another fifty years.

“Then how about now?” the devil asks. “Are you tempted tonight?”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate. His reply is a blunt and self-assured, “No.”

Then Johnny stands and disappears into the house, leaving the devil alone in the oppressive heat.

The devil clenches his teeth. Every time he goes to Georgia, it ends the same way. He tamps down the urge to lash out—toss the chair that Johnny was sitting in or tear at the walls with his fingernails. Or worse. Instead, he does as he always has when it comes to Johnny; he leaves, defeated.

He only stops in his tracks when he hears the rickety door of the house open and shuts again, followed by Johnny’s steps on the creaking boards of the porch.

Then, an unmistakable sound: a bow against recently rosined strings. A song, as rich as the instrument Johnny plays, fills the distance between them. As Johnny plays “The House of the Rising Sun,” it feels like it means something.

The devil keeps walking, and the music—if not Johnny—follows him home.