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Takeover, Takeout and Takeoff
“Ah, mistah. We couldn’t get yer pickles. We uh, ran out. Sorry again. Mistah.” The acne-ridden, lanky teenager was staring into his phone as he made this quarter-assed apology to Satan, king of demons. He so obviously wasn’t sorry. Maou shouldn’t get so angry, it was late for anyone to be up at this time, but sue him if he wanted to bash the kid’s head into a wall. Things had gotten so out of hand today and Maou just wanted to go home.
It was also somehow more embarrassing and annoying that this was a Mgronald’s too. Maou had bragged to Emi about the customer service that his restaurant chain had provided, and here he was, denied pickles from someone half his size.
Sighing in defeat, Maou picked up the two double mgburgers (with no pickles, god damn it) from the counter and began the trek through the loud airport food court, over to the table he shared with his wife, Emi Maou-Yusa. It was going to be a long night.
For the most part, Sadao Maou had achieved his singular goal on earth—he had risen to the top of the chain of command for Mgronald, obtaining those three letters that declared him to be the head honcho in everything to do with the company. C,E, and O. Urushihara couldn’t believe it when he heard. Emi didn’t either, and apparently Ashiya was holding in his own doubts about his lord. (When Maou heard this, he was more than a little hurt.)
But again, this major company takeover had only been achieved for the most part. Because the entire year Maou had done climbing his way up to the top, he had only gotten to the summit of one mountain— Mgronald of Japan. Sure, it was a huge achievement, but he still wasn’t leading everything, just yet. Emi had rolled her eyes at him when he brought up this woe of his, suggesting that there maybe wasn’t even a position like that. Of course, Maou had declared vailently in response that there damn well should be, and if not, I’m gonna make one.
But either way, this whole “Of Japan” thing meant that he had to actually collaborate with other people. And even in his demon lord days, when he listened to his generals and advisors, making decisions based off of their input, he was used to having his word be final. He could handle being told what to do when he was only part-time, but being at the top of the fast-food chain? Come on!
It was quite ironic, wasn’t it, to be in the situation he was now in. Over the last fucking week of summer vacation, when Alas=Ramus was going back to school, The CEO of Mgronald of America required an international meeting for the company. He had to take a plane all the way over to the States, and for what? Old men who chummed around at expensive golf courses every other weekend. And now?
The flight he was on back to Japan was delayed for another hour because of a storm, so Maou and his wife were eating food from his own fucking restuarant chain at midnight.
Oh, yeah. The wife thing. That was new, and the other thing that Maou had achieved, except this time the partnership aspect was completely welcome and encouraged. It took a while, considering Sadao and Emi’s past and complicated living situations, but after the reveal that your father is alive, Emilia , really, it was just a slippery slope from enemies to friends, and their constant reliance on each other and chemistry and Maou thought she was cute, alright?
Now, the two of them, and the whole Ente Isla group, really, had settled into a routine that made their double life more comfortable. For Maou, he was a leader in both worlds. A CEO on earth, and the leader of New Ente Isla. Emi had settled into a less demanding duality. She was still a warrior at home, but also was an independent journalist in Japan.
But at this moment, Maou and Emi were neither of those things. They were just two, tired people who had a delayed flight.
“You gonna say anything?” Emi’s voice was harsh, accompanied by a glare highlighted with dark bags under her eyes.
Maou waited, swallowing a quick bite of the double mgburger he had been chewing for half of a second. “What’s there to say?” He mrmphed through the last bits of swallowing. Entirely prepared for a snarky response, he reached for his Dr. Salsa, sipping loudly.
“Oh, I don’t know— quit drinking that, would you?— Like, maybe you’re sorry you didn’t think to get any other kind of transportation? You’re not broke, anymore, Sadao. You can afford luxuries.” Man, her glare was only getting worse. Maou carefully set his cup down, tuning out the hustle and bustle of the airport. Before he began speaking again, he brought his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“Emi, first off, If I made that kind of expense when a cheaper option was available, Ashiya would have my head—” Maou began, fully expecting retribution for that remark.
Emi was sure to deliver said retribution with a ferocious pleasure. “Oh, so Ashiya dictates our budget? Let me ask you this, Sadao Maou. who the hell do you think married you?” She crossed her arms, sniffing angrily.
Maou dragged an over-salted french fry across the watery remains of ketchup. Really, what the hell is America doing with the brand? He thought before continuing. “That’s not all, Emi. Any kind of air or sea transportation would be just as dangerous as it would be going on the actual airplane. That really voids any benefit of getting, what? A private jet, or something? Besides, there’s no way I could have predicted this.” Maou tried to summon every last bit of calm he had, trying desperately to mask his real emotions: fucking tired.
Emi did her signature move: the old maou-you-are-such-an-idiot eye roll. Whenever she did that, Maou was always mildly concerned that they would roll out of the sockets. “ Voids any benefit? Really, Sadao? What about space, maybe a quicker route, or even just the two of us for once!” She was only whispering, but it was the type of angry, brash whisper that left people heaving like they were shouting afterwards.
Maou’s tired eyes finally widened with understanding. So that’s what this is about. Smiling, he reached over to grab his wife’s hand, nabbing it just before she could jerk it away from him in the way she did when she wanted a hug but didn’t want to say anything about it. “Emi...you know I’m sorry, right? It may come as a surprise to you, but I’m just as sick of Maggie’s as you are. But...we’ll get through this, ya know?”
And like some kind of magic, Emi’s frown turned sideways into one of her old smirks. Her eyes were still dead tired, but so was anything else in this damned airport. “Sadao, you’ve got ketchup on your sleeve. Maybe you should—”
Maou blinked once as that information entered his head, looking down his eyes confirmed that yes, there was ketchup on his sweatshirt sleeve; he had accidently dragged it across some of the lightly dolloped condiment on an opened burger wrapper while he reached for her hand. “Ah damn it! I had this cleaned yesterday….oh, man.” He sighed downwards, eternally exhausted.
But the stain surely was not in vain. Because a beat and a half later, Maou’s wife was giggling silly. A musical sound, unique from the noises of coming and going that made up the ambiance of the food court they were in. “Geez, don’t laugh, Emi.” he tried to sound annoyed, but he was anything but. It was cheesy, but he was happy when she was happy.
“Anyways,” Maou began, grabbing a napkin and wiping the offending sauce off, “You said something about just the two of us?” He tried sounding and looking the way he did when he (somehow) convinced her to marry him, which was a combination of sincerity and confidence.
He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know he failed. But it wasn’t like that mattered, anyways. He knew Emi Maou-Yusa. Suggest anything about her openly wanting to spend time with her husband, and she would flip out, pull out Better Half and decapitate you then and there. But Maou was lucky, because he knew tired Emi Maou-Yusa just as well. Instead of killing you, she would simply blush, stammer, and call you an idiot. Which Maou preferred, and not just for the bonus of staying alive.
“It’s too late for that, Sadao. And like…” Emi looked at the wall, eyes lazily searching for a clock that wasn’t there. “I mean that….literally.” She yawned, and her head fell to hit the table, but Maou moved to catch it before it did, ketchup sleeves be damned. When Maou looked around, he realized that she had a point. The food court, once full and loud, was now empty and quiet. The windows— what was it with airports and their damn windows?— were pitch black, but not silent. The storm that was preventing any kind of takeoff for him and Emi was pounding against the glass. Which only served to make Maou feel more salty at their delayed flight— hadn’t it been an hour already? They better not delay it further.
Checking his phone— ten percent left, gonna hafta find a place to charge it up— Maou cursed every deity that came to mind, even himself, that there was still a whole fucking 50 minutes left. Across the table, Emi’s eyelids were only getting heavier by the second. “That tired?” he supplied.
She growled at him weakly. “S...Sadao, you’re such an ass...hole.” Oh, she was getting there. Maou mentally congratulated himself at this small victory; she was insulting him, so she wasn’t mad at him anymore.
But still. He had to put on a brave face, for the both of them. So he teared his eyes away from the dim screen and looked at Emi. “Trust me, I know, Em. Come on, we’ve got a flight to catch. ” he got up, motioning for her to do the same; she was wobbly in her effort, but Maou liked being able to support her once in a while. Still having her lean into his side, he awkwardly reached for both of their carry-ons and swung them around his shoulder opposite to her.
She didn’t notice the sudden bump the bags made against his chest; looking at her, Maou did a double take when he realized that she was suddenly, positively drowsy. “Oh, come on, Emi, you gotta work with me here!” To which she complained by banging her fist lightly against his chest. But there was no shift in weight as Maou situated himself in the now-empty food court. For a moment, he was worried someone would see Emi’s half-asleep form and think that she was dead.
Outside of food courts, airports weren’t really known for being loud. And it was a quiet, lonely walk—only the sound of the rain pattering and thunder cracking as an ambiance— to the gate where the late plane was going to dock itself. Just Sadao Maou and his wife, sleepily ambling together down to get the hell out of this airport. Well, Maou was the one doing the ambling—the only thing that Emi provided were little bursts of “wha?” and “mrmph” that her husband absolutely had to record with his almost-dead phone, so yup, a worthwhile contribution.
Upon arriving at the gate, Maou made a few observations—an exhausted looking mom was fighting her kid, telling him it was too late to be playing games on his Funtendo, an old man ws using a reading light to read one of those books that have way too short of a page width to spread the book out evenly, but the biggest observation he noticed was that the airplane had yet to arrive. Sighing, he moved to sit down at some benches near some phone chargers.
While he pulled out the brick and cord from his own carry-on, Emi’s head lulled over to fall onto his. “Oh, Emi...” he smiled softly. “You didn’t need to come, really.” Maou scolded quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping beauty before him.
Before this, Emi had said that she wanted to come to America with him for some “journalistic opportunities.” Maou should have known—and prepared for—that it was merely an out-of-the-way ploy for Emi to get some time with him for once. And he couldn’t blame her, either. They both loved Alas=Ramus with all of their hearts, but she was a full-time job. It was strange how their dynamic changed throughout the years: Once, they would kill each other if they were left alone in the same room, now, they would kill to have even just a minute together.
So maybe he should count his blessings that this delay even happened. There was a certain kind of privacy in an airport—people are self-centered, only caring about where they are going, where their bags are, and what time their flights are at, really, a person could get away with anything in that kind of climate.
Sighing, Maou started playing with Emi’s hair, running his fingers through her red locks. It was at times like these when he really appreciated who she was—a half angel, and Maou put emphasis on the angel . The way that the moon shone through the gate’s windows and rain clouds and reflected off of her skin, highlighting it— Maou really couldn’t believe he married this woman.
‘This woman’ stirred while his fingers were midway down her locks—he froze, afraid she might pull her head in an opposite direction at any moment—and started speaking groggily while she adjusted herself.
“Ow...ow. S-sadao, what happened? Wh-where are we?” She rubbed her left shoulder, as it was riding up against the plastic shell that sneakily peaked from the fabric of the chair she was resting on. Maou simply smiled fondly— he did that a lot around her —and poked her in the cheek.
“Ow— what was that for, dumbass? ” she growled through yawns and drowsiness. Maou simply shrugged, he didn’t know what it was for, either. A few feet ahead of them, the lights of an electronic store went out—proof that it was only getting later by the minute.
But Maou couldn’t care less what time it was anymore. As far as he was concerned, the plane arriving now would only disrupt the tranquility he had somehow gathered with Emi. “Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you when the plane’s here.”
He nearly laughed when Emi compiled so easily—head bumping against his chest and a soft snore rising into the air—she didn’t need to be told twice.
It was then when Maou was suddenly aware of a lack of noise. Once again glancing out the large, gaping windows, he saw that the storm was finally over, the moon peeking out behind a cloud, clear once again.
Plane will...probably be here soon. I’ll just keep a...lookout. Maou thought, yawning, unaware that sleep was about to claim him.
Emi couldn’t believe it. Her dumbass husband was asleep, arms completely draped over her body so that she was numb. She had been woken by the loudspeaker, announcing that their flight was boarding.
“ I’ll wake you up when the plane’s here— my ass, demon king.” Really, what did she expect?
Still, she smiled anyways—he hardly got rest anymore with his workload. His soft, dark locks sat fluffily on his head, and Emi reached over to run her fingers through them. But the smile quickly turned into a worried frown as she caught frantic people moving through the gate from the corner of her eye. “Come on, Sadao, get the hell up. We’ve gotta go!”
His eyelids flitted lightly, but other than that, no motion was made. Now Emi was pissed. “Wake. Up.” She hit his chest, which she knew was useless—when he slept, he slept.
Giving up on that endeavor, she then tried to escape the cage of his arms. It was a damn chore because Maou’s body was just as stiff and stubborn as the man himself—But their flight was going to leave soon, and if Emi didn’t wake up Maou quickly—
“A kiss from the princess would wake up the demon king, for it would be an act of true love.” Emi flinched in surprise when she heard her husband’s voice, which was attempting (and miserably failing) to sound sure and confident. But the initial shock turned into annoyance. So he was awake.
“Oh, come on, Sadao. Don’t be like this, please. We’ve got a plane to catch, you idiot.” But as she tried again to escape his clutches, she was angry to find—but not surprised—her prison had only strengthened. “Please, Sadao—there are people around!”
“So the demon king was doomed to an eternal slumber, and woe was the hero, trapped forever.” His voice was obnoxiously theatrical—he knew what he was doing, and damn it, it was working. Emi growled.
“What if the hero pulled out her sword and stabbed the demon king to escape? That’s an option too, you know.” An empty threat. Maou knew it too and did not respond, only snoring louder.
I married this idiot. But staring at the clock and the rush of people, Emi decided to surrender just this once, I’ll make him pay later and gave him a small, chaste kiss.
Well, at least that’s what she thought it was. Kisses with her husband always seemed to last longer than they actually were. Not that Emi minded; she would kill you if you even suggested that was the case, however.
And, ugh. His breath tasted like Maggie’s—a disgusting combination of grease, soggy bread, and ketchup. No pickles this time, thank god. But despite how terrible it tasted, she was still blushing like a schoolgirl afterwards. I’m a grown ass woman, damn it. This isn’t a big deal!
She was suddenly shook out of her fervor as Maou quite literally jumped out of his seat. But that wasn’t all—Emi nearly screeched as his arms hooked under her legs and up she went into a fucking princess carry.
“ Maou! Does the phrase ‘in public’ mean nothing to you?” Emi hissed angrily at his smug face. He said nothing, only continuing to grin like the idiot he was and he walked over to the TSA agent with Emi in his arms.
Despite how goofy he was acting, and how embarrassing this was, Emi truly was thankful for the delay at the end of the day.