Lucifer's Playlist

by wild_iwaslivid

Summary:

September. This has now been re-edited, and with an additional chapter. Slightly confusingly, it's number 14, which isn't the current last chapter. It's only taken me 5 months for an update, so possibly makes it the longest fictional phone call ever.

Lucifer is constructing a playlist. It's a special, personal one, just for Crowley.

The Demon is alone, abandoned by Aziraphale when he chose to return to Heaven, and is in desperate need of a friendly face. Unfortunately for him, his toxic ex, Lucifer, is sniffing around. He is well aware of all his manipulative ways, but when his defences are already so low, it's very hard to keep saying no.

Chapter 1: Track One: Lullaby

Summary:

Crowley is all alone, feeling wretched, when an old acquaintance just happens to show up.

Lucifer is more than happy to help Crowley through his emotional stress, because after all, isn't that what old friends are for?

Suddenly a movement in the corner of the room
And there is nothing I can do
When I realise with fright
That the spiderman is having me for dinner tonight

Three days ago, after the heartbreaking bookshop incident, when in just fifteen awful minutes his entire precious world had imploded, Crowley had returned to his cherished Bentley, and driven disconsolately away from Soho. He'd had no particular destination in mind, he had simply driven away from the scene of the crime.

Crowley doesn't remember much of where he's been during that time, it's all a bit of a blur, but everything from before leaving Whickber Street is horribly, terribly, sharp and vivid.

He is now parked up near a cliff, somewhere in the South of England. He's been here for several hours, with no idea how long he'll stay for, or what he'll do when he leaves. Crowley is concentrating very hard on not remembering, or even thinking about the incident, so hard, in fact, that he doesn't sense the newcomer.

"Crowley, Darling, there you are."

Even though it's been quite some time since he last encountered it, the Demon stiffens on hearing the deceptively warm and honeyed voice, but he doesn't get up, or even look round, as he refuses to give him the satisfaction.

"What are you doing here?" They are the first words Crowley has spoken since 'Don't bother', and his voice sounds dry and croaky.

"Now, is that how you greet an old friend?" The interloper is behind Crowley's shoulder, looming like an oppressive shadow. "Come now, Darling," the voice is rich, mellifluous, and glossy, like the sound melted chocolate would make if it decided to entice unfortunates into its lair. "...you can do better than that." The smooth-as-silk tone would be the last thing the victim would hear, before being drowned in its deliciously dark, and murky depths.

"You are not my friend," Crowley's clipped tones leave little room for argument. Well, they would do, if it wasn't Lucifer fucking Morningstar himself who has just stepped into his peripheral vision.

"Oh, you wound me, Crowley, and besides, we both know that isn't true. In fact, it's far from it. I'm going to sit down next to you, do you mind if I do?"

As if Crowley has a choice, but he still refuses to look his way.

Lucifer elegantly settles on the grass, his long legs bent at the knee, and his stylishly asymmetric, shiny blonde hair, barely moving in the gentle breeze. "You've still got your glasses on, covering those lovely eyes of yours. Would it be rude of me if I point out that it's the middle of the night?"

"What does it matter to you, if I'm wearing my own sunglasses? Again, why are you here?" Crowley is in no mood for Lucifer's games. His legs are crossed beneath him, and he feels stiff and sore from hours of sitting, but he is damned if he'll let Lucifer think he is rattled by his unforeseen appearance.

Lucifer, for his part, knows perfectly well how rattled Crowley is by his turning up unannounced. He should do, as he's spent a very long time working out how to push his favourite Demon's buttons. "Darling..." 

"Don't Darling me!" Crowley is all stiff and angry lines as he barks out the words.

Lucifer smiles. "Touchy, aren't we?" Oh, those buttons are so deliciously close to the surface.

Crowley snaps round to face him, and snarls, "Why don't you just fuck off?"

Lucifer, having gotten the Demon's full attention, just keeps on smiling, mightily pleased at the effect he is having. "You know I love it when you get yourself all worked up for me."

Crowley makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, and stands up, forgetting just how long he has been sitting still for. He falls sideways, towards Lucifer, and with lightning reflexes, the Prince of Hell catches him easily by the waist, arresting his fall.

"Hold your horses, Darling. You don't have to climb in my lap straight away."

Crowley manages to stand up fully, wrenching himself away from Lucifer. "Don't touch me!"

"You say that now..." Lucifer purrs.

Crowley heads straight for his car, and stands next to her, well away from the unwanted company. He is angry, and bitter (and sad, and lonely), but he is fucked if he is going to let Lucifer know.

Lucifer knows already, of course, he can read Crowley like a book. Always has been able to, whether it had been up in Heaven, or down in Hell. He leans back on his hands, his arms straight, as relaxed as Crowley is agitated. "How long has it been, Darling? Since you and I were...together?"

Crowley mumbles something almost incoherent, then, "Not fucking long enough."

"Crowley, that's really not very nice. Here I've made all this effort to track you down, and when I find you, you're incredibly discourteous. What do you think your Angel friend would have to say about that? Oh, wait -" Lucifer stands up in one fluid motion, as Crowley comes steam-rollering over to him.

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Crowley is incandescent with raw and painful rage - without meaning to, he is giving the other Demon exactly what he wants.

Lucifer considers those buttons well and truly pushed. People, whether mortal or occult, are so easy to manipulate, especially when you've given them a good poke first. And preferably, get to give them one later.

Crowley, completely forgetting that he is trying to not show what he is thinking or feeling, lets those same emotions vent. He knows Lucifer, knows what tricks he plays, but he can't stop himself. "Don't even mention him!"

"The Angel?" Lucifer says innocently.

"I said -" little wisps of smoke are beginning to swirl around Crowley. 

Heavens, but Lucifer is enjoying this. "And I heard you, Darling, loud and clear. But did he hear you?"

"What? He..." Lucifer has completely wrong-footed him. The rage has been all set to spew out of him, and instead, confusion has bubbled to the surface. "He...he wanted me to... I said no, of course I said no. Wait - why am I telling you this?"

Crowley is frantically pacing back and forth, whilst Lucifer is just standing calmly where he is, enjoying the show. He doesn't know exactly what has gone on at the bookshop, no one does, but the gossip is everywhere. Demons love to spread rumours, real or otherwise, but in this case, it seems as if the scant details are juicily true. An absolute win-win for him - he doesn't need to know the minutiae to manipulate Crowley, he just has to make the right digs suggestions.

"Maybe because you need to let it out? We are old friends after all." Lucifer companionably holds his arms out to either side, cocking his head to the right, a slyly triumphant smile locked on his face. "I'm here for you, but it's a shame someone else couldn't be."

"Fuck!" Crowley is becoming more agitated, and Lucifer reflects it really hasn't taken much to get a rise out of him. "It was all supposed to go...it didn't... He said -. The Metatron, that bastard!"

Lucifer frowns at the mention of him. Whatever the Metatron is up to, he will have to be thwarted, if for no other reason than to wipe that sanctimonious smirk off his stupid face. But not right now, he has other business to attend to.

"Crowley," he says gently, "it's okay. I'm here." He can do nice, when it suits his purposes.

"No, it's not! Everything is not fucking all right, it's gone fucking wrong! And I don't know how the fuck it happened! One minute, all was right with the world, and then, and then...he fucked off. Back to Heaven. He...he..." Crowley breaks off with a sob. His cheeks flush pink, as his tightly kept-in-check emotions begin to leak out, in front of the very last person he wants to see him like that. He takes off his glasses, trying to surreptitiously wipe away the tears that are more than starting to form.

"There you are Darling, I've missed those eyes." Lucifer looks deeply into Crowley's now uncovered, wide-open gaze, where he can see all that pain, hurt and rejection, writ large. The hot Serpent of Eden has always felt things deeply, the lovely Starmaker, too. So vulnerable, so anxious and eager for a touch of comfort, just desperate for a little kindness. Just how he likes him. "Come here."

Crowley, in an emotionally-confused daze, walks unsteadily forward until he is standing directly in front of Lucifer, their bodies an arms-length apart.

Lucifer reaches out, grabbing confidently onto the lapels of Crowley's jacket, and pulls him into his orbit. The Demon dips his head as his lips meet Crowley's, gently at first, then harder, faster. Crowley responds after a frozen moment, his corporation remembering other times, acting almost with muscle-memory. Lucifer tugs him closer, one hand snaking down to grab hold of...

"No! No, I don't want -! Not this, it's not..." Crowley backs away in an explosion of horrified movement. "I can't... No!"

Shame, just when it was getting interesting. Still, Lucifer plays the long game, and this is just round one.

"Of course, we won't do anything you're not comfortable with," he says, backing away. Softly, softly, gets the Serpent (eventually).

"I... I... I need to go."

"Of course, Darling, anything you want." He delightedly watches Crowley storm over to The Bentley, where he wrenches open the door, gets in, and slams it shut behind him. A moment later, he dramatically speeds off, the sounds of the vintage car loud in the dark silence.

"It's not over, Darling, not in the slightest," Lucifer speaks to the retreating car, the pleasing knowledge of the inroads he's made, in such a short time, making his black heart swell.

He thinks of holding Crowley close, the feel of his lips, the very scent of him, and reflects on just how much he enjoys kissing him. He's left it far too long since their last time together, and in doing so, he has let that fussy little Angel get his feet under the proverbial table. Not to worry though, everything has changed now.

Lucifer gets out his phone, taps it, and it begins playing Lullaby, one of his favourite songs. He thinks of when he'd last played it for Crowley, back when the Demon had been fully eager-to-please. That time hadn't stopped with just a kiss.

He sighs at the memories shooting through his corporation, and he recalls warm and wet tongues, smooth skin, and tendrils of hair all over the place; but it is now more than time to be gone, back to his Devilish work. With a mere thought, Lucifer disappears into the ether, the last notes of the creepy melody hanging in the air for just a moment, then all is quiet and still.

Notes:

Lullaby by The Cure

Chapter 2: Track Two: The Killing Moon

Summary:

Somewhere in London, a figure sits in a bar. He's waiting for a friend to meet him.

Under blue moon, I saw you
So soon you'll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be

The killing time
Unwillingly mine

Lucifer has left Crowley alone for several weeks, and now feels he has given him more than enough time for self-reflection.

The gossip has been running rampant, both down in Hell, and also up in Heaven, facilitated by the Back Channels that don't exist. Of course, the Angels have been responsible for spreading the news around in the first place, only they blame the Demons for it. So no change there, then.

Aziraphale, fool that he is, has gone back upstairs as the Supreme Archangel! For Heaven's Sake!! Both literally and metaphorically. What is the Metatron up to? The devious old bugger has some sort of plan, and Lucifer just wishes he knew what it was.

All this is running through his mind, as he sits on an uncomfortable, but achingly (literally) chic bar stool. The said item of furniture is situated in a ridiculously expensive bar, frequented by allegedly cool people, in a very trendy corner of London. He is diligently working his way through the Hipsterish cocktail menu, currently seven horrendous drinks in, and pondering on his next choice of beverage.

The barman is goggling at the amount he is drinking, all the more so as he seemingly has no ill effects to show for it.

Someone is absolutely having those effects all right, but it isn't him. He laughs to himself, and decides to go for a cream-based cocktail next. That someone is going to really suffer with this, but serves them right for trying to renege on one of his contracts. The pathetic excuse for a Human should really have understood that when he signed on the dotted line, he was giving Lucifer control over his life forever more. Lucifer's all for free will, but especially when it's brought about through precise coercion, and his own special brand of manipulation.

The bartender, or is it a mixologist? What are they calling themselves these days? He doesn't know, and doesn't care, as long as the alcohol keeps flowing. Anyway, the guy behind the bar is giving him the eye, all batting lashes and want. Lucifer sighs, it is terribly hard being him, people just don't realise what he has to put up with.

He has been here for a little over an hour, and he is awaiting Crowley, but not that the Demon is aware of it yet. His presence will, no doubt, be a lovely surprise for him. Cheer him right up.

The wanton bartender makes a show of concocting his beverage, then hands the Pink Squirrel over with a flourish. It looks as vile as its name suggests, fully barbie-hued, and with a nasty sprig of mint on the side. Lucifer scowls at it, and takes a sip. Yes, absolutely revolting. He continues drinking it anyway.

The guy asks for payment - fucking £14! For that! Well, it isn't real money Lucifer is spending, so he really has nothing to complain about. Later, when they cash up, they will find they are quite a bit down on their expected takings. They should consider it a life lesson for making such garish monstrosities, and expecting no comebacks.

Lucifer finishes the Blush Rodent (is that its name?), and continues on with his quest to find the worst drink on the menu. Snowball next. The combination of all those flavours must be making someone feel very ill...what a shame for them.

The Demon Prince smiles his best seductive grin (just to keep his hand in, as it were) at the thingy... actually, he is just going to make it easy, and call him Bob, and Bob blushes. He'll be passing over his phone number next. It isn't that Bob has a hope in Hell of getting screwed by Lucifer, but he has his professional pride to think of.

His phone is full of numbers he is never going to ring. Occasionally, one of the humans he encounters will meet his very, exceedingly high standards, man or woman it doesn't matter, just so long as they are hot, and if they are lucky, they could be a notch on his very extensive bedpost.

Bob gives him the Snowball, and Lucifer grimaces at it.

It has been presented in a tall glass, with a squiggly ribbon of lime hooked on the side. Honestly, it's a fucking joke. And another £14 that he isn't spending. Then his menu choices are forgotten as Crowley walks in.

Lucifer gives him a delighted wave, "Darling!"

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Crowley turns on his heel, and runs into a problem. The door no longer has a handle, or indeed, a gap that separates the door and frame. "What have you done?" He tries to Miracle himself out of the bar, but nothing happens. "Let me out!"

"Have a drink first. Just one, and then you can go." There, Lucifer is being perfectly civilised.

Crowley attempts another Miracle, but nothing happens that time either. "For fucks sake!"

He looks as if he might burst into flames. It is quite possible, but does tend to upset the smoke alarms.

"So you said. Now, come here," Lucifer entices, and he pats the seat next to him. Bob is looking on in considerable bemusement (not to mention disappointment). "Whisky for my friend."

"I already said, I'm not your fucking friend!" Crowley is obviously debating whether to come over, have the drink and leave quickly, or stay as far away as possible, but extend their time together. Whichever option he chooses, Lucifer wins. As always.

"He loves me really."

Bob, an odd expression upon his face, pours the whisky, and after several huffs and puffs, Crowley stomps over. He picks up the glass, and downs it in one.

"There! Now let me go!" and he slams the glass down, the tumbler cracking with the force.

"No, I'm afraid not, that's such bad manners, Crowley. You have to sit down, and spend some time with me." He is being completely reasonable. Lucifer pats the seat again, licking his lips as he does so. "I'm surprised that you would choose an establishment such as this, to drink in, but I suppose it doesn't matter as long as you can get shit-faced."

The other Demon flushes, and avoids his question. "I want to go."

Crowley, the sweetheart, is doing his best impression of a fierce tiger, all teeth and claws for show, but underneath there is a definite catch to his voice, and a tightness to his mouth, that proves it to be all just bluster. Those buttons of his... He really shouldn't make it so easy.

Bob has no idea what has just happened, but can see some sort of unwanted behaviour is occurring, and obviously feels he needs to step in. "I don't understand - why can't you go?" 

"This doesn't concern you, Bob." Lucifer is not having a Good Samaritan barging in, and ruining his fun.

"Bob? My name's James." 

Now he is getting irritating. "I said, Bob, that this is none of your concern. Now, go back to making shitty cocktails."

Bob shakes his head, suddenly bewildered, and wanders along the other side of the bar in a spaced-out fashion. That's got rid of him for a bit.

Now for a bit of quality time with his favourite Demon. "Sit down, Crowley." It's not an invitation.

Shooting him evils from behind his dark glasses, Crowley sits in a most un-Crowley like fashion. His back is ramrod straight, his legs are crossed, and his arms are tightly folded.

Lucifer's right hand lands possessively on Crowley's thigh, and the other Demon shudders, before shifting further over on the narrow stool in response. There's nowhere to go, Lucifer thinks, but doesn't say. He doesn't need to, as it is quite obvious enough already.

"Take your hand off me."

Crowley's tone is another angry hiss, and Lucifer is beginning to think it is the special voice he keeps just for the Prince of Hell. It's quite endearing, really. In answer, he squeezes Crowley's leg bruisingly hard for several seconds, before slowly removing his hand.

"Another drink?" A politely enquiring smile accompanies his question, and Lucifer feels he is being the perfect date. Certainly, there is nothing for Crowley to complain about.

"No. I want to leave. Now." In his mission to stay as far away from Lucifer as possible, Crowley is more or less perched on one bum cheek.

Lucifer thinks he's beginning to sound like a stuck record. He regards his inelegant seating arrangement, feeling it's got to be uncomfortable - just think if he got a splinter? Being the charming Demon he is, Lucifer would offer his services to remove it. 

"But you've only just got here, Darling." Lucifer taps his phone, and the opening bars of The Killing Moon emanates from it. "Remember this? What do you think your Angel would have said, if he knew what you and I got up to, whilst this played?"

Crowley leaps off the stool, a disgusted shiver running through him. "I want to go. Now!"

Oh, he really is completely rattled, even more so than he had been by the cliff. Chapter Two of Lucifer's plan has worked beautifully.

He smiles, like a real tiger, all teeth, and eviscerating predator. "Why, of course you can leave, Crowley Darling. You've sat, partaken of a drink with me, and we've spoken like the two old friends we are. Off you pop now." He waves him away.

Crowley, apparently feeling that Lucifer is not to be trusted, tries to keep both him and the door in his field of vision at the same time. Given that they are in completely opposite directions, he isn't exactly successful in his efforts. Crowley strides over to the door, and wrenches the now reinstated handle open (what is it with Crowley, and his lack of respect for doors? First his car, and now this).

"I'll be seeing you again soon, Crowley," Lucifer calls out to the departing Demon. The door slams in answer behind him.

Lucifer feels smug and self-satisfied on the one hand, but on the other, exceptionally horny, and with an itch that needs scratching. His gaze flicks to Bob for a moment, but counts him out. Far too irritating. He picks up his phone, still playing the Eighties song, and flips to a random number.

"You'll do," he hits the dial button, and is gone, off to scratch that fucking itch.

Notes:

The Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen

Chapter 3: Track Three: Don't You Want Me Baby

Summary:

Lucifer shows his hand a little earlier than he is intending to.

… Don't, don't you want me?
You know I can't believe it when I hear that you won't see me
Don't, don't you want me?
You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me
It's much too late to find
You think you've changed your mind
You'd better change it back, or we will both be sorry

Play

Crowley is sitting on a small, stone-built pedestrian bridge, his legs dangling over the edge, as the more-than-a-stream, not-quite-a-river, rushes along beneath him.

There is no particular reason for him being here, he is simply passing time. Nowhere to go, and no one to see. It is quiet, except for the aforementioned trickle of running water, the odd bird singing, and...

Someone is playing a song obnoxiously loudly. The opening bars of Don't You Want Me are thundering through the otherwise peaceful surroundings.

Crowley looks around for the culprit. Who would...? And then his flesh crawls.

Lucifer unexpectedly pops into existence right next to him, so close they are touching. Crowley makes to leap away, but finds he is unable to. He is resolutely stuck in place, his corporation frozen to the stone, and all he can do is wildly roll his eyes.

"Darling! There you are, you little scamp!" Lucifer has a greasy smile on his face, Crowley can see it from the little movement he is allowed. "I've been looking for you for ages!"

He wants to yell, to scream, to spit in Lucifer's face, but he can do none of those things. Lucifer has him bound to the spot.

"Sweetling, I don't have to hear any words from you," Lucifer has a hungry look about him, "your lovely eyes tell me all." He leans in, and sniffs Crowley in a horribly animalistic way, and the red-haired Demon shudders. The Prince of Hell has apparently left him the ability to show his disgust, as evidenced by Lucifer laughing in response.

"Darling, hmm... Underneath lasts nights alcohol...you smell beautifully of...you. Whisky and coffee, the tiniest amount of Demonic brimstone, the scent of fresh fallen snow. Mmm." Lucifer sticks his tongue out, and licks Crowley's cheek, then runs it wetly down to his jawbone. Crowley shudders again, and Lucifer is obviously delighted.

"You haven't had your hair long in quite some time..." Lucifer muses, apropos of nothing. "I think," and he strokes the red strands lovingly," you should try your Eden ringlets again."

Crowley feels an unexpected weight settle on his shoulders. What?

Lucifer entwines his fingers into the, now much longer tresses, that spill around Crowley's collarbone. "So pretty, all the better to hold onto you by." So saying, Lucifer grabs hold of a handful, then tugs, pulling Crowley's head back, and exposing his throat.

Crowley can do nothing to resist.

Lucifer holds him in this ungainly fashion, studying the way Crowley's Adam's apple is working up and down in his distress. He smiles, pleased, then leans in, and kisses the exposed jugular.

With Lucifer's right hand buried in Crowley's hair, he busies himself with his left, all the while continuing to kiss and lick the other Demon's vulnerable throat. Crowley can feel Lucifer's enjoyment, as well as hear his moans. He is revolted. There is no option of stopping him though, so all Crowley can do is close his eyes, and wait for Lucifer to release him.

Don't you want me plays through twice, loudly, before Lucifer has finished. He Miracles himself back to rights, and lets Crowley's head return to a more normal position. He keeps his hands locked tightly in his hair.

"Lovely, Darling, as always."

Although Crowley still has his eyes closed, he can feel the warmth of Lucifer's breath very close to his face.

"You love it, really. Don't you?"

Crowley doesn't.

Lucifer knows, and Lucifer laughs. "Till next time, my Sweet. Keep the hair. I like it," and with the tang of a Miracle, he starts to fade, the last thing to go is the feel of his nails, as they scrape against Crowley's scalp.

As soon as the paralysis ends, as soon as that hold is gone, Crowley's eyes snap open, and he jumps up, his stomach churning and queasy. He feels unclean. It is just as well The Bentley is back at the flat, as he Miracles himself straight to his ridiculously over-engineered shower.

The now-sullied clothes are gone in an instant, never to be re-Miracled, and the Demon is scrubbing himself under the near-scalding water.

His hair is painfully wrong. He Miracles it back to what it should be, but - it won't change. His hair refuses to be how he wishes.

Leaving the shower still running, Crowley takes a pair of scissors from the bathroom cabinet, and grabs hold of a crimson lock. He tries to snip a length, but - nothing happens. The scissors impotently gnash themselves on the tress, no matter how much pressure he brings to bear.

"Fuck!" The bastard! - what the fuck?! His hair, his own fucking hair, has steadfastly refused to change.

It will take another two weeks before Crowley will be able to re-assert control over his own body. The feel of Lucifer's hands, lips and breath, however, will take much longer to disappear.

Rewind 

Lucifer has been sitting for some time, watching his pretty toy.

Crowley has been radiating sadness and melancholy, poor thing. What he needs is cheering up again, and surely he is just the Demon for the job? If the Prince of Hell can't do it, then who can? Besides, all their years of shared history must count for something, right? He licks his lips at the visceral memories, already experiencing a deep arousal that will soon demand action.

He takes the opportunity to study Crowley, who is blissfully unaware of his gaze.

If his clothes were of a different style, Lucifer thinks, he would look like a pre-Raphaelite muse. Hmm, but he would need longer hair for that. Lucifer remembers times that Crowley has worn his hair long, and the intoxicating feel of his fingers wrapped around the curls.

He pulls out his phone, and taps through to his new and exciting playlist, one he has been adding to wherever the fancy takes him. It is called, rather wittily he thinks, How to Fuck with the Demon Crowley. Seems perfectly correct to him.

He selects the newest addition, and lets the opening bars of The Human League's classic blare out into the previously peaceful environs. That gets his attention.

Lucifer, with a mere thought, materialises next to Crowley, his own legs dangling over the abyss, in mirror-image of the other Demon. Another thought, and Crowley is frozen in place. Mmm indeed.

"Darling! There you are, you little scamp! I've been looking for you for ages!" He hasn't. Been looking for him that is. Lucifer has known exactly where his little duckling is at all times - he can't have him wriggling away again.

Lucifer smiles, and it is genuine, if a tad oily. That doesn't make it a good smile though. It is properly devilish. He takes a moment to feast his eyes on his immobilised plaything, and finds he is beginning to feel really quite peckish indeed.

"Sweetling, I don't have to hear any words from you, your lovely eyes tell me all." The hunger in him is growing, the increased proximity feeding his appetite. He leans further towards Crowley, and takes a deep breath in. He holds it, then breathes out, and proceeds to take several more sniffs of him.

Lucifer's stomach clenches with desire. In reaction to his attentions, Crowley shudders, which only makes the Demon's ardour expand. He laughs, taking great pleasure in the Serpent's disquiet.

Lucifer savours the scent of him. What is it? He seeks to uncover the complex aromas that make up Crowley. "Darling, mmm. Underneath lasts night's alcohol...you smell beautifully of...you. Whisky and coffee, the tiniest amount of Demonic brimstone, the scent of fresh fallen snow. Hmm."

Smelling just isn't enough though, so Lucifer sticks his tongue out, and licks Crowley's cheek. He tastes him, and then lets the touch continue down to his jawbone. Crowley shudders again, which is music to his soul, well, if he still had one that is.

That - oh, that hair of his! He thinks again of the Pre-Raphaelites, and their dream-like paintings. Yes, yes, that's what he should look like.

"You haven't had your hair long in quite some time..." Lucifer Miraculously changes Crowley's crowning glory, and strokes the now much longer tresses. "I think you should try your Eden ringlets again." Lucifer entwines his fingers through the glorious curls. They are soft and silky, and they make an even stronger whirl of desire pool in his abdomen.

"So pretty, all the better to hold onto you by." As he speaks, Lucifer yanks Crowley's head back, using his hair as a convenient handhold. It isn't the first time he has made use of that red mane in such a glorious fashion.

Lucifer spends some time enjoying the way Crowley's Adam's apple moves up and down. The Demon is clearly in distress, but it only adds to his insatiable hunger. He grins, and leans in to kiss him - his lips, tongue, and teeth exploring the exposed Demon's throat. He sucks hard, leaving Crowley with a love bite to remember him by. It isn't nearly enough though. Lucifer hasn't been planning to get himself off on this particular visit, but now that he is here, so close...

It's the hair that's done it, it's pushed him right over the edge.

With his right hand firmly engaged in Crowley's hair, he Miracles his flies open, his erect cock pinging out delightfully. He can feel Crowley's horror, and Lucifer shivers with pleasure, wrapping his left hand around his erection. He continues to kiss and lick Crowley's pretty, vulnerable neck, and chin - any part of him he can reach. He moans into Crowley's warm flesh, until at last he comes, finishing poetically with the last beats of the song, second time around.

Lucifer Miracles himself back to pristine, and allows Crowley's head to fall forwards into a normal position.

"Lovely, Darling, as always," he says breathily. Crowley has his eyes closed, whilst Lucifer's lips are almost touching Crowley's cheek, as he says, "You love it, really. Don't you?" Mmm. He can feel the waves of the other Demon's distress, and he laughs with pleasure, knowing that Crowley will come running in the end.

"Till next time, my Sweet. Keep the hair, I like it," and he starts to fade out, away from the river bank, but keeps the touch of his hair until the last moment, his long fingernails clawing his scalp.

Back in his receiving room, Lucifer sighs in contentment. What a perfectly lovely little trip out. Now, what songs should he add next?

Notes:

Don't You Want Me by The Human League

Chapter 4: Pause :⏸️

Summary:

Lucifer has a pause in his playlist.

Now that he has had some time to reflect on their last encounter, Lucifer rather feels that he has somewhat put the cart before the horse. His (specific) Demon ensnaring-slash-trapping plan, might have gotten a little ahead of him.

It is Crowley's hair that has been his Achilles heel. It had...reminded him of certain things, and he had showed his hand (and possibly something else) earlier than he had planned to. Hmm.

Of course, he can compel Crowley any time he wants to, but where is the fun in that? He wants the other Demon to come to him (and for him), and having him dead-eyed whilst doing so doesn't quite do it for Lucifer. He's tried it before, on lowly humans, and doesn't feel it suits him. He thinks it impinges on his professional credibility, and as a Master Seducer, being able to get anyone into bed is a huge part of his job description.

If he is reduced to compelling, then how could he show his face? Besides, he has been ensnaring Crowley for millennia, he knows every inch of him, from top to bottom. He knows what makes him tick.

Among the Demons, aside from Crowley, Lucifer has only been with a few of the Erics. They are quite pretty, but once you've had one, you've had all nine hundred, and ninety-nine of them. Crowley, his Original Tempter, has always been his go-to. Lately, roughly the last thousand years or so, he's been much harder to pin down...both literally and figuratively.

Lucifer has often had to be more wily than by rights he should have needed to be, and after all the current upset, Crowley should have been jumping without hesitation into his bed. He'll have to up his game this time, but the prize is more than worth it.

As much as it will pain him, Lucifer is going to have to falsely apologise. He shudders, but surely it won't count when he doesn't mean it?

How do the humans do it? Overpriced flowers, and sickly chocolates seem to be the usual method of pretending to say sorry. An insincere case of wine, perhaps? Yes, it could work. Crowley will be so overcome with gratitude, he'll whip all his clothes off there and then.

What could possibly go wrong? Lucifer is quite certain his plan will prove fruitful.

He Miracles himself to the door of Crowley's flat. Annoyingly, he can't actually go inside, as the Demon has had the audacity to Ward the place. He supposes that is a reaction to Hastur and Ligur's little escapade. Satan had been mightily cross with all that, and will only hold the grudge for the next millennia or so.

Lucifer presses the snake-shaped buzzer. After several moments, the door is unlocked, and opened.

"Yes? Oh, fuck off!" Crowley makes to close the door, but Lucifer sticks his foot in before he is able to complete the operation.

"Darling! You look terrible! But your hair is divine!" Crowley looks like he's been suffering from a hangover from Hell, but his hair is still in perfect ringlets. Lucifer feels his arousal start to build, but it really isn't his fault that Crowley's hair is so wanton. It absolutely isn't.

And, oh - look. He is wearing that slutty little turtleneck.

"How are you, duckling? How is," and Lucifer indicates on himself where he'd given Crowley the love bite, "nice and big, I hope?"

"I want you to leave me alone." Crowley speaks through gritted teeth, and he is still trying to close the door.

"But Sweetie, I've brought you all this to apologise!" Lucifer spreads his arms wide.

"What? All - ?"

The hallway is suddenly filled with hundreds of black and purple roses, oodles of boxes of chocolates, and a stack of wine crates.

"For you, my Darling. I thought you might have been a little cross after our...tiff...the other day."

"A tiff?! You entitled prick! I don't want anything to do with you! You need to accept that!"

"Crowley, my dear, you and I both know you want me really. You just like to be chased."

"No, I don't! I'm not under Hell's obligations any more, I don't have to do anything with you! Leave me alone!" Crowley redoubles his efforts to close the door. It is well for Lucifer that he has boots made of Hell-wrought steel.

"Please. It's not as if you haven't seduced anyone before, now is it?" Lucifer has conveniently chosen to forget, that Crowley would have faced Hell's punishment if he had refused orders, and he is pleased to see the redness of shame suffusing Crowley's cheeks.

"I never forced anyone."

"No, but you pouted prettily, and wiggled that arse of yours."

"Fuck off!" Changing his technique, Crowley opens his door a small way, causing Lucifer to stumble as his weight shifts. The other Demon uses his foot to knock Lucifer backwards, and slams the door shut behind him.

"Then I'll leave these out here for you, Darling."

Once Crowley has accepted his gifts, he'll be putty in Lucifer's hands. All things considered, he thinks that has all gone rather well.

Chapter 5: Track Four: Tainted love

Summary:

It all began amongst the stars.

Sometimes I feel I've got to
Run away, I've got to
Get away from the pain you drive into the heart of me
The love we share
Seems to go nowhere
And I've lost my light
For I toss and turn, I can't sleep at night

Lucifer has left Crowley alone for a smidge under two months (the restraint he's shown!).

Not that he's been unmonitored of course, as Lucifer has known his whereabouts for more or less all those weeks. He has merely wanted Crowley to feel lost and abandoned, lonely and unloved.

They are heading towards the endgame now. Crowley and Lucifer have performed this dance many times across the millennia, and it always ends in the same way.

Crowley, the shameless little thing he is, plays hard-to-get, and Lucifer uses all the wiles at his disposal to persuade the Demon that what Lucifer wants, is also what Crowley wants. It's a delicious game, with Crowley pulling away, but only because he likes Lucifer to catch him.

It had started in starlight.

Lucifer Morningstar had been the brightest and loveliest of the Host. Wherever he went, other Angels would flock to see him, their admiration clear in their eyes.

And Lucifer went everywhere.

He had worked across each and every celestial discipline, showcasing his vast intellect in the process, and had come into contact with angelic ranks from every section of Heaven. He was able to let his gaze roam freely among those blessed choirs of Angels, allowing his eye to be caught by only the prettiest. Of course there were the also-rans, not beautiful enough to please him, but still useful in their mundane way.

Over time, some of these more easily influenced Angels started to seek him out, their yearning motivating them to spend their hours in his company. They were the first to flock to his banner when the Call came. Lucifer had discovered the Art of Manipulation, and, oh - he was good at it. A brief smile here, a tiny touch there, and he would have them eating out of his hand.

His portfolio was indeed wide and varied, but one section he found to be particularly interesting, much more so than the rest. Lucifer was in charge of human development, and he saw what was planned to allow the creatures to make more humans. Two (at least) were required for the process, it looked like fun, and Lucifer was keen to try it for himself. 

He wanted the first time for anyone in existence, to be special. Obviously, he would be the star of this show, and he needed a supporting partner, but who to choose?

There were plenty of Celestials who would give their eye-teeth to do absolutely anything he asked, but an Angel who was easily caught however, or who more or less offered themselves up to him, were no sport. His tastes ran to those who, initially at least, seemed immune to his charms, or were too shy to say yes straight away. They had to be pretty, of course, as he had no time for those aesthetically inferior. These parameters narrowed down the field, but even so, Lucifer was able to pick and choose.

One, not day because days hadn't been invented yet, Lucifer was out amongst the Stars, when he came across a solitary Angel. He was busily wrapped up in his task, apparently constructing a Star Factory. Lucifer had smiled, knowing that this was the one, and that this pretty Angel would be his.

The Angel had made it so easy for him. He was sweet, and clever, enthusiastic, and vaguely dissatisfied with the running of Heaven, and so very, very lonely. Lucifer had arranged his most open and honest expression over his countenance, and called out to the red haired Angel.

"Hello!"

The Angel had turned immediately, and as Lucifer had known would happen, bright lights manifested themselves in his warm brown eyes at the sight of the Morningstar. The lovely Angel, bowled over at being spoken to by God's most favoured, had been unable to even utter a word.

"I've come all this way to see you, perhaps you could spare me some of your valuable time?" Lucifer was already accomplished at pushing buttons, and this one had his buttons so near the surface, Lucifer could practically see them.

The Starmaker had been tongue-tied, and unable to meet Lucifer's gaze. He had stammered and blushed, and Lucifer had fallen in lust with him there and then. The red haired Angel hadn't known it yet, but he was going to be Lucifer's first lover. It never occurred to him that the Angel would say no; what the Morningstar wanted, the Morningstar got.

It had always been thus.

Lucifer had been the First of Her Angels, the most handsome, the most brilliant, and his light had shone brighter than the all others. Was it any wonder that he had Ambition and Drive? And Want and Desire? All others followed in his beautiful wake, and were less than. It only stood to cold, hard logic, that he should take from those who were Lesser.

His pretty little Starmaker had shown him all he'd been working on. Lucifer professed interest, pretending some dull corner of the Heavens had anything worthy of his time. The Angel had been so pleased with his attention, that when Lucifer had said he would be back soon to see him, he had let out an adorable squeal. Lucifer looked forward to making him squeal for other, less innocent, reasons.

The mighty Morningstar knew just how to play his little Star, and didn't return for several weeks. When he did, he excused himself with all the pressures of work he was under. His Star was so grateful to see him, that when Lucifer suggested they go and see another part of Her Creation, he had agreed at once.

Lucifer called on him more frequently after that, and the Angel found himself being reeled in by the Rockstar of Heaven.

Eventually, Lucifer had decided his Star was primed enough, and had taken him to the lush Elysian Fields. It was beautiful, and remote, and Lucifer's little Star had willingly laid down for him. He had been so pretty, and perfect, and he had come undone in Lucifer's hands. After that, Lucifer kept him on a short rein, as he would brook no other having a claim on him. A foolish Principality, of all things, had gazed lovingly on his Angel, but he was so far beneath Lucifer's notice, that he had left him to his pining. He could look, but he could not touch.

War had come to Heaven, and then the Fall. Lucifer's Star had stayed his, and off limits to all others. When Eden became a thing, Crawley had been singled out for his tempting body and pretty face, and had been chosen to go up, and make some trouble. He should have been able to keep himself out of that trouble, but had instead become entangled with the Principality. Lucifer had been of the opinion that She had had something to do with that.

And now his dear little Star, his squirmy Serpent, is sad and lonely, and just ripe for Lucifer's brand of manipulation persuasion. He has added more songs to his playlist for Crowley. Today's is Tainted Love, and the tracks are stacking up nicely.

He is soon going to pay Crowley another visit, and won't that be lovely for him?

Notes:

Tainted Love by Soft Cell

Chapter 6: Track Five: Lullaby (Reprise)

Summary:

Lucifer is keen to try the menu, after all, he is very hungry.

It is late autumn.

The air is full of chilling mists, and the land is wet with never-ending rain. The skies have been grey for seemingly weeks, the sun but a distant memory, and Crowley does not remember the last time he smiled, or felt joy. There is a tiny scrap of hope left, but that is the worst feeling of all. It is the last vestige that Crowley can't bear to part with - the piece that keeps him from giving up entirely, but tortures his soul with hints of possibility.

Five months or so since Aziraphale had gone, and he has heard neither sight nor sound from him. Probably too rushed off his feet, being busy and important, to even remember he exists.

The Demon is in a metaphorical hole. It is deep and dark and cold, and Crowley has no idea how to get himself out of it, or even if he wants to. What will he do if he makes it to the top? There is no one to see when he gets there, and no one to help him out of the darkness.

How can there be? He is already forsaken by all. God and Heaven in the first instance, then by Hell, and now by Aziraphale. His Angel, or at least he thought he had been his. Maybe. Nearly.

"Oh Crowley. Nothing lasts forever."

Even after that, Crowley had still tried. He had kissed Aziraphale in a desperate attempt to show him how he felt, but that had gone down like a lead balloon.

Aziraphale had wielded those words like a slap to the face. His face, and now he is alone, and so very lonely. The Angel had made a choice, and it was not him.

Crowley is currently sitting on a bench, in one of the London Parks. Not St. James, as for obvious reasons, he has no inclination to go back there.

In a bid to divert the worst of the rain from soaking him, he had had the presence of mind to Miracle a small umbrella above his head, and to have also dried the seat before sitting down. That had been quite some time ago, however, and the rain has found ways to insistently creep around his defences.

Crowley can't find it in himself to move from his bench, even though he is cold, damp, tired, and so very sad. Those aren't tears that have slipped from his eyes, and even if they were, they would merely be mistaken for rain.

Few humans have been foolish enough to venture out on such a day, leaving the park quiet, and with hardly anyone to witness the Demon sitting despairingly on his bench, with only his pained melancholy for company.

The sound of a Miracle comes from his left.

Crowley turns to see Lucifer seated next to him, completely dry, and immaculately presented, so unlike his drowned-rat self.

Crowley hasn't taken the trouble to bother with his appearance for a while now, and his hair flops over one lens of his glasses, obscuring the view on the right side, and he is wearing black clothes that, unusually for Crowley, swamp him.

"Hello Darling. What brings you here, on a day like this?"

Crowley frowns. Lucifer's voice is warm and kind, his eyes likewise. It is Lucifer, and Crowley knows all his tricks, but...he is also a known face, familiar, someone who has obviously taken the trouble to find him (unlike certain others). He knows the tricks, but... He is so low, he so needs someone to care for him.

He is feeling vulnerable, and exposed, and maybe he needs someone to help make it better, but not that he'll ever be able to admit that.

"I could ask you the same thing?" Crowley's voice is husky through lack of use. It doesn't have the cool and aloof vibe he'd been going for.

Lucifer lets loose one of his blinding smiles. "Shall we go somewhere warm and dry?"

So saying, he takes hold of Crowley's elbow, and they are at once in a country pub, with a toasty fire blazing in the grate, heating the surrounding air. Crowley blinks at the very un-Lucifer like setting.

"I can do reasonably nice." Lucifer's voice is all honey and caramel tones, rich and gloriously pleasant. It insidiously wraps around Crowley's frozen insides, starting to thaw him out, and beguile his senses.

Crowley knows his tricks, he's seen them all at one point or another, he knows what had been done to him at the stream (and a thousand other times), but... He is so alone, and lonely, and tired, and wretched. Any kindness, no matter how small, feels huge and balm-like to his soul, and he can't stop the look of gratitude that passes over his face.

Lucifer gives him his warm smile again, and says he is going to get them a drink each.

~~~~~

Lucifer leaves his bedraggled Demon sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire.

Poor thing. He had looked so desperate sitting on that bench, so ripe for the plucking, wearing those ridiculous clothes that cover all his attributes. That won't be a problem for long, however.

They have been here, Crowley and him, so many times before. Admittedly, Lucifer hasn't played the game as well as he usually would have, but that is because it's been too long since he's partaken of Crowley, and he is hungry. It had made him impatient, overly-eager, and he had revealed his hand too soon. No matter. They have arrived at the destination despite Lucifer's errors fervour, just as it was always destined to be. Crowley is his, still on that leash, his lovely little toy to play with.

He orders two whiskies, and brings them back to the fire, to find Crowley shivering non-stop.

"You're cold and drenched, let's get you dry and warm. May I?"

Crowley can only nod around his chattering teeth. Lucifer performs his Miracle, and the other Demon is back to looking as he should. Perfectly presented, and hot. The awful baggy clothes have gone, replaced by the Demon's customary tight jeans, slim-fitting shirt, and blazer. The only item Crowley had worn, that Lucifer allows him to keep, is his snakey-scarf.

His hair is styled (not with the ringlets that Lucifer would like, more's the pity, but probably best not to remind Crowley of those quite just yet) in a smart and attractive quiff. Much better.

Crowley looks down at himself, uncertainty visible throughout his corporation. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Lucifer's smile this time is slow and languid. Gratitude is the precursor to bedding him.

Whenever they play their eternal game, Lucifer will know just where Crowley is on the fucking scale, how much effort he will still have to expend to land him, and how long he will have to wait to enjoy the Demon's charms. Not long now.

"I would ask you how you have been keeping, but by the looks of it, not well." Kindly and interested, that is the way to play it, and Crowley falls for it every time. You would think he'd have learnt by now. Lucifer is glad he hasn't, but then Crowley wants this as well. He just tells himself he doesn't.

"It's been...that is, um... No, not great." Crowley is still shivering, so with a wave of Lucifer's fingers, the fire burns hotter, its correspondingly increased light, flickering out into the room, and over the Demon's face.

"Better?" More gratitude to stoke Crowley's willingness.

"Yes," he says softly.

Lucifer speaks seductively to him as he plies him with more alcohol. He has no idea what is said, but it doesn't matter, it is all just the amuse bouche to the main dish.

The afternoon darkens early, not that it has ever been truly light with all the rain. They drink, and talk, long into the evening, with Lucifer sending the fire roaring upwards whenever it begins to crumble into ash. Crowley, with each passing minute, falls more and more into his waiting arms, despite still being sat on the armchair opposite him.

Eventually, Lucifer decides the plum is ready to be plucked.

"I think you need to get to bed, I know how you like your sleep. They have rooms here - come, I'll help you up."

Crowley is so far gone in his whisky and sadness, he doesn't notice the wolfish grin as he's helped up out of the chair. Lucifer loves this bit, as the chase is nearing its thrilling climax. Crowley has always made it too easy, simply more proof of his willingness to be captured.

Lucifer leads the way upstairs, where his room is already waiting. He gently pushes Crowley inside, shutting the door with a tap of his foot. He further shepherds Crowley to the bed, where he turns him, so they are now facing each other.

He takes a moment to digest his win, and then removes Crowley's glasses, closing them with a snap. Such sad eyes, such desperate eyes. Too easy, but Lucifer is going to enjoy his meal no less for that, his appetite more than primed, and ready for the feast.

Lucifer reaches out his hand, and gently strokes the other Demon's touch-starved cheek. Crowley leans slightly into the out-stretched hand, and a shiver runs through his body.

Ah, there we are. Lucifer's other hand does the same to the opposite cheek, then ever-so-subtly, he pulls Crowley towards him. Their lips touch, Lucifer careful not to frighten his duckling away. Slow kiss to start, then wait for just the right moment...and now Crowley is kissing him back. His little Demon trap has just sprung, their game at its zenith. Crowley is his once again, and he has no plans to let him scamper off any time soon.

The kiss becomes hungrier, and more intense, both Demons wanting more. One of them is fully in control of himself, having orchestrated the entire final seduction: the other, desperate and vulnerable, and at the mercy of the former. Fortunately for Lucifer, he has no qualms when it comes to taking advantage.

Clothes begin coming off, to be littered on the floor in the quest to get naked as quickly as possible. Lucifer pushes the now disrobed Crowley backwards onto the bed, before straddling him, and pinning his arms either side of his head. He takes another moment to look, to enjoy his victory (again), before continuing to reclaim his Demon.

Lucifer is going to keep Crowley up until the dawn.

~~~~~

Dawn has come.

Crowley is now asleep (what is it with him and sleeping? No other Being bothers with it), and the night has been delicious.

Now that Lucifer has his rein firmly back around Crowley's neck, he won't have to put in all this work again. The Demon is all his, with his slinky hips, and golden eyes, his slutty slimness, and his silky red hair. His vulnerabilities all just begging to be exploited.

Lucifer lightly brushes a few strands of hair off Crowley's face. He feels...something for his Demon.

Not love exactly, or maybe it is? If love is jealous, and controlling, and mine, then maybe?

He'll be sure to mention their current sleeping arrangements to Aziraphale when he next sees him. The Metatron has recently started monthly meetings between Lucifer and the lowly Principality, and for some demonic reason known only to himself, Satan has gone along with it. He is due to see His Grace, the Supreme Archangel, in just over three weeks, and he will take great delight in rubbing the prissy Angel's face in all the salacious details. 

Lucifer smiles at the pleasing thought, then pulls out his phone, and scrolls to his Crowley playlist. After a moments consideration, he chooses Lullaby, and the eerie notes of his victory song began to circulate through the room.

Chapter 7: Track Six: Somebody That I Used To Know

Summary:

Lucifer attends a meeting with the Supreme Archangel. He plans on telling him some interesting news.

But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothin'
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger, and that feels so rough

Aziraphale is unimpressed.

Shortly after he first returned to Heaven, The Metatron had informed Aziraphale that he would need to attend occasional Heaven and Hell update meetings. They are not something that fills the Angel with joy, though to be fair, few things in Heaven manage that.

He has been waiting for fifteen minutes for Lucifer to grace him with his presence. The Demon is exactly as you would expect him to be; narcissistic, nasty, and out to satisfy all his cravings and desires.

The Devilish Prince makes Aziraphale's skin crawl.

He has never forgotten how Lucifer had at first manipulated, and then enticed, the sweet Angel that Crowley had once been, into his depraved and possessive clutches. He isn't entirely sure that the Prince of Hell has ever given up, what he would consider, to be his claim on the Demon.

Aziraphale is sitting in the soulless corporate room that has been set aside for these encounters. It is part of some ghastly steel and glazing monstrosity, cooked up by a team of avant garde architects, that had been constructed on a former brown field site in London. 

With a sigh, he checks his watch, and confirms the Demon is quarter past late.

He shifts slightly on the hard chair, and takes in a lungful of the cold and stale recycled air. In his boredom, Aziraphale begins tapping out a staccato rhythm on the table. It sounds like frustration.

Another five minutes drags by, still with no entrance from Lucifer.

His already thin patience with all this is about to break. This is the third meeting they've had since he became Supreme Archangel, and Lucifer can never resist the opportunity to impress upon Aziraphale, just how lowly he considers him. He still looks at Aziraphale and only sees a Principality, a Being so far beneath his own Rank and Station that he finds it laughable. Aziraphale tries to not let it bother him, but it is not an easy task, not when Lucifer rubs disdain into each and every look he throws in his direction.

He continues with his drumming, his fingers hitting the surface loudly in his annoyance. If Lucifer doesn't appear within the next five minutes, he is off, regardless of what The Metatron will have to say about it.

Just as Aziraphale is about to give up, he hears a modern song begin to play. He hasn't heard it before (no surprises there), and as the chords find their way to his ears, Aziraphale feels a shiver cast down his spine. The music is darkly beautiful, but eerie, and when the almost inaudible lyrics start, he is uncomfortably reminded of...

Lucifer.

He strolls into the meeting room with an easy grace, an abundance of Personality that threatens to sweep away all else before it, and a sickening smirk that is altogether too knowing.

When Lucifer smiles, it is a mirror to a crocodile, one who has just spotted a juicy young gazelle, standing unaware at the water's edge. It could also be he's spied an unworldly antelope, or maybe desires to sink his fangs into an innocent zebra - in truth, it doesn't matter who the mark is, whoever the poor individual might be, they are set to be devoured by someone who holds all the power.

The music continues to play in the background, and despite circumspectly looking around, Aziraphale cannot tell from where the sound actually comes from.

The Demon sits himself down on a chair with a flourish, leaning back, and swinging his feet up onto the table. Aziraphale takes him in with one contemptuous glance.

There is no denying that Lucifer is good looking. Aziraphale can recognise that fact, whilst being completely immune from it, and actively repulsed. The Being appals him.

Aziraphale frowns, rolls his eyes, and tuts at his ill-mannered actions. Not that he's surprised at this complete lack of respect.

"Really!" The feet-on-the-table contempt is such an encapsulation of the way the Demon treats him. Aziraphale would rather do almost anything than put up with him, and in a show of his own derision, he leans pointedly back in his seat, eager to be as far away from Lucifer as possible.

The newly arrived Demon only grins wider, seemingly making a big deal out of rearranging his legs for better comfort. Aziraphale cannot stop his eyes from being drawn to the ostentatious, and thoroughly boorish, display.

Lucifer is wearing black leather riding boots. He doesn't know whether this is unusual for him, but the Demon appears, for whatever reason, to want him to notice them. Why?

"I've been indulging in some Demonic bareback riding," the cloyingly rich voice breaks into Aziraphale's thoughts.

He knows there will be some ulterior motive for having used this particular line, but he is unable to parse the meaning. Do Demons have horses?

He raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and Lucifer, clearly enjoying himself, cackles nastily in response. Aziraphale's frown deepens, as his brow furrows further, and he casts his gaze back to Lucifer's face. "Oh? How enjoyable for you, I suppose."

Lucifer will reveal the answer at some point in their conversation, choosing the moment when he feels it will upset Aziraphale the most. The Demon does so love his little games.

Aziraphale thinks he should begin, and then maybe they can get this meeting over with all the sooner, but it is proving very distracting with that incessant music playing. The first song morphs into the second, and as before, it is one he is unfamiliar with. Apparently, there is such a thing as a Killing Moon.

Lucifer just continues with his inane grinning, his boots still positioned in centre stage.

There should be a word, Aziraphale reflects, for a faux smile that is quite so dark and twisted. One that never reaches the eyes, or if it does, only reflects the darkness of the Grinner's soul. Pity that there isn't, as the dictionary definition is sitting directly opposite him.

With a satisfied sigh, Lucifer takes his feet off the table, and places them firmly on the floor. He seems to feel that whatever his point is, it has now been well and truly made. Aziraphale, however, is still none-the-wiser.

The Metatron has informed him of precisely what information he wants passed on, and Aziraphale does try to give it to Lucifer. It covers...well, not a lot really. He thinks that all this bumph is really just smoke and mirrors; a ruse to obscure what is really happening with the Second Coming. Why exactly they have to go through with this charade, he can't rightly say. Lucifer, the master of tricks and cons, no doubt sees it for what it is. Aziraphale very much does not.

The mysterious music has switched to another song, and this one he has heard of. Don't You Want Me. Aziraphale can remember seeing Crowley with his New Romantic look at the time, all frilly shirts, military-style jackets, and dramatic make-up. He'd worn it so well. The memory brings Aziraphale to a stop.

It has been so terribly long since he's seen his Demon, and he misses him dreadfully. If he is to stop the Second Coming, he will need Crowley's help. Surely he'll come to Aziraphale's aid, on such an important matter? They can deal with that, and then...and then.... There is still hope? Is it possible, after all that has happened?

Aziraphale becomes aware that Lucifer's smile has flagged; belatedly, he realises that he must have been lost in thought. The Demon won't have liked that, as the peacock wants to be the centre of attention at all times.

Now Lucifer fixes Aziraphale with his searchlight gaze, and he finds it most unsettling.

"Tell me Angel," Aziraphale flinches at Lucifer using that name, "when you left Earth, did you take everything you needed?"

"Sorry?" Aziraphale looks in puzzlement at the Demon. Why would he be asking that of all things?

"I had everything I would need when I reached Heaven." Aziraphale knows that Lucifer is trying to catch him out, he just cannot fathom over what.

Lucifer's smile begins to reclaim its place on his countenance, for all the world like a scorpion basking on a rock. His mouth is as poisonous as Leiurus Quinquestriatus, with its lethal neurotoxin, and colloquial moniker of Death Stalker.

"You didn't, perhaps, leave something of value behind?" Lucifer is being even more irritating than usual in this meeting.

There is something, though, about this line of needling that strikes Aziraphale as somewhat...personal. His hackles are rising, and he wants to leave as soon as possible. He suspects, though, that Lucifer isn't ready to let him off the hook just yet.

"There was my Bookshop, I suppose, but that has been in safe hands."

"Ah, yes, your Bookshop. One of my Demons would often come to see you there." Lucifer is using his most unctuous voice, one he could probably oil a whole fleet of cars with.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asks, then curses himself for having mentioned him in Lucifer's presence. He can see in Lucifer's black hole eyes that this is what he has been waiting for, and a cold and uncomfortable sensation settles in his stomach.

Aziraphale, a nasty suspicion now forming in his mind, seeks to keep his voice both imperious, and neutral. "What...what have you done with the Demon Crowley?" He fails with his aim on both counts.

"Oh, Supreme Archangel, it's not so much a case of what have I done with Crowley, more...what I have done to Crowley."

Aziraphale's mouth sets into a hard line, his insides swirling with dread. What has Lucifer done?

"When you left the way you did, poor Crowley was quite out of sorts. He has always been so prone to melancholy, and this time, well...your betrayal has brought him very low." 

Aziraphale flinches at the word choice. "Where is Crowley?!"

"Look at you." Contempt drips from Lucifer's mouth. "The Principality, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Hmm." The Demon is enjoying this, getting a kick out of toying with him. "Perhaps you should have remembered who you were, before you abandoned Crowley, and left him to the mercies of others."

"You mean you," he scoffs, "and your mercies. Where is he? If you've harmed him in any way..?"

The meeting's boring, Metatron-flavoured agenda, is completely forgotten, whilst the background playlist continues on, ignored by both Beings.

"I haven't harmed Crowley, I think you'll find that you have inflicted the most damage."

"What - me? I would never -"

"Oh come now, Guardian, you wounded him significantly when you left. You know you did."

Aziraphale's cheeks are turning a dark shade of reddish shame.

"A wound Crowley has not recovered from, and it's only gotten worse." Lucifer pauses, presumably to give a chance for his words to sink in.

Aziraphale feels as if he's been slapped around the face, and it is all the worse because he suspects that what Lucifer is saying, is the terrible truth. "I..." His hands are flapping nervously.

Lucifer is aware of the tidal wave of emotion crashing onto the Angel's personal shores, and this only makes him smugger than ever. "Do you know what I did?" The brute smiles, and puts his right hand into his pocket. "I gave comfort and support to Crowley." 

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, and wags his left index finger, all whilst making a tsk sound with his tongue. "Do you know what else I did?" He slowly licks his lips, and there is a quite obscene quality to it.

Aziraphale's stomach has apparently dropped to the floor. What has he done to Crowley?

"Have you ever had him, Aziraphale?" Lucifer's eyes are flashing with a superior nastiness.

"What?" the Angel is discombobulated by the non-sequitur.

"You know what I mean. Have you ever engaged in sexual activity with our pretty Demon?"

Aziraphale's face is both red with embarrassment, and simultaneously, white with dread, for whatever Lucifer is going to say next.

"I'm going to take that as a no, then. You surprise me, although why you've restrained yourself, I have no idea." Lucifer does look genuinely perplexed at this revelation. "I'm pleased though, as I wouldn't want your grubby little hands on my property. I've fucked him, Aziraphale. Yesterday, and this morning. Last week, and the weeks before that."

Aziraphale is trying to take in what the Demon is saying. No. No, Crowley wouldn't have anything to do with him...would he? Or has...has Lucifer forced him?

It's almost as if he can read his mind.

"The poor little thing was so lost that he gave himself to me, quite freely. You hurt him so badly, Aziraphale, that all I had to do was wait."

"Stop! Lucifer, I -"

"No. You don't get to tell me anything." Lucifer slowly withdraws his hand from where it has been stationed in his trouser pocket. "I had Crowley whimpering with pleasure."

There is something held in his long fingers, and Aziraphale finds himself unable to look away.

"I reduced to him a quivering pile of Demonic lust."

What is it?

"I brought him to the brink over, and over again. He moans so beautifully when he comes."

Aziraphale abruptly stands, Righteous Fury pooling in his hand. At the same time, the mystery object finally escapes its prison, and lightly dangles in the air. After a half moment's consideration, Aziraphale understands what it is.

It is a long, thin, silvery, slinky scarf, one that he has seen worn on innumerable occasions, by one particular individual. It is proof that the Demon in front of him has been with Crowley. 

Lucifer sees his recognition, and laughs, then without warning, he is suddenly behind him, and whispers in his ear. "I fucked him good."

Aziraphale spins around, all ready to Smite, but there is nothing to see but empty air; of Lucifer there is no trace, except for the unpleasant scent of brimstone. Strangely, the music is still playing.

Now you're just somebody that I used to know...

"Oh Crowley!" Aziraphale sits heavily back down in his seat. His eyes close, and his heart beats fast and furiously, as the full force of Lucifer's spite hits him.

~~~~~

Lucifer walks away from his meeting with the Supreme fucking Archangel with a spring in his step. All that had gone wonderfully well.

He has a few odd jobs to take care of first, then he is going to go back to the hotel room, and bend Crowley over a particularly fine desk he's acquired from a stupid, but highly affluent, Human. Lucifer smirks, and as he goes, he thinks of another song to add to his playlist.

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fucking special

Perfect.

Notes:

Somebody That I Used To Know by Gotye

Creep by Radiohead

Chapter 8: Track Seven: Every Breath You Take

Summary:

Lucifer tells a frustrated Crowley all about his day.

Lucifer has had a marvellous day so far.

True, his few odd jobs had morphed into a few more, but when they were all so entertaining, he can hardly complain.

After his, quite frankly exquisite meeting, with that jumped up arse of a Supreme Archangel (oh, he'd enjoyed that so much), Lucifer had continued on in his destructive way.

He'd spent some of his valuable time down in the depths of Hell. Lucifer looked on it as Fear in the Community, a programme he'd started to make sure his denizens didn't feel neglected. It wouldn't do for the Prince of Hell to be seen favouring only newcomers with his whips and chains, and leaving out those who were already enjoying Demonic Hospitality. He had a reputation to maintain after all, and those who received his personal attention should consider themselves lucky.

After that, he'd attended a meeting with several politicians, and planted a seed or two that he knew would eventually germinate, bringing about happily catastrophic results. To be fair, he hadn't needed to do much, as the Right Honourable Members were already halfway there on their own.

A beautifully presented Afternoon Tea, complete with tiny cakes and sandwiches, was shared with a very rich Oil Baron. This had led to certain undertakings that in turn, would lead to a merry harvest further down the road.

And now, fresh from his Demonic Work, he is on his way back to his favourite Demon. If he'd taken the precaution of locking him in the room before leaving, then he could hardly be blamed.

Lucifer is not willing to take the chance that his slippery snake will wriggle away from his grasp, and after Crowley's (very) recent little tantrum, where he had managed to elude him for two days, Lucifer has had to step up his security arrangements.

What he has, he keeps. Even if it means spending time tracking him down, then reeling him back in.

But that's all water under the bridge, and forgotten (especially when the key is in his pocket).

He has taken pleasure in having thought of another song to add to his Playlist, but how he has not come up with it before, Lucifer can't say. It's so obvious! A classic! He hums it as he arrives at the discreet hotel he has commandeered rooms in.

Every breath you take
And every move you make
Every bond you break
Every step you take
I'll be watching you

Every game you play
Every night you stay
I'll be watching you

Oh, can't you see
You belong to me?

Lucifer unlocks the door with a wave of his hand, combined with physical object insertion, then enters. Crowley is holding his phone, and pacing like a caged animal. He snarls out his greeting, as Lucifer glides elegantly inside.

"You fucking locked me in! I want out!" 

Bless, as if he has a choice in the matter. "Darling, it was for your own good." Lucifer's voice is smooth and deep, its tones catching all who hear it in the solar plexus. He can see Crowley falter momentarily, before rallying quite heroically.

"My own good?" and he pockets the phone in one easy gesture. "What do you take me for?" He storms up to Lucifer, and shouts in his face. "I'm not one of your...your...playthings!"

It is so sweet when Crowley lies to himself, he just needs a little more training to appreciate the position he has (once again) had bestowed upon him. If he talks to him like that again, though, then Lucifer might need to employ a gentle correction technique.

There is one sure and certain way to take the wind out of his sails. Lucifer had been going to leave it until later, when they were in bed together, but apparently needs must when the Devil drives.

"I had a meeting with the Supreme Archangel this morning," he tells him cheerfully.

Crowley freezes at the words. "What? I don't... Why would you.. What..?"

Ah, Crowley rendered incapable of formulating a sentence, leaving a helpful spot to push the knife in. Lucifer's day is just getting better and better. "We have to meet occasionally, discuss...this and that. All boring of course."

"I didn't know that. How...how is he?"

Lucifer is careful to keep his crocodilian smile under wraps. His poor duckling looks so floored by the mere mention of the Principality, it would be a complete shame if he were to twist the knife. Wouldn't it?

"Wearing a very expensive suit, all pure white, except for his eyes. They've gone that ghastly lilac Heaven is so fond of."

Crowley, despite trying to look at least a little casual (at which he is failing miserably), retreats to the bed, and sits down heavily.

As if Lucifer can't read every last inch of him.

"Did...did he ask about...me?"

Silly fool, Aziraphale would have had no idea that he was anywhere near Crowley, not until he told him, at least. It shows how fucked up normally-clever Crowley is, that he hasn't understood that simple fact. It really is becoming hard to keep the smirk off his face.

"The Supreme Archangel is very busy with all his many tasks. He did, though, mention you." Crowley's desperate little face looks at him so beseechingly, it is almost enough to make Lucifer play nice. "He asked me if I had seen you lately." He pauses, as he wants to give Crowley enough rope to (metaphorically) hang himself.

Wait for it...

"What...did you say?"

"Why, I told the truth, I'm hardly likely to lie before one of God's most Holiest Soldiers. Besides, it's not a secret, you are still a Demon, and under my...command, even if you are retired." Lucifer can see Crowley processing the information.

"What did Aziraphale say to that?"

And there it is: proof that even the smartest will walk into a trap if it is carefully set, and thoroughly concealed.

"I don't think you'll like it," that pained expression appears again, "but if you insist. He said, and I quote, 'It didn't take him long to go running back to you'". Crowley gasps as the words hit. "'I suppose he jumped straight back in your bed, did he?'"

"Why would he say that? Aziraphale, wouldn't...would he?"

And this is why Lucifer particularly likes it when Crowley is all hurt and anguished - when he is already set up to respond appropriately, he is just so easy to manipulate. Wounded and lost individuals, perhaps those who have fallen to their lowest ebb, are more than likely ready to believe the worst of themselves, and especially of how others might see them. Lucifer has refined his persuasive methods over both countless centuries, and innumerable damned souls, and knows just how to play it.

"I'm sorry, Darling, it did seem harsh, especially when he said...Oh, I don't like to say."

"What? You can't just say that, and then not finish the line!" Crowley's lip is trembling ever so slightly.

Now for the killer blow.

"He said: 'Crowley is a Demon, one of the bad guys. It would make sense, after all the lies he's told'."

Poor Crowley is crushed by the words. Lucifer nearly experiences a gram of pity. Nearly. It has been helpful that Crowley occasionally mumbles in his sleep, and the rest is guess-work. Besides which, and possibly most importantly, Lucifer knows how rigidly Angels think.

"I'm sorry, Darling. It must be hard for you to hear." He walks over to the bed, and lifts Crowley's head by placing two fingers under his chin. His Mastery is now complete. Lucifer delicately begins to kiss away the silent tears that have started to spill down those lovely cheekbones, and finds that they deliciously taste of salt and heartache.

With a snap of his fingers, Lucifer swaps out the modern desk that came with the despised Hipsterish vibe of the boutique hotel (the twee and sugary environs of the quaint pub, where he had first reclaimed Crowley, hadn't quite done it for Lucifer), for his preferred Antique model. He continues acting gentle and kind to the distraught Demon, ensnaring him further. Lucifer really loves being Lucifer.

And now Lucifer is horny, and the Demon has far too many clothes on for his liking. He wishes them away, and pulls Crowley to his feet. Lucifer gently cups his face, and smiles sweetly.

"Now Darling, I know just how to make you feel better," and he kisses Crowley intently, as his hands possessively roam his body. He always gets what he wants in the end. And what he wants, is this heart-broken, red haired Demon.

Notes:

Every Breath You Take by The Police

Chapter 9: An Angel changes his Tune

Summary:

The Supreme Archangel ruminates over Lucifer's revelations. He's not happy.

After Lucifer leaves, His Grace, The Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, remains sitting on his harsh, corporate chair, a whirling and upsetting mix of emotions, playing fast and loose with his corporation.

Lucifer! That... that...a word doesn't yet exist to cover his utterly deplorable actions!

Aziraphale dry washes his hands, his thoughts darting this way and that. Try as he might, he cannot keep highly unwelcome images from flooding into his brain.

Lucifer's possessive hands reach out, curling their fingers into silky, red hair, and pull Crowley towards him. The devilish creature hungrily places his lips over his toy's, and kisses him deeply, his sharp teeth nipping as he takes his pleasure.

Crowley tries to pull away, but Lucifer's grip is implacable. He pushes him backwards, until Crowley's legs hit the bed, then Lucifer lets go, and shoves him onto the already crumpled sheets.

Lucifer straddles the helpless Demon, his kiss continuing as if nothing has changed, claiming, owning, then he Miracles away both their clothes.

The Prince of Hell's ardour is obvious, and as he presses his groin into Crowley's, a groan escapes his lips. He begins to move his hips with intention, whilst his hands roam unhindered in their desire.

Lucifer hooks one hand beneath Crowley's leg, pulling up sharply, so he has no option but to bend his knee, and leaving him impossibly vulnerable. The wicked Demon completes the action with his other leg, and then -

No!

With a pained gasp, Aziraphale snaps out of the horrible and intrusive dream daymare, and feels the unwelcome trickle of sweat run down his back. Whatever possessed him to let his mind go there? His stomach is queasy, and he gulps down a bottle of the overpriced tap water that is always provided in these soulless offices for rent.

He mops his brow with the heavenly handkerchief he carries (as with all his supplied uniform, it is blindingly white, and stiff with starch), and tries to think of anything else, that isn't that.

Another bottle of tasteless H₂O is emptied, but slower this time, and with more controlled breathing in between sips. He is calmer, but not settled.

Aziraphale sits up straight, and takes stock. With a start, he realises it's later than he thought it was, as the light levels from outside are dimming. He needs to return to Heaven.

He performs an Archangel-magnitude Miracle, and arrives back in the sterile environment that he now inhabits.

As soon as he materialises in the blandness of the Celestial building, The Metatron, no doubt irritated at his late return, waylays the Supreme Archangel, and asks him what has transpired during the summit. There is never any speck of information that The Voice doesn't wish to be informed of - he keeps many grasping fingers, in all of the Heavenly pies.

Aziraphale, unable to deal with The Metatron's brand of micro-management right now, mumbles something unintelligible, and all but barges past in a bid to get away.

The Metatron splutters and fumes, indignant at this perceived outrage, but Aziraphale pays him no heed. His mind is simply too full of that vile Demon, and all the bile he's spouted. 

He marches determinedly through the endless, identical corridors, with Lucifer's malicious grin at the forefront of his mind. Aziraphale at last finds an uninterrupted corner in which to hide, and he sits unhappily down on a chair that he's pulled from the ether.

His mind, in an act of treason, wants to take him back to the awful thoughts he was experiencing back in the office, in full and vicious Technicolor™. 

No, no, no!

He will not go down that route again - if nothing else, he won't give Lucifer the satisfaction of getting inside his head.

So. What does he think about that shock of a meeting?

Aziraphale can't, won't believe, that his Crowley has gone willingly into Lucifer's arms. Has he forced him (Lucifer's possessive hands reach out, curling their fingers into silky, red hair, and pull Crowley towards him... No.) Or more likely, has he manipulated and spun, luring his Demon further and further into his poisonous web?

His stomach clenches in despair and anger at these thoughts, and unbidden, he thinks of Lucifer's smug smile, and entirely self-satisfied air. A wave of fierce fury begins to build, his breathing coming faster, and his hands curl into fists where they lay on his thighs. Aziraphale wants nothing so much as to wipe that smirk off his perfect face, once and for all.

If only he could have done it whilst the Demon was in front of him.

He had been so taken-aback during their meeting, that he hadn't done anything to refute his allegations, or to make him pay for them.

Crowley's silver scarf...

He could have said something, but he had been so totally stunned by the news that Lucifer had delivered so maliciously, that he could only stutter, and remain impotently motionless. He supposes he had tried to be a little smitey at the end, but alas, he hadn't been able to carry through on his ambition.

But enough about him, how must Crowley be feeling? Aziraphale can only imagine what games that scoundrel would have played to get Crowley to dance to his tune. He shudders, shutting his eyes, and letting the entirety of their conversation run through his head. It doesn't make for happy repeat viewing.

"I haven't harmed Crowley. I think you'll find that you have inflicted the most damage."

Lucifer lies about many things, it is almost his default setting, but on this, Aziraphale thinks he is probably, hideously, telling the truth. A hot suffusion of Guilt makes its way around his corporation, as he recalls his shameful words, and his stomach clenches again in worry and culpability.

Crowley, the Demon who is on his mind every day.

He has almost, almost contacted him on multiple occasions, but something always holds him back from actually doing so. Whether fear of Heaven and The Metatron, worry over whether Crowley will even talk to him, or perhaps the worst one of all, the one that gives him most qualms - whether he will have the strength, the courage, to tell Crowley how he really feels.

Aziraphale sighs, and visualises two futures: one where he stays in Heaven, toeing the company line, and a scared little mouse forever under the Metatron's thumb. Then there is the other possibility, where he takes things into his own hands, and does something for himself for a change.

The Angel is still desperate to do Good, and he thinks that, if he is just given the right tools, and people, and autonomy, he could do that. The Metatron, however, keeps Power close to his chest, unable, or unwilling, to let him implement change. Aziraphale is beginning to believe that he is a mere paralysed and impotent figurehead, and that if he is honest with himself, he has probably suspected that for a long time.

There is really only one choice, and it is quite clear what he needs to do. He needs to find Crowley, and actually talk to him, something he should have done years ago.

Aziraphale has spent a great deal of time whilst up in Heaven, thinking over his and Crowley's shared history, and all that has passed between them. Those last fifteen or so minutes, before he had taken the lift to ascend to Supreme Archangel-dom, had been awful, and the words, and their associated pain, have spun around and around in his head and heart, ever since.

And that kiss. Just the memory brings the Angel's fingers up to his lips...not that it can hold a candle to the way Crowley's had felt. He so wants him to do it again.

Aziraphale is brought back to reality by a buzzing coming from his pocket, but it will only be someone looking for him, wanting him to complete some ridiculous task that any admin Angel could easily cover. He leaves it to ring out. Not for the first time, frustration is forming in the pit of his stomach, at the treatment he receives from his colleagues, well, subordinates really. Not that they behave as such, in either way. Crowley would never treat him like that.

The ball of frustration and upset is growing larger, and tipping into resentment at all these months of being treated like a... fool! Aziraphale's cheeks redden with mortification. Lucifer, that horror, has brought to a head, thoughts and feelings that have been the Angel's constant companions, since everything had gone so terribly wrong, that morning in July. He has spent his time pussy-footing around, when he should have seized the moment and...and...

~~~~~

Michael appears without warning out of the ether, causing Aziraphale to look up in surprise and irritation. What she sees in his face makes her jump back, placing a hand on her chest as she does so.

Aziraphale stands up, and turns his full attention to her, completely unaware of the effect that is radiating out from him.

She takes one look at the Princi... Supreme Archangel, sees the hardness in his expression, and fervently wishes that Uriel had come instead.

"Azira... Supreme Archangel!" Michael has never called him that without a solid dose of sarcasm, but this time, it is intoned with utter sincerity. "You startled me!"

An angry Angel is a sight to behold, and this particular Angel has purple glowing eyes, and a grimly determined look. Apparently, and hither-too unsuspected, Aziraphale in full flow is a force to be reckoned with.

"What do you want?" Aziraphale's voice is uncharacteristically harsh and cutting.

What has happened to him, and in so short a time, to bring about this change? What sort of exchange have he and Lucifer had? The former Principality had always been been somewhat of a toothless tiger, but this Supreme Archangel definitely has a bite.

"Um, The Metatron sent me to find you as he wants...would like to know what transpired during your meeting with Lucifer?"

"Would he now?" Aziraphale's hands are clasped behind his back, every line of his corporation taut and decisive.

Michael is impressed, if not a little worried. "Yes. If you could see your way to -"

"No. Not now, and in fact, most likely not today." Aziraphale disappears from her perception with the final syllable.

"Well, that was a thing," she says to the empty space. Michael frowns as she realises that she will now have to go and report this to The Metatron himself. He isn't going to like this.

Uriel can definitely have the pleasure of tracking Aziraphale down next time.

~~~~~

The Supreme Archangel has Willed his corporation to another empty and soulless corner; he has no desire to be around any of the other Angels, and not for quite some time to come.

It is quiet here, with ample space to think, and to process, and eventually, Aziraphale comes to a decision.

He takes his communication device out of his pocket, ignoring the slew of messages from those demanding to know where he is.

"Please call the Demon Crowley's mobile telephone device."

As the rings start, the Angel has a very mixed cocktail of emotions sloshing queasily about his body. He is very, very angry towards Lucifer (reprobate! miscreant!), and so very, very worried for Crowley. He just hopes the Demon is willing to speak to him, after the terrible way things had been left.

Chapter 10: Track Eight: Mr Brightside

Summary:

Lucifer inspects the troops in Hell.

Coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine
Gotta, gotta be down, because I want it all
It started out with a kiss, how did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss

"I'm back!" The Most Handsome Demon™ calls out to his adoring audience. At least he has appreciators down here, even if the place is a shit hole.

It has been a week since he last graced the lucky denizens with his alluring presence. It takes that long to get the stench out of his clothes, and besides, up until three days ago, he'd been distractedly busy. Now though...

Lucifer strides through hell, careless of the fanboying Erics, and cowering lesser Demons (which is all of them, bar Satan). As he passes one particularly annoying individual (he lurches like he has been sat on by an elephant), Lucifer sends out a stream of Demonic Power, and frizzles the unfortunate (nothing poor about that one) into smithereens. Lucifer likes smithereens, little tiny iotas of nothingness that blow away on the wind. The Demon (ha! It isn't even deserving of the name) will eventually pop up again, somewhere within the dark depths of Hell. They always do - it's like playing a very screamy game of Whac-a-mole.

Lucifer is not happy. Crowley, his plaything, his pretty little toy, has pulled a disappearing act, and despite his best efforts, he has not been able to locate him. He is mildly annoyed, a might unimpressed. He's a bit cross, and a smidge displeased. Lucifer is being thwarted in his desires, and this is unacceptable.

He strongly suspects that that bastard Angel is responsible. It would be just like one of those sickos up there, to act all wounded and defeated in the moment, then turn around, and deliver the killer blow when his back was turned. That's what he'd do. None of them can be trusted an inch, and the theft of his property proves it.

The Most Perfect Example of Demonhood™ is currently on business in Hell's fourth circle, nominally inspecting the troops.

For fucks sake. How can he be expected to do his job, when he has his own, far more important personal issues to take care of? Satan can jog on and do one. Still, he is here now, so he might as well further his legend, but honestly, with all the rotting flesh and limbs falling off, it's a poor show. The Demons really are a pathetic bunch. Lucifer's seen better specimens after the vultures have visited a battlefield.

Where has all the style gone? It is left to him to keep up the seductive Demonic tradition. He tuts loudly. What it is to be sexy as hell.

Very few of Hell's locals are even a tiny bit attractive, and none are gorgeous like him. It isn't vanity, just simple fact. It's not an insult to say that most of them are disgustingly ugly, they objectively are. Yes, some people like that sort of thing, and like it up close and personal...ugh. He doesn't share those proclivities, he shudders at the mere thought of someone less than perfect near him. It is one of the reasons that he wants Crowley. He'd wanted to do him as an Angel, and of course he had, then he'd stayed hot as a Demon (pun intended). And now that fucker of a Supreme Archangel thinks he can have him.

No.

In hindsight, Lucifer had been too lenient with the Serpent, given too much free rein. For a start he'd let him keep his own phone, instead of one he had supplied. Hmm. He won't make that mistake again.

He considers this, as he is strides along between the proto-lines (he's seen droopy cocks straighter than these rows) that the Demonic Hoard are attempting to hold. They might as well be skeletonless flesh sacks - then they'd actually stand a chance at...well....standing upright. Pathetic.

Of course, Hell's Prince isn't paying any attention to the mouldering corps, and so is entirely uncaring about how he comes across. He doesn't see them cower in fear as his gaze darkens, and his fangs lengthen, as there is just too much for him to think about. Being this spectacular really is a heavy cross for him to bear. He smirks at that blasphemous metaphor.

"My Lord?" Dagon, who has had the misfortune to be given the brief to escort him around the Legions, is trying to anticipate the unanticipatable. Lord Lucifer does what he wants, when he wants, and who he wants.

Second-guessing him, is like pre-empting the trajectory of a greased pig in a paint factory. The really galling thing though, is that Lucifer is very clever, and always plays the long game. It is almost impossible to get one over on him, and the very few that have actually succeeded, have usually ended up sorely regretting it.

"I don't know what you expect me to say Dagon. I've never seen such a bunch of worthless excuses for Demonhood. Take that one over there, for example." He indicates in a disgusted direction. "Its arm has fallen off." Lucifer curls his lip, and glowers at the hideous alleged soldier. "It's really not on," and he crosses his arms, then taps his foot in contempt of the repugnant creature.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, but the quality of the candidates these days is unfortunately very low." She shrugs, unable to give a valid reason for the unimpressive situation, and sighs loudly.

Lucifer agrees with her lacklustre assessment. "Toss a few of them into the tar pits - that should give the others a morale boost." There, problem solved, and the rest will be falling over themselves to be better soldiers.

Dagon nods, and then a nasty smile plays about her lips, as she studies the ranks for the first volunteer.

Now that job is attended to, he can get on with the real task.

Lucifer takes out his shiny mobile, brings up his playlist, and selects his latest addition.

Coming out of my cage, and now I'm doing just fine....

Mr Brightside is sounding out in the corridors of Hell. This is not an everyday occurrence, and Dagon and the troops eye him warily.

Now. He is going to have to pay a visit to that obnoxious Angelic fucker...

Except he isn't a fucker, or so he'd said. Maybe his celibacy has driven the bastard over the edge, and that's why he had taken on the job, of head Angelic Honcho. All Angels have their heads stuck up their own arses, so it wouldn't surprise him if Aziraphale erroneously thought himself up to the task.

He becomes aware of Dagon (to be fair, he's forgotten she is there at all) looking at him as if he's suddenly grown another head. He tried that one Halloween. The screams still bring happy tears to his eyes, especially the hard nut who'd suddenly found himself incontinent. Lucifer cackles at the much-loved memory.

"I'm getting distracted, but it was ever so funny, Dagon!" He continues to laugh at the images only he can see. For the first time ever, the Demonic Hoard are all agreement, and take one step further away from him.

"Yes, my Lord?" Dagon has no idea what he is talking about, but isn't about to ask. She quite fancies getting to teatime still in one piece.

"I want you to request," the word nearly causes his tongue to go on fire, "a meeting with that arsehole Aziraphale. I have a matter to discuss with him."

"You mean the Supreme Archangel? But my Lord, you are not due to see him for another three weeks?"

"Dagon?" Lucifer turns his unflinching gaze on his Lieutenant.

To give credit where it's due, she answers with only a slight quaver in her voice. "Yes Lord?"

"Will you carry out this simple command, or do I have to use your head as a football?"

"On reflection, what's three weeks between enemies? I'll go and see to it momentarily." True to her word, she exits, stage left.

"Excellent."

In the meantime, Lucifer will continue to look for his slippery snake, but when he finds out the Supreme fucking Archangel has him, there will be Hell to pay.

Notes:

Mr Brightside by The Killers

Still one of the best floor fillers ever.

Chapter 11: Call and...

Summary:

Aziraphale makes an important telephone call.

This takes place directly after chapter 9.

Aziraphale's voice is clear as he issues his instruction. "Please call the Demon Crowley's mobile telephone device."

As the rings start, the Angel has a very mixed cocktail of emotions sloshing queasily about his body. He is very, very angry towards Lucifer (reprobate! miscreant!), and so very, very worried for Crowley. He just hopes that after the awful way things had been left between them, the Demon is still willing to speak to him. 

The telephone continues to ring, and the Angel wonders if Crowley will answer. His stomach is tight, and his heart is in his mouth. What will he do if the Demon doesn't answer? What will he say if he does?

Long and onerous seconds tick by, and the World, at least as it applies to one Angel, hangs precariously in the balance.

The rings abruptly stop, not that they have rung out, but that the other end has now been answered. Aziraphale's breath is drawn in, a loud gush that must echo down the telephone line. No words are spoken, and Aziraphale's heart beats so many times, and at such a volume, that he is sure the Demon must be able to hear it through the thin plastic and wire.

He gathers his courage. "Crowley?" Please let him speak. "Crowley?!" He can hear rapid breathing. "Oh, Crowley." The Angel inwardly cringes at his repetition of the Demon's name, but he apparently can't conjure up any other term.

Aziraphale thinks of all the words he knows, in all the many languages of the world, both those currently in use, and in ancient, dead, and forgotten tongues. He thinks of the thousands, upon thousands, of books he has read, the pages he has poured over, and chapters he has parsed all meaning out of.

He is minded of verse he has written, and prose he has constructed - beginnings, middles, and ends. He remembers playwrights, satirists, authors, and poets. He recalls reporters and clerks, scribes and diarists. All these Word Smiths, all this text, and all he can find to say, in perhaps the most important conversation of his life, is simply Crowley.

Aziraphale is frustrated with himself, exasperated at his lack of transparency, in both thought and deed, and he tries again to get his point across. "Crowley, my dear, please, can we talk?"

There is a pregnant silence from the other end that builds and spreads, seeming to stretch itself down the invisible communication line between them, and spill out into Aziraphale's empty corner. It is heavy, smothering, and speaks of all that has come before.

He shuts his eyes, wills it gone, and he hopes for a sound from the other side of the phone, anything to tell him that Crowley is there, and ready, and wanting to talk back.

Anxious breath sounds are the first indication that the Demon is actually there. They are quiet, but reverberate through Aziraphale's head (and heart). It's Crowley, he is present, and he hasn't hung up. Yet.

The Angel wants (and needs) many things, but all of those things must first begin with a conversation, this conversation. If Crowley chooses not to meet him halfway, what can he do? If Lucifer has his claws in too deep...his stomach clenches in worry and dread. It has taken desperate courage to get this far, and now he teeters on the edge of a precipice.

"Crowley? I... I know this is hard, for you, and for me, but...we need to talk." Aziraphale begins to pace, no longer content to remain in one spot. "I want to talk to you. Please?"

More silence, broken only by increasingly agitated breathing.

"Crowley, I... I met with....Lucifer yesterday."

A sharp intake of air echoes through the ether.

"He said...he said you two were..."

There is a slight click from the other end, as if teeth have snapped shut. Aziraphale tells himself that if he can hear that, then the Demon is listening, and perhaps there is still a chance.

"He said you and he had been....that you were," Aziraphale fumbles for an appropriate word, "together." It is entirely the wrong word, and he shudders with its connotations.

Other entirely wrong words explode within his brain.

"I've fucked him, Aziraphale. Yesterday, this morning."

"I fucked him good."

The spiteful words shout loudly in his head. Lucifer had used them to hurt and wound, and taken great pleasure in it. They have left a gaping hole within the Angel, one of hurt and sorrow, and anger and impotence. He needs to make this right, he needs to rescue Crowley from this...this trap.

That is, if he will let him.

He wills the shadow Demon out of his mind, but is only partially successful, and he turns back to the matter at hand. 

Aziraphale knows Crowley is not happy, he can feel it emanating through the space between them. How can he make this better?

With just a few words from the Voice, he had fallen for his manipulations and spin, and given up his chance at love. By doing that, he had let Lucifer slide his way in, and enabled him to get his grubby hands on Crowley.

It would never have happened if he'd been down there on Earth, as one half of their own side, but he acknowledges that if he had turned down the poisoned Supreme Archangel chalice, he would have left the planet defenceless. The Metatron is Hell-bent (pun intended, although unlikely to become an actuality) on destroying life on Earth, in a vainglorious attempt to have his will bludgeoned onto those with no opportunity to fight back. This cannot be allowed to come to pass.

Aziraphale's head spins, he feels nauseous, and he finds his knees creaking under the strain of holding up both his corporation, and the entire conversation. How does he do it? How does he reach Crowley?

"Crowley? Are you well? I...need to know if you are well." There is something more. "I need to know if you're happy, Crowley. Please."

Aziraphale, who has long kept everything inside, is spiralling, round and round, and down and down, tighter into the coil of darkness. Lucifer and his targeted malevolence have brought his scattered concerns, and all his anxieties, sharply to the fore.

"I've fucked him, Aziraphale. Yesterday, this morning."

"I fucked him good."

The words are stuck on endless repeat, filling the Angel's ears with their poison, whilst his vision is blanking out and he...

"Aziraphale?"

Chapter 12: Back Catalogue

Summary:

Lucifer's tentacles reach throughout Crowley's life.

A Sky Full Of Stars 

It's so lonely out here, in the vast wilds of space. Well, it will be Space, once you've done working out the physics, but it's so exciting! You can't stop talking about it, even if only to yourself. Other Angels, on the rare occasions you actually see anyone, call you arrogant when they think you can't hear, and say you've gotten too big for the boots you don't wear. But you do hear their snide comments, you do see their sly glances, and you try not to let it bother you.

But it's hard, really hard.

You would just like a friend, someone on your side, someone who understands. Maybe you can be a group of the two of you?

You hardly ever see anyone, but when you do, they look at you with disdain, and you feel a hole forming in your insides. You try to talk to them, full of enthusiasm about your work, but they sneer, and call you big-headed, even to your face.

Slowly, it chips away at your self-worth, at the very essence of you. It makes you question everything, all of it. How can it be right to treat someone like that? Someone like you. You become sadder, more withdrawn, less than you were.

You are lost in a deep, dark hole, and it's so hard to see clearly. The walls are closing in, and you just need a way out, a way to ease the pain, and the loneliness. When a stab of self-loathing and worthlessness hits you right in the chest, quite possibly somewhere near your heart, the ache is overwhelming, and you don't know what to do next.

And then he comes along.

Handsome and charming, witty and passionate, he turns your head, and scrambles your everything. He looks at you with want and desire, and makes you feel special and important. You feel your blood heat, and it races through your corporation, your skin tingling with the merest of glances.

He tells you nice things, and makes you feel good about yourself. He's not like those other Angels, who look at you as if you are something the (as yet not invented) cat dragged in.

Your light begins to glow, radiating outwards as you bloom under his attention.

The Morningstar, The Lightbringer. And he does, he shines his light on you, and you feel his warmth, and you bask in it, and it feels good. It's so utterly lovely.

But then he stays away, and it's like the sun itself has disappeared from view, perhaps never to be seen again.

It's devastating, and you feel bereft.

Then one day, when your own, personal star, has withered away to almost nothing, he comes back, bringing his warmth, and his dancing eyes. He tells you he's sorry, pressures of work, you understand? And of course you do, he is busy and important, and you, you're just a nobody, a little red-haired angel (the only one of those), and you're so incredibly grateful he's come back, that you push down that little voice that whispers quietly in your mind, that maybe this isn't right?

You force it away, and refuse to listen.

He smiles, he touches, he makes you feel special. The other Angels now look at you with envy, rather than dismissal.

He takes you all over the Heavens, shows you off, makes you believe that maybe, maybe, you really are beautiful, just like he says?

He kisses you intensely, and touches you so gently, and one day, he takes you to an empty area of Her Kingdom. He says he wants you so desperately, and you want him, then he lies you back, and tells you again how special you are, and says that you are the first.

Afterwards, once he has made your corporation sing with arousal, he whispers in your ear, and plays with your hair. He kisses and strokes your skin, and it's wonderful. You feel so alive. He utters your name with such passion, and it makes your insides curl into a squirming mass of want.

You are his, he tells you, forever, and you know it.

Lucifer likes to have you near. When he calls, you come running, and he kisses and touches, then leads you to corners when his desire gets too much. He doesn't like others to get too close, and you tell yourself it's only because he cares.

That nice Aziraphale tries to be your friend, and the Morningstar seems to allow that, but talks about him in the same way the Angels used to talk about you. You don't like it, but how can you gainsay someone so vibrant? So obviously superior?

When his light is so very bright, he outshines all others. It is all you can see, and he wants you, and he takes you, again, and again, and again, over all others, until your eyes have only room for the stars he has so graciously put there.

You are in love, your senses whirling, your heart beating to the thump of his drum.

And if sometimes you feel a little unsure, a little nervous, then that's okay, because he is Lucifer Morningstar, Her Lightbringer, and you are just you, nobody important, no one special.

"My beautiful Starmaker," he says, and you are lost.

From Eden

Time moves on, as do you. The wide expanses of the firmament change, via fire and ichor, into the black and dreary existence of the newly formed Hell.

You are pronounced Fallen, your Grace has been ripped away, Her Love forcibly taken from you. You feel its absence as if a part of you has been removed, forever obliterated, and never to return.

You are unforgivable, forever and always, from now until Eternity. You Fall, down, down, down, into a boiling lake of sulphur, and your Angelic traits are burned out, only to be replaced by something new. You clamber out, and are met by him. He cups your face, and tells you you're still pretty, he twines his fingers through your matted hair, and pulls you close.

"Still my beautiful Starmaker."

You dare to believe, you dare to hope.

"Crawley."

Lucifer maintains his claim, and his very presence stops others bothering you. You feel grateful, and yet...

He kisses and touches, and takes what he wants, regardless of how you feel. But he is the Morningstar, still, no matter his Fall from Her side. He is a Prince of Hell, and you are still nothing.

One day he summons you, and tells you all about a new place for Humans, Eden, a garden of Earthly Delights.

"My lovely Crawley, I want you to get up there, and make some trouble. Can you do that, for me?" He touches and holds, and claims, and sends you on your way.

Eden is...breathtaking. It is lush, and beautiful, the sun shines down, and the plants grow up. You lose yourself amongst the foliage, and try out a new form. Your Demonic transformation is long and wriggly, with little regard for limbs.

You snake around a tree, listening, watching. Your scales writhe as you ascend, until you emerge at the top, and see just how vast this place is.

You wonder how to make trouble? What can you possibly do?

The people are here, two of them, and...something white catches your eye, and you see an Angel. There's something familiar about him, but you can't quite remember what. Your memories aren't complete now, and anything from before the Fall is vague, mysterious. It's like looking where the furniture isn't.

The Angel is pretty, with a head of lightest blonde hair, and soft features. You think he is kind. You like him, and he brings a smile to your lips.

The people don't do much, but then one day, you lower yourself down, and talk to the lady. You have a nice chat, with the upshot being she eats one of those lovely and juicy, ripe red apples that are hanging so provocatively upon that central tree.

It all goes a bit pear-shaped after that.

The people leave, and you return to your Human form, before coming to stand by the Angel. He is nice, and you are quite sure you like him. Maybe he likes you too?

You chat for a while, and it's pleasant, and you hope to see him again. Then too soon, far before you are ready, it is time to return down below. You don't want to, but you have no choice.

Lucifer is there, waiting, and proud of what you have achieved, even though all you can think is it was just an apple, for someone's sake.

He makes to kiss you, but pulls up short. Lucifer entangles his fingers in your hair, holding you in place, showing his dominance.

"Has anyone else touched you?" His eyes glow red, and his teeth lengthen. It makes you afraid, and you shake your head as he leans in and sniffs. Lucifer's gaze is gimlet-focused, his fingers sharp. He pulls you in, and kisses you until it hurts.

"I like your hair," he says, "keep it that way."

You are his, and he makes sure that you, and everyone else, knows it.

The Flood 

Time moves on, as it surely must.

Lucifer has moved on too. At least, mostly he has. He forgets about you for a bit, and you get on with Tempting and general Demon-on-earth stuff, but then he remembers, and he appears out of the blue. He touches and kisses, and once again, claims.

"Still my pretty little Serpent."

He doesn't tell you about the coming Flood.

You watch as they build the huge ship, the Ark, and you talk to Shem. He tells you about the coming storm, but he's a bit boring, as he only really seems to know about boats, and the building of. It doesn't sound like a good idea to you, but maybe it will only be a small flood? Surely God wouldn't Flood the whole World? Right?

Whilst you are still trying to get to grips with the situation, your friend from Eden, the Angel Aziraphale, appears, and you chat again. Oh. It appears it is nearly the entire world, with a few exceptions.

You don't know how to feel about that.

The Rains come, and come, and come. So much Water that the Land retreats, with the roaring deluge nearly drowning out the screams. It washes away the endless bodies, but not before they have passed by you, an immortal witness to a Celestial Horror.

You return to Hell, to Lucifer, and he offers comfort, and kindness, then dries your tears when they fall as you describe what you have seen.

He kisses the salt water away, and takes what he wants.

Romeo And Juliet

The Arrangement has been in place for centuries now. It took a while to convince Aziraphale that he wanted to enter into it, but you got there. You are both circumspect about your fraternising, but between you, you are making it work.

You look forward to seeing the Angel, even making excuses, or finding reasons, to seek each other out, all whilst maintaining plausible deniability.

You meet at The Globe, Will's Playhouse. Aziraphale does so love the theatre. He drops hints about helping to make his new play a success; you, of course, are helpless to say no. You saunter off, a happy little smile on your lips.

As you leave the circular wooden structure, strong hands grab you, and pull you into a darkened doorway.

"Crowley," he gasps, his hot and gushing breath blasting in your face, "It's been too long."

Lucifer's eyes are full of want, his breeches already straining. He is kissing and touching, and grabbing hold of your hair, and you know no is not an option.

Once again, Lucifer takes what he desires from his Serpent, just like so many other times. You stopped wanting it a long time ago, but when have your wishes ever mattered? The only thing you have any control over is making sure Aziraphale doesn't find out. You would be mortified. You have kept so many assignments from him, his appalled contempt, or even worse, his Angelic forgiveness, is too much to bear.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Years pass.

Lucifer breezes in and out of your life as he wills, he does what he wants, and eventually, thankfully, leaves. You simply try to ignore it when he's not there.

Armageddon looms on the horizon. You are given a job by Satan, delivering his son, the Anti-Christ, to his new, and unsuspecting, parents. Funnily enough, you don't find the End of the World to be high on your to-do list.

What if you can stop it? You convince your very good friend, Aziraphale, to help you scupper the End Times.

You make plans to ensure the boy grows up normally. In order to accomplish this, you take a different gender for a spin.

Nanny Ashtoreth, your new look, is neat and tidy, precise and...worldly. You feel strangely empowered with this guise, and even get to have some fun with it. You bat your eyelashes, and talk and flirt. You feel sexy and wanted, and you know brother Francis sees you, as you often catch him looking.

One day, today, you open the door, and there he is. You can't help the grimace that crosses your face, and you clock the hungry look on his.

"Crowley, my darling," Lucifer smiles, his lips fill of teeth. "Just look at you."

It's funny, but Nanny, unlike Crowley, feels able to say no. "I'm on Hellish business, Lucifer. Satan's business to be exact, and I can't be distracted," and you shut the door with him on the outside. It feels good.

He tries again, several times, but Nanny, you, say no, and he has no option other than to accede to your decision. It's that, or take it up with Satan. It doesn't stop his eyes flashing in anger, and his mouth hardening though. It doesn't stop the want.

You've Really Got A Hold On Me

Everything has gone wrong. Aziraphale, your one joy on this Earth, has gone back to Heaven, and left you. You are alone and lonely, and lost and bitter. You are sad, and overwhelmed. And then he comes along, just like up in Heaven (the details are hazy, but you remember that much).

You know his tricks, you know his games, but you are so low, so anchor-less. He makes your skin crawl in one moment, and in the next, he makes you shudder with pleasure. Your thoughts are so confused and messed up, and there is nowhere to turn, no one to ask for their help. It's just you, a friendless Demon, a sad little group of one.

One day, he finds you on a bench, cold and wet-through, and he is kind, and helps you. Lucifer listens, and you are vulnerable, and he is gentle and loving, and it's all so familiar, so easy. Nanny would have stood her ground, her confidence and pride in herself its own form of armour, and she would have said no, loudly and clearly. But you, you're still nothing, Aziraphale leaving has proved that, and you give in, and then it's too late. It's always too late.

Lucifer is controlling and possessive, and he wants you for his own, just as he did with that naive, red-haired Angel.

You want out, but don't know how to leave. Lucifer has made it clear you are at his beck and call, and only to be set free, if and when, he decides.

Aziraphale doesn't care, he thinks horrendously of you now. He thinks you jumped back into bed with Lucifer (didn't you?), he thinks you lie, and that you are bad.

Your mobile rings, interrupting your misery. You pick it up, anxious it may be Lucifer, but you see it says

Aziraphale

and your chest clenches, and your heart skips a beat.

Aziraphale, your Angel, who loathes you, is calling. Dare you answer? Dare you hear what he thinks of you now, from his own lips?

Turns out, glutton for punishment that you are, you do. You shakily swipe the green tick on the screen, and hold the phone to your ear.

Aziraphale's voice sounds out. "Crowley? Crowley?!"

Notes:

In my stories, Satan and Lucifer are two separate individuals. In my other fic with a Crowley/Lucifer history, both Satan and Luc(ifer) hate each other, and loathe being lumped together.

It should also be said that Luc is a completely different character to Lucifer, the former arrogantly sexy, the latter, totally toxic.

Chapter 13: Track Nine: All Mine

Summary:

A whirlwind meeting between Lucifer and Aziraphale.

Notes:

Lucifer is just a tad cross, and he might be a teeny bit sweary. Actually, make that a lot sweary.

Make no mistake
You shan't escape
Tethered and tied
There's nowhere to hide from me

All mine
You have to be

Lucifer has searched for Crowley, and found nothing. He has been denied access to that which he desires, and is a little out of sorts over it. He has had to wait to be granted an audience with that principality, and is more than a little miffed.

And now they are here, back at the same grubby office for hire, and Lucifer wants answers.

He has planned to walk in, all calm and controlled, show that thieving dickhead Angel, just how wrong he is to mess with Lucifer fucking Morningstar.

He is going to make him acknowledge his blatant inferiority, his weakness, and bow before a superior presence. Lucifer will strut in, his habitual confidence entirely in evidence, and show what it means to be in the vicinity of Greatness.

That had been the plan.

Instead, the moment he claps eyes on that fucking arsehole of an excuse for an Angel, Lucifer forgets everything, and a red mist of rage permeates every inch of his corporation.

"Where is my fucking snake??!!" The furious, incandescent roar, echoes through the rented space, the very foundations shake, and the light darkens to match Lucifer's mood.

On the news later that day, there will be a section about the very-ultra-localised earthquake, that shook a small area of London.

Aziraphale, the fucking cunt, just sits mildly in his chair, a smug smile playing about his lips, and says nothing. He doesn't even flinch.

Lucifer's ire is further stoked by that prick's lack of reaction.

"Where is he? Where is Crowley, you fucking wanker?!!"

Aziraphale, the utter bastard, still sits quietly, smirking, his violet eyes hard as flints.

"Fucking answer me!" Lucifer's Demonic features have fully materialised, all beauty stripped away, and his inner core revealed for the darkness it is.

He is infuriated, bedside himself, ready to rip, and tear, and rent to get his answer.

"Crowley is not your snake, he's his own Demon, and you are to leave him alone." Aziraphale speaks so calmly, Lucifer, if at all possible, becomes even more enraged.

"You fucking bastard! I want my snake!"

"No."

Lucifer sticks his face inches from the Angel's. "You give him back to me, or I'll tear you down, and take him back myself," the snarl is dripping in poison and hate, and the Angel should be cowering in fear.

"Still no."

Lucifer grabs hold of his Heavenly lapels, and shakes him hard, growling out his message as he does so. "I will return, and you'd better have him ready to give back to me!"

Aziraphale stays calm and serene. Lucifer wants to obliterate him.

The Demon turns, and with one step, vanishes in a swirl of deepest, darkest anger, back to Hell where he lets his rage vent.

Sometime later, when he's calmed, and allowed his usual handsome look to re-manifest, Lucifer steps over the destruction he has wrought, and thinks about where Crowley might actually be.

Where would he be safe? Not many places, but now that he knows for definite the fucking Angel has him, that bookshop seems a very likely choice. Why hasn't he thought of it before?

With an evil grin, Lucifer goes to Soho to play a game of Find the Snake.

Notes:

All Mine by Portishead

Chapter 14: ... response

Summary:

The other end of the line.

This takes place directly after Chapter 11.

It doesn't matter how old you are, some things are hard. Even if you are an immortal creature, with thousands of years and experiences under your snakey belt, sometimes even the smallest of actions require the greatest amount of effort.

Crowley's mobile is ringing. 

He stares at it for a moment, in a state of frozen watchfulness, a vice-like grip of nothing upon his chest.

Is it him? Is Lucifer playing another of his little games?

His heart, already bruised and battered, stutters as he registers the name of the contact.

A great intake of breath, followed by a swirl of motion deep down in his stomach.

Crowley, disbelievingly, is somewhere between hope and horror - scared that this is all some artful, awful illusion sent to hurt him, and scared that this is real, that Aziraphale really is on the other end of the line, and he will know what Crowley is.

Dare he answer? The decision casts about in the wind, a yes/no option that has consequences either way.

He knows that he has whored himself out to Lucifer.

Bravery

Courageous behaviour or character

Courageous

Not deterred by danger or pain; brave

A closed loop, where one begets the other. The thing is, you can only be brave when you are scared, otherwise it's just confidence, or foolishness, and often it's difficult to tell those pretenders apart.

Bravery is standing up to someone, or for something, doing what you know to be right, even if at great cost. It's the big things, but also the small actions you take when times are hard. It could be admitting you need help, or getting out of bed in the morning, or sometimes, just picking up a ringing telephone.

Almost of its own volition, his hand stretches out across the painful months, and flicks the slider to accept. He carefully places the rectangular object next to his ear, but doesn't yet say anything.

"Crowley? Crowley?!"

His own breathing is rapid.

"Oh, Crowley."

What does that mean? Is Aziraphale disappointed in him? He must be, based on what he said to Lucifer.

"Crowley, my dear, please, can we talk?"

Talk? How can they talk, when he doesn't know what to say? The silence stretches, filled only with too shallow breaths.

"Crowley? I... I know this is hard for you, and for me, but...we need to talk. I want to talk to you. Please?"

The Demon moves his tongue within his mouth, simply so he can check it's still working, but it doesn't help to jog any words free.

"Crowley, I... I met with....Lucifer yesterday."

That hits like a punch to the gut. It shouldn't do, as he already knew, but somehow it's worse coming from Aziraphale. It makes it real - Crowley had wondered if Lucifer was lying about seeing him, but he's just had it confirmed, and direct from the Angel's mouth.

"He said...he said you two were..."

Crowley has been working his way up to saying something (the jury is out on exactly what), but with those savage words, his jaw snaps shut, sending a judder through his teeth.

"He said you and he had been....that you were..." Aziraphale seems unsure which is the appropriate word or phrase to use here. Isn't it obvious? Dirty fucking. "...together."

Silence follows that statement. What can he possibly say to mitigate its horror?

"Crowley? Are you well? I...need to know if you are well."

Why? Why would he need to know that? Unless...does he still care? Even after everything?

A heart beat, two, then -

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley feels his settings switch to a combination of mortification and hope, and he feels a swell of possibility rise up through his corporation. There is, however, a corresponding fall of debasement, that the Angel will know. That he knows already.

He is desperate for an answer, and he is fearful of a response. His whole world hangs by a knife-edge, all whilst it balances precariously upon its point.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's voice is careful, gentle. But - all that he said to Lucifer?

Is it truly him? Can he trust that the Angel has reached out? He is so afraid that this is a trick, something cooked up by The Morningstar to torment him.

He is afraid that it is real, and Aziraphale will condemn him for letting his Demonic instincts guide his actions.

"Is... Is that you?" Such a foolish question, and Crowley's cheeks burn with shame, not that that is an unusual feeling for him. He still feels the hand-prints of another's lust smeared all over his body.

In the moment, Lucifer makes it all seem so simple, so right, but by the time Crowley has understood what is happening, it's too late. It's always too late.

"Yes, Crowley," the Angel's voice is soft, as if afraid of scaring him away. "It's me, it's Aziraphale."

"Oh." Which is possibly the least likely response Crowley has available to him. It's a placeholder word, a sound to fill the gap whilst the Demon's brain flounders for purchase.

"I know things were left in disarray between us, but I would so like to make things right." Aziraphale pauses, and it is clear he is choosing his next words with all due consideration and attention. "I wonder, though, before we can hope to build a bridge for ourselves, if you are safe and well?"

Isn't that the question?

What can he say? That he is once again Lucifer's plaything? That even though he has ended up in this predicament countless times before, he has never learned, and still falls prey to his machinations?

It's mortifying. A hot, red streak of humiliation that burns through to the core.

So what do you do?

What do you do when your pride is on the floor, and the person you care most about is on the cusp of seeing you?

You don't want them to see this side of you, you've kept it hidden all these years, and you would rather they believed the respectable lie, than the painful, ugly truth.

Crowley does the only thing he can, the thing he's been doing for years - he dons his mask, and pretends that all is well.

"Thank you for asking, Aziraphale. I am..." it's hard to keep that mask in place, "fine. Perfectly fine."

There is a particular quality of silence from the other end of the line, one that indicates that Aziraphale believes that about as much as he believes that The Metatron is a good Being. Which is to say, not at all.

"Crowley, we have known each other a long time, and for all our miscommunications, and I admit there have been many, I ask that you are honest with me."

The Demon doesn't know how to answer that, and so he lets the silence sit, like a perfect drop of rain on a leaf, and waits to see where it will fall.

"I do not think that Lucifer has your best interests at heart, and I think...I hope, that you might know that."

Careful muteness follows Aziraphale's precise words, the lack of substance telling.

"I want to help you, Crowley. Please, if you'll let me."

You've only been back in contact for mere minutes, but he has stripped you down, and bared your soul.

Lucifer told you what he had said, so why is he being kind and caring now? It's baffling, and you don't know how to respond to the softness.

Your heart is beating so very fast, and it makes you feel a little light-headed, as if some of the oxygen in the room has started to ebb away.

"Crowley? My dear?"

The Demon goes to speak, but the mobile rudely interrupts with an incoming call, and Crowley flinches when he sees who it is.

"I have to go, Lucifer's calling."

"Can we speak again? Please?"

He needs to answer Lucifer, otherwise he'll have to explain exactly why not. Crowley makes a decision.

"Yes. Yes, alright. After ten, and before three." Lucifer is never with him then, so won't be aware of the conversation. He hates to think what he would do if he knew.

One call is cut short, and another tentatively entered into.

"Hello?"

"Darling..."

 

Aziraphale rings several times over the next few days, and it is only on the fourth occasion that Crowley feels strong enough to answer.

"Angel." Crowley, standing nervously before a mirror, examines the large bruise on his neck, colloquially known as a love bite. Lucifer has kindly given it to him. He recalls being firmly held down, with the other Demon above him, whilst he marked him as his. Crowley shudders, and turns away from his reflection.

"Crowley, thank God! I've been so worried!"

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't have been. Nothing to see here."

"Please don't lie, not to me. I meant what I said - I want to help you, Crowley, anyway I can. Will you let me?"

Crowley hasn't expected all this, not straight off the bat. He thinks Aziraphale has had a speech nestled inside his head, just waiting for the chance to spring into action. Before he has an opportunity to answer, though, the Angel continues.

"I would like to meet you somewhere, Crowley, anywhere you like. I'll come down from Heaven -"

Can he do that? Is he allowed? Will he do that, for him?

"- and we'll...talk...and see what we can do about your...situation. If you'd like to?"

Crowley, before thought has got its boots on, surprises them both with the truth. "I can't."

"You can't? What on earth do you mean? Why can't you?"

Unspoken options race around his head, whilst Crowley's tongue and lips try to form a plea for help. They are unfortunately not successful. 

In the event, it doesn't actually matter, because clever Aziraphale guesses the truth.

"You're...locked in, aren't you?" The Angel's voice is quiet, but in the way a steel blade is when drawn out from its sheath. "Lucifer has done this to you."

Crowley's lack of denial is confirmation, and his cheeks burn a flaming red. Aziraphale knows.

"Crowley, this may be a silly question, but why haven't you Miracled yourself free?"

It's not a silly question, it is however, another layer of humiliation to be endured.

"The room is Warded." He speaks matter-of-factly, not knowing how else to go about it. "Lucifer does not like...he doesn't want me leaving without his knowledge." There, he's said it. He's let the brutal fact out into the world, and now Crowley would like the ground to open up, and swallow him whole - and then at least he'd be out of his current situation.

"I see. And the physical door has been locked with a key?"

Whatever Crowley was expecting Aziraphale to say, it isn't that. "Yes."

Silence leaches through their call, thick and contemplating, and Crowley waits to see what happens next.

"You need the door unlocked, and then presumably you'll be able to leave? Or does the Ward stop you exiting the room at all?"

Crowley huffs out the realisation of how this is going to sound. "I can leave when the door is open. Lucifer has...taken me out. A few times. We've...gone out."

The thing is, that from the outside, a relationship can look so perfect, so Insta-fabulous, that everyone must think you are the luckiest person in the world. Your partner is handsome, charismatic, and so into you. It must all be good, right?

He takes you out to fancy restaurants, and all the best nightclubs, but only after he has chosen your clothes for the night, and decided your destination. When you're there, he chooses your food (even if you never eat), and selects the wine from the menu.

He tells you you're gorgeous, and wants others to look at you, but if anyone so much as touches that which he views as his personal property, his jealousy and spite comes to the fore.

How do you tell someone, anyone, that a gilded cage, no matter how beautiful, is still just a cage?

"Lucifer has taken you out." Aziraphale's tone is carefully neutral. "Right. That's good."

Is it? Why?

It's as if he can hear his thoughts. "That means there should be no restriction once the actual lock is undone, so all I need to do is to come there, and -"

"No!"

"No? Crowley? What do you mean?"

"Lucifer always weaves in a Ward that covers both Angels and Demons. It will detect you as soon as you get close enough, but I don't know what it will do."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll just have to get one of the Humans to open it for you."

Easier said than done. "They all know not to. He's impressed upon them that he likes his privacy."

Aziraphale tuts. "Then I will make a suggestion to a staff member that they need to unlock the door, and then to forget all about it."

"That's compuls-"

"Nothing of the sort. Anyway, it will be for their own good - if they do not remember what they've done, Lucifer can't find out."

There is merit in what Aziraphale has said, and he would hate to think, that some poor innocent Human would be pulled into Lucifer's web because of him, especially if they'd just tried to help him out.

"I could...convince someone to come now. If you wanted, and then you'd be free."

Would he? Be free? "Where would I go?"

"Oh Crowley. The Bookshop, your home."

There is a sharp intake of breath.

"Shall I take that as a yes, then?"

Notes:

The next chapter is still to be written. There is another posted chapter after that, but if you haven't read it yet, you might want to wait until chapter fifteen appears. By the time it's finished, it will all be in the right order.

Chapter 16: Track Ten: Right Here Waiting

Lucifer arrives on Whickber Street, all intent, no plan, and is immediately assaulted by endless streams of Christmas decorations.

He shudders in revulsion as he completes a 360 degree turn, the pathetic Humans having to leap out of his way, or risk being knocked over. The shop windows are filled with shiny tat, glittered snowmen, and ratty Santas. Lights are strung across the road, linking up each building as if someone is stitching them together with festive bad taste.

The Demon is standing next to a cafe, and opposite the infamous Heavenly bookshop. He can see straight into it through the large panes of glass, but there is apparently no sign of life. Crowley's in there though, he knows he is, he just has to get him to come out. Force won't do it, but Lucifer's own brand of gentle persuasion will. It's just a matter of finding the correct levers to pull on.

The Prince of Hell boldly walks across the street, the car drivers having to apply the same type of self-preservation, as the pedestrians on the pavement did.

The frontage is old-fashioned, and tired, all dusty and fusty. What does he even see in the Angel this establishment represents? What does he have, that Lucifer doesn't? He laughs, because how can the Angel possibly compare to him?

There is a sign that tells him they are Very Closed, but he ignores it, and another that speaks of strange and eldritch opening times. The glass and wood door looks so very puny, and weak, although Lucifer feels the thrum of the Ward barring him access.

He knocks loudly on the glass, the reverberations echoing through the interior. He waits patiently, a model caller. Lucifer can see a great deal through the glazing - books and shelves, and shelves of books, but still no Being wandering through the staid interior.

Come out, come out, my pretty little snake, wherever you are...

He knocks again, and a petite young-looking woman appears from the farthest reaches of the shop. Her eyes widen as she clocks him, and she stumbles, before heading hesitantly over to the front door.

She opens it a short way, just enough for them to have a conversation. Lucifer applies his best ingratiating smile, and turns on the charm.

"Good morning to you, madam, and how are you today?" His voice is pitched to be its most convivial, his body language open and relaxed.

She blushes, not quite sure how to respond in the presence of such polite greatness. "Oh! I was not expecting... I'm...um...very well, thank you so much," she giggles nervously, and her lovely brown eyes catch a glimmer of reflected stardust.

Lucifer, ever the opportunist, chances his luck. "It's a bit cold out here, mind if I come in?"

She opens her mouth to speak, then slaps her hands over it, her eyes opened wide.

"Sorry, I know it's a bit cheeky, but I do rather have a reputation to uphold," Lucifer's tone has a conspiratorial edge to it, as if he is sharing confidences with a special friend.

The little Angel giggles again, a sweet little sound entirely wasted on him, but she doesn't know that.

"Well, I was hoping to talk to Crowley. We've had a bit of an argument you see, and I really want to say sorry."

"Oh, that's...that's such a shame," she looks so sad as the words fall from her lips, but more than that, she turns her head and looks towards the rear (to where Crowley has obviously taken refuge). She turns back, concern etched in her pretty face.

Lucifer lets his gaze linger just a little too long, and she blushes again.

"If I am unable to enter the bookshop..." he begins regretfully.

"Sorry!" The Angel has gone all squeaky in her discomfort.

"That's quite alright my dear, but as I was saying. If I can't enter, how about we go across to that coffee shop, and we can talk. You won't have to worry about me trying to get in your shop, and we can get to know each other better. Why, I don't even know your name!"

"Um... Oh, um, well, my name's Muriel."

"What a pretty name you have! All the better to call you with." Lucifer's charm offensive is overpowering Muriel's shallow resistance.

She blushes yet again, and giggles, then averts her eyes for a heartbeat.

"Where are my manners? I haven't introduced myself! I am Lucifer Morningstar, at your service," and he bows in a courtly fashion.

Muriel grins so hard Lucifer is sure her teeth will fall out. "I know that, silly."

Of course she knows that, everyone does. And silly? If anyone else dared to call him that, he'd rip their head off their shoulders, she's just fortunate that she is useful at the current time.

"I don't like to assume. We'll only be half an hour, long enough to enjoy a hot beverage of your choice, and a nice little chat. Do you need to tell Crowley first?"

She's weakening. "You're right, of course, I'll just let him know..." she trails off as she realises what's she's said.

A cheeky wink to put her at her ease. "I won't tell if you won't. And besides, I'm out here, Crowley is snug inside. What can possibly happen?"

"Well, if you put it like that, I suppose it can't hurt?" The rising inflection is rather irritating, but he'll let it pass, even though it makes his teeth itch.

She opens the door just wide enough to allow her to exit the shop, and they cross the road to Coffee or Death. Lucifer can't help but smile at the moniker. The table that Lucifer desires becomes immediately available, the occupying Humans finding they suddenly have a wish to be elsewhere.

"What would you like? My treat."

"That's kind of you. Um...a cupperty, please." Is that tea? Probably.

"My pleasure," and he goes and orders, and pays with fake money. The woman behind the counter is a little cold and obnoxious, but Lucifer chooses to ignore that.

"There you go, my dear," Lucifer is all smiles as he hands over the ceramic vessel. Muriel is pathetically delighted by its meagre contents.

He chooses an easy topic for an icebreaker. "So, how is life in the bookshop?"

"Oh, it's amazing! There are books! So many books!" Really? How unexpected. "Every time I think I've read them all, I find more that I haven't read before!" Muriel's excessive exclamations are truly off-putting.

"Fascinating." It's not, in any way, shape or form. What it is, is simply droning on about a subject on which he has no interest, but Lucifer is an expert at making individuals believe he is into their boring conceits. She buys it, hook, line and sinker. Lucifer watches her face light up, her eyes dancing with his bestowed attention. It's all too easy, but he's not going to complain.

"Books! For instance, the other day..." And she proceeds to ramble on, at length, about whichever tome she has found of interest most recently. Lucifer mutes out her monologue, whilst being sure to nod at the correct moments. It's a skill he learned a long time ago.

Eventually, after what seems like half a century, she stops talking. Hallelujah for that. Lucifer's face is blissfully delighted, and Muriel beams in response.

In an abrupt change of subject, Lucifer asks a question. "So - how is Crowley?"

Her face becomes instantly blank, or she tries to make it so, and fails abysmally. "Oh, er...um... I'm not supposed to talk about that. Him, I mean." Muriel grips her mug as if it's her salvation.

"Muriel, you are so sweet. I see you are just being kind and considerate." Muriel wiggles in her happiness. "Do you know, I think I remember you up in Heaven? You're - what, a...?"

"A Scrivener, 36th class," she tells him, apparently proud of such a breathtakingly low position.

"Of course, now I remember. Always so good at your job." The happy little Angel is almost glowing. "I feel I can talk to you, really open up. I'm just so worried about Crowley. He's been so low since Aziraphale dumped him for his exalted position, and I do so want to know if he is alright."

Muriel considers. She looks around the cafe, stares at her cupperty, looks towards the proprietor of the shop, and then finally answers. "He is a little bit...sad."

"I'm sure he is. I just want to know that he is happy, and coping with all the awful feelings the Supreme Archangel left him with. It's such a shame that Crowley was left to drown his sorrows. He's been so much better lately, I was keeping an eye on him, you know, but now I am afraid he has slipped back to his old habits."

Muriel's eyes are wide in agreement, and she is nodding, although Lucifer is fairly sure she is unaware of it. "He has been drinking a lot. Quite a lot, actually. I... I'm worried about him."

"And you are right to be so. Crowley needs to be saved from himself, and as an Angel, you are perfectly placed to do so."

"Do you...do you really think I could help? I would so like to, but," and she pauses, uncertainty draped around her shoulders like a coat, "he said you locked him in a room." She speaks quietly, fearfully, with her eyes darting around the cafe, until they come at last to rest on Lucifer.

He sighs, and lets a world-weary glamour suffuse his corporation. "I'm ashamed to admit it, Muriel, but I did."

She gasps as the story is confirmed, but he notes that it has taken someone else to agree with the scandalous tale, for her to believe it.

"I did, but only because I am so concerned for Crowley's wellbeing. I was worried he would run off on me, and that's exactly what he did. Anything could have happened, to Crowley himself, or to any humans that might have been around at the time."

"Crowley would never hurt them!" Muriel is truly horrified.

"Please don't misunderstand me. I have known Crowley for a very long time, I am quite aware of his un-Demonlike nature," isn't that the truth, "but if Crowley were to truly lose all hope, all sense of himself due to his melancholy and despair, well, he's a very powerful Demon, and things might go unintentionally badly."

Muriel's eyes have tears in the corners. Lucifer can almost see the gears turning in her head, as she attempts to square the circle between his words, and what Crowley has said about what happened.

"I just want to help. I'm sure you know that Crowley has a...flair for the dramatic," she nods in response, "so could you just consider the possibility that perhaps he might have...slightly embroidered parts of his story? Crowley is in such a dark place, it must be very difficult to think clearly." He meets her eyes, and his own are sparkling pools of innocence.

"How would you...how would you help him?"

"There are lots of things that I would like to do for Crowley, but perhaps to start with, you could do something for me. I have a letter for him. Oh, please do not worry yourself! It is just a letter. Look, it's only paper and ink - what harm can it do?"

He shows her the missive he has produced from thin air; the envelope has Anthony inked upon it in darkest black writing. "I only want Crowley to know he isn't alone, and for him to understand the depth of my feeling. How could that be wrong?" Lucifer lets the temptation hang in the air. It all seems so easy, so obviously the right thing to do. They all start with those good intentions, but find the road to Hell is paved with them.

The little Angel hesitantly reaches across the table, until her fingers brush the smooth envelope.

"See? Nothing has happened, it's simply paper and ink. I just need Crowley to understand how much I want to help, and how sorry I am for any misunderstandings we might have had. What do you think? Will you help me, to help Crowley? He is your friend, I know you will want to do all you can to help him recover, and be well in body and mind."

"Yes, anything to help!" she says, a small, hopeful smile in evidence, as her eyes light up in Goodness.

"Oh thank you, my dear. You have no idea how happy you've made me." Lucifer waves the paper fractionally, and her fingers close upon it.

She takes the letter. "I suppose I'd better be getting back. Thank you for the cupperty."

"You are very welcome. Now, be sure to give that to Crowley. I want him to know exactly how I feel."

"Of course. Goodbye, Mr Morningstar."

"Adieu, Muriel."

The naive Angel almost skips back to the Bookshop. Lucifer orders another coffee, and leans back contentedly in his chair. He sips his drink, whilst picturing Crowley's face when he reads his epistle.

xxxxx

Crowley has been anxiously waiting in the shop. He had heard Lucifer's distinctive voice working its unholy magic on Muriel, but marooned (hidden) at the back, he hadn't been able to do anything to stop it.

He'd been horrified when he heard her agree to go with him, and had impotently stood in the yellow room, until the sound of the door closing had him running to the upstairs window. He had watched them go into the coffee shop, a lion making off with a lamb.

That was twenty-five minutes ago. What on earth could they be discussing? Crowley has been pacing back and forth in his agitation, checking his watch every five seconds, but still the minutes have ticked arduously on.

He should have been prepared for Lucifer coming here, but maybe he had tried to convince himself that Lucifer would have been bored with him by now, and would have forgotten him the moment he was out of sight. But the other Demon is a jealous and possessive lover, only happy to relinquish control when he is ready. Crowley choosing to walk away is not something Lucifer could ever have been happy about.

Crowley is almost on the verge of heading over to the coffee shop, consequences be damned, when the sweet little Angel returns. She is smiling, practically skipping in through the door. Crowley feels a lurch in his soul as he recognises the effects of Lucifer unleashing his charisma. He heart sinks, and he wonders what has he said to her.

"Muriel? Is everything alright?" He scans her for any sign of possible injury, but thankfully finds none. He is well aware though, that some hooks are invisible, and that they can run deep.

"Yes!" She's bubbling with excitement. "I had a lovely cupperty, and we talked about books, and Lucifer was lovely - he remembers me up in Heaven! He said I was good at my job! And he is worried about you, and wants me to give you this!" She says it all in one breath, and ends by thrusting a letter at him.

Crowley avoids taking it, and instead he fixes Muriel with a frown. "Lucifer knows I'm here."

"Yes, I'm sorry about that. You're not cross with me, are you? I didn't mean to say anything, but I think he already knew." She peers worriedly at him.

He can't be upset with her, she hadn't stood a chance, not against him. "No, no I'm not cross. What, um...what did he want?"

"He wanted to talk about you, to make sure you are okay. He seemed nice," she says guilelessly.

Crowley sighs. "I'll bet he did. What else did he want?"

"Just to make sure you were well. He's concerned you might...do something unwise. You won't, will you?"

"No, of course not!" Lucifer has obviously been filling her head with smooth and damaging nonsense.

"Oh good! I would hate to see you hurt."

Crowley is touched at her concern, but it is clear Lucifer has done a number on her, as he has so many souls before. She's been completely taken in.

"What is that?" He indicates the letter still clutched in her hand.

"Mr Morningstar said he wants you to know how he feels. There can't be anything bad in it, otherwise I would have felt it. It's just paper and ink, that's what he said. You know, I don't think he's half as bad as he's made out to be. He treated me to my hot drink!"

Defeated, and knowing when he's beaten, Crowley takes the missive. The paper is thick and satiny, and obviously expensive, as Lucifer would have nothing less.

Boldly written in a confident hand, is his name. Anthony. That makes him nervous, it somehow seems more chillingly intimate than Crowley would have. He holds the letter for several minutes, working up the courage to read it.

Muriel carries on twittering in the background. It's not her fault, she is sweet and innocent, and he's... Lucifer Morningstar. Crowley knows what it is to be overwhelmed by him.

With slightly trembling hands, the Demon opens the envelope, and removes the single sheet of equally luxurious writing paper. He unfolds it, and reads the same handwriting as the envelope. There are no names, only some song lyrics.

I hear the laughter, I taste the tears
But I can't get near you now

Oh, can't you see it, baby?
You've got me going crazy

Wherever you go, whatever you do
I will be right here waiting for you
Whatever it takes or how your heart breaks
I will be right here waiting for you

Crowley's mind whirrs. He's always thought that song was creepy, and this just proves it. He feels like a cornered (what else?) snake, and he wants to run, to flee, but where can he go?

His mobile rings then. He pulls it out of his pocket, and winces. It's another phone call, of course it is.

📞 Him 105
📩 Him 296
📧 Him 115

Although he can't see the building from where he stands, Crowley looks in the direction of the coffee shop, to where he knows Lucifer is, and shivers.