Archive of Our Own

The bell above the café rings out with a cheery jingle, cutting through the din of conversation and inoffensive instrumentals playing from the speakers set into the corners of the ceiling.

Lucifer doesn’t take his eyes off the milk he’s stretching as he offers a light, “Welcome in!” It doesn’t take long for the pitcher in his palm to heat up, gently cupping and releasing it with his off hand to gauge its temperature before finally pulling it from the steam wand and purging it once he’s satisfied. “Be with you in just a moment.”

Tapping the pitcher on the counter and swirling it, he takes in the rich, velvety texture before he pours it into the waiting cup. A few confident pours and he finishes the delicate design with a triumphant noise and a flourish. He presents it to the customer waiting at the end of the counter with a huge grin, quickly taking care of the pitcher as they gasp and snap a photo of the little swan he created upon the latte’s surface.

“Alright,” Lucifer says, turning back to the counter to take the next customer’s order, “And what can I get started for yo—”

His smile pulls tight and uncomfortable across his face, surely looking more akin to a grimace than anything resembling the simple joy that was present only moments before.

Not him again…

“Do you typically take this long to acknowledge a customer, or are you just feeling especially inadequate today?” Alastor’s voice is irritatingly soothing, full of an easy confidence that Lucifer would love to say is misplaced—but, frustratingly, he can’t.

The man has been coming here for the better part of three months. Danced in on a breeze from out of town, some sort of up-and-coming audio engineer trying to wiggle his way into the recording booth, from what Lucifer had been able to gather.

Innocent. Innocuous.

It wasn’t something he’d normally have any issue with and, though their first meeting in the café hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, it wasn’t outright hostile, either. There was something off about him that Lucifer couldn’t quite put a finger on—until the bodies started piling up.

Lucifer had the home turf advantage, the upper hand in knowing that, even though he had learned quickly of Alastor’s extracurricular activities, the same was not true of Lucifer. He was established, he wasn’t obvious—dancing into town followed shortly by a trail of bodies wasn’t exactly subtle. All it took to confirm Lucifer’s suspicions were a few late nights before he was able to track him to a secluded cabin in an, admittedly, incredibly well hidden part of the bayou far off the beaten path.

Unfortunately for him, Alastor seemed to be at least moderately practiced in this art. He left no evidence, and the people he killed didn’t seem to have anything in common. The only real calling card was how they were killed and how they were found.

The victims were always killed with some sort of generically-shaped hunting knife; the bodies would always be ravaged by bloat from the waterways they’d resurface in. Most of the time, the local wildlife would have had more than their fill of meat by then, and it didn’t leave much for the police to investigate.

Even more frustratingly, on several occasions, Alastor had been killing Lucifer’s own marks that he’s had his eye on for weeks or months. He hadn’t touched anyone decent, anyone that Lucifer knew to be kind. Alastor had the same distaste for the scum of the world that he did and was clearly skilled in sniffing out the abusers and scum of the world to take them out of the picture permanently.

He’d certainly earned the wide, confident grin, the set of his shoulders, and the air of importance that hung around him.

But it didn’t matter—couldn’t matter.

Lucifer has been here for years, these are his hunting grounds, and like Hell if he isn’t going to do everything he can to keep it that way.

He’d hoped that he could drive Alastor out the old fashioned way. If he could just make this city as unappealing as possible, make his presence known, leave a few bodies here and there to make it clear that this area was spoken for, thank you very much. He’d hoped it may have been enough to keep him away.

There had been a brief gap between Alastor’s kills after Lucifer had one of his own discovered, right in the place Alastor’s bodies were typically found with the same bloat, the damage, the same method of killing. He’d had to keep himself from snickering at how a terribly troubled crease had been present between Alastor’s brows for the next two weeks every time he came into the café.

Even better was when he had stopped showing up at all just a few weeks later.

Lucifer should have known it was too good to be true. It’d been quiet in the café and quiet on the streets; no new bodies surfaced up in the marshes or were discovered in the local boating routes. It had been blissfully uneventful. He’d thought that perhaps his warning had been heeded, that Alastor had packed his bags and moved on to a different place to continue his reign of terror.

He’d celebrated too early, obviously.

“—ave all those piercings made you hard of hearing?” Alastor asks, peering down at Lucifer through two narrowed eyes. “Truly, you didn’t need to give yourself such a disadvantage, you have enough just by being yourself!”

The smooth voice cuts through his thoughts, slamming him back into the present with terrible efficiency. Lucifer swallows hard and does his best to ignore the embarrassed heat that begins to overflow from the tops of his cheeks down to his neck at being caught lost in thought for too long.

“That’s not how that works,” Lucifer replies with a scoff, rocking back and forth on his heels to dispel some of the discomfort. “

“Hm… Perhaps a macchiato to-go today,” he says coolly. He glances down at Lucifer through his lashes. “Think you can handle that?”

Lucifer rolls his eyes, punching in the order on the register before spinning on his heel to begin making the drink, leaving Alastor to finish the transaction. From everything he’s seen about Alastor, he’s a murderer, sure, but not a thief. “I can handle a lot more than you think,” he murmurs, grabbing the portafilter to begin the drink.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucifer watches him squint down at the screen, tapping each button with the slowness and unfamiliarity he’d never anticipate for a man of his age. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not even sure he’s ever seen Alastor with a cellphone before. How could somebody be tech-illiterate and yet be breaking into the broadcasting industry? Different strokes, he supposes.

Shaking his head to dismiss the thoughts, he steams the milk until it takes on an almost buttery aroma, kissing the edges of scalding. Then just a little longer before pulling it from the wand, wiping it down and purging it quickly as he taps the milk pitcher on the counter with his other hand.

Lucifer pours just a dollop of the milk into the espresso, the foam not quite holding together thanks to how overheated it is. He’d have to use the rest to make a drink for himself, but a subpar latte is better than wasting it.

“Macchiato for Arizona,” he calls far too loudly for how close the other man is standing to the serving counter—not to mention that he’s the only one there at the moment. Carefully sliding the almost too full mug towards him

Alastor’s smile is sharp and dangerous, tugging at his eyes until they’re glaring at him through razor-thin slits. “I believe I asked for this to-go today,” he tells Lucifer in a low, rumbling voice.

“So you did,” Lucifer chirps happily, pulling the mug back towards him to set it on the prep counter. Twirling around, he snags one of the takeout cups, pulling the pen out of his apron to scribble a quick, “Have a day!” He completes it with a little smiley-face before grabbing the macchiato and upending it into the cup, slapping a lid on it and returning it to the counter. “So sorry about that, Anthony.”

The other man’s face is pinched, and Lucifer is unable to ignore the adorable little scrunch of his nose at the names as he takes the cup off the counter. The gesture is emphasized even further when Alastor lifts the small opening of the lid to his nose and swirls the cup gently, wafting the aroma upward. “This milk is overheated,” he says with a dangerous smile.

He has to look away, shaking his head to dispel the errant thought as he slips back into trying to get a rise out of Alastor, fitting like a second skin. “Mm, I’m pretty sure I made sure to make it just the way you like it,” Lucifer replies innocently as he sets out to make his own drink where he would, unfortunately, have to drink the milk that he definitely overheated.

“I think that you are, without a doubt, the most intolerable man I’ve ever had the displeasure of interacting with,” he says in a low, irritated tone that matches the hard set of his eyes. The leather of his gloves squeaks as he squeezes hard around the cup, surely in danger of popping the lid straight off with the pressure.

“Aww, you think about me?” Lucifer asks with a sickly-sweet tone, setting down his portafilter to lean forward to put his elbows on the counter, he dips down to frame his face with his hands. Looking up at Alastor, he exaggerates each bat of his eyelashes, only hamming it up more as Alastor’s lip begins to curl down from its signature smile.

“Only in regard to how much disdain I have for you,” he deadpans. Alastor takes a slow sip of his drink, Lucifer spying how his lower eyelid twitches as he swallows.

Lucifer shrugs dramatically as he stands back up straight. “You know what they say,” he sing-songs as he twirls in place to grab the portafilter again to bring it over to the grinder, “hate is closer to love than you think, right?”

There is an incredulous choking sound followed by a series of muffled coughs. It takes everything in Lucifer to keep the laughter from bursting out of his chest, biting down hard on his lower lip as he sets the shots to pull, moving to grab the steamed milk as they do.

It seems Lucifer wins today’s little spat—Alastor doesn’t say another word, just makes his way back towards the entrance where he pauses to peer up at the sky through the glass.

The bell above the door jingles once more as Alastor takes his leave just as Lucifer finishes up his drink. He sighs as he takes the first small sip, suppressing a grimace at the buttery flavor, though his eyes don’t leave the tall man as he fidgets with the umbrella on the outside of the café. Rain is just beginning to fall from the sky as Alastor pops it open above him, resituating his coffee cup in the opposite hand as he makes his way further downtown.

Lucifer’s nails tap in a rhythmic roll on the side of his cup as he considers his next steps. As entertaining as menacing Alastor was, he needed to do something more… permanent. The bodies Lucifer left to deter him didn’t do anything, the atrocious customer service he’s always providing seems to do nothing except incite Alastor to come back more.

It can’t continue to go on. Maybe it was time for a little hands-on intervention to finally drive the point home.

Thankfully, his chance comes sooner than he anticipated.

With the café closed for the next few days in order to give maintenance time to fix an ultimately inconsequential pipe in the backroom he certainly didn’t burst, it gives Lucifer the perfect opportunity to catch Alastor unawares.

Perhaps Alastor will finally understand the situation once he’s faced with the business end of his blade—they’re in Lucifer’s city and he won’t tolerate another killer roaming the streets unchecked.

He only wishes that the trek out to, apparently, the middle of fucking nowhere wasn’t so damn exhausting. Trailing Alastor from some small, local news station out to the outskirts of town was easy enough. It was when the bastard started walking down a winding, unlit backroad that Lucifer began to struggle.

He doesn’t know this area, and his small pocket flashlight would give him away too quickly if it catches on an errant puddle of murky water. It’s incredibly slow, but Lucifer eventually manages to spy the quaint little cabin hidden away behind the brush and low-hanging shade trees.

If he has to bite down on his tongue hard enough to taste the metal of his own blood in order not to exclaim in relief… Well… That’s simply none of his business.

The salt in the wound, however, is when he has to bite right back down on it to prevent a gasp of indignation. The second he peers through his binoculars through a slat in the window, Lucifer sees someone he had been planning to kill strapped to a shiny metal table and wiggling in place as Alastor collects things from around the room.

The man is large, much taller than Lucifer and potentially even having an inch or two over Alastor, himself. His physique is well-built, it’s that of someone who takes care of his body but doesn’t spend six hours a day minimum pumping iron.

It’s part of the reason Lucifer hadn’t been able to kill him outright, despite having his eye on the man for the better part of a year. He’s far too large for Lucifer to overpower if it came down to it, and he is sure the same could be said of Alastor, as well.

It’s irritating, just how begrudgingly impressed he is that Alastor managed to not only subdue the man, but transport him all the way out here.

Still, Lucifer has to bite back a swear as he is forced to completely table his plans. With Alastor in the middle of the act of murder, it’s too dangerous, he’d be too alert for Lucifer to do—let alone get away with—anything.

Lucifer has the advantage of being small and discreet, but he isn’t on his home turf, he’s on Alastor’s, and one wrong move would have him finding out first hand what the inside of an alligator’s mouth feels like.

Even with his intention to, more or less, threaten Alastor out of his territory once and for all is totally tabled, Lucifer’s feet don’t move from their spot. His eyes don’t leave Alastor’s hands.

He watches him work as long as he dares, which is surely longer than he ought. Each step of the kill Alastor executes is so similar but also so different to his own. It’s not until Alastor’s razor sharp knife cuts into a seemingly nonsensical part of the victim’s body that Lucifer’s brow furrows in confusion.

Alastor slowly cuts away parts of the hip and the stomach, carving out around the spine and—

Is…

Is Alastor carving out the tenderloin?

Lucifer resists the urge to rub at his eyes with his gloved hands, forcing himself to blink to try and dislodge the vision in front of him that surely cannot be.

But it stays. Alastor’s careful blade slowly carves out that delicate hip flexor, eventually succeeding in severing it from the body completely with a bright grin of satisfaction glowing on his face as he carefully puts it on ice in the cooler.

The butchering is rather routine, after that brief detour. By the time Alastor is preparing the now-dismembered body parts for, presumably, proper disposal, Lucifer realizes he’s taken far too much time here than he should have, trying his best to be quiet as he slowly works himself away from the cabin without making too much noise.

As he retreats, Lucifer racks his brain to try and remember the map directions back to the main road with no phone to prevent any potential signal implicating him and no accurate physical map of this overgrown dirt road he could find to consult.

Extremely convenient for Alastor, surely.

Extreme pain in the ass for Lucifer, definitely.

Annoying as it is, it gives him more than ample time to think and Lucifer’s careful trek back to anything resembling civilization is mainly spent going over what he witnessed tonight.

His mind wanders back to the small, utilitarian cooler box Alastor had with him that he now knows is full of future human filet mignon. To be honest, cannibal wasn’t really on his bingo card, but Lucifer would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t even a little intrigued. There’s much more to him than meets the eye.

Lucifer is a curious creature; it’s simultaneously one of his best and one of his worst qualities.

Right now, he’s more than just a little curious.

He knows he may very well be kicking the can down the road. Delaying the inevitable the longer he allows Alastor to stick around the area he’s called home for years won’t bring him anything but grief as the man spends more and more time here getting settled.

But by the time Lucifer finally spots a landmark he recalls from his trek up behind Alastor, he’s ultimately made peace with a few more of his targets potentially being killed before he can get to them. Maybe he’d get to a few before Alastor could. A little push and pull to keep them occupied and entertained.

Truthfully, it seemed a small price to pay to keep playing with who is very well the most interesting thing Lucifer’s found in this town in years.

He’d just have to not get too caught up in it.

“You gonna order something or are you going to keep holding up the line?” Lucifer asks, cocking out his hip to lean it on the counter. He crosses his arms and taps the pen between his fingers against the skin of his upper arm impatiently.

He glances behind himself, clearly seeing that there is not a single other person waiting to order other than him before turning back to Lucifer with an extremely amused arched brow. “Oh,” he begins with a put-upon sigh, “I’m afraid I’m simply perusing to see if there is anything on this menu that you would be able to make correctly.”

Alastor purses his lips, running a hand through his wind-mused curls to shake his head despairingly. “Unfortunately for me, I don’t think there is a single option on this menu that you couldn’t burn if you set your mind to it. Try as I might to find one, of course.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes into his head so severely he feels a strain on them, leveling Alastor with an amused smirk. “Aw, I’m so sorry to hear that! Y’know, I have actually never had a complaint before about my drinks!” He puts up both his hands, palms to the sky as he shakes his head helplessly. “I’m good, don’t get me wrong, but I can’t fix broken tastebuds.”

“As a matter of fact—” Alastor begins as he leans a hand onto the counter, but is immediately cut off when a commotion breaks out by the entrance, pulling their attention away from each other.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry,” a young woman by the door says, continuing to apologize profusely even as she runs to the counter to get a handful of napkins from the dispenser.

Another woman is standing there, her bottom half almost entirely saturated in coffee—thankfully iced and not hot, judging by the tiny pebbles of ice melting into the floor at her feet—while she waves her hands in an erratic flap. “It’s not a big deal, it was my fault for not looking.”

Lucifer springs into action quickly, blindly grabbing a handful of clean rags from the bin under the espresso machine before quickly making his way over to the customers. “Are you both okay?” Lucifer asks as he uses one rag on the floor, using his foot to gather all the stray ice cubes into one area, trading the other to the frantic woman in exchange for her napkins she was going to try blotting against the other’s clothes.

“I’m fine, seriously,” she replies, but gratefully takes the third rag from Lucifer and begins to pat dry her pants, stepping to the side and out of the way of the spill. “I’m the one who just ran straight into you. Let me buy you a new coffee, I’ll—”

Her foot slips on a small pile of ice, almost sliding her foot right out from under her. “Woah, careful,” the other woman exclaims, dropping her rag to grab at her forearms in order to hold her steady.

The other rag falls from the coffee-stained woman’s hand to the floor with a wet slap, the women both stopping their movements entirely as they both let out a pair of stuttering gasps. They remain utterly frozen where their hands each curl around the other’s forearms for stability, eyes staying trained on where they’re connected.

Slowly, they slowly flick back up to each other’s faces, each sporting a slow dark blush that begins to creep across both of their features.

“Um. Sorry, are you both okay…? What’s—oh,” he cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. His eyes dart between the two of them before bouncing on his heels. “Oh! Would you girls like to sit? I’ll make you both something, totally on the house!” Lucifer exclaims excitedly, hands clasped tight to his chest as he looks between them with huge, gleaming eyes.

His voice seems to break the girls out of their trance. The coffee-stained woman looks down at the drying stains on her clothes for a long moment, chewing on her lip as she debates something, glancing up at the other woman though long lashes before she takes a deep breath and looks back at Lucifer. “I–I’d love that,” she says timidly, glancing at her new-found soulmate, “if that’s okay with you?”

The other woman lights up from within, a huge, blinding grin shining bright on her face as she moves to grab her hand and bring her over to the register where Alastor is quickly stepping out of the way. “Are you kidding?! I’d cancel any plan for this! C’mon, here—I wanna know your order!”

Lucifer is quick to finish cleaning up the rest of the mess, disappearing out of sight briefly from the main floor of the café to grab a mop and a wet floor sign, parking them next to the counter before ducking back behind it to wash his hands and make their order.

“What was all that hullabaloo?” Alastor asks as he takes his place back in front of the register once the girls have taken their drinks, chittering excitedly amongst themselves as they take a two-top in the far corner for some privacy.

Lucifer’s eyebrows raise incredulously, shock coloring his face as he regards the other. His hands freeze mid-air as he rounds the corner to grab at the mop again to finish up the task of properly cleaning the entryway. “Are… Wait, sorry. A–are you serious?”

Alastor’s eyes pull into a harsh scowl as his mouth purses petulantly. He looks away, flapping a hand at Lucifer in what has to be his version of a shrug.

The smaller man’s shoulders drop as one hand comes up to nervously twist one of the studs on his earlobe. He glances back toward the women, now tentatively pressing their fingertips together on the tabletop. “They’re soulmates, Al,” he says quietly, leaning on the handle of the mop.

Alastor rolls his eyes, head moving on his shoulders along with the exaggerated movement. “Oh, dear…” With a hefty sigh, he tilts his head to peer down his nose at the other. “What a racket. Don’t tell me you actually believe in that nonsense!”

Lucifer purses his lips, turning the words over in his head as he mops up the rest of the coffee, placing the ‘Wet Floor’ sign over the top of it just in case. He’s quick to return the mop to the back room and get back behind the bar, a complicated expression on his face. He takes a minute to wash his hands again before shuffling back over to the register where Alastor has been waiting with a petulant expression on his face.

“I ‘unno,” Lucifer finally says with a half-hearted shrug, pulling the permanent marker from his apron and flipping it around his left hand while his right taps an uneven rhythm on the countertop. “I know it’s not really common anymore, but I think it could be nice. Having someone who just gets you, you know?”

His fingers trace nonsense shapes on the countertop as he thinks. Lucifer wishes he weren’t a romantic, in times like these. He wishes he could dismiss the concept of soulmates as easily as Alastor is.

But, he can’t.

Lucifer’s eyes sneak a glance over at the women in the corner, a sad, hopeless smile tugging at his lips. He’s known for a long time that there would be no way he has a soulmate out there—not with his hobbies of choice. But, damn if he doesn’t crave it.

“I think it’d be nice, actually… And I’ve heard that there are a good number of soulmates that don’t end up together—y’know, romantically?” Lucifer shrugs a shoulder half-heartedly.

He doesn’t think he’d be able to have someone like that and not want to be with them in more than just the friendly sense, but he knows not everyone is as predisposed to matters of the heart as he can be. Not that he knows, exactly, how it works in practice—he’s never gotten that far with anyone. Lucifer doesn’t know if he could handle the idea of someone loving him but not every part of him. What would be the point? But, damn if his guilty pleasure doesn’t lie in bodice rippers and mass market paperbacks where fates converge into a happy ending.

It’s terribly easy to long for something one’ll never have.

“It doesn’t automatically mean you’ll date or marry or whatever,” he continues quietly. “Just, I don’t know… Having that compatibility with someone sounds like something really special to me.”

The air between them is quiet, and when Lucifer’s eyes finally rise from the countertop, he finds the other man’s face is cold and shuttered. The only thing not utterly blank is the slight curl of revulsion pulling at his upper lip that has the shorter man almost reeling backward at the sight.

When Alastor’s head slowly rolls to meet his eyes to Lucifer’s, he’s struck by the hard-set of them. His hands have moved from the typical clasping behind his back to crossed over his chest, gripping his own upper arms so tight the leather squeaks under the pressure.

“How precious,” Alastor spits, leaning over the countertop until he’s glowering down at the other. “Do pumpkins turn into carriages in that empty head of yours, too?”

Lucifer takes a halting step backward as Alastor’s hands slap down onto the counter as he moves further. For a moment, he worries that Alastor is going to attempt to vault it completely to keep crowding him.

“A little advice, hm? Soulmates,” he continues, practically snarling around the word, “are nothing more than an echo of an antiquated evolutionary adaptation. Did you know that it’s been recorded that someone can have multiple soulmates at a time? What would that be if not the human body attempting to promote bonding with others? More likely to survive with a herd, less likely to kill each other off if they have some sort of skin in the game, isn’t that right?”

Alastor tilts his head, a wide, unnerving smile that doesn’t reach his eyes stretching across his face. His fingers curl onto the countertop with enough force to crumple the laminated menu a few of his fingers overlap.

“Being soulmates doesn’t mean anything and it will never mean anything. All it does is keep people in a place of misery,” he continues, smile dropping until it’s completely vanished, his expression draining until he looks so much older than he ought. “And all because it’s what they think they’re supposed to do.”

Shoulders heaving with heavy breaths, Alastor stares at him for several long moments before scoffing and pushing himself up and away from the counter. He turns on his heel in a single, crisp motion, throwing open the café door and marching back out onto the street without another word.

Lucifer gasps as the jingles echoes with the weight of Alastor's departure, lungs suddenly burning at having held his breath without meaning to.

What… just happened?

The pounding in his chest echoes the rush of blood in his ears, pulsing at the edges of his vision as he comes back to himself with a start.

Lucifer looks around, but thankfully it seems that their… disagreement went unnoticed by the few souls that haunt the café at the current hour.

That, or they’re just being polite.

Lucifer really, really, really hopes it’s the former.

He sighs, restless fingers coming up to twist one of the studs along his lobe as he plays Alastor’s words over in his head.

There was obviously a history there, one would have to be blind not to see it. Could it be that Alastor had found a soulmate connection before?

Perhaps what happened to him was similar to what Lucifer had feared.

He couldn’t imagine finding a soulmate—a real, true soulmate—and then losing them once they find out who he really is.

All it does is keep people in a place of misery, and all because it’s what they think they’re supposed to do, huh?

He hums, pursing his lips and ultimately shaking his head. dismissing the idea. That didn’t sound like a long-lost love to Lucifer, but instead something much deeper. Raw and scabbed over, never quite healing.

It’s not that he doesn’t get why people are so against the idea. Just because he finds the whole idea romantic in theory doesn’t mean everyone has to. He’s seen how it hurts people, just as much as it makes them bloom.

Some people spend their entire lives swearing off romance of any kind in hopes that they’ll be lucky enough to find their ‘one and only,’ but so many never do. There are so many books, memoirs, cautionary tales about loving the person right in front of you instead of holding out for a hope that may never come to fruition. Soulmates get rarer and rarer every year, after all, despite the plethora of matchmaking services that have cropped up.

Lucifer chews his bottom lip, his hands working absently to begin wiping down the counters and syrup bottles as he thinks.

Maybe Alastor was onto something about it being a leftover genetic marker to bring people together and incentivize them to care about each other. Lucifer doesn’t know. He’d hate to think it was just that, but he couldn’t deny the potential there.

All he knows is that Alastor has a huge chip on his shoulder—his anger was clear and bright in a way that makes all his frustration towards Lucifer fucking up his drinks look like a light ribbing between friends.

Despite himself, Lucifer finds that he’s… he’s…

He doesn’t know what he feels.

Conflicted, mostly.

Lucifer runs a tired hand through his hair, moving it down to rub across his eyes.

It’d be a lot easier if his chest didn’t squeeze at the idea of Alastor being hurt in such a long-lasting—

Wait.

What?

No.

No, no.

He drops into a squat behind the counter under the guise of organizing the under-cabinet fridge, pulling open the door and pressing his forehead against the cold metal frame.

“Fuck,” Lucifer hisses out between clenched teeth, low and quiet. “Fu–uck.”

He could laugh at the absurdity.

He almost wishes Alastor had actually left the city when he left him that body as a warning all those months ago. Maybe then he could’ve been spared whatever budding affection that’s dug its roots into his chest when he hadn’t been paying attention, burrowing deeper with each comeback and satisfied smirk.

Lucifer takes a slow, shaky breath as the bell above the café door chimes once again, signaling the end of his time to work through his complex web of thought. He closes the fridge door, popping back up on his heels with a cheery smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Welcome in!”

He’ll have to deal with… whatever this is later. But, maybe they can start over? He can begin with making Alastor’s coffee the correct way next time.

The wait is almost agonizing. Alastor steadfastly refuses to come into the café for over two weeks even though Lucifer sees him walking by almost every day.

Alastor eventually does walk in, much to Lucifer’s relief, dressed in a crisp suit that flatters and shows off his long legs and almost ridiculous height. His hair is curled sweetly around his face, framing it with care, and his smile is perfectly tranquil and firmly in-place.

“Welcome in,” Lucifer calls, fingers twisting in on themselves across his stomach as Alastor approaches the register. “It’s, um. Hi! It’s good to see you back.”

Even as Alastor furrows his brow, eyes flicking over Lucifer’s face behind the thin wireframe of his glasses, there is no indication that he ever lost his temper so severely the last time he was here.

Lucifer is surprised that he came back at all after the slip, he was sure that he’d have been trying to arrange something to ‘just so happen’ to bump into him. He does a quick glance up and down Alastor’s body. Probably at a record store or something.

“What can I do for you today?”

“Hm. Just a cappuccino today, I think,” Alastor says with a hum. Looking down his nose, he quirks a brow at the other man. “For here, actually. I have some things to note down while they’re still top-of-mind before I have to go... Think you can handle something that simple?”

“Oh, yes! Perfect, that—that works! Coming right up,” Lucifer responds haltingly, rocking on his heels as he takes his place at the handwashing sink. “Take any seat. I’ll bring it over to you, ‘kay?”

Alastor’s brow furrows at the display as his mouth opens and closes once or twice as if he isn’t quite sure how to handle Lucifer with actual customer service skills. After a moment, he nods, moving to skirt around a student who clearly left too many things until the last minute, judging by how many books and papers are stuffed onto the small table, their backpack hanging haphazardly off the arm of their seat.

Alastor takes a seat just beyond them at the next table, taking out a small notepad and a pen to jot some things down as he waits.

Thankfully, there are only the two patrons in the café right now, so Lucifer is able to take his time, measuring out the grounds with care and tamping them down with just the right pressure. The espresso pull is precise and on-target, and the milk he steams is velvety and thick with a luxurious micro foam that would bring a smile even to Alastor’s sour face.

With a grin he knows itches way to close to smug, Lucifer assembles the cappuccino, hoping that Alastor is more of a fan of the modern iteration of the drink instead of a dry foam as he swoops the milk pitcher into a perfect swan, flaring out the wings with a little extra shakes until the cup is perfectly full.

Extremely satisfied with his handiwork, Lucifer carefully lowers the drink onto its accompanying saucer, transferring it to a serving tray for him to deliver it. He slips out from behind the counter and makes his way to the table Alastor has claimed for himself.

“One cappuccino for Alastor, expertly poured by yours truly,” Lucifer announces as he walks closer, the other man looking up with a supremely suspicious expression.

“I’m not sure what’s more concerning,” he begins, tapping the tip of his pen to the notepad impatiently. “That you’re finally using my name or that you think you could be considered an expert at anything at al—”

“Shit, no!”

“Woah, hey!”

The student swears as they rise to their feet with their hands on their head, the chair squeaking across the floor as it’s violently pushed behind him.

The chair slides backward, striking Lucifer squarely in the hip. Hissing through his teeth as he stumbles, the cappuccino on the tray sloshes over the side of the mug and to the side, burning his fingers on the handles as they loop through the wood of the tray.

Lucifer yelps, hand spasming as he attempts to right himself. The mug slips swiftly down the tilted tray, upending itself over the side as it hits the barrier, emptying the last of its contents right over Alastor’s lap before falling onto the rug with a dull thud, the handle chipping off in several large pieces.

The air is sucked out of the room, suddenly feeling terribly cold despite the hot throbbing over the knuckles of Lucifer’s hand. He raises his eyes slowly from the broken mug, following the slowly dripping trail of still-steaming coffee over Alastor’s lap to his face, set in a quiet fury that unsettles Lucifer when it’s juxtaposed against his wide smile.

“Al… Alastor,” Lucifer begins, voice coming out in a small croak. “I–I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I had an interview today. Did you know that?” Alastor begins, slowly rising to his feet to glower down at the other man. “I was going there right after. It seems my plans have changed.”

Lucifer’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out, his fingers curling tightly around the handles of the tray until it’s digging in uncomfortably to his palms.

“I do believe I’ve had quite enough of you, Lucifer. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Lucifer watches helplessly as Alastor all but stomps out the café door, the soft-close mechanism no match for the force in which the door is slammed closed, the glass rattling in its frame.

“Hey, man,” the student murmurs, hands still stuck on his head as he looks wide-eyed down at Lucifer. “I was so in my head, I didn’t realize… I got the due date wrong and that shit was thirty percent of my grade! It’s such bullshit, man, I can’t believ—”

“It’s fine,” Lucifer says, cutting him off with a smile he hopes comes across as kind and patient and not like he’s about to pick up one of the textbooks and hurl it at the man’s head. “I do need to clean up, though. Would you be able to move tables, please?”

“Yeah, yeah… I mean, no worries, bud. I’m—Y’know what? I’m on it,” he replies, “Ah… Actually. On second thought, I’ll just…” He haphazardly gathers up his papers and books, shoving them sloppily into the bag hanging off the arm of the chair before making a break for the entrance.

Lucifer’s eyes move up to the ceiling, a world-weary sigh dropping his shoulders.

Well.

Fuck.

Putting the tray onto the now-vacant table, Lucifer moves to flip the sign on the door to closed, sliding the bolt home before he gets to work on gathering the pieces of the handle from the mug. He couldn’t imagine that going any worse than it did. After everything he’s done to rag on Alastor, why wouldn’t he think Lucifer did that to him on purpose?

Lucifer swallows around nothing, guilt weighing him down to his very bones, his hands trembling with a barely-concealed energy that he needs to get out of his system in one way or another.

He’ll work on finding some way to make it up to Alastor another day, he’s useless on that front right now. He needs to let off some steam.

It’s been too long anyway, and there is someone he’s had his eye on for some time that he happens to know enjoys staying home on this particular day of the week.

Alastor couldn’t believe he had allowed himself to fall so far. Things should have never progressed to where they are now. If he had taken care of this little problem months ago, he’d have been much better off. Even if he’d just stopped coming to the café, that would’ve been enough.

He curls his fingers into shaking fists, sure that the leather of his gloves will begin cracking if he isn’t careful.

Even as he follows Lucifer at a considerable distance as he makes his way back to his apartment, he is still humiliatingly affected. How pitiful he’s become, finding something like feels tender and soft between his ribs that swells each time he catches sight of the fluffy blond hair and glint of metal when he visits the café.

He had thought—foolishly, he knows now—that Lucifer perhaps liked him. Alastor certainly enjoyed each of their talks, their arguments, their spats, endeared despite himself in every new and unique way Lucifer found to mess with his drink.

There was always just one thing that was slightly off. Receiving a drink one day with perfectly pulled espresso, the next with smooth and velvety milk foam, changing day to day and seemingly at will. The parts made up the whole and it didn’t take long before Alastor knew he truly was a more than adequate barista, with a refined palette and incredible selection in his shop to boot.

Sometimes he slipped up, calling him ‘Alastor’ correctly when he meant to make up some other ill-begotten name. The red on his cheeks when that happened was superb, it made Alastor want to push him even further, see what else he could mess up with the right encouragement.

He’d clearly misunderstood.

Lucifer didn’t mess with him, rile him up, argue with him and then smile at him so wide his eyes crinkled around the edges—enough.

He didn’t do any of that because he liked Alastor at all.

Quite the opposite, it would seem.

Alastor had always been accused of not being able to pick up clues when someone liked him—apparently that was still the case in reverse.

No matter.

Alastor would not be humiliated again.

It’s a surprise when Lucifer only stops at his home long enough to grab a duffle bag from the back of his closet. Alastor had been waiting for the better part of an hour, but as soon as he makes a move to pounce, Lucifer is already halfway out the door again.

What’s more surprising is the incredible difficulty Alastor has in trailing him from his residence to wherever his next destination is. The barista chooses small, hidden alleyways and other dimly lit areas, taking a looping, nonsensical path that has him passing the same street sign no fewer than four times.

Alastor is two more inane loops around the block before he takes matters into his own hands in the middle of the street before Lucifer finally, finally, reaches an older apartment complex, pulling out a key to let himself into a room on the ground floor, farthest away from the parking lot.

Curious.

Alastor had cased Lucifer’s residence months ago, but nothing he saw there indicated a significant other or close family member. He certainly did not have anyone in his life that was around to have a sleepover with in the less-than-stellar part of town. Alastor would’ve happily dealt with that issue long ago.

Which begs the question: What is Lucifer doing here, exactly?

The raging inferno blazing inside Alastor’s chest from that afternoon still churns, stoking the flames and working himself up ever more in preparation to dispose of this terrible thorn in his side once and for all.

He watches through a small gap in the blinds as Lucifer unzips his bag on the couch, pulling out a change of clothes, a pair of gloves he quickly works over his small hands, and something terribly surprising that Alastor could recognize anywhere.

A knife roll.

The instruments within, when Lucifer lovingly unties the fastening and levels the leather out onto the threadbare couch, are certainly not made for the culinary arts.

Isn’t that peculiar?

He watches silently as Lucifer inspects each knife to his satisfaction, rolling the leather back up to its original state. He peels his gloves off before he makes his way into another room of the small apartment, clothes bundled in one arm. Alastor takes the opportunity to pop the screen off the corner of the frame, testing the window by pushing up against the glass to see if it’s unlocked.

No luck.

Alastor works his way around the building to peer in another window, ensuring the coast is clear before trying again. It’s only when he tries the window overlooking the sink in the small galley kitchen does it budge. He clicks his tongue in annoyance; the angle will be awkward and he’ll have to be extremely careful not to slip and make a sound.

It’s the only option he has, though.

He sets the screen against the wall, slowly, slowly pushing the window up and listening closely. As he suspected, the sound of running water works its way through creaking pipes, the sound of muffled humming traveling through the thin walls.

Alastor works quickly, climbing through the window and closing it behind him. The water is still running, so he takes the opportunity to sniff around, intrigued despite himself that perhaps that air-headed little coffee sprite has a much more complex, much more interesting side to him than originally meets the eye.

A quick peek inside the fridge reveals precious little, bottles of water, meal replacement shakes, and pre-packaged snacks that are designed to be eaten on the go. Alastor’s nose scrunches as he takes it in, though he understands the necessity. Especially in somewhere like this, somewhere Lucifer clearly uses as a bolthole. Perhaps a den of sorts, similar to Alastor’s own cabin in the bayou.

Underneath the sink are cleaning chemicals, mostly focusing on stain-removal. Predictable. Boring. Another cabinet where one would expect to find cookware rests a very well-stocked first aid kit and several vacuum sealed tarps, condensed for saving space. Not unwise.

He peers around the rest of the common area before the water shuts off in the other room, forcing Alastor to retreat into the corner of the meager pantry. He slips off his shoes, sock-clad feet silent against the chipped tile floor.

After a moment filled with the sound of clattering objects against porcelain, the bathroom door opens and Lucifer pads out. Now dressed in the dark, inconspicuous clothing that he brought with him, his clothes he wore to work his shift at the café are tied up tightly in a plastic bag that he swings around his finger. His golden hair is combed back away from his face, much more severely than the loose way Alastor has always seen him wear it. No more sweet curls flipping upward around his cheeks or stray strands falling across his forehead.

Lucifer crosses the living room quickly, leaning over the back of the couch to shove his bagged clothing into the duffle bag. He lets out a weary sigh that covers the gentle susurrus of Alastor’s socks sliding along the thin carpet as he inches closer and closer to close the distance—before going eerily still.

Alastor follows suit in his motionlessness, stopping only a few short steps away as Lucifer takes a slow, audible breath in through his nose.

He hates that he’s, even now, taken with the little things he notices about Lucifer. His instincts are good, but Alastor is fast.

From one moment to the next, Alastor pounces forward, his gloved hand is tangled roughly in the still-damp locks to pull his head back severely. His hunting knife slips from its place in the holster at his back into his palm like its second nature.

He supposes it is, by this point.

“Well, this is quite the surprise, isn’t it?” Alastor asks with an amused hum. “I must admit, I didn’t expect this kind of… hobby from you.”

“That makes one of us,” Lucifer mumbles, shrugging one shoulder half-heartedly.

Alastor’s brow furrows, fingers tightening around the handle of the blade. “Come again?”

There is a loud sigh, cut off shortly when the knife remains unmoving, cutting just barely into the skin as Lucifer’s chest heaves. “I’ve known. About you, I mean. For… Golly, I don’t know. Months, now.”

Before Alastor has a chance to digest what he’s really saying, Lucifer’s hands begin to move, making it to about halfway to mid-chest height before he presses the knife more harshly into the pale skin of that swan-like throat.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Alastor warns with a hum, “Keep those hands still if you know what’s good for you, hm?”

“Look, Alastor,” he begins, voice impressively calm for the thin trickle of blood that is making its way down the hollow of his throat, “I know that I’ve been a dick to you. I do, really. But what happened today, it wasn’t—”

“You mean to tell me that it wasn’t exactly what you had wanted to do since the very beginning?” Alastor inquires with a low, harsh tone. He’s glad he’s positioned at Lucifer’s back, he isn’t sure what he’d do if he had to contend with the other man’s doe eyes attempting to help his case. “Oh, I do doubt that ever so much, my dear.”

He moves to take a deeper inhale, more words of vitriol burning on the tip of his tongue like acid when Lucifer takes the moment where his chest presses against the other’s back to twist in Alastor’s grip. Uncaring for the small locks of hair ripped from his scalp or the uneven sting on his throat, he locks his teeth at the junction of Alastor’s thumb where it connects to his palm, not able to break through the leather barrier, but enough to get him to loosen his grip on the knife.

Alastor swears, his other hand scrambling for purchase in the golden hair even as a small, spiky elbow makes a pointed jab right between his ribs.

Lucifer is small and quick, using his size to his advantage as he manages to evade Alastor’s hands, using a foot to kick him in the stomach to put some distance between them, not quite hitting true as it slides along Alastor’s side. “Seriously, you’ve gotta believe me, okay?! I didn’t—”

“Shut up!” Alastor growls, turning on his heel to accommodate the way Lucifer pushes him, hand wrapping tightly around the thin ankle to use the momentum to swing him around further until he’s able to throw the smaller man onto the ground.

He quickly falls to his knees over top of Lucifer’s stomach, one hand flat against his chest to hold his torso flat to the carpet, the other is curled around the handle of his hunting knife, fighting against both of Lucifer’s hands keeping it away from his throat.

“I refuse to be belittled by you any longer,” he hisses out through gritted teeth leaning impossibly forward to put more weight behind the knife as it inches ever closer to that pale throat.

Lucifer squirms beneath him, kicking uselessly until he’s able to land a hit squarely to Alastor’s spine with one of his knees, causing him to buck forward. Lucifer twists sharply, the knife driving straight down into the floor just inches from his face.

With a frustrated growl, Alastor falls forward, hand sliding up to wrap itself around the hollow of Lucifer’s throat, the other joining it as he hovers over him. “Is this what you had in mind?” Alastor asks, voice uneven and high. “You said you knew—is this what you pictured?”

Lucifer throws his head to either side of him, fingers scrabbling at the leather-clad hands that gradually grow tighter and tighter until he’s gasping for breath.

Alastor leans further forward, hair draping a curtain of mock intimacy around their faces, mouth open to deliver more taunts before Lucifer knees him in the back once again, their foreheads colliding together with a sickening crack.

Both men let out a similarly strangled sound, gasping and pulling back from each other as their hands both fly to their own faces.

The first thing that filters through the static buzzing in Alastor’s mind is that he’s no longer alone in his own head.

Alastor can feel Lucifer inside his skull. His presence is there, a quiet connection that throbs in time with his own rabbiting heartbeat. He recognizes what Lucifer feels, so much hurt and loneliness and—

awe.

“Oh,” Lucifer breathes, his hand sliding down his forehead until he is peeking through slotted fingers splayed across his face.

“No,” Alastor hisses, his back colliding with Lucifer’s knees and toppling sideways, hunched over the floor to press his forehead into the carpet. “No, no, no.”

“Hey,” Lucifer whispers as if Alastor was some kind of spooked horse, which is bad enough even without the gentle palm that presses flat to his shoulder blade.

Alastor pushes himself up and out of Lucifer’s grip, scrambling backwards until his spine collides with the back of the couch they had fallen beside. One hand slowly comes up to adjust his glasses, righting them on his face from where they’ve gone terribly askew in the scuffle. Shaking fingers come up to press against the middle of his forehead, still throbbing with echoes of a soulmate connection clicking into place.

Lucifer’s face, when Alastor’s eyes finally raise themselves from the floor, is full of that awe, eyes huge and sweet, and he has to look away, pressing the cold leather of his palms hard into his eye sockets until they ache.

“Alastor,” Lucifer breathes, the sound of his knees shuffling along the carpet until he’s only a short distance away. “Hey.”

Before Lucifer can come any closer, Alastor lunges forward with a stuttering intake of breath to wrap his fingers around the knife, holding out in front of him and steadfastly ignoring the way it trembles in his grip. “I should just kill you right now and be done with it,” he hisses. “Cut this curse out of my head once and for all.”

Unbothered—is that fondness he feels?—Lucifer shuffles forward a little more, until his Adam's apple is kissing the sharp edge of the knife. The smile on his face is impossibly soft, eyes rounded and shining. “Is that something you want?” Lucifer asks. The movement of his hands is clearly choreographed, slowly moving up and up until both palms are curled around Alastor’s hand to cradle it gently, pushing the knife further into his skin until a new bead of blood surfaces under the sharp point. “Would it help if I said I’d let you?”

Alastor’s eyes dart incredulously from his knife to Lucifer’s face. “Excuse me?!”

Something flows over the connection, complicated and small, but Alastor, against all logic, can tell he isn’t lying.

“I won’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head, or what you went through before,” Lucifer starts, his voice only slightly strained under the threat of the knife sinking in any deeper. “I… I hurt you, I feel that much, at least. You’re my soulmate—”

Alastor flinches as the words are finally said aloud, but Lucifer forges on ahead.

“But… If you don’t want this, I won’t try to convince you otherwise.”

With a shake of his head, Alastor hisses through gritted teeth, “Maman—my mother… She had a soulmate, too. I know how well that ended up for her.”

A fresh wave of sorrow washes over him, as well as the new understanding, the pieces of Alastor slotting together within Lucifer’s head and being bounced back to him.

He feels like a raw nerve, exposed in a way he has no experience with. No amount of placid smiling throughout everything churning underneath would cut it, now. Not when this tiny creature is jacked in directly to his nervous system and is getting a live read on everything he’s always been able to keep securely to himself. Can Lucifer feel that still-warm pulse of something he had felt for him for all these months?

He hopes not.

“That’s—”

Alastor hisses a tight reprimand through his teeth, cutting off the pitying, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and ‘that’s so terrible,’ before it can sully the air around him.

Lucifer’s mouth snaps shut. Seems there is some sense in that pretty head, at least. His brows furrow as he clearly rolls the words he wants to say around in his head. Eventually, he takes a deep breath and tells him quietly, “I’ll just say that I have no interest in keeping you prisoner, Alastor. I, um… I’ve always wanted a soulmate.”

Alastor peers at him through thick lashes, feeling the reverb of Lucifer’s shy embarrassment tangle with a very tentative kindling of hope. He sees it reflected on his face without any dampening.

Does this man wear everything on his sleeve so transparently?

It’s maddening.

“Always. But I would rather you go out that door and I never see you again a million times over than try to—to, I don’t know, entrap you or make you do anything you don’t want to do,” he continues, pausing to chew on his lower lip. His hands fall from Alastor’s on the knife, laying limply at his sides. “That’s not who I am.”

After a long, tense silence, Alastor slowly lowers the knife, shaky fingers finding the sheath at his back to slip it home. It feels too idyllic for his tastes, especially after everything. Too risky.

There has to be a catch, but he’s far too frazzled to think it through properly right now. He needs to be alone.

Alastor uses the couch as a brace to rise to his feet, peering down at Lucifer who stays perfectly still on his knees, hands still raised in a surrendering gesture. He has to look away from the patient expression the other wears and feels just as transparently, it’s too much.

Making his way towards the front door, he flips open the locks and pulls it open, stepping one foot outside before he turns his head. Over his shoulder, he mutters a soft, “I don’t know, Lucifer. I… I need some time,” before pulling the door closed behind him, trying to block out the hopeful way Lucifer responds.

“Anything.”

Months go by, and Lucifer likes to think that he has shown some pretty impressive self-restraint, thank you very much! Despite the occasional body still washing up on the shores of the marsh, indicating that Alastor is still very much around, Lucifer has never sought him out.

Not even when he starts hearing a very confident, very familiar voice on the public radio when he wanders into the odd antique shop.

Not even when he feels the phantom aches of someone who clearly fought back for days before someone is declared missing.

Not even when he’s jolted awake in the middle of the night by sorrow that rattles him to the very core.

He behaves. Alastor wants—needs—space, and Lucifer wants to give it to him.

He’d meant what he said, all those months ago. He’d rather never see Alastor again, as much as the thought pains him, rather than force his soulmate to undergo any amount of misery being with him.

Even if the idea of a soulmate, actually, truly having one that knows even his most well-kept secret makes him want to shake right out of his own skin in excitement.

Because it wouldn’t mean anything if Alastor doesn’t want it too.

So, when the bell jingles to announce a customer coming in nearly six months after Alastor shut the door behind him, Lucifer damn near rips the portafilter straight off the espresso machine with the force of his jolting surprise.

It takes everything in him not to throw the half-finished seasonal drink straight at the waiting customer to serve Alastor at the register instead. Lucifer forces himself to finish the drink to his high standard as usual before trying not to look like he’s running a ridiculously short distance to the counter.

“Hey! I mean, hi—okay, wait,” Lucifer stutters, tapping his fingers in a rolling motion on the register before managing to take a deep breath to center himself. He looks up at Alastor with a barely-concealed smile and tries again. “Welcome in! What can I get started for you?”

“A cappuccino, I think,” Alastor says evenly. “For here, please.”

Lucifer recognizes it for what it is. A tentative, shaky attempt at starting anew that he feels how scared, terrified, really, Alastor is to extend it to him at all.

What can he do but take it?

He spends the next few, short minutes preparing the drink exactly how it’s meant to be, milk steamed to velvety smoothness, espresso pulled to exactly the right time. Carefully, he

When Lucifer hands him the coffee, rocking impatiently on the balls of his feet as Alastor gingerly raises the cup to his lips to take a sip, the tiny sound of satisfaction is impossibly gratifying.

Much more so is the wave of true, surprised delight that floods his body as Alastor takes another, longer sample of the drink.

“Hm. Not bad,” Alastor says with a slow-growing smile, not quite looking at Lucifer.

With the new, tender thing that pulses within his chest as Alastor’s lips curl upward, it may as well have been, ‘It’s perfect.’

The next few months are impossibly delicate, with each interaction coiling tighter and tighter around Lucifer’s heart until it hurts to breathe.

There are a lot of nights, as time goes on, where Alastor will knock a jaunty little tune on the glass café door while Lucifer is busy closing up shop. They’ll share a two-top in the corner, gossiping about work and the locals and arguing about nothing in particular. Sometimes, Alastor will bring something to drink that’s a little stronger than coffee, and they wind up laughing too loud for far too long, chatting until the sin begins to peek through the glass of the café windows.

Those nights are his favorite and, from the way Alastor’s pleasure is echoed back at him clear as day, he thinks they’re Alastor’s favorite, too.

Lucifer is happy with what he has.

Even if this is the most Alastor would ever be able to do, he’s happy with that. It’s enough, more than enough, as long as Alastor keeps coming to see him.

It’s not until they wind up at the same man’s house that it all falls apart. Lucifer is already halfway through making the incident look like a burglary when he hears the amused humming of the man that occupies nearly his every waking thought.

Lucifer turns from the drawer he was upending onto the floor as he takes in Alastor’s confident stride as he circles Lucifer’s target for the night. His hands are clasped behind his back, one of them swinging a small cooler, the ice inside it making quiet sloshing noises as it wiggles from side to side.

“It seems we have similar tastes, you and I,” Alastor says with an amused hum. “I must admit, this is unexpected.”

Lucifer laughs quietly under his breath, walking back over to where Alastor is leaning over the still unconscious man tied to the chair. “I was a little surprised at first, too. But, y’know, kinda makes sense now, considering.”

He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek when Alastor’s eyes flick to his own, the pretty amber-brown widening as he reads between the lines Lucifer so carelessly threw out.

“That is—I mean—”

“Hush, now,” Alastor replies, his voice low and indulgent. “Let’s not overthink things, hm?”

“Uh. Yeah. R–right…” Lucifer resists the urge to rub over the back of his neck to disperse the sudden flush of heat there, just barely. He clears his throat, head jerking toward the man. “Wanna help me finish the job? We can do it your way, I don’t mind.”

“So accommodating!” Alastor exclaims, tapping his gloved hand against their victim’s forehead. “I just might take you up on that. So long as you don’t mind if I take a little souvenir? If… that isn’t where you draw the line, of course,” Alastor trails off as he begins walking a circle around the unconscious man, tilting his head this way and that as if sizing him up. His face is very carefully blank, but Lucifer can feel the faintest thread of anxiety, as if Alastor is doing his best to shutter the connection and be as aloof about it as possible.

Lucky for him, Lucifer already knew that little tidbit of knowledge regarding Alastor’s peculiarities in the first early months of their mutually antagonistic relationship. Old news, as they say.

So, Lucifer shrugs one shoulder, just as nonchalant as he feels as he replies, “Fine by me. Don’t ask me for recommendations, though. I’ve never butchered an animal with that intention.”

Alastor blinks at him, a tenseness draining from his frame as he realizes Lucifer is being genuine. “Not to worry, my dear,” he says with a wide, satisfied smile, “I assure you I’ve got it well in-hand.”

If someone had asked Lucifer if, when he pictured his soulmate in his head, that vision included being elbow-deep inside a man’s stomach side-by-side with said soulmate, he would’ve laughed.

Crying would probably have shortly accompanied the laughter.

He’d agonized for years over not finding his person. Then he’d agonized even more over finding them, but keeping them in the dark about the more sinister aspects of himself. He’d likely have given it up, in the end. Boxed up this little hobby, put it on the tallest shelf in the biggest, most labyrinthine closet he could find, and tried to forget what it was like to actually do something and change people’s lives for the better with every scumbag he took off the street.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about that, now.

“Y’know,” Lucifer begins, apropos of nothing and breaking the comfortable silence they’d cultivated as they drag the now-mutilated man out to one of the more hidden waterways Alastor favors. In his hands is the cooler, a delicate cut of meat inside on the ice to keep it fresh while Alastor pulls the tarp with the man on it over the wetland, their shoulders brushing comfortably with each step along the uneven ground. “You getting to the people I wanted to get to first was part of what made me try to drive you out in the first place.”

Lucifer feels the shock of his words bloom in Alastor’s mind, hears what has to be a painful crack of his neck as he pivots his head swiftly to stare at Lucifer with wide eyes.

“You’re the one who killed that man,” Alastor realizes, the pieces slotting together in his mind. “The one who—”

“The one who matched your M.O.?” Lucifer cuts him off, batting his eyelashes prettily at him, the affection only barely put-upon. “You betcha. You just figure that out? C’mon, pretty thing, you’re smarter than that.”

Alastor huffs, half amusement and half annoyance, if the throb of indignation Lucifer feels reflected back to him is any indication. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?” His tone is low and dangerous, the way he drops his head to look at Lucifer from under lidded eyes even more so.

Naturally, Lucifer ruins it.

He switches the cooler to his opposite hand, using Alastor’s slight slouch to his advantage. Going up on the tips of his toes, Lucifer captures Alastor’s lips with his own.

They’re soft, if slightly chapped, plush and perfect and—

totally rigid underneath Lucifer’s.

He pulls back with a gasp. “Sorry, shit, sorry, Al—I didn’t—”

“I think I can handle the rest from here,” Alastor says, not looking at Lucifer at all anymore. “Run along now, hm? Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lucifer’s hands curl into fists, heartbroken and dismayed at how he’s fucked this up so spectacularly.

Again.

“Right. Yeah, um… Okay,” he says, because what else is he supposed to do? Alastor still isn’t looking at him and that was nothing if not a clear dismissal. “I… I am sorry,” he repeats, “Will you be okay out here?”

He knows it’s the wrong thing to say as soon as the words leave his mouth, wincing at how he just keeps managing to fumble.

“Not that you’re, like, incompetent or anything! You’re actually, um... Good! Really, really good! You don’t need my help at all, and I know that, I just meant—”

“Lucifer,” Alastor manages to cut him off, tone even and unbothered. Lucifer can’t subdue the panic in his chest remotely enough to tell if that feeling goes all the way through. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lucifer nods, opening his mouth to speak once more, but closes it with a sharp click of his teeth colliding together when Alastor simply bends down to slide the cooler along his arm before continuing to drag the remains of the man they had murdered together further into the swamp until he’s totally out of sight.

Fuck.

The next day is agony, the time dragging on and on. Each hour that passes takes more and more of Lucifer’s hope that Alastor hadn’t just been trying to get him to leave along with it until finally he flips the sign on the door to read ‘Closed,’ with a miserable little laugh.

It’s incredibly unexpected, then, when an extremely characteristic knock upon the glass door rings out and yanks Lucifer from where he’d been drowning his sorrows taking half-assed inventory in the back room.

Lucifer had been sure that he’d pushed too far, asked for too much, and that Alastor would vanish between his fingers and disappear like smoke.

Instead, as Lucifer nearly slips on the tile and fumbles with the lock to pull open the door, Alastor is real, he’s there, hands delicately cupping a large, insulated lunchbox with a complicated expression on his face and an even more complicated spattering of emotions he can’t quite untangle pinging him across the connection.

Lucifer can smell the aroma of slow-cooked meat and through the barrier, and he knows it’s the man they disposed of together last night. He can still see Alastor’s long fingers as they gingerly palpated the flesh of the man, humming low and lovely under his breath as he used his knife to cut free his desired slabs of meat.

He looks at Alastor's face, the other man sniffing hautily and asking in a monotone voice as if he couldn’t care one way or the other, “Could I interest you in… expanding your palette this evening?”

Lucifer’s eyes go back down to the bag. He can’t say he’s not been curious since he first discovered Alastor’s proclivities. He never thought to take a cut from his own victims before, but… well….

His eyes dart once more to Alastor’s face, carefully blank as if not to persuade Lucifer in one way or the other.

Oh, why the hell not?

In for a penny, in for a quarter-pounder, and all that.

“Wanna come back to my place?” Lucifer asks, smiling brightly up at his soulmate. “It’s not far.”

Alastor tilts his head, a stray curl falling out of position to rest against his brow. “Lead the way?”

Lucifer does, quickly finishing the last of the set-up for the morning he’d been dragging his feet on before meeting Alastor back outside, his heart beating too loudly in his ears for more than a few words Alastor says to actually catch.

“Make yourself at home, okay? Sorry about the, um, mess, I guess,” Lucifer says as he slots the key into the lock, pushing the door open and glancing apologetically over his shoulder before moving inside and kicking off his shoes by the door.

It’s thankfully not that bad. He’s meticulous about not leaving dishes in the sink and making sure all food containers make it to the garbage outside, but other things are definitely more on the sloppy side.

The couch cushions are almost all pressed to one side, perhaps three or four blankets of different patterns strewn around the rest of it. The coffee table is clear on one half, but the other is covered in several large notebooks he uses to draw, paper slipping out from between their pages. His lampshade could use a dusting, he knows, eyes suddenly flying to every wayward coaster and out of place book.

Lucifer hopes it comes across more as lived-in rather than grubby.

Chancing a glance back at Alastor, he seems perfectly content as he takes in the space as Lucifer leads him to the kitchen to grab them something to eat off of. Thank God for that.

“Do you need to heat anything up or… anything?” Lucifer asks lamely, reaching up on the tips of his toes to grab two plates, fumbling in the silverware drawer before he sets everything on the table.

“It should be fine, the lunch box itself is heated,” Alastor replies, taking a seat and setting the bag on his lap, unzipping it and setting the contents on the thankfully clean—

Mostly clean table, save for a half-empty watering can that Lucifer quickly whisks away to set it down by the backdoor. He shoots another apologetic glance at Alastor before coming back to take a seat opposite him.

“Oh, wow. That’s fancy!” Lucifer exclaims, picking up the lunch box as Alastor dishes them up. Sure enough, it’s thickly insulated and still-hot conduction pad on the bottom. Alastor must've had it preheated before he left so the temperature would hold. It’s so considerate that he has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he sets it down on the table and pushes it back towards Alastor, taking the plate he offers in return with both hands.

Alastor watches him unblinkingly as Lucifer picks up a fork and knife, slowly carving off a piece of the meat and dragging it through the sauce.

It’s incredibly tender, and it would be impossible to argue that it doesn’t smell delicious. His eyes flick up to Alastor’s as his lips wrap around the fork, sliding the piece off into his mouth. He makes a noise he didn’t mean to, the addictive flavor coating his tongue.

“You’re an amazing cook,” Lucifer tells him after he finishes the bite, hoping Alastor can feel the truth behind the words.

Because it is true.

The sauce is rich and full-bodied; he’s not a connoisseur by any means, but he can tell a good quality wine was used when he tastes it. The cut almost melts in his mouth before he has a chance to chew it.

It should probably concern him how much it doesn’t concern him that he just put human meat in his mouth and swallowed it.

But, it doesn’t.

Instead, he follows the bite with another, then another. It isn’t until they’re both taking their last bites that Alastor pushes himself up from the table, fingers grasping hard at the front of Lucifer’s buttoned shirt and dragging him up until their lips collide.

It’s as if Alastor stopped trying to withhold his feelings from Lucifer as soon as their bodies touch—or, perhaps it’s that he can’t, the affection and arousal that pulses in Lucifer’s mind wraps around his own until where his emotions end and Alastor’s begin are virtually indistinguishable.

Alastor continues his manhandling, yanking him forward as they waddle towards the couch. Alastor tumbles over the arm of it, ignoring the way it creaks and groans concerningly under their combined weight as Lucifer follows him down the same way.

He presses kiss after kiss to Alastor’s lips, chasing him as he pushes himself back until he hits the mound of pillows that have piled up against the opposite arm. Lucifer moves to straddle one of his legs, trailing his kisses down from Alastor’s mouth to his jaw, taken by the way he hisses and tilts his head to the side to give him more access.

Lucifer gladly accepts, digging his teeth just slightly to the slim curve of his neck, pressing hot, sucking kisses there. Alastor’s hands have migrated from the front of his shirt to the back, pulling him forward with the help of the leg Lucifer isn't parked on top of curling around his hip.

“Lucifer,” Alastor groans, his chest heaving, pulling him closer and closer until Lucifer’s thigh is pressing against the hard line of Alastor’s cock. The sudden stimulation has Alastor throwing his head back harshly as his back arches. “Lucifer!”

“I’m here,” Lucifer replies as he pulls away enough to peer down at the gorgeous man underneath him. His soulmate. “God, just look at you.”

Alastor’s glasses sit askew on his face, one of the chains that hang down from each temple of the frame is tangled cutely in a wayward curl. The flush of red on his cheeks climbs down his neck until it disappears beneath his clothes—Lucifer wants to follow it. Wants to press his tongue to it and trace it to see how far down it goes.

His hands travel up to the buttons at Alastor’s collar, plucking them open one by one until he’s able to push each half apart, sliding his palms adoringly up and down Alastor’s sides. His eyes flick back up to Alastor’s face when he feels a sharp pang of self-conscious humiliation work its way to Lucifer and no, no, no. That will not do at all.

Alastor is chewing harshly on his lower lip, one hand having vacated its post at Lucifer’s back to tangle in his own hair roughly. It dips down to cover his whole face as he lets out a miserable groan.

Lucifer lets out an amused huff, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Alastor’s hand as he gathers himself back together.

“I’ve never—I don’t—” Alastor stutters in a way Lucifer has never heard him do but is immediately taken with. “I feel that.. I should tell you that I haven’t done this,” he manages to bite out when Lucifer’s hands gently remove the barrier of his own.

Affection floods Lucifer’s chest, and he knows it’s being pushed right into Alastor’s when he blushes an even deeper shade of red. “Great news,” he responds with a wide smile, leaning back down to press another series of pecks to Alastor’s lips. “Neither have I. We’ll figure it out together.”

There is a spike of desire that has Alastor bucking his hips against Lucifer’s thigh before he gets a hold on himself again. “Truly?” Alastor asks, a heady pulse of arousal sent over the connection even as he shakes his head to get a handle on himself again. “No, apologies, I mean… I won’t always want this,” Alastor tells him, the words spoken into Lucifer’s mouth, each brush of lips a brand new kiss. “Sex, I mean—it doesn’t… It hasn’t ever appealed to me.”

Lucifer pulls back to look at him properly when he feels that tiny, threadbare string of anxiety spike in his soulmate and echo back at him. “Do you wanna stop?” Lucifer asks, “I’ve got a lot of movies. We can watch something, or we can read.”

Tilting his head, he presses a soft kiss to the pretty red flush that fans across the tops of Alastor’s freckled cheeks.

“You could tell me all your favorite bands. We can go to a record store.” More kisses deposit themselves on the opposite cheek. “I can show you my drawings. My sculptures. We can cuddle. And we can do that every night. I don’t need this to be with you, Alastor. I don’t need anything like this.”

Lucifer pulls back, placing his hands on Alastor’s cheeks as he looks down at him with a soft, genuine smile that he hopes Alastor can feel in the depth of his chest.

“I just want you,” Lucifer tells him simply, leaning back down to press one last small kiss to the tip of Alastor’s nose, “that’ll always be enough for me.”

Alastor stares up at him, something that feels suspiciously like gratitude floating its way into Lucifer’s skull. He opens his mouth slightly before closing it again, seemingly at war with how much appreciation he’d like to show when he knows it’s flooding through their connection.

“Shut up,” he says instead, pulling Lucifer back down to claim his mouth for his own, swallowing the giggly laughter that escapes the man.

“Yes sir,” Lucifer replies, running his teeth over Alastor’s plump lower lip, soothing it immediately after with his tongue. His hands are restless, slipping down between slip off belts and throwing them haphazardly onto the floor before fumbling with the fastenings of their trousers.

It’s difficult with the wild bucks of Alastor’s hips trying to press against his own, but Lucifer eventually manages to slip Alastor’s pants off, pushing down his own to about mid-thigh. As he is pulling off the garment from his soulmate, it allows him to adjust his position, shuffling back into place to slot between Alastor’s legs rather than on top of them.

It’s easy, then, to hike both long, slim legs over his hips and press their clothed cocks together. The thin barrier of their underwear does nothing to diffuse the impossible heat, the wetness gathering at the tips of their lengths that feels filthy and addicting.

“I don’t have,” Lucifer starts, gasping when Alastor starts clawing at the buttons of his own shirt, roughly pulling it apart to put his hands on the pale skin underneath. “I don’t have, uh, stuff. To go further, I–I mean.”

Alastor makes a dismissive noise, long fingers leaving tiny trails of red as he drags his nails lightly down Lucifer’s chest.

“Just this,” Alastor gasps, tightening his long legs around Lucifer’s hips to begin rocking them together again. “Just this is–is, ah, perfectly d–delightful!”

Even as Lucifer suppresses a giggle at the wording, he is grateful. He really doesn’t have anything in the way of condoms or even proper lube; he wasn’t expecting to even go this far with Alastor in the first place.

He’s seen porn before, sure, but he’s never had the opportunity to act out anything he’s seen on the screen. Never wanted to, either. Anything beyond a handful of kisses in high school, he had quickly shied away from. From the beginning, he’s only ever wanted the one he can be truly himself with.

Alastor makes an impatient sound against his lips, rolling his hips into Lucifer’s when he gets lost in thought and stops moving.

Lucifer licks into Alastor’s mouth as he sneaks a hand down between them to make up for it, doing his best to slip both of their undergarments down just enough to wrap his hand around both of their lengths.

Alastor makes a high-pitched sound, thighs spasming around Lucifer’s hips, at the first few clumsy pumps of his wrist.

He swears under his breath, trying to roll his hips in time with Alastor’s as best as he can while keeping up with each renewed kiss.

It’s a little uncoordinated—he’s a bit distracted, alright?—but it doesn’t detract from how good it feels. Alastor’s cock is velvety and so stiff in his hand, the weight of it against his own almost dizzying. With each pump of his wrist, their cocks drool more precome into his fingers, using each new bead as lubricant to slick the way.

“Fuck,” Lucifer hisses, his other hand trailing across Alastor’s chest to press his thumb to one dusky, peaked nipple. “You don’t know how gorgeous you are,” he mutters, mouth moving from Alastor’s own to suck more bruises into the slim line of his neck.

He feels a little like a one-man band, but the sounds coming out of Alastor’s mouth as he throws his head back, pushing up and into his mouth and hands, are far too good for him to stop.

Alastor’s cock throbs against his own as his nails dig just shy of too deeply into the back of his neck. “Lu,” he whines, a fluttering of warning coming across their bond. “I feel—I’m gonna—”

“Yes,” Lucifer groans, redoubling his efforts until the small apartment is filled with nothing but the filthy sounds of his slick hand sliding up and down their cocks and their shared pleasure echoed with each gasp and moan. Lucifer pulls back, he needs to see the look on Alastor’s face when he comes. “Alastor,” he encourages, “Alastor, Alastor…”

After a few more tweaks of his blood-flushed nipple and several messy, desperate thrusts of Lucifer’s cock against his own into the tight squeeze of his hand, Alastor’s hips jerk harshly against his own once, twice, before his own teeth bite down harshly on his fist. It barely muffles the broken cry of Lucifer’s name that nearly has him following Alastor right over the edge.

His hand is coated with spend, but he keeps moving up and down over their lengths until Alastor lets out a small, breathy mewl followed by his name. His cock gives one last twitch, leaking the last of his pleasure over Lucifer’s knuckles.

“Lucifer,” Alastor murmurs, trailing one of his hands down to twine their fingers together, his own cock falling out of their combined grip and onto his stomach with a wet slap as they work Alastor’s come over Lucifer’s hardness. “Are you…?”

Lucifer nods helplessly, biting down on his own lip as each pump of their joined hands has him losing more and more of his sense. “C–close,” he gasps, “Al!”

“That’s it,” Alastor praises, carefully squeezing his fingers tighter around the head of Lucifer’s cock on every upstroke, “You’ll finish for me, won’t you?”

His voice is rough and rumbling, buzzing like static along Lucifer’s overheated skin. Alastor’s other hand curls around Lucifer’s jaw, holding it open as he licks sloppily into his mouth, clumsy and desperate. Whining as he mindlessly chases that too-clever tongue, the humidity of their mouths fogging up Alastor’s crooked glasses, Lucifer’s hips stutter as he spills over their intertwined fingers, mixing with Alastor’s and collecting on the sparse hair of the other man’s navel.

Their hands slow as Lucifer squirms, pleasure turning to something sharper in his oversensitive state. It’s not entirely unappealing, to keep pushing until he finds all his limits with Alastor—but, for now, he just wants to rest.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” Lucifer whispers, trying not to focus on how watery his voice sounds.

Alastor hums, leaning up slightly to press his nose against Lucifer’s own. “I can’t believe you ate the dinner I made,” he drawls, low and lazy. “I expected at least a token resistance.”

With a half-hearted wiggle of his shoulder, Lucifer made a noise not unlike a sad trombone. “Well, you didn’t exactly uh… spring it on me, you should probably know,” he says guiltily, eyes flicking between Alastor’s own.

Finally raising his hand from Alastor’s chest, he gingerly fixes his glasses until they sit right on his nose again. He immediately regrets it as Alastor’s eyes focus on him, raising a single, unamused eyebrow to prompt him to continue.

“I, er, I may—or may not—have maybe, sort of… trailed you to your little murder hut one night. The one in the—yeah, okay, you know the one,” he trails off lamely at the unamused look Alastor shoots him.

“Ah… I see! My very own stalker, how novel,” Alastor croons, “Well, no matter. It saved me quite the trouble of convincing you.”

“Something tells me you would’ve worn me down sooner rather than later. You’re quite…” Lucifer says, trailing off as his lips purse, rolling the words over his tongue before he commits. “Inexorable, maybe. Stubborn, definitely. You, I don’t know. You feel… inevitable.”

Alastor is quiet at that, but Lucifer’s chest swells with the weight of Alastor’s affection being pinged back at him, thick with satisfaction.

“Shut up,” he tells Lucifer after a moment, even as his lips begin to curl and his eyes dart away.

Lucifer presses his smile to Alastor’s, tasting the salt of their passion. As Alastor’s clean hand slips up over his neck and into his blond waves, Lucifer’s heart pounds in his chest, excited all over again that he’ll have this—forever, if he’s lucky.

Every morning will be just like this one; he’ll get to wake up to this and every night, he'll fall asleep to this. He’ll do anything to keep it, fight tooth and nail and, if he knows anything about Alastor, he would do the same.

He knows that with every new body freshly slain at their feet, Lucifer will rush forward to capture his mouth with his own again and again. Addicted—irrevocably—to Alastor, to his lips, to the taste of their life together—the taste of coffee and blood.