Chapter Text
Murder, Tea, and Accidental Nobility
The Prince Who Was No More
Stolas sank into the client couch at I.M.P., his talons catching on the threadbare upholstery and tearing a new gash as his lanky frame spilled over the armrests. The ceiling above him was a patchwork of water stains and cracks, a far cry from the gilded frescoes he used to wake beneath each morning. He inhaled deeply, the acrid scent of cheap coffee assaulting his senses.
"How the mighty have fallen," he murmured, his aristocratic drawl incongruous in the dingy office.
The city beyond the thin walls pulsed with noise, a relentless symphony of car horns, shouting, and the occasional gunshot. It pressed in on him, noisy and indifferent, like the rest of this cursed place. He longed for the hushed reverence of his estate, a place where even the rustling of leaves had seemed to know their place.
He shifted, wincing as a broken spring jabbed his back. "This infernal contraption hardly qualifies as furniture," he hissed, momentarily allowing frustration to pierce through his melancholy.
Memories of his former life flickered through his mind like Polaroids developing: familiar, imperfect, and too quick to fade. The vast, echoing halls; the library where he once read stories to Octavia; the delicate aroma of Hellfire tea wafting from the kitchens; the lush greenhouses he had tended himself; the quiet nights in his office spent charting constellations in solitude; and the dignified weight of power and purpose that had once rested upon his shoulders.
"What am I doing here?" Stolas whispered to the indifferent ceiling. The question hung in the air, unanswered and mocking. He had once fantasized about this, trading his royal life for something louder, rougher, freer. Blitzø made it look so easy, carving out a space for himself and his employees with nothing but attitude and pure spite. What a fool he had been.
He turned, resting his cheek against the couch arm as he stared towards Blitzø’s office door. “I don’t regret what I did, but…” H e closed his eyes, trying to ignore the unfamiliar surroundings. Still, the incessant noise of the city, the discomfort of the couch, and the lingering scent of coffee constantly reminded him of his displacement.
" I suppose this is what they call 'rock bottom, '" Stolas mused, a bitter chuckle escaping his beak. " How quaint ."
His gaze drifted to a chipped mug on the nearby coffee table, still half-full of the swill Blitzø called coffee, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"From Hellfire tea to... this," he muttered, reaching out to trace the mug's worn handle. "Oh, how you'd laugh to see me now, Father."
He’d told himself it was temporary. Just until he got back on his feet, assuming he still could. But each morning, he was still here, no closer than before. And truthfully, he didn’t know how to move forward. Not yet. Maybe he never would.
The weight of his fall from grace pressed down upon him, heavier than any crown he'd ever worn. In this cramped, chaotic space, Stolas felt more lost than he ever had in the vast emptiness of his former life, and yet…
The mismatched furniture, the peeling paint, and the ever-present hum of life all exuded an unexpected warmth. Stolas found himself sinking deeper into the worn couch, its fabric rough against his feathers but oddly comforting. The air hummed with a strange kind of energy, so unlike the cold, reverent silence of his former estate.
“This room has everything I was raised to scorn…” Stolas murmured, his voice barely audible above the city's cacophony. "So why does it feel more honest than home ever did?”
He had believed in Blitzø, believed that the imp’s recklessness could shatter the staleness of their world. Maybe, in fleeting moments, he had even fantasized about being a part of it all. But belief was a dangerous thing to have in Hell. And hope, well, that was even worse.
A crash erupted from the adjacent room, splintering through his thoughts. Stolas jerked upright, feathers bristling, just as the door burst open.
"For the last time, Moxxie, that's not how you stab a hellhound!" Blitzø's voice rang out, sharp and exasperated as the lanky imp stormed in, dramatically wielding a stapler like a dagger.
Moxxie followed, his face flushed with frustration. "Sir, if you'd just listen—"
"Oh, I'm listening alright," Blitzø interrupted, spinning to face his employee. "I'm listening to the sound of our reputation going down the drain because you can't follow simple instructions!"
Stolas watched, wide-eyed, as Blitzø launched into a theatrical retelling of what could only be Moxxie’s botched assassination attempt. He leaned back as pens and paperclips became unwitting props, flung through the air.
"And then—" Blitzø paused, breath huffing in exaggerated puffs, "—you tripped over your tail and landed face-first into the remains of that succu-bitch!" He hurled the stapler into the wall behind the secretary's desk, right where Loona’s head had been seconds prior.
Millie stepped between the two, tightly gripping both of their shoulders until they began to wince. "Now, now, boys. It wasn't that bad. We can learn from this and do better next time, right?"
Loona, sprawled on a nearby chair, didn't even look up from her phone. "If there is a next time, I'm pretty sure that client's gonna want a refund."
Sensing an opening, Stolas cleared his throat and attempted to join the conversation. "Perhaps a more subtle approach would have been advisable? A Stygian bloom extract, maybe?"
The room went silent.
Moxxie turned to him, blinking. "...That’s completely impractical."
Loona finally glanced up, squinting at him. "What?"
Stolas’s feathers ruffled involuntarily, a nervous tic he thought he’d conquered long ago. “I, well, I merely thought—”
Blitzø cackled, cutting through the awkward silence. "Stygian bloom? What are we, fucking herbalists?" He sauntered over to the kitchenette, grabbing the coffee pot. "We're more of a 'shoot first, ask questions never' kind of operation, Stolas."
“Right, of course. Forgive me.”
As the argument raged on, Stolas remained silent, an outsider looking in on a world he barely comprehended. Cast adrift… The thought was both terrifying and oddly liberating. Perhaps this is what it took to finally learn how to swim.
The shrill ring of the office phone pierced through the room, silencing the argument mid-sentence. Blitzø's demeanor shifted instantly, his manic energy coalescing into something sharper and more focused. He snatched up the receiver, a predatory grin spreading across his face.
"I.M.P., where your problems disappear faster than a sinner's soul on Extermination Day," Blitzø purred, his voice dripping with faux sweetness. “How can we assist you today?”
Stolas leaned forward, drawn by the abrupt transformation. This was Blitzø as he'd never seen him before, professional, in his twisted way.
As the caller spoke, Blitzø's expressions cycled through a dizzying array of emotions. He rolled his eyes dramatically, mimed hanging himself with the phone cord, then suddenly snapped to attention.
"Oh, absolutely! We specialize in that kind of... delicate situation," Blitzø assured, winking at no one in particular. "Trust me, by this time tomorrow, your mother-in-law won't be a problem anymore, well, not for anyone topside, at least. Guaranteed or your money back!"
Stolas's eyes widened. Did he actually promise to… he thought, then caught himself. Of course, he had. This was I.M.P., after all.
Blitzø continued, gesticulating wildly with his free hand. "No, no, we don't do cash refunds. But hey, once word gets out how efficiently we handled your pest problem, you'll be fighting off the neighbors who want our services!"
Stolas was caught between horror and admiration. Blitzø's brazenness was appalling, yet beneath the crass exterior, there was an undeniable competence, a ruthless efficiency that both repelled and fascinated him.
It’s all so loud, so reckless, so wrong… Stolas mused, his gaze fixed on Blitzø's animated form. And yet, I can't look away.
As Blitzø wrapped up the call with a final crude gesture, the office erupted once again into the argument about the botched job.
Stolas hesitated as he watched Moxxie and Blitzø’s argument spiral. He opened his mouth to interject, only to snap it shut again. Maybe he shouldn't speak up.
But then Blitzø dramatically mimed stabbing a hellhound with a pen, and Stolas couldn’t help himself.
“I still think a tailored toxin could’ve—”
“No more flowers, Stolas!” Moxxie barked. “We’re not a florist with a death wish.”
Stolas ruffled his feathers, trying not to bristle. “I was simply offering an alternative—”
“And we are respectfully telling you it sucks,” Blitzø said cheerfully, already moving on. The coffee machine beeped, and he turned away, busying himself with preparing a cup for each of them.
Stolas sat back, chin resting on his fist, glowering at the floor as he forced himself to calm down. His feathers were still slightly puffed with irritation, and his pride smarted beneath the surface. He wasn’t used to being dismissed so casually, especially not after offering what, in his mind, had been a perfectly rational suggestion. But this place ran on a different kind of logic. Louder, rougher, and indifferent to titles or tact.
He exhaled slowly through his beak, trying to will the heat out of his cheeks. Maybe he was being overly sensitive. Maybe he still hadn’t accepted that his opinion didn’t carry more weight than anyone else’s.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Blitzø slid the mug onto the coffee table in front of Stolas, saying nothing more.
Stolas stared at the steaming cup, his mind racing. Was this a peace offering? A mockery? Or simply a habitual gesture? He reached for it, his talons clinking against the chipped ceramic.
"Thank you," he murmured, barely audible. Blitzø just shrugged, raising an eyebrow as Moxxie launched into a rant about paperwork or some other trivial matter.
Stolas lifted the mug to his beak and inhaled deeply, then paused, frowning. This wasn’t coffee. He leaned in again, tilting his head slightly as the scent registered. It was tea. Peppermint, to be exact. Not his preferred blend, but far more drinkable than the burnt sludge he'd expected.
A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his beak.
Perhaps, he thought, watching the chaos of the I.M.P. office unfold around him, there’s more to learn here than I realized.
~o0o~
Later that day, Blitzo kicked open the office door, a tray of Hellbucks drinks precariously balanced in one hand. “Alright, you insufferable cretins,” he announced, his voice a rasping cackle, "fuel up before we dive into this clusterfuck of a meeting."
Moxxie's eyes lit up as he reached for his cup. “Speaking of clusterfucks," he said, grimacing at the name Foxy written across the side before turning to Stolas with unexpected enthusiasm. “What's your take on Hellbound Melodies, Sire? That new musical about the tone-deaf siren?"
Stolas blinked, his hand pausing mid-reach for the cup Blitzø had been handing him, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Well, I..." he began, his mind racing to recall the show's details. "The orchestration was quite clever, though the second act felt a bit..."
"Disjointed?" Moxxie interjected, nodding vigorously. "Exactly! The composer clearly lost the plot after the kraken solo."
Stolas took a sip of his tea, nodding. "Indeed, though I'd argue the mermaid's lament in Act Three redeemed much of the—"
"Oh, come on!" Blitzø interrupted, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The only good part was when the siren's head exploded!"
The room erupted with arguments from all three sides. Stolas struggled to keep pace with their rapid-fire banter, his carefully constructed arguments drowned out by crude jokes, scathing retorts, and obscene gestures.
And yet, he noticed, they were including him. Awkwardly, yes, with sideways glances and stilted pauses, but the effort was there. Warmth bloomed in his chest, unfamiliar and not entirely unwelcome.
The conversation then moved on, but Stolas barely listened. His thoughts drifted elsewhere as he reached for his phone.
No new messages.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should send her something. Just a quick check-in…
He typed out a simple, Are you well, my darling? But hesitated before pressing send. His heart clenched. Did she even want to hear from him?
With a sigh, he pressed send.
No messages. No response. Nothing. It had been over a month at this point.
The ache in his chest deepened.
He grimaced and took a long sip of his tea to keep from crying, his gaze drifting, only to be caught by the buzzing of Blitzø’s phone.
The moment Blitzø glanced at the screen, his entire posture stiffened, drawing the others into a sudden, uneasy silence.
"Well, well, well," Blitzø said, forcing a grin as he read the message. With a flick, he clicked the screen off and tossed the phone lightly into the air, catching it with practiced ease. "Looks like Luci’s finally calling in a favor. Took him long enough! Maybe he wants me to train his royal guards. Teach ‘em how to add some flair to their murder! Hell, maybe he wants to hire me! I did make a killer bodyguard for Verosika."
Stolas could see Moxxie’s eye twitch before the imp dragged a rough hand over his face. "Sir. That is Lucifer, the King of Hell. You are an imp. He is not hiring you for anything."
"Oh, ye of little faith, Moxx," Blitzø said, waving a dismissive hand. "Maybe if I act super confident, he’ll just assume I’m on his level and poof, instant promotion! And if that fails, I’ll just challenge him to a duel! Y'know, old-school style. Some fancy swordplay, a dramatic monologue, maybe a sexy outfit—"
"You would be instantly obliterated," Moxxie said flatly.
Blitzø paused. His grin faltered, just for a second. "Okay, yeah, maybe I need a backup plan," he muttered, tapping his chin. "Ooh! Loony, you got any, uh, dirt on Luci? Maybe some blackmail material?"
Loona barely looked up. "Yeah, sure, Dad. Lemme just Hellgle his search history. That should totally work."
"See? Now we’re thinking outside the box!" Blitzø clapped his hands and reached for his coffee, accidentally grabbing Stolas’s tea. “And hey, worst-case scenario, I just seduce my way out of this mess.”
Silence.
"He could literally erase you from existence,” Loona said dryly, though the subtle flurry of her fingers over her phone’s screen suggested she was trying to dig something up on Lucifer.
"Pfft. Please. If he were gonna smite me, he’d have done it already." He took a sip from the cup in his hand, then immediately spat it out. "Ugh, Stolas, what the fuck is this? Liquid disappointment?"
Stolas calmly slid Blitzø’s cup back toward him and reclaimed his own, cradling it protectively between his talons.
“Sir, a summons from Lucifer is no laughing matter. We should treat this with the seriousness it warrants—”
"What? Should we piss ourselves?" Blitzø interrupted, his forced grin stretching wider. "Come on, Moxx, where’s your sense of adventure?"
Millie stepped forward, her yellow eyes narrowed with worry. "Blitzø, sugar, Moxxie's right. This ain't just another client. It's the King of Hell!"
Even Loona looked up from her phone. Her red eyes held an uncharacteristic spark of concern. "Dad," she said softly, the single word laden with meaning. He stared at her for a moment before she growled and looked away. "You should probably make a will."
Blitzø cooed at her and reached for a hug, only to be promptly kicked in the chest and shoved away. He forced another smile, but Stolas caught it, the flicker of unease beneath it, and the slight tremor in his fingers as he reached for his coffee.
Stolas didn’t move, but his feathers prickled with a cold dread he hadn’t felt since his fall from grace. His mind raced through the possibilities, each more dire than the last. Lucifer’s wrath was not to be taken lightly; he’d seen more than one Goetia fall to it.
Blitzø's manic energy faltered as he met Stolas's gaze. For a fleeting moment, Stolas was able to capture the flicker of genuine fear that passed across his face. "Stolas," Blitzø muttered, trying to keep his tone casual. "You’ve, uh... handled Lucifer before, yeah? What's his whole deal?"
Stolas hesitated, memories of Lucifer's whimsical charm and quiet cruelty flooding his mind. He smoothed his feathers, stalling.
“He’s... unpredictable. Capricious. He delights in chaos,” Stolas said, his voice tightening, “but it’s never random. There’s always a reason… and a cost. Once, he—” He stopped short, swallowing the memory. “A summons from him is never without consequence.”
Blitzø gave a nervous laugh. “So what, Stols? He gonna drag us to some royal dungeon and flay us with flaming violins?”
Stolas didn’t smile. “Or it could be an opportunity,” he murmured, though he didn’t sound convinced.
The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy blanket of dread settling over the I.M.P. office. Blitzø's usual manic energy had drained away, replaced by a jittery restlessness that had him fidgeting in his seat.
"Well, shit," he muttered, forcing a smirk as he grabbed his coffee. "Guess I’ll dust off my kneepads. Royal ass doesn’t kiss itself. Good thing I got a lot of practice with that."
Moxxie groaned, visibly paling. “Sir, now is not the time to talk about Stolas’s—”
“—feathers,” Stolas interjected smoothly, though his beak twitched in what might’ve been amusement… or embarrassment.
Blitzø cackled, the sound too loud for the still-tense room. “Don’t worry, I’ll be classy. I’ll only flirt with Lucifer if I think it’ll save my life.”
Loona didn’t look up. “So you’re definitely flirting then.”
Blitzø pointedly took a sip of his coffee, ignoring Loona’s comment, but Stolas noticed the way his hands were just barely shaking. He’d never seen Blitzø falter, not like this. The tremor unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Blitzø suddenly grabbed a stack of papers from the head of the table and rifled through them. "Alright, enough doom and gloom," he muttered. "Let’s get back to business. Moxx, I need you to—" He shoved a paper toward Moxxie without looking. "Millie, can you—" Another paper. "Stolas, hold this."
Stolas blinked as Blitzø thrust a small pack of papers into his hands without hesitation. He had already turned away to keep barking orders at the others. The exchange had lasted less than a second and was completely unremarkable.
Did he…? Stolas glanced up, half-expecting a smirk, a jab, some offhand remark that would reduce the moment to a joke.
But Blitzø was too busy snapping his fingers at Moxxie, pointing at the whiteboard, and rambling about a "target-rich environment."
No show. No hesitation. No second glance. To him, it had meant nothing.
Stolas curled his talons around the paper, feeling the rough texture between his fingers. It was a mundane thing, just a contract, already smudged with Blitzø’s haphazard scrawl, but the gesture sent something strange and unfamiliar twisting in his chest.
Blitzø had handed it to him without thinking, without hesitation, a grand gesture or awkward deliberation. It was the same casual way he handed things to his actual employees.
To him, this means nothing. Just another file. But to me...
Stolas stared down at the file before tucking the paper under his arm, smoothing his feathers. "I’ll get this filed right away, Blitzø," he said smoothly.
He had turned to leave the room, but something stopped him. He turned back and reached out, his taloned hand hovering inches from Blitzø's shoulder before pulling back. "Whatever happens, Blitzø," he said softly, "remember that you're not alone in this."
Blitzø stared at him for a moment. A soft, unreadable smile crossed his face, then twisted into something wryer. “Yeah, yeah. Real touching, feathers.”
Stolas nodded, but something in his chest tightened as he turned away. Behind him, the conversation had already moved on: Blitzø was launching into a rant about their next job, Loona scrolled lazily through her phone, offering dry interjections when warranted, and Moxxie mumbled something about “professional standards”. Back to the usual chaos. Familiar, but never quite his.
Stolas looked down at the packet in his hands, a small frown playing on his beak. He didn’t belong here. Maybe he never would.
This wasn’t the life he’d envisioned when he dared to love an imp. But that vision had been flawed from the start. He’d given Blitzø his grimoire as a door, a way out. But he hadn’t considered what stepping through it might cost them both.
When he raised his eyes, he caught Millie’s gaze from across the room, a small, worried glance that lingered a moment too long. She offered a faint, knowing smile that he didn’t return.
Still, it was something. At least he wouldn’t be the only one lying awake, wondering if loving Blitzø would be enough to save him, or what it might cost when it wasn’t.