Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gentle, upbeat plucks of ukulele flood the studio and play out onto the radio waves.  Alastor can’t help but tap his foot impatiently as he listens to the final chords finishing off the song. He waits a beat after it has ended to stop the needle and unmute his microphone to sign off for the night.

“Once again, that was Cliff ‘Ukulele Ike’ Edwards’ ‘I’ll See You in My Dreams.’  And, indeed, it is time for those dreams. Thank you, dear listener, and good night. Until we meet again tomorrow evening.” A button is pressed and the On Air sign on the wall loses its illumination, the radio emitting a slow buzz that fades into a quiet that will continue until the early morning host comes in in just a few scant hours. 

Alastor sighs, stretching his arms above his head, pulling his back into a sharp arch until a satisfying pop echoes in the studio followed by a low groan at the instant relief. With a huff, he places his microphone back in its proper place, setting his headphones alongside it. 

He stands up and makes his way to the coat rack, pushing a hand into his breast pocket in his vest to pull out his pocket watch, flipping it open and grinning at the time. He should be right on time. Flipping the timepiece closed and securing it back into his pocket, Alastor plucks his coat off the rack to quickly put it on. He exits the studio, making sure to lock up properly, pulling on the door knob a few times to test the locks. 

Alastor hurries down the stairs, stopping by the front desk when he sees the receptionist still there despite the late hour. “Burning the midnight oil again, Helena?” He smiles at her, sweet and disarming while he buttons up his coat. 

“Oh, yes! There’s a lot of talk going on around the executives about some kind of acquisition, but it’s meant a lot more work for me in the interim, I’m afraid,” she says with a pinched expression. She turns back to the boxes she was sorting through behind the desk, moving things into their proper cabinets. “But don’t let me keep you, Alastor! See you tomorrow!” 

Alastor knows a polite dismissal when he hears one, even if the thought of leaving a woman alone in the studio at such an hour leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He knows enough about Helena to know she wouldn’t take kindly to any of his chivalrous gestures. It’s just as well, he is on a timetable tonight.

“Of course, my dear. I do hope you finish up soon. And don’t let those suits run you into the ground; I’d sooner replace the whole board than see you work too hard!” Alastor exclaims while headed to the front doors, delighting in the disarming laugh he managed to pull from his coworker. “Goodnight, Helena!”

“Goodnight, Alastor.”

He steps outside, breathing in the chilly night air into his lungs before setting off down the street. The hour was just late enough that most of the bar and partygoers were winding down. It was a weekday, after all, the vast majority of them would likely have to be up in a scant few hours as dawn broke. Alastor knew he likely would not be getting any sleep tonight.

He turned a corner to a much more desolate street, picking up the pace until he could duck into a darkened alleyway to stay out of sight while he looked for his mark.

He’d been tracking this scum for weeks, memorizing his routines and habits. Tonight, just like every Thursday night, the disgusting man should be returning to his apartment above the old bank just a few minutes before three in the morning. He’d be completely inebriated, unaware, and alone. No one would be calling on him, nor on Alastor, for the remainder of the night. It should give him plenty of time to stage a scene after he’s done with retrieving tonight’s dinner.

Alastor smiled to himself, plucking the leather gloves out from his coat pocket and slipping them on, tightening the strap around each wrist. He waits, feeling the weight of anticipation seep deep into his bones, making him nearly vibrate in place with the excitement of finally, finally removing this man from the land of the living.

As the minutes draw on longer, the anticipation begins to dissolve into a distinct irritation and disbelief. It is Thursday, is it not? He digs into his vest pocket, angling his pocket watch just so in the small beam of light in the alleyway. He stares at the clock that reads a quarter past three for a long moment, snatching his hand back into the dark when he hears a commotion across the street where he’s stationed.

The man is not alone tonight. No, he’s surrounded by a small group, all wearing similar attire. Coworkers. Alastor watches mournfully as they climb the steps up the side of the building, stumbling and laughing as they file into the apartment. An impromptu get-together with coworkers after a night of drinking in some speakeasy of undoubtedly questionable quality. 

Alastor’s shoulders droop and he grits his teeth in irritation. He’d have to come back another day. He pushes off the wall, deciding to go home through an unfamiliar, dimly lit street. He could use the time to cool off, bring his rage down to a simmer. The man would die. Let him enjoy this final moment of fleeting happiness—it will be gone before the month is out. Alastor will make sure of it.

He walks slowly, breathing in the crisp, moist air. He raises his head and inhales deeply through his nose. 

Smells like rain, he thinks. He’d have to check the forecast tomorrow; he’d neglected to do it today and was too preoccupied to notice the tell-tale scent earlier. They hadn’t had rain in a while, so the aroma of earth and petrichor was clear now that he had a mind to look for it. 

Sure enough, only a few minutes into his impromptu detour does he feel the odd drop of cold rain fall onto his head and shoulders. He sighs heavily. Maybe it was for the best that he got interrupted tonight. Who knows how long this storm would roll for, or how intense? He silently berates himself for being too eager, too reckless. He would not make the same mistake twice.

Just as Alastor was beginning to come to terms with ending up a woefully drenched mess by the time he gets home, he spots a storefront with the lights on inside as he passes by. Curiously, the sign hanging on the door is still flipped to the “Open” side. He looks at the signage in the windows, spotting a loud advertisement sporting antiques and books alike. There is a large, cartoonish duck at the bottom of the page with glasses on, reading a copy of The Weary Blues. Alastor, surprisingly pleased at his find, heads inside just as the rain begins to pick up. 

The bell above his head signals his arrival, echoing out into the shop. Alastor runs his fingers through his hair lightly, bringing it back into some semblance of order from the light drizzle and wind outside. Plucking off his glasses, he quickly takes the tail end of his coat and rubs the lens in small, circular motions to get the water droplets off. Satisfied, he places the frames back onto his face and takes in the store he’s wandered into. 

The first thing Alastor notices is that it is full. Floor to ceiling shelves of books are placed along the walls of the establishment. He looks to the right, where the window is and sees that even in the space underneath there is another shelf filled to the brim. Front and center, only a few feet from the door, is a low, wide shelf made into a display for new releases and recommendations. To the left is, what Alastor assumes, the checkout counter. It’s small and tucked into a corner, as if to take up as little space as possible to make room for the truly baffling number of shelves. It goes back farther, too, Alastor can spot a ramp leading up to what might be the antique area of the offerings. 

“Welcome in!” 

The voice coming from somewhere deeper into the store is loud and jovial despite the late hour. Truthfully, Alastor wasn’t entirely convinced that this place really was open or if the workers had simply fallen asleep in the staffroom, leaving everything recklessly open. He tells the disembodied voice as much. “I wasn’t sure you were actually open! What luck I have, to find shelter from the storm somewhere so,” he pauses. Cramped, Alastor thinks. “Cozy,” he says instead.

He takes a moment to look around the front of the sales floor, weaving through nonsensical shelving units and glancing at their little handwritten tabs denoting what section belongs to what genre or subgenre. The fact that more than one shelf is dedicated to Medieval French Romance is more than a little galling. Just how far back does this building go to have so much space dedicated to something so niche? Alastor continues on, wondering if there is a map of some kind to go with this place. Surely there must be some reason to the rhyme—where it would make sense for the shelves for woodworking and gardening to be opposite the stacks of science fiction. 

“Don’t get too many customers this time of night,” a voice says behind him, causing a jolt to cascade down Alastor’s spine that he quickly smothers. With an unaffected air, he turns slowly to take in the seemingly sole proprietor.

Alastor has to look further down than he’d expected to find an older man leaning casually against one of the free-standing shelves. His coat must be discarded somewhere due to the late hour, only appearing in an unbuttoned vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves in a distinctly unprofessional manner. Even a few buttons have been popped at the collar of his dress shirt and there is no tie nor bow to be found. The man’s hair must have been combed back, once, but now sits with stray strands falling bright and untidy on his brow, likely from hours of work and his own fingers running through it. It’s likely only held in place now by the dainty glasses he has pushed up into his hair and off his face. He truly must not have been expecting anyone at all. Alastor begins to think that maybe he had forgotten to close up shop, after all. 

He clears his throat, turning to face the man properly. “No, I suppose not! But perhaps it is a night of unexpected delights,” he says, thinking of his distinct absence of delight from his ruined hunt. He holds out a hand for a shake.  “Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, sir, quite a pleasure,” he tells the other with a disarming smile.

“You can call me Luci,” the older man replies, moving to shake Alastor’s hand but stopping short. He grimaces, noticing the rough smudges of graphite and charcoal coloring his hand on the side of his palm from pinky to wrist. He looks at Alastor apologetically, using his opposite, clean hand and twists it to awkwardly accomplish the task instead before backing off and shoving his hands in his pockets. “You were probably just getting out of the rain, but just let me know if anything catches your eye, okay?”

Alastor is caught between feeling amused and mildly appreciative of the gesture. He’s still wearing his gloves, but he would have rather not taken the time to buff charcoal out of the leather. He raises an eyebrow at the name once it registers, but says nothing. He wonders what it could be short for, if he was from somewhere else, or if the other man was just born to terribly unloving parents. He shrugs it off, not terribly invested in the answer. 

“You know, you ought to have some music in here,” Alastor tells him, taking his hands and clasping them behind his back. The only sound in the shop is a faint ticking of a clock, echoing out from somewhere he can’t see. He could easily picture himself getting lost in the utter dissonance of the sales floor, a direct contrast to a smooth, low melody that could fill the air. It would certainly make the search for anything he was remotely interested in a lot less painful. 

“Ah, I thought you sounded familiar,” the other man says with a bright look of recognition as he turns to look at Alastor. “You’re that radio fella!” Luci looks at him with a squint. “You trying to sell me something?”

“Heavens, no! I would never be so crass,” Alastor tells him, more than a little affronted. “I was merely taking a stroll after ending my broadcast for the night! Imagine my surprise when I found this darling little alcove just as the rain started to come down. A bookshop is never a bad place to spend an evening, as I’m sure you’ll rightly agree.” He smiles wide, tilting his head as he looks down at the other. He watches as Luci’s features smooth out into something more neutral, if a little sharp.

“Well, in that case, how about we find something that might interest you. Anything specific?” Luci asks him, turning and walking through the aisles slowly. He takes his clean hand from his pocket, fingers brushing the spines of each book on the shelf as he passes by. Alastor trails behind, watching as he ducks behind one of the walls and out of sight.

“I suppose, since I’m already here, that I may as well look for something new to read,” Alastor offers, looking around at the various cards hanging off the shelves denoting sections of Mystery and Drama interspersed with the letters of the alphabet for organization. “This place is quite expansive, I’m sure I won’t have any trouble finding something that might suit me.”

“Something new?” Luci repeats with a hum, poking his head out from around the corner of the wall. His grin is broad and his eyes are narrowed in delight. “Or something novel?” 

Alastor snorts before he can stop it, throwing a hand in front of his face and looking away as if he could take back the sound by obscuring his face. He hears Luci’s laugh, delighted at having gotten a reaction to such a lame pun. He’d have to tuck that one away for himself, already thinking of the groans of his coworkers once he gets a chance to repeat it. 

He hums, following behind Luci slowly, taking in the various shelves. “Something novel, then. I must admit, I’ve not had much time to read as of late. I’m sure most of the things published in the last few years have sailed right by me.” Alastor huffs a small sigh, thinking of his mother. He’s been meaning to get back into reading more often, but her death left more than an empty spot at the dinner table. They would read the same books, more often than not, and spend hours discussing them while brushing elbows in the kitchen. 

He turns the corner, watching Luci stand on the tips of his toes to look at one of the higher shelves before shaking his head and moving on. Perhaps, Alastor thinks, a new ritual is in order.

“Shame,” Luci says with a sigh. He taps the spine of a book a few times with the edge of his nail, making a dull noise where it hits the binding. “Every year I’m more and more amazed at what humans are able to come up with. The creativity, the worlds that are created between these pages, on canvas, or from the plucks of an instrument are incredible. I’ve read every book in this place, you know, and it still takes my breath away to open a new one,” Luci tells him with a dreamy look on his face. 

Alastor saddles up next to him, eyes glancing over the title Luci is tapping. He hums, looking down at the other with a bright smile. “I can relate. Reel-to-reel magnetic tape seems to be incredibly promising in terms of recording performances. Did you know that, with few exceptions for late night broadcasts, all of the shows and most of the music we play has to be performed live on the air? The records we have now only hold around fifteen to twenty minutes of content and when one has to broadcast for hours at a time… Well, you get the idea. I’ve been keeping up with the literature on the topic, by virtue of my career, and there have been some very exciting developments as of late,” he explains. 

Alastor would never deem himself an idealist. He would more likely fall into a nihilistic sort of camp, although that didn’t quite fit the bill, either. It wasn’t that he thought life was meaningless, per se, but the rejection of moral principles suited him just fine. He had no trouble finding meaning in his own life, after all, even if he knew that the route he took to find that meaning may be morally abhorrent to anyone outside the scope of himself. 

That was fine. He was the only higher power he needed to justify his actions to, and he had no trouble doing just that. 

Alastor tilts his head, taking in the soft form of the man looking up at him with shiny blue eyes that crinkle around the edges. Older than him by a decade and some change, he would bargain, and still full of wonder at humanity’s feats. “There are times that I believe humans can be exceptional, even if most of the time they may miss the mark. I agree, however, that art is one thing we’ve always been able to outdo ourselves on,” he finishes.

Luci looks at him, almost through him, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. He taps his finger against the spine of the book once, twice, seeming to be lost in thought. He shakes his head a little with a hum. “Y’know… I think I’ve got just the thing,” he says once he comes back to himself. “Be just a tick!” He slips past Alastor to head further into the store, shoes echoing as they move up the metal ramp to the back.

Alastor watches him go with an unfamiliar feeling settling low in his gut. Something alerting him in the back of his mind to a threat but not following up with where or what. Certainly not the tiny blond man fetching him a title based on one loaded interaction. He notes that the voice he originally heard also came from the same direction, but this time Alastor can clearly hear the footsteps falling heavy and loud up the ramp and hardwood. Something prickles on the back of his neck. Did Luci dampen his footsteps on the loud metal ramp to purposefully sneak up on him or was Alastor too in his own head to hear it? It seems unlikely, but so did having months of work waved away on what should have been the perfect night for his hunt. 

Luci trots down the ramp, pulling Alastor from his thoughts at the too-loud clanging sound in the emptiness of the shop. He really would have to bring around a few records, what kind of devil works in complete silence? Especially a shopkeeper. It was as if entertaining customers wasn’t Luci’s goal at all, making the place as unnavigable and unpleasant to peruse as possible. 

He has a huge grin on his face, smug and curling as he approaches Alastor by the counter again. “Here,” he says, handing over a thick book. 

Alastor takes it slowly. A quick flick of the paper near the end shows it to be a galling six hundred odd pages, Alastor notes with apprehension. It’d take him a few weeks, maybe a little more than a month, to finish something this size between his job and his extracurricular activities. 

“It can be a little tough to get through, but I’m sure you’ll persevere,” Luci tells him with a cheeky grin after Alastor finishes thumbing through. He puts his hands on his hips, rolling his feet from ball to heel, punctuating each fidgeting gesture with a stretch on the tips of his toes. It gives him precious few inches of height. “Read it slowly. If you like it, there are six more volumes where that one came from. Something tells me you’re the kind of man who can appreciate the,” he pauses to wave a hand in front of him in a searching gesture, “hm. Shall we say… oeuvre of human folly and misery. Am I right?”

Alastor raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Pardon me, but I’m not familiar with this tactic of salesmanship, sir!  Pray tell, are you trying to get me to buy your product by burying the lede in a sloppy insult?” He holds the book between both his hands, leaning down over the other in a looming shadow. 

Luci barks out a laugh, waving a hand dismissively at Alastor, unbothered and distinctly unintimidated. “No way,” he says with a grin, dropping his hands to clasp them both behind his back. “Tell you what! You can take that one with you. Take it home, read it, whatever, and when I’m right you can come back here and tell me to my face.” Luci grins up at him from below his golden lashes. “I’ve been doin’ this for a long time, Al, I think I’ve got you pegged.” 

Alastor’s eye twitches at the familiarity and the nickname. Still, he privately doubts that very much. He’s been presenting a persona to the world since before he even knew the words for it. Ever since he was young he has been very careful in projecting an air of teasing geniality with the vast majority of people. Few have seen how he looks with his teeth bared, fewer still have walked away from the sight. He sincerely doubts the tiny man in front of him sees him nearly as well as he boasts.

“Interesting business model, indeed. Do you give out volumes to all who enter your shop?” Alastor inquires, backing off a little in an attempt to settle his temper. Luci’s face is so self-assured, almost smug; it’s infuriating beyond measure. 

“Nope,” Luci replies, popping the ‘p’ loudly as he says it. He turns and starts walking toward the front of the store. “Just the ones who have something to prove,” he says, throwing a sharp, charming smile over his shoulder. 

Alastor’s stomach churns and he bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He tastes the bitter, metallic fluid on his tongue, quickly swiping it away and swallowing harshly. Tonight, the world seems intent on making a fool of him. First, he was thwarted on his hunt by something as pathetic as an impromptu get-together and now, he is being made a fool of by this tiny, smug man. And, yet, he finds himself continuing to trail behind the other. 

He drums his fingers against the worn cover of the book he was handed, thinking of this strange place he’s stumbled into. This shop he’s never heard of, even from the most avid readers among his coworkers, a man he’s never seen before, and the disturbingly unfamiliar feeling prickling along the back of his neck that tells him, for what may be the first time in his life, that he is not the biggest predator in the room.

Alastor glances to the side, seeing that there were just a few more interspersed shelving units before they would both be out in the open, easily seen if anyone were to walk by the glass windows. He briefly weighs the idea of killing this man. Nobody knows he is here, which is beneficial. He looks forward to the retreating form of the other. Luci’s shoulders are surprisingly broad for his height, and he seems to have some corded muscle along his arms, if some softness around his middle. He wonders if Luci would still be in awe of humanity with Alastor’s hands wrapped around his throat.

Alastor runs his tongue over the edge of his teeth, pressing hard on the sharp point of his canine.

He stays his hand. The whole night has been thrown off-kilter and trying to fill the void with the blood of another after a few rude remarks simply won’t do. He could be patient. Not only would it be incredibly reckless to act, but he has not committed any spur-of-the-moment crimes since his very first one when he was just a boy. Crimes of opportunity and passion were how people get caught, and he will not get caught. 

Beyond that… Alastor finds himself begrudgingly intrigued. How long has it been since someone has challenged him so effortlessly, so confidently? He shakes his head internally. A fine distraction this has been, but that is all it is. 

They arrive back to the front of the store, Alastor watching as Luci rummages behind the counter before popping back up in a flurry of blond hair and pink pinstripes. His glasses have slipped down to his forehead but he messily pushes them up, leaving a small smudge of charcoal brushed against his brow. His other hand brandishes an umbrella and he exclaims a satisfied little “Ta-da!” The older man comes closer, offering it handle-first to him. “In case it starts raining again,” Luci says with a sheepish smile, shifting from foot to foot. 

How quickly this man swings between unfathomably smug to awkwardly fidgety is an anomaly beyond Alastor’s understanding. He glances at the windows, finding that the weather has indeed halted its downpour for the moment. Slowly, he accepts the curved, wooden handle of the umbrella, hanging it over his arm and tucking the book underneath. 

“Thank you. I believe you’ve made this otherwise dreadful evening just a tad more pleasant,” Alastor says with a deep nod of his head. 

Luci laughs. “Just a tad, huh? I’ll have to try harder next time.” 

The words are bright and playful but his eyes are narrowed, as if picking apart Alastor’s very well-tailored person suit stitch by stitch. Perhaps his mask has slipped slightly over the course of his jumbled mess of an evening. Perhaps his brief thoughts of homicide showed more on his face than he thought. He tamps it down harshly, applying a disarming and broad grin to his face like a mask as he holds out his hand once more. “I look forward to your ill-fated attempts, Luci,” he says with a chuckle.

Luci grasps his hand with that same awkward, opposite grip, giving it one firm shake before letting go. “Have a safe trip home, now.”

Alastor nods. “I’m sure I will, thank you.” He makes his way to the door, stepping through and letting it swing closed behind him, never quite shaking that low prickle that burns on the back of his neck. He makes his way down the road the way he came, the soles of his shoes clicking faintly against the wet pavement. He puts the little shop in the back of his mind with a roll of his shoulders. He’d have to come back at some point, to prove Luci wrong and return the umbrella, but that could wait. There was a man in an apartment above the old bank that required his attention as soon as possible. But, for tonight, store-bought pork would have to do. 

Chapter Text

The following week, Alastor found himself parked outside of that same bookshop that has, despite his best efforts, remained stubbornly at the forefront of his mind. It was the only light on the street tonight, flooding the sidewalk in front of the building and casting a shadow behind him that stretches back long and far, very nearly touching the opposite curb.

He feels suitably more put-together than the last time he graced this stoop. His failed hunt from last week was successful this time. After making sure no one was expecting his target the following day, he struck swiftly the previous evening. It had almost been disappointing in how easy it was. The satisfaction he lacked from a hard-won fight was more than made up for by his dinner and peace of mind knowing that the vile man would never take another breath. 

Alastor breathes in deep, almost mockingly in echo of his thoughts, and enters the shop. The bell above his head jingles pleasantly, but that’s the only sound he hears for several long moments. He shuts the door firmly behind him, glancing around the cashier’s counter but seeing no one.

“Welcome in!”

It’s the exact same greeting from pitch to intonation, coming from the same direction, too. Alastor hums to himself, following the source of the voice up the ramp where he did not get to venture the first time he was here. His shoes make loud clanging sounds with each step, no matter how much he softens his footfalls. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recalls how Luci made absolutely no sound descending it when he first snuck up on him. Perhaps it was simply a matter of sticking to a side, close to the banister. The less empty space underneath the ramp, the less intense the resounding metal reverberation would be. 

Something to keep in mind for later. 

When Alastor reaches the top of the ramp, he finds that the shelving up here is even worse than the nonsensical travesty of organization at the bottom. His eyebrows knit together, impossible to remain impassive at the sheer… abundance of it all. Floor to ceiling shelving units coat each visible wall, armed to the teeth with books and equipment of all kinds sporting the same handwritten tags as the ones on the main floor. 

Similar to the organization—he hesitates to call it that, even within the confines of his own head—of the books, the items on display behind the glass seem to be completely nonsensical to him. There are tiny porcelain ducks next to a hand-carved violin and tea sets alongside telescopes. He walks around incredulously, weaving through the aisles that all seem to struggle to bring him back to the room at the top of the ramp. 

The next time he finally circles back, Luci is waiting for him, leaning casually against the wall at the entrance of this little Hellish labyrinth. “Is the goal, perhaps,” Alastor begins with a pinched expression, “to trap customers here until they’re forced to buy something in exchange for their freedom?” 

Luci laughs, bright and twinkling, throwing his head back and covering his mouth with the back of his left hand. 

The sound soothes some of Alastor’s ruffled feathers against his will. He feels his shoulders loosen from their tensed position and he looks away to pluck his glasses off his face, ostensibly to clean them on the tail of his vest. “Nothing to say for yourself, hm?” Alastor clicks his tongue in a sharp tsk, shaking his head disapprovingly. He rubs the lenses in small little circles with the soft fabric, buffing out imaginary specks of dust and fingerprints. 

Luci manages to get his laughter under control and Alastor can make out a blurry peripheral view of the other holding out both hands in front of himself, his delicate wrists pressed together. “Looks like you caught me.  The jig is up; I’ll go easy,” Luci says, bright and unrepentant. 

Alastor slides the glasses up over his nose with a huff, setting them firmly on his face.  “Just between you and me,” he begins, leaning in conspiratorially. His eyes take in the high flush on Luci’s cheeks, sweet and pink from laughter. He averts his eyes to just above Luci’s brow, instead. “You could rather make a killing. I suspect that the ransoms you could collect from those wanting to see their loved ones again could add up very quickly, indeed!”

Luci shakes his head with a smile. “I’ll keep it in mind if the books can’t keep the lights on,” he says with a laugh. He claps his hands together, the sound echoing in the shop. Alastor notices that his right hand is once again dusted with charcoal around the outer edge of the pinky down to the wrist bone.  “Now, then! Have you started that book? Could it be you’ve come to tell me how incredibly right I am?” 

Alastor rolls his shoulders as he straightens back up. He waves his hand dismissively, turning on his heel to inspect the little displays along the nearest wall. “Oh, I’m afraid I’ve not started it as of yet. I’m terribly busy these days.”

It’s not exactly a lie. More than being busy, though, Alastor has found himself rather reluctant to touch the book that has taken up position on a side table in his living room for reasons he cannot quite articulate. Of course, he is curious about it, about why Luci would pick that book out of the thousands upon thousands that litter this place. But far be it from him to end the game so soon. 

Luci hums behind him quietly. “You know… I don’t think you need to read it at all to prove me right,” he reports with glee, making his footfalls heavy in a way that seems purposeful as he breezes by Alastor to lean over one of the free-standing display cases. 

“Oh? Please, do tell. I’d love to know your reasoning,” Alastor implores with a flourish of his hand to give Luci the proverbial floor. He doesn’t dare lean on the display case like Luci is doing, wary of putting smudges on the glass, but remaining upright means the older man must crane his head to talk to him, looking at him from the thick cover of blond eyelashes. 

Luci moves both hands out in front of him atop the case, extending his arms and splaying out his fingers in a thorough stretch that reminds Alastor of particularly lazy cats. He brings his own hands behind his back, gripping an elbow with each gloved hand. 

“Well,” Luci drawls out with a slow crack of a smile forming into a much larger one. 

As his mouth grows, Alastor feels that prickle of hairs standing along the back of his neck, same as last time. He squeezes his elbows and otherwise gives nothing away. 

“I didn’t think you were the type to want things explained to you, Al.” Luci pushes out his lower lip in a pout that has no reason being so becoming on a man of his age. “I’ll give it a while longer yet. I’ve got faith you’ll figure it out,” he says decisively, pushing off the display and walking to a door that might lead to an office or storeroom. There is a cabinet next to it that he jiggles the handle on, testing the lock before pulling out a key from his trouser pocket.

Alastor scoffs, stalking around the structure to close in on Luci again. “Can’t think of anything after all, hm? Terrible shame, I was rather hoping for something extraordinary. I’ll be sure to temper my expectations of you in the fuu—” he draws out the sound, stalling when something light hits his chest, scrambling to grab it before it falls, “—ture?” 

He looks down at his hands, just barely reeling in the dumbfounded expression he is sure was threatening to overtake his face. There, in the middle of his palm sits a tiny duck. It’s different from the set he saw before, brightly colored and with two strange little crescents on its head—it’s carved from wood, he notices, not fired from porcelain like the others. 

It is rather unremarkable.

“I could have dropped this,” Alastor scolds anyway, holding it up between two fingers. “Or was that the intention? Another one of your flawless salesman techniques, perhaps?”

Luci laughs a little, waving him off. “Nah. You’ve got good instincts. I knew you’d catch it.”

Alastor tilts his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek lightly. He’s reluctant to bring up how Luci could not possibly know such a thing—they’re little more than acquaintances, after all. His humanity is a well-fitting mask today, no cracks or creases whatsoever to boot. Surely, if Luci had any inkling of suspicion towards him then he would not be so willing to show him his back, to jab and tease if there were a tangible threat to doing so. It could have been a test, Alastor supposes, to see if his reflexes truly were decent. Luci may very well have had two different answers depending on whether or not this tiny wooden figure was reduced to splinters spread out across the hardwood floor. 

“And what is it, exactly?”

Luci shrugs lazily, barely raising one shoulder before dropping it back down. “Not sure yet,” he says vaguely, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I thought of you, though, when making him.” 

Alastor blinks slowly, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. He looks from Luci’s face back down to the strange little figure held between his fingers. “Me?” Alastor asks incredulously. He isn’t sure if he should be offended or not, despite the pleased little curl of something he refuses to acknowledge making its home in his chest at the confession. “And what do you expect me to do with it?”

“Whatever you want, I guess. Paperweight, maybe?” Luci says it while looking the other way, leaning far too casually against the cabinet. His nonchalance is betrayed by the flesh peeking out from between his fingers where he’s gripping his arms, far too tight and tense. 

Alastor is torn between interrogating him about his reason for making it and transitioning to a more neutral ground. Nonsensically, he doesn’t want to give the duck back, so he doesn’t give Luci a reason to take it.

“I must admit… At the rate at which you’re simply giving things away, I’m not terribly convinced that your goal isn’t to go out of business,” Alastor says, curling his fingers around the duck and squirreling it away discreetly. “Perhaps all that talk of human folly and misery was actually you projecting from the state of your working conditions, hm? After all, how can you find anything in here?” Alastor turns on his heel and makes a point of getting lost between the shelving units. “Perhaps you ought to retire, old man, if this is how your brain is operating,” he says with a cackle, listening gleefully to Luci’s squawk of indignance following after him. 

When Alastor leaves the shop later that night, he feels the uneven shape of the wooden duck pressing into his leg from where it's trapped in his pocket, announcing its presence with every step.

Sometimes, when Alastor comes in, Luci is not tucked away in the back of the shop doing ‘mysterious bookshop things’ as he is fond of saying. He can occasionally be found behind the scant counter, drawing something in a leather-bound sketchbook. He always tucks it away when the bell rings, announcing Alastor’s nearly scheduled arrival, much to the younger man’s curiosity and amusement. 

Other times, he is spread out on the floor of the front room, surrounded by even more crates of books. Alastor wonders where he is planning on shelving them, seeing as he is writing little prices on the back pages in light pencil with his left hand. They’re clearly destined for the sales floor, but perhaps that little door in the back of the shop leads to more storage in the meantime.

Alastor finds himself enthralled by the older man, unable to stop himself from coming back again and again, week after week. Even when they end up not saying much at all during a visit, Alastor still finds it immensely fulfilling. It’s more than a little confusing. Still, he wants more. There is something about that little shop that keeps him coming back, tempting him to return and bring out more delightful conversations. Conversations that he continues flipping over in his mind for days until the next one takes its place. With each one, he wants more. He wants.

And Alastor has always gotten what he wants.

Alastor locks up the studio tight behind him. He pulls on the knob a few times as he always does, just to check. Satisfied, he turns and finishes putting his coat on as he moves through the building to the exit. A quick glance tells him that the front desk is unoccupied, and he privately breathes a sigh of relief at not being held up in polite conversation. 

He fears he might not be at the top of his game in terms of charm as of late. At least for the radio show it was mostly scripted and easy to focus on when the “On Air” sign was illuminated, putting him into a dedicated mindset he has been lacking in other, candid interpersonal interactions. His mind has been otherwise occupied with images of a little blond contrarian, much to his dismay. 

Luci has been taking up more and more of his thoughts to the point where he has to force himself not to visit that store of his every time he gets off work. He’s disciplined, though, and only allows himself to visit one day out of the week to mingle with and antagonize the owner of the shop. No one else has ever come in on those days—Thursdays are for him and him alone, it seems. He rolls his shoulders, unable to keep a tiny bubble of glee from expanding in his chest.

Alastor whistles quietly to himself as he walks the mostly empty streets. He couldn’t even explain to himself why he likes messing with the other man so much, only that it was the most fun he has had in ages outside of his more private, nefarious hobbies. Luci gets under his skin in a way few typically can, easily riling his temper at record speeds just to extinguish it in the next breath in a maddening cycle of banter. He’s smart, well-read, quick-witted, and has contagious laughter to boot. He hums to himself, recanting his previous thought. Perhaps Alastor does know why but doesn’t think he needs to justify it to himself beyond the fact that finding a suitable intellectual sparring partner is quite the anomaly, indeed. 

He turns a corner, stepping out of the way of an overturned bin with a little hop. He wonders if Luci has gotten in any new equipment he’s found him tinkering with on more than one occasion. Or, perhaps, maybe he has finished any of the art that leaves his right hand smudged with charcoal around the edges even though he draws with his left. Alastor sees the shop come into view and he makes a conscious effort not to lengthen his stride. 

He narrows his eyes in thought. Alastor wonders just what drawings reside in that little leather-bound sketchbook Luci keeps tucked away. His curiosity rivals his desire to needle, and this combination of both is sure to make him quite the menace, indeed. Smiling to himself, he wonders how many well-placed taunts it would take for Luci to hand it over and let him flick through the pages.

Alastor finally comes to a stop in front of the store, blinking at the sight that greets him. The little sign reads “Closed” and the curtains are pulled across the windows behind it. Alastor can tell there is no light peeking from behind them either. There is a little attachment to the sign, a paper reading that the closure is due to a private meeting with a client, sorry for the inconvenience, and to please come back another time. 

He steps back, taking in the whole image and parsing it in his mind.

It’s a Thursday. It’s a Thursday and the store is closed. It’s a Thursday and the store is closed because Luci is meeting with a client.

It’s a Thursday and Luci is meeting with a client.

Alastor runs his tongue along his teeth, sucking on them with a harsh, brief sound. He takes stock of himself and thinks that, surely, the sign is mistaken. Perhaps it was left out on the door from a few hours prior, or even the previous day. Luci could be so terribly absent-minded about little things like this out of his routine; he must have forgotten to take the sign down.

Alastor moves to the door, grasping the handle and attempting to push it open. But it doesn’t budge. 

He tries again to no avail.

He stares at the locked door. A sudden, boiling anger threatens to overflow from the pit of his stomach. His hands curl into tight fists, causing the leather to squeak quietly under the strain.

The idea that Luci is entertaining another on a day he knows Alastor has claimed for his own is unacceptable. Weeks he has spent coming here on the very same day at the very same time, all to be thrown away at the behest of some nameless client that could have instead occupied any other day. 

He taps his foot against the ground, the sole of his shoe clicking quietly on the concrete below. Perhaps, he thinks to himself, reining in his anger into something more manageable, this is just a fluke. Alastor lifts his hands up and adjusts the knot against his throat, pulling on each leaf of his bowtie needlessly. He turns on his heel and begins the slow trek back to his home. 

Alastor decides that he’ll return at the same time next week, business as usual. Surely there was just no other option available for this client to meet for some inexplicable reason. Luci knows the routine they’ve both fallen into, beginning each visit with a put-upon attitude and a weary sigh. The bell above the door ringing loudly into the shop followed closely by a low, teasing, “Ah. Thursday already, huh?” He wouldn’t have deviated from this strange push-and-pull Alastor finds himself drawn to without a very good reason, indeed. 

It doesn’t take him long to wind up at home, locking the door behind him with an echoing click. Alastor slips off his coat to hang it up swiftly and peels off his gloves, leaving them with his keys on the little table near the door. He slips off his shoes, leaving them positioned just so in the entryway before padding further into the house. Alastor sits down heavily in one of the two old, plush chairs by the window, brushing the curtain aside to look out into the field of perpetually damp soil dotted with little blooms of wild blue phlox behind his home. 

The fire inside of his belly has cooled, for now. It allows him to think a little more clearly, a little more rationally. His fuse is short even on the best of days, but something about that little blond shopkeeper makes it practically non-existent. He puts Alastor on edge in the best of ways, poking and prodding at him with that damned little smile that makes it feel like he knows something Alastor doesn’t. It’s infuriating. It’s addictive. 

He taps his fingers on the arm of the chair, letting his other hand fall from where it was holding open the curtain. Alastor looks to the side table, reaching and plucking the book sat atop it. He brushes his fingers over the cover lightly, narrowing his eyes and glaring down at it as if it were a proxy for the man who gave it to him. 

Alastor hasn’t opened it since he leafed through the pages when it was first placed in his hands. He’s not had terribly much time to read, especially with the recent addition of Thursday night distractions in the form of an infuriating little man. Plus, he can’t deny the delightful little inside joke the book has become. Every time he steps into the shop having not read it; Luci takes it so personally that it would almost be a shame to stop the tradition. His stomach turns in an unfamiliar way, feeling heavy and unsure. 

He opens it slowly, flipping the pages this way and that, settling somewhere about a sixth of the way through. Alastor’s eyes scan the page, landing on a line and reading it to himself. “The heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow: but we know it only through reading, through our imagination,” he pauses with a disgruntled hum. 

He flips forward until he’s little more than halfway through the novel, picks a paragraph and starts again. “Among all the modes by which love is brought into being, among all the agents which disseminate that blessed bane, there are few so efficacious as this gust of feverish agitation that sweeps over us from time to time,” he says. 

Alastor narrows his eyes, biting hard into the inside of his cheek. It takes a long moment for him to release the flesh, soothing the soreness with the press of his tongue before continuing. “For then the die is cast, the person whose company we enjoy at the moment is the person we shall henceforth lo—” Alastor slams the book closed, cutting himself off with an echoing snap of the pages colliding. 

He sets the blasted novel back onto the table with a growl, getting up from the chair. He begins pulling at his bowtie to release the knot from around his neck, leaving it draped on either side. He doesn’t feel like staying up to read or plan, wanting to head to bed and start the day bright and early tomorrow instead. 

As his fingers begin unbuttoning his vest and shirt, Alastor feels suddenly, utterly ridiculous. The idea that he would feel anything more than an appreciation for good company and better conversation for Luci was preposterous. The pages he flipped to were just another fluke in a growing list of today’s oddities. A list he would be topping off by making himself go to bed hours before he normally would. 

Alastor feels strange as he continues his nighttime routine. A heavy weight that settled in his chest as soon as he read the sign on the door has refused to budge no matter what hoops he is forcing his mind to jump through in both justification and dismissal. It stays with him still, even as he folds his glasses on the bedside table next to the tiny wooden duck and settles under the covers. He stares hard at the dark, blurry ceiling, chewing the inside of his cheek and promises himself that he will come back to the little shop next week. Same time, same place, as they say, and it will be business as usual. Perhaps a jab or two about standing appointments, but nothing more.

“Nothing more,” he emphasizes out loud, sounding weak even to his own ears. 

Chapter Text

Over a month. 

A month.

Another four Thursdays have come and gone and with each passing week Alastor has simmered and seethed. 

The first time he saw the sign, he chalked it up as a one-off. Something he and Luci could laugh about, perhaps make a jab or two about double-booking at the shop owner’s expense. 

The next week, seeing the same sign in the door had filled him with a kind of rage that was unfamiliar to him, bubbling hot and shameful in his chest, threatening his throat with the sting of bile. Still, he managed to make himself walk away. 

The third and fourth times, he had barely been able to do the same. He had spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time flipping through the telephone directory to try and find the number to Luci’s rotary phone he had spotted sitting behind the counter. Unfortunately, he wasn’t even sure what the name of the damn shop was. He’d never asked, and the storefront only had a generalized “Books & Antiques” signage underneath the cornice of the building. No one at work had heard of it either —that lead fell through his fingers like so much dust.

Alastor tried to focus, instead, on his hunts, using the vermin he disposed of as an outlet for the strange, unfamiliar feeling that flips in his stomach when he thinks about the bookstore or its owner. It was futile. Worse, it only served as fuel to the ever-growing and confusing fire he feels at the base of his spine. 

 He felt almost disgusted with himself in a way he never does in the aftermath of his kills. Washing off the blood of people who were barely fit to be called ‘people’ at all, he felt almost… guilty for using them as proxies for Luci. Picturing that thin, pale neck as the one beneath his hands, turning purple with bruises as he squeezed or those pretty blue eyes losing their shine and going dull and gray—it made him sick. His stomach revolted, throat convulsing in an attempt to keep the sting of bile at bay until the man beneath him shifted back into his own skin and away from Luci’s visage.

He’d tried it again the following week, but the results were similar. Alastor hates being forced to do anything, but he was forced to accept that what he felt at the hands of Luci’s absence was not a murderous rage at all. Still, he is unable to put into words exactly what it is. All he knows is that something is wrong with him, and he needs Luci to figure out what it could be.

This Thursday feels different as soon as he walks into the station. Alastor hears the murmurings of his colleagues, sees them huddling together in groups of three or five with concerned looks on their faces when he enters the lobby of the radio station. He furrows his brow, catching Helena’s eye and her little frantic, waving gesture to join her on the far end of the room, not in her usual station behind the front desk. He hums, making his way over, nodding politely to others who catch his eye.

“Alastor, there you are!” She has her arms crossed tight across her chest, foot tapping in what might be an anxious or impatient gesture, he’s unsure. 

“Here I am, my dear,” Alastor says with a little bow. “Would you mind telling me what all of the,” he pauses and makes a flowy gesture with one of his hands, “kerfuffle is about?”

She looks at him a little sideways, leaning in a little closer. “You don’t recall? I thought you were here to get your things from upstairs.”

Alastor blinks. “Why would I be doing that, exactly?” 

Helena looks as confused as Alastor himself felt. She chews her lip for a moment, scanning the lobby behind him again before elaborating. “The acquisition, remember? They bought us out. We’re out of a job for at least three months while they finish construction on the new building. They’re contracting out the show to the guys over on 8th in the meantime.” She shakes her head with lines creasing her pretty face between her brows. “We’re to be out before sunset.” 

Alastor turns away, taking in the room anew. Sure enough, he sees people holding their personal effects, the little baubles they kept on writing desks and personal mugs clutched tight to their bodies. He racks his brain but is, disturbingly, unable to come up with any memory of when he was told this date. Had he truly been so utterly distracted with Luci’s disappearing act that it pushed out all else? He runs his tongue across the edge of his teeth, feeling that low, simmering heat come back up to a boil.

 How completely, unfathomably ridiculous, Alastor thinks. Enough was enough, he decides. Tonight would be the very last night he visits the little shop. He would leave a note behind and then he would never bother with it again. If Luci were to contact him after that, fine. If not? Maybe he could finally be free of the wretched man whose laughter echoes too warm and familiar across the planes of his mind. 

“Alastor?” Helena calls, touching his arm lightly to grab his attention.

He comes back to himself abruptly, turning and giving his colleague a bright smile. “Yes, of course! Today’s date must have simply slipped my mind, I’m afraid! The fellows on 8th, you said?” He watches her sigh and nod slowly, a pinched expression on her face. “Well… There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. They better hope I don’t get a more flattering offer from a rival studio, hm?”

She scoffs incredulously. “How much more flattering an offer do you need, Alastor? They’re already moving you to prime time. Now who’s going to chastise me for working late when you get off at eleven at night instead of three?” 

Alastor blinks. 

Helena slaps a hand over her mouth, pressing the tips of her fingers to her painted lips. “You’re not supposed to know that yet,” she tells him lowly, looking around to see if anyone overheard. She breathes a sigh of relief when everyone remains absorbed in their own bubbles, looking back to Alastor sheepishly. “Congratulations?” Her inflection is awkward and pitched high at the end, matching the little shrug and tiny jazz-hands she adds.

Alastor clears his throat politely. “Thank you, Helena. I do so hope they keep your office right next to the boardroom in the new building. I’ll be grabbing my things and will be on my way. Do try to enjoy this mandatory vacation, yes?” 

Helena laughs a little, shaking her head fondly at the little jab. “You know just as well as I that the board can’t do a damn thing without me keeping track of it. You enjoy your vacation for the both of us.”

Alastor hums, tapping his fingers against each other. “Right you are. In fact… I rather think you should show them just how true it is—keep your phone off the hook, Helena. Take the break you very much deserve. Here in a few short months, they will know just how lucky they are to have you on the team.” He chuckles lightly, even as Helena rolls her eyes and pushes him towards the stairwell. She waves him off with a few more well-wishes, but she has a glint in her eye that Alastor hopes means she will take him up on his suggestion. Let the suits sweat a little, maybe then it would give her a better bargaining position in the new building to not be working twelve-hour days for nearly all seven days of the week. 

Alastor lets the smile slip from his face as he climbs the stairs. Prime time hours for his radio show. It’s what he’s been working for all this time. He’s finally been recognized for the talent and skill he’s honed, so why does he feel so apathetic to the news?  He opens the studio door, but he doesn’t keep much here at all. A spare pair of gloves and Luci’s umbrella are the only things waiting for him in the little booth. He shoves the extra gloves into his coat pocket, sucking on his teeth sharply as he holds the umbrella to the floor, leaning on it like a cane. He drums his fingers on the curved handle and stares at the sharp point of the ferrule at the end of it, tapping it on the ground. 

Perhaps, he thinks, I will leave a little more than a note.

Alastor leaves without much preamble, nothing more than a few flat-falling jokes and offers to get together during this break that Alastor lies and says he would be more than happy to join. Walking down the street to Luci’s shop for what he promises himself is the last time is the same as ever, yet completely changed. The sun hasn’t quite set yet, but is working on it, creating a blanket of orange-purple sky in a backdrop against the terraced buildings. He allows himself to wonder if Luci would appreciate a good sunset as much as he appreciates bad poetry.

The reluctant acceptance taking root in his stomach abruptly curdles when he reaches the familiar storefront. The sign is still flipped to ‘closed’ but the weeks-old paper about a private client is nowhere to be seen, no longer affixed to the glass. What’s more, Alastor spies, is that the light inside is on.

He feels a little curl of anger and indignance at the sight of it. Did Luci think that he could just come back as if nothing had happened at all? Like Alastor was nothing more than an entertaining pastime, something to be toyed with and discarded? The heat and hurt in his chest raged against the very idea. He would not allow himself to be disrespected like this.

He inspects the door, noting that the lock seemed to be a simple lever mechanism. Alastor clicks his tongue, a little appalled that the veritable treasure trove of antiques and first-edition books were kept ‘safe’ by something even an amateur could pick in under a minute. He looks up and down the street but, despite the early hour, the area is just as vacant as Alastor has ever seen it. He takes the opportunity for what it is and reaches into an inner pocket of his coat, taking the pen off his memo pad he keeps there and unscrewing the nib. He pulls out the thin, metal tube, holding the tip between his thumb and forefinger and bends the piece into ‘L’ shape.

He stands close to the door, obscuring the lock from view for any curious onlookers or nosy window-peepers. He grabs the memo pad and flips it open, making a show of double checking what was written on the door and comparing it to his notes. Alastor slides the larger base of the pen in the lock to hold the tension, leaving it there to slowly insert the makeshift pick one-handed. He slowly twists the curve of the ‘L,’ flipping pages of his memo pad in between feeling for the barely-there click of the levers being pushed up into place. It takes a little longer than usual, doing it blind and with one hand occupied, but he soon twists the base of the pen after the final lever is pressed. He hears the quiet sound of the lock retreating from the strike plate, leaving the door successfully unlocked.

Alastor shoves the broken pieces of his pen into his pocket, flipping the memo pad one more time and nodding as if he has confirmed something. He picks up the umbrella, holding it close to himself as he opens the door and slips inside. His gloved hand darts up to grab the clapper inside the bell, silencing it before it can announce his arrival. 

Laughably simple as it was, he locks the door behind him regardless, leaning the umbrella up against the wall next to the door. He tilts his head, listening for any movement and hearing something very faint coming from the back of the store. Alastor eyes the ramp warily, making his way towards it. He grasps either side of the banister firmly, using his long legs to his advantage to boost himself most of the way up the blasted thing. He lands as soft-footed as he can manage, barely a tiptoe on the very edge of the metal, preventing it from echoing out in a damning footstep. Alastor adjusts his grip to his new position before repeating the action, clearing the ramp and letting him breathe a quiet sigh of relief at having avoided detection for now. 

He listens close, following the muffled sound as best as he can despite the horrible, nonsensical layout of the shelves and free-standing display units. Alastor eventually closes in on the backroom, spotting the light spilling out from underneath the door. Alastor squeezes his hands into fists at his side, the quiet squeak of protesting leather barely audible over the commotion he can hear on the other side of the door. 

Alastor drops to a knee slowly, leaning in close to peek through the keyhole. It’s a little difficult with the lens of his glasses preventing him from getting too close, but he manages an angle where he can peer inside. 

The sight takes him a moment to parse, blinking in disbelief at the scene in the other room. 

Luci is kneeling in the middle of the room with his back to the door, slightly angled so Alastor can just make out the angle of his cheekbone and two sharp red points of something peeking just above a puff of golden blond hair. He has his hands on either side of something he can’t quite make out, palms flat to the hardwood floor. Alastor follows his arms downward, seeing the usual paleness of his skin transform into a true black, as if he had washed his hands up to his forearms in charcoal in place of soap. His eyes follow down, unable to believe he missed the large, painted pentagram detailing the area around Luci. 

Alastor can barely comprehend what he’s seeing, let alone the distinctly inhuman language the older man is reciting. His head feels heavy, almost weak as his mind tries to make sense of words it has no basis for understanding.  He watches breathlessly as one of Luci’s hands raises above the object in the middle of the pentagram, curling into a fist and dragging upwards slowly, as if lifting a great weight. Gradually, a thin, impossibly blue strand of something begins to emerge, pulled taut and thin from where it is held in Luci’s palm to the object on the floor. 

Luci pulls for what seems like an eternity, pausing every so often to wrap the strand around his fingers like a rope just to begin again. Finally, that blue, stringy something pulls free, the abrupt absence of resistance makes Luci rock back briefly on his heels before slapping his hands together, trapping the strand like a firefly in the cage of his fingers. He recites something Alastor cannot comprehend, raising his cupped hands high before slamming them flat to the very center of the pentagram.

The paint on the floor lights up, filling the room beyond the keyhole with a blazing red, so hot even on the other side of the door that Alastor has to bite down hard on his tongue to subdue a hiss as the heat floods the area. His head starts to swim, and he feels sweat begin to prickle at his temples. Luci breathes hard, hunched over the object severely as he holds the blue light tight to the ground until the blaze dissipates. 

Slowly, Alastor comes back to himself. He has no idea what he’s just seen. The visual was like something his aunties would whisper to each other in hushed tones not meant for eavesdropping little children. Something that lived inside the realms of story books and superstition, not in the back office of a weathered bookstore on an empty street on the outskirts of New Orleans. He watches, dazed, as Luci’s shoulders heave and roll, the broad shoulders squaring themselves as Luci puts himself back to rights. His head tilts.

Alastor pulls back from the keyhole, blinking and letting his eyes have a brief moment of reprieve from seeing through such a tiny gap. He closes them tightly, rubbing at them harshly. Unwilling to miss another second, he leans back into the keyhole.

The vision of the room at large has been replaced by a bright red sclera and wide yellow pupil, pressed just as close to the gap. Alastor is helpless to the shuddering gasp that rips itself from his throat. He jerks back violently, catching himself on his elbows where he collides with the ground painfully. 

Slowly, the blur of red removes itself from the hole and the door swings inward, revealing Luci peering down at Alastor with a distinctly amused expression. “Well, well, well. What do we have here, hm? A little peeping Tom?” 

Alastor does his best to suppress a shiver at hearing that voice address him in English once again, nothing at all like the barely comprehensible words he was speaking in his ritual. It’s pointless when Luci walks up between his legs slowly, leaning down to hover his face over Alastor’s. The little red points he saw before are slowly receding back into his skull. Horns, Alastor thinks helplessly.  His eyes shimmer and fade back to a normal human set of blues and whites. Something in Alastor’s chest flips, inappropriately mourning the loss of the otherworldly vision.

“Should I strike you blind, too?”

Alastor’s breath catches in his throat, unable to form proper words in the face of something so impossible. “Lu—ci,” he grinds out with immeasurable effort, feeling his teeth chattering in his mouth.

In his silence, Luci lifts a hand between them, cupping Alastor’s trembling jaw gently, moving his head this way and that as if inspecting him. He hums to himself contentedly after brushing his curls to the side to reveal more of his ears, bringing them back face-to-face. “Looks like you’re none the worse for wear,” he mumbles to himself, pulling back and resting his hands on his hips. 

The younger man closes his eyes tight, counting down from ten in his head while attempting to even out his breathing and regain his composure. His elbows ache—that’s good. Something to focus on; the sharp pain is still zapping through his arms from the heavy impact. It might take a moment or an hour, he isn’t sure, but when he finally opens his eyes again Luci has moved. No longer looming over Alastor, he sits quietly beside him, legs crossed over one another and leaning forward a little to keep examining him. 

Alastor looks forward at the door that is still wide open, confirming to himself that the room does, indeed, have a huge pentagram painted onto the floor. Images of red and yellow eyes flash through his mind and he jerks his head to the side, taking in the concerned, soft expression spread across Luci’s face. Nothing at all like the confident man who stood over him however long ago.

No, Alastor corrects, not man. 

“You alright there, big guy?” Luci asks with a small smile. 

Alastor tries to bring his mind back into order, needs to feel less like a particularly clueless pigeon is attempting to build a nest of lint and twigs in his brain and more like the quick-witted, intelligent man that he is known to be.

“I was going to kill you,” he says without thinking at all. 

Luci blinks at him slowly. “Why is that?”

Alastor wills his mouth to stay closed. “You were gone,” he admits instead. He leans forward, pressing a hand hard to the side of his skull with a groan. Stop, he demands of himself, Stop!

Luci laughs a little and Alastor curls in on himself a little further. “And you thought that the right punishment for me being gone was to make me… permanently gone?” 

“Yes! No!” Alastor exclaims nonsensically. The leather of his gloves is unpleasant and wrong pressed up against his head. He quickly pulls them off, dropping them somewhere on the floor before bringing up both hands to grip onto his hair roughly. He feels the sharp sting when he pulls several strands out with bare, shaky fingers. “I don’t know! Lord above, what’s happening to me?”

“Easy,” Luci soothes, gently unraveling Alastor’s hands from their tight grip on his own curls. “Give yourself a minute. Not many mortals can walk away from seeing something like that, let alone fully intact. You’re sturdy, not invincible.” He rises to his feet, pulling Alastor up with him to guide him inside the little office. The younger man’s legs are unsteady, his steps heavy and uneven as he follows Luci’s lead around the symbol on the floor to a small couch pressed against one of the walls. 

“You’re a demon,” Alastor says once he is settled, looking at the other over the top of his glasses. It’s the only explanation. The horns, the eyes, the Hellfire raised from the pentagram on the floor, even the strange prickling on the back of his neck that follows his every move when he enters the shop. The revelation doesn’t fill him with as much dread as it ought. No, he feels almost, contrary to all reason, relieved. Of course it would take some sort of otherworldly creature to bewitch him like this. It was a demon’s whole point, surely, to seduce humans into making deals with them for their own gain. Alastor had been playing right into his hand, accepting his gifts and quiet conversation. Had he done exactly as he was bid, given Luci exactly what he wanted? 

If that is the case, then why does he look so concerned for him?

“Nothing gets past you, huh?” Luci teases, gently pressing the back of his fingers to Alastor’s forehead. They feel incredibly cold against the heat of his head, and he is helpless but to lean into the sensation without thinking. 

Alastor closes his eyes with a sigh. He thinks of the several months of nothingness that is laid out ahead of him, of how dull his weeks had become without his weekly visits to this little place and the man—demon—inside. He pictures the small blue light wrapping in a coil around fingers black as pitch, the flames that had erupted from the pentagram. In help or in hindrance, Alastor isn’t sure. 

Delirious and wanting, Alastor speaks before he can think better of it. “I want to make a deal.”

Luci jerks backward, stunned, and the younger man mourns the loss of coolness on his overheated skin. “That’s uh… Well, that’s not really how this works,” he says slowly, backing off a little more. 

He doesn’t get far before Alastor’s hand is clenched tight in his vest, pulling him back down to see eye-to-eye. “You’re a demon, are you not? Isn’t that what you do? Or can you do nothing more than a sad little lightshow?” Luci doesn’t need to know how breathless he was at the sight on the other side of the keyhole.

“Alright, pal,” Luci says, raising an eyebrow as if he can see right through Alastor’s antagonistic behavior. Maybe he can. It doesn’t matter, not when his fingers are being pried from the soft fabric with ease, like Alastor had the grip of an infant instead of a fully-grown man. “What exactly are you asking for?” Luci takes a step back, hands on his hips and looks at Alastor quizzically.

“I want in,” he says simply. His head is swimming, all he knows is that Luci has done something to him, and he needs to know more, needs to know why, he needs to see those red and yellow eyes again. Alastor hears laughter ringing like bells in his head and it slowly occurs to him that Luci is laughing at him. He grunts under his breath and jerks his head to the side, unable to make his legs work properly to stand. 

“Aw, come now,” the demon coos at him, gently taking his chin between his fingers and bringing it back to face now. “I’m gonna need a little bit more than that before we shake on it. I don’t want your soul, Al.”

Peculiar, Alastor thinks, but advantageous. “How about another set of hands?”

“You’re telling me you want to… help? With what, exactly?” Luci asks incredulously.

“I want to assist you here in your shop!” Alastor finally finds the strength to stand up properly, shoving his left hand in his pocket and curling it around what he finds there. “I seem to have found myself with several months’ worth of free evenings! I could not possibly find a more entertaining way to spend them, wouldn’t you agree? Maybe you don’t want my soul but, surely, you’d accept a little helping hand around this place?” Alastor asks with a small smile, stepping closer to the other. “I have it on good authority that the layout needs an overhaul.”

Luci scoffs. He runs a hand through his hair, causing some of the strands to fall delicately against his brow. “Oh, sure.  Let’s say you spend the next couple months helping me with something that you’re not even really sure what it is and then go back to life as normal when you’re done. Does that sound right?”

“It sounds like a deal,” Alastor says curtly, the hand in his pocket curling around his knife. He brings it out and unfolds it in front of him, curling his left hand around the handle of the knife and pulling the blade down across the skin of his right.

“Woah, woah! Are you crazy?!” Luci screams, hands flailing as he stops the knife from cutting any deeper into Alastor’s palm. His hands curl around Alastor’s protectively, forcing his fingers to open to inspect the damage. He huffs a sigh of relief when he realizes he didn’t get remotely close to the tendon. “You humans have a lot of wild ideas about how this usually goes, huh?” 

Alastor allows the move, wasting no time in slotting their hands together in their first proper handshake since they’ve become acquainted, one charcoal-smudged right palm to his own bloody one. There is a spark of impossibly golden light that emerges from where their hands are clamped. Luci stares hard down at the place where they’re connected then up at the huge grin painted on Alastor’s face.

“You’re insane,” Luci murmurs, eyebrows pinched together in disbelief. 

Alastor feels the warmth of his blood pool where their hands fold together, hearing it drip quietly onto the floor. “You, my dear, are too kind,” he demures. 

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you did that,” Luci scolds with a shake of his head. He has pushed Alastor gently until he’s sitting back down on the couch and is now on the other side of the room rooting around for a first-aid kit. 

“Why ever not?” Alastor asks with a tilt of his head. He holds his steadily bleeding hand out over the floor so as to not stain his clothes or couch. He watches as Luci climbs precariously on a swivel chair to reach onto one of the shelves. Alastor tamps down the ridiculous urge to get up and steady him. After Luci retrieves his prize, he turns and hops off the chair with a near soundless landing. 

“Because sane people don’t make deals with demons,” Luci tells him slowly as he sits down in front of Alastor, just behind the pool of blood slowly growing on the floor. He begins the slow, methodical cleaning of Alastor’s wound, pouring out antiseptic onto a cloth and lightly dabbing it over the cut. “I gotta hand it to you, though,” he starts with a shrug, “You surprise me. That rarely happens. Let alone as often as you manage it.” 

Something in Alastor’s chest burns bright at the words. He’s spent his whole life maintaining a predictable, if charming, demeanor. He was always well-behaved and polite. Charismatic. Doing as is expected of him. The less attention he drew to himself, the better. It meant they would be less likely to look at him with suspicion if there were any unfortunate overlaps between the life he has carefully curated and his moonlighting as something far more deadly. 

Something about the demon made him loosen up, drop a little more of the façade each time without even noticing. Perhaps the first time in the shop had been enough, maybe the violence he held back behind his teeth after his plans were fumbled was enough to pique Luci’s interest, to needle him and see what makes him fold. 

Perhaps he saw a human destined for Hell anyway and decided to have fun with it.

Looking down at the other framed between his knees, how softly he is wrapping gauze around his injured hand, Alastor thinks it might be a little bit of everything and then some. 

“Why, thank you,” Alastor all but purrs. “Coming from the likes of you that must mean quite a lot!” 

Luci pats his hand and pulls his own away, wiping them off and then mopping up the pooled blood on the floor with the cloth. Satisfied, he packs up the first aid kit and nudges it aside with his leg. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head,” he says with a groan, climbing to his feet. “Now, I had a little interruption before, so you sit there while I clear this stuff away. If you’ve got questions, now’s the time to ask ‘em.” 

Alastor hums, content to watch with sharp eyes as Luci begins to fix up the small space. “I suppose I should ask what exactly I will be doing, hm?”

Luci drops his head between his shoulders with a bark of laughter and goes quiet. Alastor can’t see his face, but he can see the shaking of his shoulders giving away the silent, sustained amusement. He pinches his brows together in annoyance and waits the other out. 

Eventually, Luci clears his throat and peers at Alastor from over his shoulder. There is a flush high on his cheeks that makes him look almost angelic in the low light of the back room. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to work these things out before you go all blood-ritual on me, y’know?” 

Alastor huffs, crossing his arms and looking pointedly away from the other. 

“Aw, don’t get huffy. I’ll take care of you,” Luci says with a warm chuckle.

A strong spike of heat flares in his stomach, disturbingly unfamiliar and incredibly strange. Alastor turns his head and shifts his weight on the couch, throwing one leg over the other to cross them in an attempt to make himself appear more closed off. From the continued sound of Luci’s light laughter, it doesn’t seem to be working. Still, Alastor is a stubborn man and has no trouble digging in his heels even for something like this. 

With his eyes averted, he takes in the various sketches pinned up on a board above the large desk in the corner. Many of them are largely unremarkable: a few of the pieces are of various creatures, one has some kind of duck-shaped mechanical cross-section that is spitting… something from its beak, a recreation of a church or chapel of some kind, but what catches Alastor’s eye are the three or four sketches that are of him. They’re not obvious, but the distinction is clear to Alastor, himself. The eyes with the round, wire-frame glasses with a single curl just touching his brow, one gloved hand pulling the other glove down to his wrist. One sketch is of his backside, wide shoulders emphasized and made wider by the cut and cinch of his waistcoat, curls on the back of his head tamed into a wave, his bare hand touching the spine of a book. 

Alastor blinks hard, averting his eyes again from the strangely intimate drawings and feels incredibly caught out when he finds Luci’s face curled with a distinct amusement, a spider inviting a fly into his parlor. He swallows, unmoored and unsure what to do about it.

Luci, it seems, is rather merciful for a demon. Instead of remarking on the heat of Alastor’s face or the reaction to his secret being discovered, he smiles and picks up the conversation even with the long thread of silence. 

“Well, let’s see,” he starts, putting some of the open books away after carefully marking their pages. “Sometimes demons—other demons, that is—make their way to the surface. There are some that do it for work, like incubi or succubi, but they’re not a problem. They’ve got a good boss and all work hard not to cause any big problems for him.” 

Alastor’s face pinches with the knowledge of such things truly existing, but he supposes after what he’s witnessed, he is being a little on the ridiculous side. “And I suppose you do something with the ones that… do not come up here for work?” Perhaps he isn’t being ridiculous at all. The idea of a nine-to-five in Hell does sound rather par for the course.

“You got it,” Luci says brightly. He finishes putting the books away, picking up the little object in the middle of the pentagram. He holds it in front of him for Alastor to take. “And sometimes, they get stuck. Sometimes in objects, like this. My job is to send these souls back to Hell where they belong.”

Alastor takes the thing, staring blankly at it for a long moment. His shoulders drop and he feels a little cheated.

Luci moves to knock his shoe against the younger man’s, moving his feet carefully out of the way. He pulls a rug out from under the couch, nudging Alastor’s legs with his shoulder for him to move them further. 

“Really?” Alastor drawls, low and unimpressed, turning the thing over in his hands.

“What now?” Luci asks with a put-upon attitude.

The younger man waves his injured hand vaguely up and down at the object in his left. “A haunted doll? It’s just a bit…” Alastor trails off, raising and lowering a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Ah… Cliché, doesn’t it?”

“It’s a thankless job,” Luci says with a long-suffering sigh, rolling the rug smoothly over the floor, easily concealing the large pentagram and making it seem like any other back room or office. 

Alastor is unimpressed, glaring down at the cleanly painted face. He hands it back to Luci without issue. “Well,” he starts, clapping his hands together boldly. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Luci shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. They stare hard at each other, Alastor’s smile wide and unmoving on his face even as Luci’s mouth is pulling into an unamused frown. 

“Pray tell, whyever not?”

“Because,” Luci says with a roll of his eyes. He places a hand on his hip and cocks it outward, looking up at Alastor with a raised brow. “I’ve got a lead. I have to check out first and you can’t go where I’m going for it. Besides, you look like you’re running on an hour of sleep, you’re no good to me dead on your feet,” he says, pointedly looking away as he grumbles out the last bit. 

Alastor blinks, ignoring the unfamiliar flutter in his stomach. “I can wait,” he decides, steepling his fingers and arching them primly on his knee, leaning back into the couch. 

“Excuse me?” Luci says with an incredulous shake of his head.

“I said I can wait, dear fellow! After all, we never agreed on what exactly I would be helping you with!” Alastor raises his shoulder in an elegant shrug, pursing his lips. “You could simply disappear again, wait out the ‘few months’ as was stipulated and the deal would be done, over, poof, with me having helped you with staying out of the way. I don’t think so,” he finishes with a shark-toothed grin. 

Luci looks at him and something in his face looks distinctly proud. He says as much when he opens his mouth. “You’ve got a real knack for contracts,” he says with a sharp smile of his own. “That’s good. Suits you. Alright. Fine. We’ll do things your way. I’ve got another object ready for testing, one I think you’ll like.” He nudges the corner of the rug he just laid with his shoe, curling up the corner and delivering a practiced kick that rolls it up neatly, revealing the painted symbol once again. “Sit tight,” he says, leaving the room and fishing his keys out of his pocket.

Alastor hums contentedly, standing up and padding over to the symbol. He wonders about the paint, if it’s been covered with floor wax and varnish, sealing it in for it not to be at all scuffed from foot traffic and the scrub of the underside of the rug. 

He turns around and decides to sneak a glance at the drawings above the desk again despite himself. Alastor knows it isn’t exactly a good thing to have captured the attention of a demon, but the warm, swirling feeling licking its way up his spine doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. He spots a paper tucked away, mostly concealed by a truly bizarre step-by-step sketch of five metal-looking ducks assembling into one large mechanical duck. He looks at the outrageous drawings a little longer before shaking his head and lifting the corner of the paper to peer at what's behind it. 

There is no plausible deniability here, not when what greets him is a clear rendering of his own face pulled into a small, but genuine, smile. The corners of his eyes are lovingly detailed in their creases. Actually… Everything is lovingly detailed. From the pull of his mouth to the slight crinkling of his nose, even the light spattering of freckles along the tops of his cheeks, shaded to be darker from a joyful flush. 

Alastor is trying to put rhyme to reason when Luci nudges the door open again. The younger man nearly jumps out of his skin, hip-checking the desk so hard he instinctively hisses, pulling his hand away to rub at his side and hiding away his likeness once again. He makes himself look incredibly busy by inspecting the shelf Luci grabbed the first aid kit from earlier while he hears Luci shuffling things behind him. 

“Here,” Luci eventually says, either letting Alastor think he’s gotten away with it or simply humoring him, it’s impossible to tell. He hands him a book in his peripheral vision. “Read from that—blue bookmark, green highlight, yes, there—when I tell you to, okay?”

Alastor looks at the words on the page he was guided to, surmising he could surely pronounce these otherworldly sounds with the same clear enunciation as he treats segments on his radio show. Speaking of, he raises his eyebrows when he turns to see Luci placing a weathered-looking gramophone in the middle of the symbol. 

“Something so recent can be… possessed?” Alastor asks skeptically. 

“Oh, sure!” Luci hops to his feet and stands proudly, hands on his hips. “Anything can! I know you humans like to think only the hundred-year-old house or ancient artifact can fit the bill in your ghost stories, but pretty much anything can be up for grabs if the demon is clumsy enough.” He holds out a hand, pointing one finger upward in a ‘hold on’ gesture, looking surprisingly stern. “Now, remember, we’re only seeing if something does have a soul inside of it right now. We can discuss next steps after we’ve determined at least that much.”

Alastor purses his lips. “You don’t know already? Aren’t you able to,” he waves a hand, “oh, I don’t know, divine it, somehow?” 

Luci raises a brow at the word he chose, face trying for unamused despite the curl at the corners of his eyes and mouth. 

“Apologies. Sore subject, I’m sure, demon as you are,” Alastor says, distinctly unapologetic. “The question still stands.”

Luci shakes his head, sour expression breaking on a smile. “Not always. Some are obvious, sure, but some souls are very, very weak. So weak it's a miracle they were able to make it up to the human world at all. When I get a tip-off, even if I don’t feel anything at all from the thing, it’s my job to do my due diligence and go through the motions anyways. So, you can help me with this part pretty easily. C’mere.” 

Alastor goes, watching mildly as Luci drops to his knees in the pentagram, identical to how Alastor found him before. He looks up at him and Alastor looks at the book, instead.

“Okay, you’ve seen it once, so that helps. But, just in case, try not to look at me if this thing does have a soul inside, okay? I need you reading, not drooling on the floor.”

Alastor’s eyes snap back to him. “I did not drool,” he corrects with a growl, gritting his teeth at the smug satisfaction on Luci’s face. It doesn’t help that the warning is absolutely warranted. Alastor would much rather look at hands bathed in a stark black-ombré and shining red eyes than at the pages of some book. He keeps the thought to himself.

“Sure,” Luci says easily, continuing to succeed in making Alastor feel entirely ridiculous. The demon turns to the gramophone, putting his hands on either side of the base. “Go ahead.”

Alastor clears his throat politely and begins to read, slow and sure. In his periphery, he can see Luci moving his hands around the object as he makes his way through the passage, pressing down on different areas and continuing along when nothing happens. 

Alastor reads, flips a page, reads some more. Eventually, he reaches the end of the highlighted segment and stops, peering down at Luci and hearing him sigh.

“Yeah, ‘s a dud. Thanks for reading, though. At least your voice was something I got out of it,” Luci says nonchalantly, rising to his feet and picking up the gramophone to take with him in a truly ridiculous maneuver that looks as if the device could topple him at any moment. 

Alastor sputters and holds the book to his chest as a makeshift shield. He feels too warm despite the chill of disappointment at having been robbed of another performance.

“So that’s it?” Alastor asks, needing to circle around the comment expeditiously. “What now?” 

Luci scoots the gramophone onto his desk, peering back at him with a smile. “Hey, it may not be as exciting, but having something not be haunted is more than cause for celebration, don’t you think?” 

“Celebrate how?” Alastor inquires suspiciously. He hands back the book when Luci holds his palm out for it, watching him set it down on the desk before ducking low and fiddling with one of the drawers. He unlocks it swiftly, turning back to him with a bottle of Scotch, a corkscrew, two glasses, and a smile that’s near to blinding. 

Luci laughs at how quickly his sour expression transforms into one of very, very pleased surprise. “Don’t worry, no distilled embalming fluid here, just pure single-malt.” 

It’s a rare, rare treat indeed to have a high-quality drink in recent years, rarer still to be able to afford such things with the current state of things. This bottle was clearly aged well, the bottle housing a cork instead of a more modern flip-top cap. Alastor certainly wouldn’t be saying no to sharing a bottle. 

Luci nods to the couch for Alastor to sit and begins to hand him one of the glasses, only to pull away just before he can take it with a stern expression on his face. “A couple fingers, then you go and get some actual rest. Come back next Thursday and we’ll get into things properly.” He smiles wide, eyes half lidded and sparkling. “Deal?”

Alastor bites the inside of his cheek at being chastised in such a manner at his age, but it’s tempered by the promise of good whiskey and better company. At least then he would have an explanation for the heat in his belly. He nods. “Deal.”

“Good,” Luci purrs, handing him both glasses to uncork the bottle properly. Once released, the delectable smell of oak, spice, and fire fills the room and Alastor notices they both take a deep, long breath of the smell in unison. Luci pours them each two fingers of the liquid gold, enough to savor and enjoy, putting the bottle on the desk and joining him on the couch to take his glass.

Luci settles in, toeing off his shoes, putting his back to the arm of the chair and sighing contentedly in his lounging position. His legs are bent at the knee, leaving a respectable few inches between their bodies.

Alastor brings the glass to his nose, breathing in for a long moment before holding it to the side of him. Luci raises an eyebrow and clinks his own to the offered one.

Alastor relaxes into the couch, shifting subtly to allow for the worming of Luci’s toes he feels burrowing underneath his thigh. 

Alastor finds that he doesn’t hate it.

A cause for celebration, indeed.

Chapter Text

The following weeks rolled into each other, and they were good. More than good, they were fun. Alastor had more time on his hands to do what he loved than ever. His radio shows were planned meticulously out months in advance, leaving his schedule delightfully free of any of the prep work for when he moved to the new studio. That meant more days of careful observation and more nights spent in the woods after stocking his freezer. 

Best of all, it meant more nights spent in the labyrinth of Luci’s shop. 

Somewhere along the way, Alastor’s Thursday night treat changed to a Thursday–Friday night treat, then a Thursday–Friday–Monday one. Eventually, Alastor found himself spending his days in shadow, plotting out potential victim schedules and daily routines and all but two nights of the week within the four walls that smell of book glue, cider, and ink. 

They’ve had two successful… Alastor hesitates to call them exorcisms but struggles to come up with another term that fits the bill. How else does one describe pulling a demon’s soul out of an object, damning it back to Hell?

In any case, they’ve had two successful maybe-exorcisms, and countless failures. Luci had retrieved a new one they were to try shortly, and Alastor couldn’t wait to see. He hoped beyond hope with each new try that a little soul would be hidden inside, doomed for damnation once again. Each time those horns extended beyond the golden hair atop the demon’s head, his eyes turning from bright blue to red and yellow, Alastor felt like he was losing himself more and more. He was an addict, clutching desperately onto the next possible fix of seeing that otherworldly form again.

Alastor looks up over the top of his book, greedily taking in the slight form of Luci curling in on himself over his desk, spine hunched and distinctly uncomfortable looking. He watches as Luci draws for a moment in his peculiar way, making strokes of charcoal with his left and blending them out to perfection with his right. He wonders just what kind of rank Luci has in Hell, to be trusted to transport other demons back from whence they came. To be unsupervised and allowed to do, well, pretty much anything when he’s not doing that. 

Demon or not, Alastor thinks, setting his book down on the couch and getting up with a huff. That’s no excuse for bad posture.

He makes his way over, putting his hands on either side of Luci’s neck and slowly dragging it back and up to a normal upward position.

“Hey! I’m doing something, you know?” Luci complains but doesn’t roll his shoulders to dislodge Alastor’s steady hands. 

“It seems to me that you’re perfectly capable of doing something while not hunched over like a turtle,” Alastor replies, smoothing his hands out over Luci’s shoulders and thumbing up and down the bumps at the back of his neck.

“I don’t think turtles do that,” the demon replies, tone arched and skeptical. 

“Oh, ho! An expert, I see! Do you happen to have any books on turtles? Perhaps I could go brush up.” 

Luci chuckles, leaning a little further into Alastor’s massaging hands. “You know I do, Al.”

“Are they leatherback?” Alastor asks innocently.

Luci tilts his head backward until he is looking straight up at Alastor, his hair brushing against the younger man’s middle. His smile stretches slow and wide, and Alastor watches the joke form in behind his bright eyes to play along. 

“Oh, yeah. No teeth, though,” he says with a solemn tone.  

“What about hardback?” Alastor asks instead.

“Hm… Sure do, but make it snappy,” Luci replies with a snap of his own, a tiny spark lighting and extinguishing barely a second later between his fingers.

Alastor and Luci stare at each other until the demon’s chin starts trembling and biting his lips, trying to keep the laughter in. 

Luci cracks first, slumping back into his position curled over his desk and Alastor mourns the loss of heat under his hands even as he laughs along. 

He coughs politely into his hand, coming back to himself. “If you’re at a stopping point, perhaps we could begin?” He had been incredibly patient until now, but as the hours stretched on and on Alastor was beginning to think Luci was putting it off just to watch him squirm.

“Night is still young, Al. You sure are eager,” Luci says with a smile that is unmistakably fond when he looks back at him again. 

Alastor hums, looking away to the carpet on the ground, covering what lies beneath and away from the demon’s gaze. “Could you truly blame me? I think I’ve been appropriately eager, as you say, for every one of these encounters.”

He hears a chuckle come from in front of him, feels a tug on his waistcoat to draw his attention back. Alastor waits for another tug before relenting, looking down at the demon below him, beautiful even without the horns and Hellfire. He pauses, brows pulling together at the thought.

Luci watches him for a long moment, blinking slowly before tugging one last time on Alastor’s waistcoat. “Let me wash my hands and we can get started, that sound good?” Luci asks, rising to his feet and brushing past the younger man slowly. 

Alastor nods and stays still until he hears the door to the washroom close. He runs his tongue along the point of his canine, breathing in deeply. He’s acting ridiculously, but the fluttering in his stomach threatens to overtake him whenever Luci looks at him like that. Whenever Luci does anything. Why does the sight of a demon with glasses perched on his nose, curled over an old book and making tiny notes in the margins make his chest ache? Worse, why does the sight of horns and fire coupled with a too-sharp, charming smile make it burn? Alastor runs a hand through his hair, tugging roughly at his curls. 

He hears the washroom door open again and moves from the chair, making himself look busy preparing what they’d need. Alastor hears Luci opening and closing one of his cabinets, looking for something. 

Alastor rolls up the carpet as usual, going to the bookshelf to pluck the correct tome out. He moves to the desk, opening a drawer to grab one of the items Luci procured for investigation. He pops open a pocket watch, crouching down to set it in the middle of the pentagram before moving back to the far end of the room where he usually stands. 

“Alastor!” Luci calls, head appearing in the doorway. “Did you leave the notebook on the counter?” 

“Yes, that sounds right,” Alastor agrees. 

“Perfect. Back in a jiffy,” he says with a clap, practically skipping out of the room. 

Alastor shakes his head, flipping to the now-familiar bookmark, reading over the words. A strange clicking sound, faint and barely-there reaches his ears as the flutter of pages stops. He looks around to find the source before moving his eyes to the pentagram. His chest seizes as he sees the hand on the pocket watch start moving forward slowly, spinning for a moment before halting suddenly. It changes directions and moves counterclockwise, rewinding itself as it sits in the middle of the floor, otherwise untouched.

“Luci,” he calls, breathless and quiet. Far too quiet to be heard on the other side of the shop but his mouth won’t move, can’t take in enough air to yell properly. 

The watch begins to shake, trembling in place as it moves from side to side, a crack forming and splintering in the glass of the clock face. Alastor takes a step back, then another. This hasn’t happened before. All the times he’s seen this, the object has sat impotently in the center, forced into submission by Alastor’s recitals and Luci’s superior power. Nothing like this. Alastor looks up to the opposite side of the room. He’d have to cross the skirt of the pentagram to reach the door, the wall behind him offering no quarter. He could be quick, he decides. Quick enough to get out of the room before—

The entity inside the cogs and springs of the watch rattle as it becomes too big for such a tiny space. Too-bright rays of red light expand and flare, filling the room with an ungodly heat. Tiny pieces of metal and glass spray outward when it shatters, Alastor just being fast enough to shield his face from the worst of it, even at the cost of cuts across his knuckles and arms where it cut through his shirt. 

Lowering the book, he’s faced with a tall demon, perhaps a head taller than he is, with dull green skin, small fins on its neck, and far, far too many eyes. Alastor sees arms webbed to its torso and has the panicked, nonsensical thought that maybe there were gills, too. 

Heart beating at a rabbit’s pace, Alastor lowers himself slightly, bending his knees to prepare to run, fight, something. His brain is working too fast, not able to grab onto any real, tangible thought at all, only knowing that he is a human, and this thing is not. That he is soft and squishy, and he might very well end up looking like his victims if he isn’t careful. 

The demon shakes, reorienting itself now that its form has rematerialized into something real, more than a soul attached to an old piece of clockwork. It turns its head to meet Alastor face-to-face, a disturbing expression that is unmistakably delight crossing its features. It causes a rolling wave of disgust and fear to churn in his gut. 

The demon takes a single step towards him. “A human? You look fun,” it says with a swipe of tongue against its lips, taking another step, close enough that Alastor gets the distinct smell of rot and fire flooding his nose and mouth, very nearly making him gag at the intensity. When the demon reaches out with one clawed hand, a golden light floods out from behind him, filling the small room in its entirety. It turns swiftly in place to look at the source, leaving Alastor at his back, blocking the view of whatever it is. 

A gift-wrapped opening if he’s ever seen one. But Alastor has no idea how to deal with demons, not like this, not real and corporeal and standing right in front of him. This is nothing like the vibrating little coin purse or rapidly blinking table lamp from before. Alastor can’t do much, but he just needs enough time to get to Luci and he hates that that’s all he can do, that they didn’t prepare for this outcome. Was it so unlikely that Luci didn’t deem it necessary to talk about it at all? 

It didn’t matter. Not now. Before he could lose his nerve or his slim opening, Alastor raises the book high over his head, bringing it down strong and true on the back of the demon’s head with as much strength as he could muster with the target being so high up. At the stunned little gargle, he grits his teeth hard, lifting a leg to kick out hard, taking advantage of the moment. 

The demon yelps and stumbles forward, falling onto the ground with a pathetic, wet slap. Taking a second to process that the maneuver actually worked, he noticed that without the barrier of the demon, that the light is emanating from Luci himself. There are six wings of pure white with a devastating undercoat of crimson branching out on either side of him. Those long, red horns Alastor thinks of often are in front of him now, bright and fully extended, farther than he’s ever seen them. Between the horns, a tall, roaring flame is suspended, circled by a golden, shimmering snake in a Hellish perversion of a halo. 

Alastor’s chest seizes and shudders, but not in revulsion or fear like it did when faced with the demon stalking towards him. He feels his shoulders dropping, no longer tense and pinched around his ears, his mouth falling open on a quiet gasp. 

Luci’s face is furious. Pointed teeth slot together on a snarl, tiny puffs of smoke expelling from between them with every heavy breath. His pitch-black hands curled into fists at his sides, long claws a matching red as his horns and digging into his palms so deep there are tiny drops of what appears to be gold running down his fingers and dripping onto the floor.

The demon looks up from where it landed, sprawled and clumsy, onto the ground. It immediately chokes and sputters, scrambling hard to get up when Luci’s hoof presses hard onto its back, pressing it down and keeping it down without issue, the force so great Alastor could hear the clear snap of ribs buckling under the unyielding pressure. It tries to speak; to desperately claw some measure of coherency and ability but Luci’s hoof is steadfast in its position, unmoving and still no matter how much the demon squirms and writhes beneath it.

Luci brings his black and red hands together in front of him, conjuring a flame not unlike the one suspended between his horns, raising it high above his head in an action mirroring Alastor’s own with the book. The demon is wailing, reaching out with trembling hands to grasp at Luci’s ankles until Luci finally brings the flame down onto the demon. It sizzles and screams, something unholy and ungodly tearing it apart from the inside as the fire gets absorbed. Like burning incense, the demon curls into a fine powder as the flame rips through it, until the screaming stops and all that is left is a pile of black ash.

No one speaks for a long, tense minute. Maybe longer. Alastor isn’t sure how long he spends staring at the remnants of the demon until he finally gets his brain working well enough to comment.

“You didn’t send it back,” Alastor says redundantly, staring hard at the place the demon once was. This demon was not packaged sweetly and returned to Hell. It was simply gone.

“Some souls,” Luci says, reaching forward with crimson-tipped claws to tilt his chin up to face him with a smile full of too-sharp teeth, “don’t deserve the mercies of Hell.” 

“Mercies?” Alastor’s voice is suddenly hoarse, taking on a thin, breathy quality. His heart is beating too fast in his chest, and he is suddenly so, so warm. There is the tell-tale prickle of sweat forming at the back of his neck as he gazes up at the impossibly huge presence emanating from such a physically small body, made even bigger by the three sets of wings sprouting wide and full from the demon’s back.

No, not demon. Not entirely.

Angel.

Fallen and sin-singed, but angelic still in his beauty and demeanor, in each of his six wings and snake floating around his horns like a vicious mockery of a halo. 

Alastor feels the book drop from his hands, falling to the ground with a thump. He doesn’t hear it. The only thing ringing in his ears is the click of hooves against the hardwood floor, the crackle and hiss of the fire nestled between two tall red horns. Luci is small, even like this, and the heat of the flame licks at his face as he gets closer, even as the angel tilts his head up further and grins at him with half-lidded eyes. 

“Mercies,” Luci repeats with a nod. “Do you deserve my mercy, Alastor?” 

Alastor ignores the question for now. His mind races as it begins putting the pieces together, pieces he has been slowly spoon-fed as he and Luci have worked together these past months. “You never needed this book at all,” he starts with, pointing at the tome at his feet without looking, knowing it will surely have bent and damaged pages when he picks it up next.

“No,” Luci says sweetly.

“You were humoring me,” Alastor accuses harshly, hands forming into shaky fists at his sides.

The angel tilts his head, a salacious smirk forming on his pretty face. “Maybe.”

Alastor is at once enraged, impressed, and filled with a need so great he thinks it might burst right out of his chest. His legs feel so weak, trembling in place until he finally falls to his knees at Luci’s feet. 

Hearing bible stories about the devil being God’s most beautiful angel and seeing it right here in front of him are two completely different hemispheres. He knows, immediately and with a sureness that staggers him, that this could be no other. 

“Lucifer,” Alastor says out loud, the first prayer he’s spoken in more than twenty years. His hands come up and grip tightly into the devil’s shirt, needing to be closer.

“Lucifer Morningstar, at your service,” Lucifer says with a smile, moving from tipping up Alastor’s chin to cupping his face, brushing sharp thumbs across the flush burning bright over the top of his cheekbones. Alastor’s face feels hot, but the angel’s hands feel even hotter, making him feel strange and unsure and terribly, insatiably needy for more. 

It’s impossible. It’s nonsense. Everything in the past few months has been leading them here and he can’t wrap his brain around it. But an angel stands before him now. An angel is holding his face and looking at him with soft, red eyes filled to the brim with fondness and fire. An angel who laughs at his terrible puns and takes his coffee with sugar, who whittles wooden ducks and destroys souls that threaten to hurt him.

“To Hell with it,” Alastor growls out, shooting his hands up to grab at Lucifer’s shirt. His hands tangle in the collar, tugging hard to bring him down and press their lips together.

Chapter Text

If someone had asked Alastor what the devil tasted like, even just days ago, he would have said fire, ash, and bone. He would probably have questioned their soundness of mind to come up with such a question, but who in this town hasn’t been at the mercy of a bit of blow every now and again? 

Either way, Alastor would have guessed something a little more visceral. Blood and brimstone seem a little cliché, but there is nothing wrong with going with a classic. He certainly, even if given a hundred guesses, would have never thought sweet, honeyed apples and well-aged whiskey. But as the devil’s forked tongue massages his own in assured movements against his own clumsy ones, he finds that it fits. It’s addictive and dizzying, emptying his head and filling it up with nothing but Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer. 

Alastor makes some kind of sound, something he’s never made before. It’s desperate and whiny even to his own ears and he tries to press forward. His attempts at trying to collect himself to take more charge of the kiss are all for naught when he feels Lucifer’s breathy little chuckle against his mouth. The long, forked tongue surrounds his own painfully human one easily, wrapping around it like a snake and sucking it into the angel’s mouth. A small, clawed hand threads itself through his hair, tugging on it lightly to tilt his head up a little further, a little to the side, giving Lucifer access to his mouth. 

Alastor feels his lungs struggle to inhale properly, the kiss completely overriding all of even his most basic functions. His fingers clutch at Lucifer’s shirt, pushing him away just slightly. Lucifer takes the hint, even at the weak little push Alastor wasn’t sure was going to be enough. He pulls away, retreating his tongue into his own mouth and leaving tiny parting kisses on Alastor’s upper and lower lips, dragging pointed teeth across them in a sharp tease before leaning back completely.

He isn’t sure what he looks like, nor could he begin to guess. His face feels far too hot, burning at his ears, and he feels cooling saliva on his chin underneath his mouth, ajar to accommodate his heavy panting. 

Lucifer, on the other hand, looks divine.

His lips are puffy, red, and shiny with spit; those bright golden eyes are half-lidded with huge, dilated red pupils. There is a bright, golden hue underneath his impossibly pale skin that stripes across the tops of his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose in what can only be a blush. 

It takes Alastor a moment to realize those slightly swollen, distracting lips are moving, wrapping around words that Alastor must fight to understand. It feels like his head is stuffed with cotton, and it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to come back to himself enough to focus on that soft, clear voice. 

“—stor? Al, you in there?” Lucifer inquires, pressing the backs of two fingers to Alastor’s forehead as if checking the temperature.

“Apologies,” he replies, cringing and forcing himself to clear his throat when he hears how rough it sounds. “Would you mind repeating that for me?”

Lucifer grins, moving to untangle Alastor’s hands from the front of his shirt. He pulls him up, making sure to angle his head backwards as the flame extinguishes between his horns, trying not to accidentally ignite the dark, curly hair. Alastor tries not to mourn the loss despite the safety hazard. “I asked how you were feeling. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” As he speaks, the snake descends from its place around his horns, moving down his shoulders and arms to wrap its tail around Lucifer’s forearm. It moves itself forward until it can drop onto the desk and slither out of sight. 

Alastor watches it go mildly and opens his mouth to reply with the cursory, genial "I’m fine," but finds himself thinking better of it. While he is fine, that is not remotely strong enough of a word to describe how he feels. A demon, a real demon, was summoned at his feet and had clear intent to do him harm. Lucifer, the fallen angel, rendered said demon into little more than a stain on the hardwood at the threat alone. The figure in front of him who Alastor once thought of as a man, then a demon, now far, far more, is looking at him with a clear fondness in his eyes. He feels that tightness that has been gripping his chest for weeks loosens slightly.  “Never better,” he finally settles on, thinking it more than enough of an admission. Moreover, he finds that it’s true.

Lucifer runs his dark hands along the length of Alastor’s arms, leaving tiny, golden flakes in the air as he makes his way down. When he reaches his hands, Alastor finds that the tiny spattering of cuts and scrapes from the timepiece exploding have disappeared.

“Have you always been able to do that?” Alastor asks, thinking of the very human first aid kit that was used on him only a few short months ago. 

Lucifer shrugs unapologetically. “Golden healing magic doesn’t exactly sound like demon material, wouldn’t you agree?” 

The younger man huffs, using one hand to cup Lucifer’s face, fingers trailing up to the place where his horns attach to his skull so seamlessly, rubbing the transition of skin to smooth horn with a thumb. Unable to help himself now that he is so close, now that his desires have been revealed, acknowledged, and returned. He leans down and presses his lips to that same area, tracing it with his tongue, curious as to whether or not the difference in texture is reflected by a difference in taste, too. 

It’s not—though the difference in temperature is notable—but the gargled sound Lucifer makes more than makes up for it. The idea that Alastor’s touch is able to have the devil himself make such noises… He has to bite his tongue to suppress the sound of his own that threatens to escape.

He pulls back, winding his arms around Lucifer’s middle and rocking back and forth slowly, suddenly overwhelmed. Everything that has happened this year, some six months and some change of coming here once a week to prod and pry, addicted to the banter and wit Lucifer has to dish out in spades. The pitiful act of checking every week for over a month to see if he had returned from a trip where Alastor had nearly lost his mind with boredom, having become so attached to the man—who he thought was a man, he corrects himself. Because of course it wouldn’t be anyone ordinary. No one has ever caught his eye before, not beyond the purposes of being able to identify whether or not someone had attractive features, even if he was not attracted to them. How incredibly fitting, he supposes, to have the exception be temptation incarnate. 

Alastor feels something wrap tightly around his thigh, putting a little distance between them to look. He sees that thin, black tail of Lucifer’s winding around his leg, the tip wiggling slightly from its position like it is trying to wag. Alastor huffs, feeling his chest start to heave trying to keep laughter in. The devil himself, the most powerful angel that ever was, here with a wagging tail and lopsided grin, forked tongue peeking out just enough to tease, here in a dusty old bookshop off a side street. It’s so utterly unfathomable. The sight, the thought, is so ridiculous he can’t help but laugh.

He begins to chuckle, attempting to hide it in his shoulder. It takes root before long, blooming into full-bellied laughter so contagious that Lucifer joins in right along with him. Still swaying in the arms of a fallen angel, expressing joy and incredulity alike, Alastor notices, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he feels safe.

“Would you like to dance?” Lucifer asks once the laughter fades into indulgent little giggles once more. He accommodates Alastor's slow rocking motion, leaning into him and putting his hands on the other's waist to bring him even closer.

Alastor goes, freshly caught breath puffing out of him in an instant when his cock is pressed tight to Lucifer’s stomach, feeling a matching hardness brushing against his thigh. “With what music?” Alastor manages to ask. “You never let me set a radio up.” 

“Who says we need music?” Lucifer’s grin is wide and sharp, many of his demonic features staying put on his face, likely able to discern how much Alastor enjoys them. “But, sure, if you want to be a spoil sport…” He lifts his hand from Alastor’s back briefly to punctuate his sentence with a loud snap, a familiar looking gramophone manifesting out of thin air and onto the desk. Immediately, it begins playing a light, sweet melody. Not too slow, but not fast enough to break this strange mood bubble they’ve found themselves in.

Alastor hums. They’re standing far, far too close for anything proper. But he supposes there has never been anything proper about this whole arrangement.

“Do try not to poke an eye out with one of your horns, would you? While I’m sure it’d look lovely, I’m afraid I’m quite fond of mine staying in my skull,” he teases, beginning to move them in a slow circle. Their feet kick up and smear the ashes where the demon was disintegrated.  A blaze of satisfaction roars through him at literally dancing with the devil on what amounts to someone’s grave—someone who had every intention to hurt him and died a horrible death for it. Why, it’s enough to make him swoon.

“Don’t be gross,” Lucifer scolds but the sharpness in his tone is dulled by the genuine smile on his face. He brings his wings back closer to his body, but doesn’t dismiss them to wherever they were hidden before. Alastor can’t help but admire it all, the horns and tail of demonic visage fill his vision, the flutter of wings on his peripheral, making soft fluttering noises every time they turn. A beautiful dichotomy of hellish and angelic wrapped up in a body far too small compared to the great presence filling the room. 

“You like it,” Alastor says boldly, the blood alight in his veins making him throw caution to the wind. 

“I do.”

The low hum of arousal they’ve both shared since before their dance is making itself more obvious as they continue to make tracks around the small back room. Neither one of them have flagged in their interest, but it grows now as Lucifer tugs him a little closer and begins to place soft kisses on the underside of Alastor’s jaw. The click of his hooves falters a little in rhythm as he pushes himself up to manage it. The younger man leans forward to accommodate the angel, a breathy sigh leaving him at each one. He feels the smooth slide of Lucifer’s horns against his ear, the heat of them making shivers run down his spine. 

Alastor glides one hand up from its position on Lucifer’s back, careful to move around the wings and coming to thread through his hair and hold him closer to his neck, encouraging the hint of sharp teeth along the sharp jut of his jawbone. Alastor closes his eyes with a hum, having to focus on moving his feet in rhythm to the of the song filling the room, losing himself in the heavy feeling in the air and intoxicating scent filling his lungs from standing so close.

“Alastor,” Lucifer whispers into his skin.

He hums in answer, his opposite hand exploring the other’s spine and rubbing small circles around the curious area where the wings seem to phase through the shirt fabric and into the flesh. 

“Do you want this?” The angel punctuates the question with a brush of knuckles down the front of his slacks, over the strained fabric where his cock lies beneath.

Alastor shudders, pressing small kisses to the red horns. “Yes, Lucifer. I want everything,” he replies breathlessly. He flicks out the tip of his tongue, gliding up the length of one. 

The angel unravels his tail from Alastor’s leg, pushing him backwards abruptly. He is unable to help the little yelp of alarm he lets out as he falls backward, his breath punched out of his lungs when he falls not onto the hardwood floor of the back room, but onto a soft, flat surface instead.

Before he can express his displeasure at the sudden displacement, Lucifer follows him quickly, leaving behind a red, glittering mist that dissipates quickly as he crawls into his lap and seals their lips together once more. Alastor moans, hands fluttering at his sides for several long moments before finally settling on Lucifer’s waist and leg.

Alastor rests his head against the bed while he is kissed, letting the other rob him of his sense. His mind starts to cloud again, making the movements of his own tongue slow and clumsy as he tries to keep up with Lucifer's overwhelming ones. That long, forked tongue is slick and assured, licking inside of his mouth unceasingly. It wraps around his own, sucking and squeezing and Alastor can’t help but buck his hips upward. He thinks about how that pretty pink mouth might look wrapped around his cock, how it would feel for that fork to lap at his slit as it beads and leaks precome, not wasting a drop. 

Lucifer chuckles, the warm, deep sound vibrating inside their mouths and making Alastor whimper at the sensation. The angel pulls back and sits up, leaving Alastor sprawled out onto the bed beneath him, panting and hitching his hips slightly every few seconds. 

“Quite the magic trick,” he whispers, cracking one eye open to peer up at the other. 

Lucifer is a vision where he is perched on Alastor’s lap. All smoldering eyes and mile-wide smirk, those sharp teeth on display that Alastor desperately wants to feel against his neck again. He looks self-satisfied and smug—confident. He looks like the cat that got the cream and the canary both and Alastor is helpless but to want to offer even more. He might not have the experience to draw from, but with the look on Lucifer’s face, he already knows that. 

“You bet. Wanna see another one?” Lucifer purrs, rocking his hips forward suddenly and rutting his own clothed cock against the tent in Alastor’s slacks. 

The sight is obscene. Filthy. Alastor gasps at the sight and feel both, following the action with a buck of his own hips. He nods, biting down hard on his lower lip, using the slight pain to try and ground himself through the new, dizzying sensations. 

It’s laughable that he even tried.

He sees Lucifer lift one hand, snapping his fingers with a tiny spark of golden light. In an instant, their clothes are completely removed save for his glasses, leaving their cocks pressed tight together, hot and hard and wet. The sudden coldness on his chest from the air of the bedroom is a direct contrast to the overwhelming heat radiating from the angel on his lap. He squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his eyes back and snapping his teeth together at the sudden press of skin on skin, more than he’s ever had or desired in his life. It’s so much and not enough, he wants to feel the soft, velvet fur of Lucifer’s legs where they form into small, delicate hooves sliding against his own very human feet, wanting more of that skin, more pressure on his cock.

Lucifer sighs and Alastor fights to open his eyes when he feels Lucifer use one hand to press the length of both their cocks up to press against his plush stomach. He strokes over them softly, fingers rubbing where his cockhead presses high on his belly. “Oh, yes,” the angel says, clearly to himself, “this is perfect.” 

A metallic tang fills his mouth, and he realizes he has bitten through his lip.

Lucifer coos, leaning back down to press his full body against Alastor’s, either hearing his prayer or reading it on his face, it doesn’t matter. The skin of their torsos touch, cocks sliding together with the adjustment, pinned between their stomachs. Lucifer’s tongue slips into his mouth when it drops open on another gasp, licking delicately where he has bitten through some of his lip. 

He feels it knitting back together in real time, the sensation far more intense in his mouth than it had been on his arms. That, on top of everything else, finally clicks into place; the weight of the whole situation finally hits him. 

He remembers, unbidden, the early mornings when his mother dragged him to church all those years ago. The sermons on hellfire and sin and ruination that befalls a soul when they succumb to temptation. He remembers how fiercely his mother believed, how devoted she was to God and His teachings. 

He wonders if she would forgive him for this. 

The devil that he never believed in is here: real and in his lap. Naked, flushed golden and beautiful, healing his wounded lip with his snake-like tongue. The devil is moaning into his mouth while they rut against each other like beasts, Alastor’s fingers digging so deep into the plush skin of Lucifer’s thighs that there would certainly be bruises on any mortal body. 

But this is no mortal body.

Alastor feels that warm, thin tail tickle his middle, the thick spade at the end trailing teasingly up and down the side of his torso. His hands pull Lucifer forward, wanting fiercely to smell the sweet, honeyed arousal where it’s strongest, wrap his lips around it as best he can and taste. 

Lucifer goes easily, taking away his tongue with a final suck of his lip, walking his knees up on either side. The absence of heat on his cock is disappointing, but the coolness of the air prickles a wetness on his skin between his thighs that was not there before. Alastor feels it again on his chest where Lucifer sits briefly before moving again.

Alastor grabs at Lucifer’s hips, keeping him in place just shy of his collar bone. The fallen angel rocks his hips back and forth on his chest, spreading that wetness even more thoroughly onto him. Alastor makes a confused sound in the back of his throat, a hand sliding forward to run his thumb down the length of Lucifer’s cock, ignoring the tiny breathy sound he makes for the moment. He reaches the base and pushes it up into the flesh of the other’s stomach, using his other hand to tilt his hips forward. 

Oh.

His breath catches in his chest, spying pink, glossy lips where his testicles should be. It’s wet and hot on his skin; this close, the rich smell of his slick flooding his nostrils and coating his open mouth makes his hips buck instinctively. His cock throbs, twitching at the mere thought of getting his mouth on the other man. 

Alastor looks up, the hand holding up Lucifer’s cock circles around it and gives it one smooth stroke. He relishes in the way it jumps in his hand, the way Lucifer’s eyes fall to half-mast and his sharp teeth worry at his own bottom lip. He tries to use the hand on Lucifer’s hip to urge him forward, but the angel stays resolutely still, sitting on his chest.

“Something you want, Alastor?” Lucifer asks, running his fingers through the soft curls falling over the other’s brow. His hips keep rocking with each slow pull of Alastor’s hand. His tail swings back, wrapping the smooth, leathery appendage around the base of his cock.

Alastor bites off a whimper and chews on the inside of his cheek. He was able to stop his movements with just a touch; he wonders if it’s enough to look up and tug more insistently on his hip, encouraging him to move just a little more.

When he does just that, Lucifer chuckles and his eyes flash totally red, swallowing the yellow pupil that adorned them. “Oh, come now. Surely you like me enough to ask for what you want? You can do better than that,” he purrs. 

Alastor suppresses a grumble in his throat, squeezing a little tighter on Lucifer’s cock. “I liked you better when you weren’t making me beg,” he hisses, looking away.

“Oh Alastor.” Lucifer’s voice is low and sweet, his fingers carding through dark curls doubly so. “You know that’s not true,” he coos, staying still and waiting patiently.

Damn him, Alastor thinks to himself. And damn his own traitorous cock for twitching so obviously against Lucifer’s tail at the words. He hears Lucifer’s delighted little chime of laughter and nearly whines when he feels the flex of his cunt against his chest. 

The sermons Alastor was raised on taught that the devil would beckon you forward into his clutches: a slow seduction and fall into sin. There was no mention that he may demand a request for acceptance before welcoming you into his waiting arms.

Alastor hisses under his breath. He is already damned from sins he committed far, far preceding this entanglement. He may as well make them count.

“Please, Lucifer,” he asks breathlessly. “Please let me taste you.” 

His eyes water in humiliation and a sharp, desperate need he has only ever read about or heard in private murmurings of in dimly lit clubs. But his hardness throbs in warning, worse when the fallen angel grips his hair tightly, manipulating his face up to the angle of his choosing. 

“How special you are,” Lucifer tells him, a puff of smoke and flame bursting from his mouth as he shuffles forward on his knees again. “To have your own personal Garden of Eden—right here between my legs. Go on, then. Your apple is waiting.” 

Alastor can’t find it in himself to rebuke it—unable to deny the implication. Ignorance was bliss in Eden, but he has no care for ignorance, no care for innocence lost. Ever since he was a young boy holding his father’s old hunting knife in two steady hands, slick with blood and death, he knew. He knew that, were his maman’s stories true, that he would not be meeting her in Heaven above. 

He was always destined for the devil, he thinks deliriously, feeling warm thighs cradling his head and shoulders. And if the only untarnished part of himself is his inexperience, his virginity, then it’s only right for the devil to take what is rightfully his in the first place.

Lucifer lowers his cunt to Alastor’s mouth, the younger man’s tongue immediately seeking to lap between the soft, pink folds like a man starved. The first taste of Lucifer’s sex in his mouth has him crying out. His cock jerks hard but is halted by the quick squeeze around the base from the devil’s tail. He whines, thrusting his hips up impotently to chase the release he was so swiftly denied. 

“Shh, Al,” Lucifer breathes, cinching his tail more securely even as he pets the leaking cockhead with the spade at the end. “Easy, boy. I don’t want you coming just yet.”

Alastor doesn’t either, he finds, not really. Not when his mind is clouded by desperate need to fill his cup with Lucifer’s slick and drink it down like wine. Not when he isn’t buried inside to the hilt of this heat surrounding his tongue as he pushes it past the tight entrance to get to the source.

 The hand on the other’s hip moves, wrapping around his thigh instead, pulling him down and rutting his cunt into his tongue. Alastor’s hand on Lucifer’s cock begins moving a little faster. He tightens his grip into a circle, encouraging Lucifer to fuck up into his hand and then back down onto his face. He alternates between licking, long and slow from entrance to the swollen little bud right beneath the start of his cock, wrapping his lips around the clit and flicking it with the tip of his tongue, massaging it with his lips as if he were kissing it. 

He barely hears Lucifer’s bright laughter and shaky whines, his head is filled with his own sloppy, wet noises and desperate little moans as he laps up the slick flooding down his chin and neck. 

When he opens his eyes to glance up at his new lover, he finds that his vision is obscured. He blinks a few times and witnesses a thick drop of precome fall from Lucifer’s cockhead and onto his glasses on his next upstroke. He lets go briefly to shove his glasses up into his hair, wanting to feel it drip onto his face instead. Alastor moves his wrist faster, pressing his tongue against the little swollen bud that makes Lucifer’s thighs quake around his head. 

His eyes close and roll back in his head at the first feeling of those fat, hot drops falling on the skin under his eye and on his cheek. He thinks about how filthy it is, how degrading, to want such a thing on his skin. But he doesn’t just want it there. Alastor finds he wants to rub his face along the length of the cock he is jerking, he wants to cover himself in Lucifer’s scent so thoroughly it is indecent and outrageous. The nectar of Lucifer’s cunt is already doing some of that; he feels the fluid on his chin and neck, down the sides of his face and likely collecting in his hair. 

Lucifer lifts his hips off Alastor’s face easily despite the iron-clad hold he has on that alabaster thigh. Alastor makes a distressed, animal sound he has never made before, moving his head up and extending his neck as far as he is able to continue to chase the taste of Lucifer’s cunt. But Lucifer is firm in pulling away, untangling himself from both of Alastor’s grasping hands as he shuffles backwards, leaning down to lap his own precome off Alastor’s face with small kitten-licks. The forks on it move independently of each other, collecting the drops in small little scoops until his face is clean. He makes his way down and dips his tongue into Alastor’s mouth, sharing the salty taste between them. 

The younger man surges forward, licking at the other’s tongue and sucking it into his own mouth to take the taste all for himself. He feels more than hears Lucifer’s pleased laughter, the vibrations causing a new element that drives him forward to fuck his tongue forward for more. Lucifer shuffles his hips downward a bit more, using his tail to adjust Alastor’s cock where he wants it. He takes the opportunity of Alastor’s gasp to pull away and take his damned tongue with him. He nudges Alastor’s glasses back down onto the bridge of his nose and snaps to make them perfectly clean again. 

“There you are,” Lucifer purrs, pressing small kisses to his nose, each cheek, further, down to press one more to the tip of his tongue just peeking out from the curtain of his lips before sitting up properly. 

Alastor attempts something resembling speech, but it fails spectacularly when Lucifer angles his hips just so, letting Alastor see his own fat cockhead sliding between the folds of that angelic cunt, rubbing over the dripping-wet entrance but never quite sinking in, moving his hips down until their cocks press together before repeating the slow, sinful movement all over again. Alastor drops his head back to the bed after the second pass, tangling his fingers in his hair and tugging hard. 

“Oh f—uck,” he whines, fingers moving under his glasses to cover his eyes against the sight. He feels his cock twitch and the immediate follow-up of the tail squeezing around the base again makes tears prickle in his eyes.

“Is it too much?” Lucifer asks pleasantly.

Alastor nods, finding the strength to remove his hands from his face to put them shakily on Lucifer’s hips. His knuckles brush the edge of the wings that are folded close to Lucifer’s back as his hands clench and unclench at the soft skin there. 

“We can stop anytime,” Lucifer tells him, running his hands over Alastor’s chest. His dark claws drag over his skin, just barely skimming the nipple to pull a choked gasp out from the other.

“If we stop,” Alastor says after a long moment, filtering his words through the jumble of static in his head, “I may go mad.” 

Lucifer laughs, low and delighted. He leans back until he is upright. “Again?” 

Alastor opens his mouth to retort but a high-pitched keening sound is ripped from his chest instead as Lucifer’s hot, so hot, cunt begins to take him in. It’s a tight fit, even with how relaxed and open he is from Alastor’s tongue. Lucifer’s hips rock down, down, until Alastor’s cock is fully nestled inside save for the thin ring around the base still being constricted by that thin, black tail that once again prevents him from falling over that edge. 

“Ohh, that’s it,” Lucifer breathes, moving his hips in tight circles as he acclimates to Alastor’s size. “Fuck, that’s a lot.” 

Alastor’s fingernails are digging in deep to Lucifer’s skin, making harsh little crescents, pulling him down flush and grinding his hips up as best as he can from where he is pinned. “Lu—ci,” he grinds out, closing his eyes tight for a moment and feeling himself pulse and throb, another orgasm prevented at Lucifer’s behest. 

“I know, I know. I was close, too,” Lucifer says breathily, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking it quickly. “You were pretty good with your mouth, but,” he pauses to rise up on his knees until just the crown remained just inside his entrance, “I wanted to come on your cock.” He drops his hips down hard, leaning back with one hand on Alastor’s thigh while the other works himself over. 

Lucifer begins a punishing rhythm of fucking himself on Alastor’s cock, using his legs to keep Alastor in place even as his feet slide along the soft bedding, squirming at the feeling of velutinous feathers brushing his bare legs with every enthusiastic bounce. 

“Pl—ease, Luci, I—I need,” he starts, but a firm squeeze of the tail on his shaft silences him with a cry.

“Hush now,” Lucifer demands on a gasp, a small puff of flame escaping his mouth. “I know what you need, Alastor, and you are going to give it to me.” 

Alastor thinks dizzily that there might not be much left to give if this keeps up for much longer. His mind feels fuzzy, his cock aches and jerks every time he sinks fully inside and the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin echoing in the room at an incredible pace makes his head spin. He only knows that he wants the same thing he’s wanted since he first got snuck up on in the bookshop downstairs all those months ago: more and more and more of Lucifer. He finds the strength to move his hand shakily, sliding it from Lucifer’s hip to his cock, swapping their grips so that Alastor is the one stroking him to completion. 

“Ah, yes, yes,” Lucifer babbles, fucking up into the tight ring of Alastor’s fist and then back down to be filled by his thick cock. “Wanna come, huh? I want it, too.” 

Lucifer moves even faster, dropping down harder and Alastor can feel his cunt squeezing rhythmically on his cock with each downstroke. He redoubles his efforts, taking a deep breath before forcing himself to sit up, suddenly needing desperately to feel that forked tongue again. 

Their mouths meet, sloppy and uneven, barely a kiss at all and more of a wet slide of lip and tongue and teeth with how furious Lucifer is bouncing to chase his own orgasm. He feels a sting on his top lip when it gets caught on one of Lucifer’s piranha-like teeth. That makes twice now, Alastor thinks through the fog in his head, and with no reciprocation. Lucifer licks and prods at his cut with his tongue, fork on either side as he encourages more of Alastor’s blood. Alastor lets him for a few more moments before bringing his own teeth down hard on Lucifer’s bottom lip, sinking in and feeling the strange, sweet blood fill his mouth.

Lucifer gasps into his mouth, cunt constricting hard around his cock while the prick he is stroking pulses and empties between their stomachs. When Lucifer's tail loosens its grip on him, Alastor is helpless but to finally empty himself inside on a pathetic, whimpering sob. He buries his head in Lucifer’s neck, shaking and gasping each time his cock is massaged by the rolling waves of the other’s orgasm, milking his own thoroughly with each pulse.

Alastor falls backwards into the pillows, bringing Lucifer with him. He absently licks the strange golden blood from his lip, trying to distract himself and slow his rapid heartbeat. Lucifer's helps ground him, moving his hands to rub up and down on his sides, thumbs rubbing small circles into his skin. Eventually, he finds the energy to move and tilts his hips slightly to pull out, but is quickly halted.

“Stay,” Lucifer says, pressing a small kiss to the jut of his jaw.

It takes longer than he anticipated to feel like he can speak a coherent sentence again. “Shouldn’t we,” Alastor pauses, feeling the angel snuggle down on his chest, retreating his horns into his skull, “clean up, perhaps?”

Lucifer hums, rocking his hips slightly to get settled but steadfastly does not remove Alastor’s cock from his cunt. “No,” he says simply.  He plucks the glasses off his face and moves them to the bedside table. “Sleep, Alastor. The rest can wait.”

Alastor huffs but moves to wrap his shaky arms around Lucifer’s middle. It takes him a moment to find a suitable place for them between the rows of wings. Eventually, after an irritated sound from Lucifer at his indecision, he settles down with his fingers buried in the base of some of the thicker feathers, marveling at how soft and dense they are. Lucifer’s wings shuffle and spread under his hands, spreading out and blanketing them against the chill of the bedroom. He buries his nose in Lucifer’s hair, breathing in deeply and letting his eyes slip closed. 

He feels his heart slow as he relaxes into the devil’s arms, that strange, secure feeling from before burrowing deep in his chest and taking root once more. He had felt safe before, dancing in circles to a tune of Lucifer’s choosing. He’s not sure what he feels, now. Secure and safe, certainly. But, it’s more than that. Alastor hums, feeling the small, sleepy kisses being pressed to his collarbone and neck, the warm breath on his skin evening out as the devil slumbers tucked close to his chest. He wonders if this is what it feels like to belong.

Chapter Text

Alastor inhales deeply, eyelids fluttering as he slowly wakes. He shuffles to move but is halted when he realizes that there is a heavy weight on his chest and the feeling of something tickling his toes. He makes a confused sound, reaching for his glasses and shoving them on quickly before cracking his eyes open to take in the full picture.

Huge blankets of white and red wings are fanned out, originating from the pale, smooth skin of Lucifer’s back in a seamless transition. The fallen angel is still tucked underneath his chin, snoring lightly with his nose pressed tightly to the skin of Alastor’s neck. They’re both naked, he finds, sticky and covered in each of their respective ejaculates. His cock is still nestled deep inside Lucifer’s warmth, half-hard from the morning and the plush walls surrounding him

As Lucifer’s cunt flutters around his cock, Alastor feels suddenly, nonsensically ashamed.

Not for being in this position, cozy and covered from head to toe by God’s most beautiful creation, but for how he got here in the first place. All the steps he skipped.

“I’ve done this all wrong,” Alastor whispers to himself, petting through the impossibly soft hair pressed beneath his chin.

“What’re you sayin’?” Lucifer mumbles the sleep slurred words in a deep, rough voice making Alastor’s cock twitch in interest within him. “Oh, good mornin’ to you too,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the underside of Alastor’s jaw and shifting his hips from side to side slowly, his pert ass showing teasingly as his wings move aside.

The younger man collects himself, pulling his head back enough to make Lucifer look up at him in confusion at why his kisses are being denied. “I said I’ve done this all wrong, angel.” Alastor places a hand on Lucifer’s face, swiping a thumb over the top of his cheekbone just under his eye.

“O—kay?” Lucifer drawls with a confused expression painting his face. “What does that mean?”

Alastor shuffles a little, moving them both onto their sides. The motion makes his cock slip from Lucifer’s wet, hot insides and he lets out a groan at the loss. He leans forward to kiss the pout off the other’s face in apology. “It means I’ve been remiss in treating you how a gentleman should. Let me make it up to you.”

Lucifer’s dark brows pull together above his red and yellow eyes, otherworldly and beautiful. “You want to take me out,” he says slowly, pausing as if waiting for a denial, “like, on a date?”

Alastor picks up one of Lucifer’s sin-burnt hands between them, pressing a series of small kisses on the back of it going down to his wrist. He flips it over in his hands, holding it to his face and presses his lips against the palm. “Yes, indeedy! If you’re amenable, that is?”

Lucifer looks startled, but not disturbed or like he is about to start laughing, which is a good sign.

“You’re asking the literal devil out on a date because you think it’s what a gentleman would do.” Lucifer repeats slowly, as if Alastor wasn’t plenty clear the first time.

The younger man advances, pressing a small kiss to the furrow that has collected between Lucifer’s brows. “I am asking for your company today because I want to,” he says softly, satisfied at having eased the harsh expression on the other’s face. “Of course, I would be remiss if I said that my mother would be appalled at my behavior, yes. Among other things.”

Lucifer laughs for long enough that he presses a dark hand over his face in disbelief. Alastor waits him out, taking in the sound unashamedly.

“Okay,” the angel says on the tail end of a hoarse chuckle. “Sure. Why not?”

Alastor hums. “You’re being rather laissez-faire about the whole thing,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Why, I had a genuine proposal and you laughed! Perhaps my company is better appreciated elsewhere!” He huffs, moving to get up when an arm wraps around his waist and pulls him back down.

“Alright, alright,” Lucifer soothes. “Don’t be so fussy. I’d love to.” He still looks incredibly amused but, to his credit, Alastor isn’t sure he has seen an expression of such obvious fondness before in his life.  Alastor moves closer, unable to resist the sudden urge to put his teeth to Lucifer’s pink cheek and bite down lightly.

Lucifer allows it with grace, pressing a kiss to Alastor’s cheek before snapping his fingers and ridding them both from the evidence of last night’s activities.

He blinks, feeling suddenly like he has just gotten out of the shower with how clean he feels. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, considering the kind of entity he is dealing with here. Waving away some bodily fluid must rank near to the bottom on the list of impressive abilities.

Alastor watches as Lucifer gets out of bed and shakes, fluffing out his wings before bringing them close to his back. There is a brief moment where he is absorbed in a swirling, glittering haze of red before Lucifer is revealed again, sans all of his demonic features. His eyes are blue once more, skin a human, if unusually pale, color, the hooves have been replaced with delicate, human feet, and the wings have completely disappeared.

Something must have shown on his face at the loss because it only takes a moment before Lucifer grabs his hands and pulling him to his feet off the bed with a smile. “Don’t worry, Al. You can see ‘em again later.”

Something in Alastor’s chest settles, the hackles he had unknowingly raised smoothing back out again at the promise that there would be a later. That this wasn’t some kind of cruel joke for the devil to get what he wanted from him and then leave again. Lucifer has been strangely sincere about everything since the beginning, now that he thinks about it. If he wanted Alastor to leave him alone, he would have made it very clear. Instead, he kept enticing him back, over and over again for more, playing his games while also playing Alastor’s.

He supposes that he wouldn’t really know, though. Not until it was too late. Alastor chews on the inside of his cheek, moving to nuzzle his face into the crook of Lucifer’s neck, humming at the feel of fingers carding through his curls and detangling them carefully. He also supposes that it is the same for pretty much everything. Alastor is not a trusting man, not inherently kind nor compassionate. It is hard not to find the humor in those qualities showing for none other than the devil, himself. But, damn it all, he does trust Lucifer. Mark him a fool, perhaps, but the pure, righteous fury on the angel’s face when Alastor was compromised was real. Despite the games and the puzzles and the obfuscation, it was all real.

“C’mon, big guy. You owe me a date,” Lucifer says quietly, scratching Alastor’s scalp with his blunt, human nails.

Alastor pulls back with a parting kiss on Lucifer’s cheek. “I suppose you’re right. It would be terribly unbecoming to leave a lady waiting, hm? Come, now. The boardwalk awaits!”

Lucifer’s smile grows and he turns Alastor around and pushes him away lightly. “Quit bein’ a dick for two seconds and get dressed. Your stuff is over there. You should really leave a tip for the angelic dry-cleaning service; demon ash is Hell to get out of clothes.”

Alastor barks a laugh despite himself, looking over his shoulder to see Lucifer’s cheeks dusted pink and a fond, goofy smile he is trying to smother stubbornly sticking on his face. He hums softly and moves to get ready. Alastor is sure he is making a similar expression if the ache in his cheeks is any indication.

Lucifer, despite his enthusiasm for a date, seemed to take great pleasure in distracting Alastor at every given opportunity when getting ready. He had lost count of how many kisses were pressed between his shoulder blades and to the curve of his jaw. The sound of quiet, mischievous laughter filled his ears when he moved to strap a sock garter into place and found himself sans said sock. Lucifer was touchy and more of a playful, trickster type than Alastor had seen up until now. Something about the previous night, the evolution of it, had bloomed something further between them. Lucifer was always more on the eccentric side of things from the very beginning, but now he acted downright silly.

Alastor found himself thoroughly charmed by the whole thing.

It wasn’t until they came downstairs that they realized that it was already early evening. Alastor suspected that the late nights had finally caught up to them and, combined with the excitement of the previous evening, made them both sleep halfway through the following day. For Alastor, at least. He wasn’t sure if Lucifer just chose to sleep as long as he did or if he also needed to recharge in that way. There was much yet to learn about the intricacies of fallen archangels, but he had plenty of time to puzzle it all out.

The stroll down to the boardwalk was pleasant, but uneventful, a comfortable silence stretched between them that neither felt the desire to break. The evening had curbed the worst of the sun’s more oppressive heat, moving into a more pleasant warmth cut further by the ocean’s breeze. The backs of their hands brushed against each other teasingly, and even the slight whisper of skin against skin somehow made Alastor’s stomach flutter. It all felt so terribly domestic, a word he never would have attributed to himself before, let alone to a relationship with the devil.

And yet, as Lucifer flutters from shop to shop, gushing over tiny dolls and a plethora of different food stalls, Alastor can’t quite find the fault in it. He feels like he should be annoyed, somehow. Exasperated, surely. And yet, all he can muster is a simmering fondness and a tingling on his skin whenever Lucifer brushes against him as he is doing now.

Alastor purses his lips as Lucifer holds up a small rubber duck in his palms, presenting it to the other excitedly. Alastor pets a finger over the top of its smooth head, taking in the inner tube it sits on and the sunglasses perched on its beak. “I prefer yours,” he says simply, taking great pleasure in the spreading red flush across the tops of Lucifer’s cheeks.

After Lucifer had his fill of kitschy gift shops, he insisted on waiting in the, frankly, excessively long line for something as simple as french fries. Alastor would be lying, however, if he didn’t greedily track every new flash of joy and surprise that brightened up Lucifer’s face.

Alastor thought briefly about tempering his lover, if only until he could find a way to keep all that joyous wonder to himself but couldn’t find it in himself to even try. Not when Lucifer pressed his face up to the glass of an ice cream parlor and excitedly blurted out every name that caught his eye on the flavor menu. Alastor knows him as the devil, true, but as he watches Lucifer order a triple scoop of all the most colorful flavors they have on offer, he wonders if what he is seeing is more like the angel before the fall than the devil that came after.

He shakes his head internally. This is the same creature; two sides of the same coin. The otherworldly being in front of him, juggling a cup of fries, ice cream, and a way to scoop it into his mouth is the very same one who danced with him in the wee hours atop a demon’s ashes. Alastor feels his chest grow warm and tight and he hopes, selfishly, that he can continue to cultivate these moments for his own.

“Your reactions are quite curious, my dear. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had never done anything like this before,” Alastor tells him after they’ve made their way down to the shore, finding an unoccupied bench and sitting down, patting the wood beside him lightly in invitation.

“I actually haven’t,” the angel says quietly. He sits beside Alastor closely and sets the half-empty cup of fries to the side of him. He spoons a small bite of the ice cream into his mouth with his off hand and uses the other to throw a leftover fry far into the air ahead of them to watch a particularly aggressive seagull snatch it up before it has a chance to hit the ground.

“Gone on a date? I admit, it is a first for me, too,” he says, watching the birds circle in greater numbers where Lucifer was throwing the fries.

“Huh? Oh, no, no, I’ve been on dates!” Lucifer exclaims with a wave of his hands. “Kind of, anyway. But I meant coming to the boardwalk. I’ve haven’t actually gone outside the shop much this time around,” he elaborates. Lucifer throws the last of the fries one by one out into the shore, seemingly finding great amusement in the way they swoop and dive for a piece of potato.

Alastor looks down to where their thighs are pressed flush together on the bench and feels distinctly exposed. Foolish. He clears his throat around the inadvertent confession. “Ah,” he says intelligently.

Lucifer peers up at him from beneath his eyelashes and he presses impossibly closer, connecting their bodies from ankle to hip. A considering expression forms on his face as he leans into him. “It is my first date on the surface, though. I was skeptical at first. But I’m pretty happy we are spending time outside the shop like this,” he says, sweet and genuine.

Alastor stands up, feeling a sudden need to walk off the energy accumulating in his body. He gestures towards the shore. “Shall we?” Alastor asks, flourishing to the sandy shore with the hand not holding his modest ice cream cup.

Lucifer grins and follows him closely. “I was being serious, you know,” he says, bumping his shoulder to Alastor’s playfully as they walk. “It’s been really nice.” He digs into the pile of ice cream nearly overflowing from his cup, spooning dainty little bites into his mouth.

Alastor swallows hard and runs his tongue along the sharp edge of his canine. He picks at his own much smaller portion but doesn’t take a bite. It is nice. Everything with Lucifer has been nice—nicer than it has any reason to be. Everything seems elevated when the angel is around, a little brighter and sweeter. The gap between him and his peers, his coworkers, those that may call him friends, it weighs on him less. He knows he is separate from them and that, despite his charm and likeability, there has always been a disconnect between himself and others. And, despite his best efforts, there remains a very human desire for connection he has never been able to completely smother.

With Lucifer by his side, he feels… more, somehow. Like the little irritants of day-to-day life just fade into something more manageable and easily ignored.

“I wanted to talk to you about something, actually… I’m, well,” he stutters, pausing to gather his thoughts before continuing. “I’m actually headed back uh… downstairs here in about a year and some change,” Lucifer says in a soft tone. He is peering up at Alastor through thick, golden lashes. It does nothing to soften the blow the words deal when he registers them.

With the admission taking root in his brain, Alastor suddenly feels lesser.

“A year,” Alastor repeats.

They’ve only known each other about that long, by this point. Not even a full year, when one includes the month and some change Lucifer was taking care of business elsewhere. A year where they had danced and fought and laughed together, learning each other’s patterns.

Only a day of knowing Lucifer as the devil, as a lover. And now he must give it up in a year? Is that some kind of joke Lucifer is trying to make? Something said to rile him up just to say, ‘Just kidding!’ with a twinkling little laugh. Or is it true what he says? Has this been a game, after all? Will he run back to his kingdom, laughing about another mortal having slipped and fallen right into his palm. Has Alastor been so foolish? Has he—

He feels something pressing between his brows, startling him back to the present. It’s Lucifer’s thumb rubbing up and down from the bridge of his nose to the center of his forehead, his glasses slipping down until they settle on the tip of his nose. Lucifer’s other hand plucks his ice cream away, placing the cup on the wide, flat railing beside them. He takes Alastor’s newly freed hand in his and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“You get so lost in your own head,” Lucifer mumbles, continuing to smooth out the lines on Alastor’s face. 

The younger man chews the inside of his cheek, turning over the words in his mind. “Did you intend for this to be a goodbye, then?” Alastor asks primly, rapidly trying to reconstruct his walls that Lucifer tore down so effortlessly.

Lucifer shakes his head, fondness and exasperation plain on his face. “Alastor,” he begins, holding their linked hands between their chests. “You were going to kill me for going out of town for a few weeks,” he deadpans, voice flat and unamused.

Alastor swallows but doesn’t look away. When he doesn’t respond immediately, Lucifer raises an impatient eyebrow and he sighs. “Yes, I was,” he admits slowly, tapping his foot to try and expel some of the strange, nervous energy running through him.

“You do routinely kill other people,” Lucifer lists next. “The cannibalism was a surprise, though!” He leans in conspiratorially, whispering, "I like surprises."

“It is only cannibalism if we are equals,” Alastor snaps. “Pray tell, is there a point to this or are you intent on providing a laundry list of my sins?”

Lucifer smiles, pressing small kisses to their joined hands. “Easy, boy. What I’m saying is, are you really expecting to get into Heaven?”

“Of course not,” Alastor hisses venomously, taking in the man in front of him—not a man at all, but the devil, wearing a form-fitting coat of humanity. A wolf, disguised, effortlessly slipping into the flock of sheep who don’t know any better.

He had never thought of himself as a sheep before.

“Exactly. It’s only been a year or so, and we have another year to look forward to, but when we meet again? We can have forever, if you want,” Lucifer says sweetly. There is no mockery in his tone, no deception or falsehood. His eyes are wide and bright underneath the light of the setting sun, full of wonder and earnest anticipation of an afterlife lived together.

Alastor blinks away the sudden burning sensation he feels prickling his eyes, unable to believe it so easily. “If you are humoring me, again,” he starts, ignoring how thick his voice suddenly feels. The words feel like sludge the way they stick in his throat. “I would appreciate it if you did not. I’m already spending my eternity in Hell, that much is clear. I would prefer it if I did not also spend it as a fool.”

“Hey, hey,” Lucifer implores soothingly. His hands flutter, petting over Alastor’s face and shoulders nervously, scrambling to salvage the comfortable bubble he had shattered. “First of all, I am not humoring you,” he says seriously, finally settling his hands on either side of Alastor’s jaw to keep them looking at each other. “So, just get that thought out of your head right now. You’ve… Well, you’ve surprised me. A lot. Repeatedly.” He brings Alastor down, bumping his nose against the other’s and bringing their foreheads together.

Alastor’s hands move to grip the front of Lucifer’s waistcoat, wrinkling the fabric between his shaky fingers.

“And, against my better judgment, I like you. I want to spend time with you. If you get to Hell and decide otherwise, then that’s fine, but at least you know that it is your choice,” Lucifer finishes with a huff. He must be distracted, or Alastor must be seeing things, because the blush kissing the tops of his cheeks looks tinted with gold underneath the far away street lamps and rising light of the moon.

Alastor recognizes it for what it is: an out. A choice, Lucifer had said. The ability to make a decision on whether or not to stay or go after they meet again in the fires of Hell. He, himself, cannot imagine wanting anything less than this, but he can at least appreciate the offer, however misguided.  “Would you not be,” Alastor trails off, moving away just enough to shrug one shoulder delicately, “otherwise engaged? You are the King of Hell, are you not?”

Lucifer guffaws and levels him with an unimpressed stare. “Alastor, I had so little to do down there that I come up here to hunt down possibly haunted artifacts every half century or so as a hobby. Artifacts that, as you very well know, are bullshit nine times out of ten. Hell can run itself for these short stints I’m gone for, but it can get out of control if I go too long without a public appearance.”

Alastor considers that, pursing his lips and rolling the words over in his head. “Is that where you were some time ago? Doing a public appearance, as you say?” He hadn’t actually gotten an answer about that, when he asked before. Having Lucifer wave a dismissive hand and give an unconvincingly vague excuse, clearly not interested in getting into the details of it, had been enough to curve him until now. 

“There is,” Lucifer pauses with a tired look on his face, “a really awful thing that happens every year on the same day. I have to be around before and after it to clean up the mess. It’s pretty non-negotiable.”

How curious, Alastor thinks, that there could be something that even the silver-tongued King of Hell could not talk his way out of. His tone and face tell a story of a very old wound, indeed. It bore more investigation; Alastor is unable to leave a sore spot untouched at the best of times and that statement seemed ripe for poking and prodding.

“Ahh, the truth comes out at last,” Alastor says with a put-upon sigh. “Could it be that the almighty King only wears a paper crown, after all? What a terrible shame. I did think this all was much too good to be true, you know.” He punctuates the words with a nuzzle of his own, biting lightly at the tip of Lucifer’s nose to soften the blow.

The angel blinks, appalled, but the words have the intended effect: turning his attention away from the less-than-pleasant affairs of Hell and back onto him where it belongs. Lucifer’s scoff is loud, but his smile speaks volumes. He pushes Alastor away lightly, moving to grab his ice cream cup off the railing and take a bite. “You’re such an asshole. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, getting involved with you,” he mumbles, sulking.

“You’re the King of Hell, my dear. It may be more prudent to ask what isn’t wrong with you, hm?” Alastor inquires pleasantly, picking up his cup and knocking it against Lucifer’s in a teasing toast.

Lucifer grumbles but doesn’t argue. In retaliation, he knocks his hip lightly against Alastor’s to throw him off balance. Despite the brief, relatively gentle touch, he finds himself stumbling to the side a step or two, catching himself on the railing with his free hand while Lucifer laughs into his ice cream.

Alastor clears his throat and uses his grip to ostensibly lean over the railing like he had meant to do it all along, propping his forearms against it and ensuring that he looks, overall, incredibly unbothered. He is unable to subdue the grin that stretches across his mouth when he feels Lucifer saddle back up to him after a moment, pressing their hips together without otherworldly force pushing him away, this time.

“Do you think there will be fireworks tonight?” Lucifer asks after some time, face tilted towards the darkening sky.

Alastor tries to think of the day and if there might be anything special going on tonight. The boardwalk is lively tonight, so it is not out of the realm of possibility that some will be fired off. “I’m not sure. There might be.”

Lucifer looks up and down the beach and spies no one nearby. He grabs Alastor’s hand and brings him up the shore, away from the water until they reach a little pocket of space just to the side of the raised walkway that would lead them away from the beach. He smiles mischievously up at Alastor, tugging his hand down so that they are sitting side by side. He plucks the bowl from Alastor’s hand, reaching over him to plant it in the sand beside him.

“If there aren’t,” Lucifer says slowly, closing his eyes and clasping his hands together tightly, palm to palm, “then I’ll make my own.”

He throws up his hands and Alastor watches breathlessly as a buzzing, bright spark of golden light pops and jumps up from them, shooting into the sky. His eyes follow the light up, watching as it disappears into the deep purple, twilight sky. There is a faraway boom, rattling his bones thoroughly before it is followed by a flash. The colors explode and sparkle in the sky, red and gold glitter mingling with each other and fading into the darkening world above.

He considers the devil behind him, how much different he is than what he could have ever imagined. Never in a million years would Alastor have guessed that the Lucifer he was raised to fear would be so romantic as to conjure a night sky of fireworks for a mere human.

“You know,” Alastor starts, nudging his nose against Lucifer’s ear, unable to resist one more taunt. “You sounded very sure of yourself earlier. You never even stopped to ask what I wanted.”

The devil turns, a faint smile on his lips and eyes crinkled at the edges. His face illuminates with every new burst of color in the sky, breathtakingly beautiful when bathed in the color of fire. “Alright, Al. What do you say? Want to spend your time in Hell by my side?”

Alastor hums, sticking his finger in the half-melted, too-sweet ice cream cup at his side. He deposits the cold treat on the end of Lucifer’s nose, delighting in the startled expression on his face. “I’ll think about it,” he sing-songs, following the words with a small swipe of his tongue across the tip of the other’s nose to gather some of the sweetness.

Lucifer blinks at him, one eye after the other, staring for a long moment before breaking into a huge grin. “Oh, you’ll think about it, will you? We’ll see how much lip you give me when I do this!” Lucifer moves in a flash, wrapping his arms around Alastor’s waist and tackling him into the coarse, warm sand with a full-bellied laugh.

Alastor yelps as his back collides with the ground suddenly, feeling the coarse grains collect in his shirt collar and the sticky, melting ice cream dirtying his face and hair from Lucifer rubbing his covered nose across Alastor’s cheek in a deliberate nuzzle to smear it across the other’s face.

With the loud, booming of fireworks sound out above and the warm body pinning him to the shore, Alastor finds himself looking forward to the upcoming year. He is anxious and eager to explore this new, exciting thing between them, more so to see how it unfolds and evolves after his death. He isn’t sure what the future will hold, especially after Lucifer descends back into Hell, but he resolves to make the most of their time together while he is topside. Alastor is a greedy, selfish man, increasingly demanding of Lucifer’s time and attention.

The devil was, ironically, kind enough to give him an out, an exit for their relationship if he so chooses; a chance to change his mind at any time. Alastor can think of few things more unlikely than that. That’s alright, though. More than alright.

Lucifer may not realize it yet, but he is very much stuck with him. It would take some time, he is sure, but Alastor could be patient until it finally sinks in.

Chapter Text

Lucifer sighs, dropping his pen down on his desk with a loud clattering sound. He hangs his head between his shoulders, scrubbing his hands over his face harshly. He hears the pen roll across the surface of the desk before falling and colliding with the ground. Lucifer groans, sinking down into his chair to lay his head on the surface of the desk.

Any more paperwork and he was going to combust, he was sure of it. He needed a break. He let his mind wander a bit, humming as the memories of his most recent voyage to Earth return to him. Unbidden, he immediately conjures the image of a radio host, beautiful and witty and his. It was unsurprising to be so quickly brought to the man; Alastor filled his mind at the best of times. It’s only been a year and some change on Earth since he had to leave, but it felt like much longer than that down here in Hell. It was ironic, the opposite should have been true. Time should be passing in an instant for a being like him, not feel like he was wading through a pool of molasses.

He wonders what kind of life Alastor was leading now, if he finally took a liking to his coworkers at the new station or merely tolerates them for social climbing purposes. He wonders what kind of trouble he’s surely gotten up to since Lucifer left. He recalls the cloud of swirling dark that followed Alastor into his bookshop like a  long shadow, painting him with a backdrop of sin that even Lucifer had to force himself to quit staring. He hadn’t lied to Alastor, back on the boardwalk between bites of ice cream. He’d known Alastor would be his from the moment the bell rang above the door. It didn’t make the waiting any easier, though. With how long Lucifer has been around, the lifespan of a single human was little more than a blink of an eye. But this past year alone has felt excruciating; he wasn’t sure how the next fifty would feel.

He scooches back in his chair, forehead remaining on the desk as his eyes peer out at the floor underneath. He spots his pen, half-heartedly dragging it back towards himself with the tip of his boot. Lucifer pushes away from the desk, leaning down to grab the pen before sinking heavily back into his chair. He spins in place, tossing the pen up and catching it easily between his hands. 

There is a knock on his study door and he very quickly scrambles back up to sit in his chair properly, pretending to write something down in case it opens. He is caught so off guard it takes him a moment to register how strange it is—or that they wouldn't open the door at all. The scant staff he keeps on hand usually steer clear of his office when the door is closed and wait for him to answer it. Lucifer furrows his brow, pushing away from his desk and advancing to the door. Another knock sounds just as he’s pulling it open. He glances down at the imp that’s nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Your Majesty. Please pardon the intrusion,” he says quietly.

“No intrusion at all,” Lucifer replies easily, waving a hand to dismiss such a notion. “What’s up, Marvin?” 

“Well,” the imp begins, looking behind him down the hall. He looks back up at Lucifer, worrying his lip between his teeth. “There is a sinner here, sir. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. I know you usually don’t take audiences while you’re working, but—” 

Lucifer laughs a little under his breath. “Hey, hey. It’s alright. You can bring them through. I could use the distraction,” he says kindly. He watches as the imp nods jerkily, making tracks back down the hallway. Lucifer closes the door most of the way, leaving it just barely ajar before heading back inside to clean up some of the papers he let scatter across his workspace. Idly, he wonders what to expect from this unexpected guest. His staff is usually pretty mild and easy-going, matching his pace and energy.  For Marvin to act that way… Lucifer sighs, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, preparing for a truly unruly sinner who thinks they can pull one over on him by intimidating his employees. He really wishes people would get better material.

Lucifer stacks the papers up on his desk, reaching for another leaflet when he freezes, a chill running down his spine. He blinks, slowly, one eye after the other. 

No, Lucifer thinks. He hears the soft sound of displaced air from the door swinging wide, the quiet click of them latching closed behind the guest. Who, if Lucifer is not having some kind of lovesick hallucination, should not be a guest at all.

Not yet.

That kind of hot, pulsating darkness is one he’s only felt once before, a few short years ago. The advancing sound of static is telling. It reminds Lucifer of a radio sat between stations on a low volume, not quite picking up any signal, just relaying a constant hum of fuzzy white noise.

He turns around, looking at the man who has haunted his dreams and waking days alike since they parted only a year ago. 

Only a year ago, Lucifer repeats in his head.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Lucifer says in a dull, monotone voice. 

There’s a beat, two, before the sinner answers.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Lucifer! Why, you are much shorter than I remember!” 

He would be, Lucifer finds. Alastor’s form he manifested with in Hell is tall, at least a full foot taller than he’d been as a human. Lucifer had seen this in glimpses when he was on Earth, but he didn’t know the height difference would be so staggering. Slowly, Lucifer’s eyes drag from Alastor’s pretty, red-toed loafers, up the length of his long, slim legs, around the soft billowing of his coat that flutters around his hips. Between his hands is the filter of a microphone, the orientation and stand are not unlike the cane he uses, and he wonders if this is just another thing they have in common.

Up and up he looks, taking in that close-lipped smile, the same one he sees every time he closes his eyes. The very essence of it, the self-assuredness, the softness at the edges, just for him, are all the same even if some of the colors and shapes are off. He sees it grow teeth and sharpen under his examination and he sees that the mostly-straight, pearly whites have been replaced with neat, even rows of dangerously sharp yellow ones. 

Even farther, Lucifer trails his eyes up, spying soft creases at the edge of each of Alastor’s lids, curling further as if adding to the sweep of his lashes. Crinkled and genuine, and all for him as well. The sweep of his hair is different, very different, but it suits him against all odds of taste or style. The angle is severe and the ears are new, but Lucifer would be lying if he said that he wasn’t just as eager to get his fingers against them. 

Lucifer blinks, shaking himself out of the deep trance of appreciation of Alastor’s new form, feeling a low-grade anger taking the place of his disbelief and longing. He huffs out through his nose, moving forward to take both of Alastor’s coat lapels in his hands, pulling his handsome face down to Lucifer’s level. “You better have one really good reason why you’re here right now, Alastor,” he says with a low growl at the edge of his voice. “Because, if memory serves, it has only been a single fucking year since I left.”

Alastor’s grin grows impossibly wider and irritatingly smug. He coos at Lucifer, dematerializing his microphone so that he can put his hands over the angel’s where they hold onto his coat. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me, darling,” he replies, sounding terribly put-out. 

Lucifer pushes him away, lightly dropping one of his hands to scrub it over his eyes with a loud groan. He ignores the warm thumb rubbing up and down over his knuckles where his other hand is still gripping hard onto the red fabric. “You had your whole life ahead of you, Al. What happened?”

There is a beat of silence and Lucifer looks at him again through a crack in his fingers. 

“I may have,” Alastor pauses, clearly rolling the words over in his mind, “gotten a tad distracted after you had gone. Reckless, even.”

“And?” Lucifer prompts.

Alastor clears his throat politely. He, at least, has the decency to look embarrassed about the whole thing now. His eyes shift from Lucifer’s to the wall, the floor, then back to Lucifer, uncharacteristic in their jerking between targets. “I had an… unplanned excursion. I needed to finish disposing of a body, but I didn’t account for the hunting season having started.” 

Lucifer stares hard at Alastor through the gap between his middle and ring fingers. He glances up from his face to the two tiny antlers just barely visible from the soft fluff of his hair, nestled sweetly between those big, fuzzy ears. Ears that twitch under the weight of his gaze. He brings his eyes back down, moving his hand from his own face to Alastor’s, running his thumb up and down the bridge of his perfect, sloped nose. “You’re telling me," he begins slowly, "that you were mistaken for a deer? And were shot?” He glances up at the adorable features again, noting the irritated flick of one of the ears independent of the other.

God is good, all the time and all the time, God is good, he thinks, trying desperately not to begin laughing at Alastor’s expense. 

Alastor’s eyes narrow and he huffs indignantly, jerking his head away as if he found the pattern of the wallpaper terribly interesting. “As I said. Reckless,” he spits, clearly unwilling to acknowledge how predator became prey nor see the humor in such a twist of irony.

Lucifer drops his shoulders, feeling the fight drain out of him despite himself. He tugs Alastor closer, moving up onto the tips of his toes to hook his chin over the other’s shoulder while he’s so bent over. He untangles his hand from Alastor’s, snaking his arms around the demon’s middle, tugging him close. He feels bony fingers mirror the gesture on his own back, feels Alastor's knuckles strain where he begins to grip desperately at the fabric of Lucifer’s waistcoat. 

“I missed you too, you know,” Lucifer whispers into soft red and black hair, closing his eyes and breathing in deep, coating his lungs with that woodsy, lightning scent he’s missed so dearly. “But you’re still a fucking idiot,” he follows up with an appropriate amount of venom. 

Alastor laughs next to his ear, the soft, husky sound laced with the new static reverb sending shivers down Lucifer’s spine. “Looks like you’re stuck with this fucking idiot, hm? More’s the pity; perhaps you should have chosen better when you still had the chance.”

Lucifer clicks his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulls back a little, bringing his hands around to the front, brushing out the creases his fists made in Alastor’s coat. He hums, taking a moment longer to admire the pretty sight in front of him. “Red always was your color, you know,” he drawls, looking up at Alastor through his lashes. “And, besides,” Lucifer starts, ducking down to move his arms around Alastor’s backside to scoop him up from the floor in one smooth motion.

The demon lets out an indignant bleat, instinctively curling his legs around Lucifer’s middle. The static surrounding him pops and buzzes in tandem with his surprised sound. His hands remain balled up in the fabric of the other’s waistcoat, holding on tightly. “Lucifer, put me down!" Alastor interrupts loudly. "This is absurd!” 

Lucifer grins, walking back towards the plush couch situated in front of a long cold fireplace. He falls forward, delighting in the little grunt Alastor lets out as his back hits the cushions. Lucifer follows him down, causing the demon to let out a second disgruntled sound.

“And, besides,” Lucifer repeats patiently, sliding his hands up from Alastor’s backside down to his legs, then reversing their course to work up to his face, angling him down to look at him properly. “The only absurd thing here is you believing I would have chosen any differently.” Lucifer’s eyes track across his face, watching as the too-wide grin splitting Alastor’s face transforms into a smaller, more genuine smile. The furrow between his brow slowly softens at Lucifer’s words. 

Alastor pulls him forward, moving their mouths together in a slow, sweet kiss. Lucifer melts into the motion, the soft, wet slide of lips and tongue. All too soon, Alastor pulls back. “Me too,” he whispers into the scant space between their faces. “Every single time.”

He tucks Alastor’s head close under his chin, pressing tiny, lippy kisses to each small antler. Antlers he saw sprouting so long ago when he first came into Lucifer’s little storefront on Earth. He knew Alastor was destined for Hell, of course, but the rest was a surprise. Alastor was a surprise. From the moment the bell sounded above Alastor's head in the middle of the night, Lucifer had been intrigued. Everything that came afterward only made him more and more curious. There was something about Alastor that drew him in like a lure, leading him forward in search of more of that strange feeling of belonging. It seemed to have worked both ways, if Alastor's intense, if obsessive, interest and dogged pursual was any indication. 

I don’t know what it was about you then, Lucifer thinks, carding his clawed fingers through soft red hair, only that something in me understood.