Don't touch that, Mammon. Get out, Mammom. Scum. Idiot. You fucked it up again, Mammon.

He could already hear his brothers' ridicule when they found out what he had done. Mammon had entered your room to return a music box you'd let that silly angel Luke borrow. He hadn't been paying the closest attention and tripped over a stack of school books on your carpet. The next thing he knew, the music box was in pieces on the floor.

"No, no no no.." Mammon actually started to panic. His breathing was rushed and his fingers shook as he frantically gathered the ceramic pieces. You would be angry with him, and his brothers would treat him like a massive joke. Again.

"Mammon?" your voice sliced through his budding panic attack like a hot knife through butter.

Tears prickled in his eyes. Tears. The Great Mammon doesn't cry, no matter what. He'd been the family punching bag for centuries. So why was the idea of your anger so much more devastating?

"I-I.. I'm sorry," he said, trying to hide the evidence. But there was no yelling. No name-calling. No marching off to ask Lucifer to dangle him from the chandelier.