Chapter Text
Lucifer danced from conversation to conversation on the nightclub's floor, passing from one person to another for catch-up. "How's your wife?" "I trust that the job is going well." "Did the favor work out well?" Staying around for simple questions with single sentence answers, not truly interested in anything beyond that. Mostly because it was a Sunday evening. Sundays were a split crowd; they're either drinking on Sunday to get the last of their weekend in, or they're there to party, and party hard. Get somebody talking for too long on a Sunday, and the topic eventually gets into their boring personal problems.
His week so far had been eventful. Four days ago Lucifer had accidentally shown his Devil Face to Chloe, and she'd run off. Who knows what she was thinking? The police had taken her away before he could even see her face. Would he see concern? Fear? Pity? Disgust? Hatred? Lucifer was still processing the event in its entirety, convincing himself that Chloe just needed a little time. Doctor Linda had handled herself very well, and hadn't even known him for that long. Yes, what Chloe needed was a little bit of time to think. She had known him for years, after all. The entire event must have been fairly traumatic; she had been affianced to the man after all. And then she got shot, and then she saw the horrific mess that had been his own face, all red-eyed and scarred. Had he been in her place, he would have run too.
He buried all thoughts of the event, of her, down for the time being.
Carefully dodging small groups of drunk people, practice clear in his fluid movements, he made his way over to the bar. He hopped into a backless black swivel chair, and tapped his fingers on the varnished mahogany wood. It was smooth to the touch, clean. He was quite proud to say that his bar was probably the cleanest in the Los Angeles area. Though, he supposed, this should be the standard.
He tilted his head up as he heard the click of black dress shoes walking towards him.
"Sam!" He exclaimed to his bartender, pushing himself further onto the counter on crossed arms. "Glass of that Canadian whisky, back there, yes. Neat, please."
Sam poured the whisky into a Glencairn glass, and slid it towards him when he was done pouring. Lucifer picked up the glass and sipped at it, letting the light flavor sit on his tongue. The spice sat in the very back of his throat, He felt the burn as he swallowed, the alcohol warming his chest.
The bartender was about to put the bottle back and tend to another man who had just sat down, before remembering something. Pausing only momentarily, he set the entire bottle of whisky in front of Lucifer. "Yeah?" The blonde asked, confirming that that was okay.
"Oh yes. You're picking up on this very well. Better than most." The younger man smiled a little and slid over to the other man, in a better mood than he had been before. Lucifer finished the first glass of whisky fairly quickly, suddenly wishing he could feel buzzed without drinking the bar out of house and home. Just to get tipsy, he'd have to drink the entire penthouse's worth, and then some. That's more work than it's worth. He watched his new bartender pick up a bottle from the counter behind him, put ice in a thick-walled glass, and artfully pour into it.
This is not to mention the fact that Lucifer polished off the penthouse just the other day, and he'd just finished re-stocking the walls.
Sam pushed it towards the patron, and Lucifer could see their lips move as the two exchanged some quick words. His bartender slid back on the smooth floor.
"So you like the shoes?" Lucifer teased.
"Yes. Oh, absolutely. I don't ever remember having shoes this nice. They glide everywhere. It's amazing, sir," they said with a grin. Sam looked down at his outfit, tugged at the rows of pretty black buttons on either side between the pockets and the center, gently pushing the white Egyptian cotton dress shirt further into his pants with a hand.
"The outfit is amazing," he said as thumbed at the black suspenders and tugged, "but I especially like the shoes." He let the suspenders go, and they snapped back against his chest. "Thank you," Sam said shyly, "I know I've said it a lot, but seriously. Thanks."
Lucifer didn't say anything, the thanks sitting warmly in his heart, but lodged in a very uncomfortable place. He didn't need thanking; it was the right thing to do. At least, he thought so. He might be doing a bit much. Sentimentality, perhaps. Lucifer tipped his glass toward him with a tight grin.
"Don't call me 'sir'. And I just wanted to say, Sam—I understand that my word on it might not make you feel any better, but I very strongly doubt that he will find a way to contact you again."
Sam swallowed. "What if he does?"
Lucifer hummed. "Then I guess we'll have to do it all again, no? It'd be a bit of an ordeal to fix everything up again, but it could be done," he said with a dramatic sigh.
Sam gave him a wobbly smile, lips pursing a little. He quickly turned his head away from the Devil's attempt to read his facial expression clearly. Not quick enough.
"Oh, don't do that. It's not necessary! Truly. It's not of any trouble to me. Really, it's not. I do the whole 'favor' business for a reason; it doesn't hurt me to help somebody who needs it. Besides, you're paying it back, right now, aren't you? Bartending. Perfectly fine way to repay me. I give you something you value greatly, and I receive something I value greatly! Alcohol."
"I can't help but feel like there's some caveat here I'm absolutely failing to miss."
"No caveat."
"Well, um. Let me know if there's anything else I can do, really. Unless it's some weird, uh, Mafia thing or something."
Lucifer raised a bemused eyebrow. "Mafia."
"Well, you've gotta get the money somehow, right?"
He exhaled a laugh. A woman sat down at the bar, and he waved off Sam; the bartender eagerly went back to work, sliding over on his heels. The woman is giving Sam a flirty smile; Sam is missing it entirely, going about making her a Cosmopolitan.
The favor business between himself and Sam was unique, not that he'd tell the boy that. It made him feel odd. Lucifer had always held onto the favors, cashed them in later. But when Sam had come up to him three days ago, Lucifer had been feeling quite vulnerable. Sam had walked up to the bar where Lucifer was drinking his feeling away, thinking about what had happened just a few hours before. He'd killed a man. Chloe had left, disappeared without a trace. He was hunched over the bar, in a world of pain, and not looking for conversation. Sam had sat down next to him and told him about his situation, having heard that Lucifer might be able to help, perhaps too anxious in finding the courage to ask to even notice that the other man was paying minimal attention.
"I just want to get out. This isn't what I am. I want to change," Sam had whispered brokenly, and Lucifer, despite only hearing bits and pieces, was ready to strike up a deal. He'd finally picked his head up and turned to the side when he realized the man next to him wasn't really a man at all, but just a boy. Couldn't be any older than nineteen.
He got up, made plenty of outrageous promises in a fit of emotion, patted the young lad on the back, and rushed a favor of his own to get Sam out of a bad situation. Maybe he had seen himself in the boy, maybe he experienced a bout of insanity. He couldn't remember why he did it or what he had done to get the boy working at his bar. He did know he didn't regret it, though. Not to mention, Sam made quite a decent margarita, perfectly tart and sweet. The newly twenty-one year old would do just fine here.
While watching his bartender and the woman he was serving, he started to notice a very familiar smell start to gather in the air. Almost smoky, but not quite. A wood smell. And... sulfur? His eyes widened as he thought. It was definitely sulfur, but it didn't smell bad in the rotten-egg way, it was more coal-like. Like burning matches, coupled with the smell of wine, wood, and smoke. The smell of demon. Yet, not quite. It was coming closer to the bar. Lucifer’s mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario—demon comes to confront him, they fight, people see him, people get scared. In some small, self-sabotaging corner of his brain, he sees a man jump off a building to avoid him as Lucifer shouts at him to stop.
His chest, where before there was the pleasant warmth of alcohol, suddenly goes cold and clammy. He clenches his jaw and wills his mind to clear itself. Perhaps that was what Chloe remembered when she thought of him, now.
With a bottle of Canadian whisky and a glass in his hand, he slides right out of the black seat, walks back across the black marble floor and over to the mezzanine to have a better view of everything. He slides past groups of people, people standing alone, people walking, catching bits of conversations as he shuffles past. Reaching the top of the staircase, he sets the bottle down right next to him, downs the glass of whisky in one go, and studies the lower level, and lets his nose tell him that it is coming from... right there.
He watches as the demon walks across the floor of the nightclub; weaving through a few standing groups with that kind of smooth ease Lucifer hasn't seen since Freddie. He walks up to the bar— inconvenient, because it may have done Lucifer better had he not moved in the first place. Better view. Though, from up here, he supposed, he could watch without being noticed. The demon seats himself at the bar, almost immediately blending into the room. Which to him is quite odd, because the people at the bar look fairly normal. Not much off about them at all, save for the fact that most of them are alone. At a glance, you wouldn't think any of them were demons. Though he supposed most people wouldn't be looking out for that in the first place...
Lucifer wouldn't normally suspect any of them were demons either, except, well. Snakeskin shoes, and that matchbox smell?. Truly, not the oddest thing, but if you're looking to find a demon, slightly odd is still an alarm bell. Anything off, really.
The demon had deep red hair, he noticed. Not the strangest hair choice for a demon to make. Attention grabbing, for sure. So were the man's clothes. Flashy. Often the whole demon aesthetic, when on Earth, was 'trying and failing at inconspicuousness'. Except for Mazikeen, he supposed. She was always flashy, even when she didn't need to be. Then again, most people would also describe him as consistently flashy.
From the mezzanine, he narrowed his eyes at the strange demon with concern, anger, and suspicion. Normally, he would just go up there and get straight to the good bits. A little bit of threatening, a little bit of violence. However, Linda had been admonishing him as of late for unnecessary hostility, and he was determined to prove her wrong. He wasn't unnecessarily hostile and violent. He always had perfectly good reasons!
In essence, he had created an imaginary bet with Doctor Linda, and he was going to win it, thank you very much.
He picked up the bottle and glass, and with calculated calm, he made his way down the steps, and closed in on the strange man. Sam glanced at him, and Lucifer made a couple of vague hand motions that meant, "Make me another drink, no rocks." Sam only froze for a second to figure out what the hell the motions meant before they got to work.
As he walked to the far end of the bar, where the demon was seated, he noticed two things. One, the man absolutely reeked of alcohol. God knows how long he had been drinking. And with a constitution like that, how many days was also a good question to ask. The second thing that he noticed... well. Inferred would be the better word, but by all looks of it, the demon appeared to be moping. It was certainly not because he himself looked the exact same when he wasn't coping well with something, no. But the man looked, well. Is there something beyond sad and depressed? Perhaps numb. He looked to have had enough alcohol to kill a horse, and then some. Whatever the word was, the man in front of him who was staring intently at his drink was far worse off than anyone else he'd seen in a while.
Lucifer casually strolled up to the man and took a seat on his right, hopping into the bar chair and crossing his right leg over his left. He angled himself slightly to the left. Clasping his hands together, he set them on his knee, before taking a big, relaxing breath and snapping his head towards the man who was already looking at him.
"Hello," he said, maintaining a very, very impressive calm, thank you very much, "why are you here?"
The red-haired man stared at him and raised the glass of tequila to his lips. "Same... same reason as ev'body else. Drinks, yeah?" He said in a snappy tone of voice, despite the drunken slurring. He downed it in one go.
Sam set a drink in front of him, internally debating whether or not to leave the bottle as Lucifer already had one, but the dark-haired man ignored the bartender's turmoil. Lucifer furrowed his brows. Not only was the red-haired man much drunker than he had appeared at a distance, he hadn't lied. That wasn't helpful. Demons don't just come to Earth to drink. They come to stir up trouble.
Sam left the bottle and walked away.
"Yes, of course. Why here, though? This bar?" Lucifer asked.
The demon furrowed his brows, annoyed. "You conductin' a survey or somethin'? If you...you've neglected to notice, 'm in quite a state at the moment, so I would highly appreciate it if you could leave me... leave me to my drinks, yeah? I've wrapped e'rythin' up. Then 'm headin back to Hell. 'N I don't mean London."
The man was speaking nonsense, really, but he did seem relatively harmless. But at least that confirmed his suspicions that the person in front of him was a demon. Which would justify a little bit of questioning, prodding, a little 'get off my property'-ing.
"What's your name?"
"I asked ya' politely, I don't wanna ask again. Leave me alone, yeah?" he said emphatically, turning back to Lucifer.
Lucifer relented and poured himself another glass of whisky. Sam's freshly poured glass of rum, on the other hand, he slid to the demon.
The demon caught it with one hand and raised an eyebrow at the devil. "Y'do somethin' to it? Not that it would make much of a diff-er-ence with where I'm at. Might make it better, ac-tually," he said, struggling to push through the longer words.
"The bartender poured it."
The demon accepted it and took a small sip at the drink, before turning back to the devil, his black glasses looking peachy under the bar lights. "If you're gonna sit here, Go- Ssatan- Ssssomebody knows why, just keep it quiet, yeah? I don't care enough to move to another seat. Don't care enough," he sniffed.
And so the two sat in silence for a while; Crowley was slightly miffed at the fact that the man next to him was still sitting there, when he explicitly asked him to leave before, but at least he was being quiet. After a while, he started to forget the well-dressed prick was even there.
When the demon finished sipping at the rum, he very unsubtly pushed the glass back towards the devil. Obligingly, and uncharacteristically, the devil poured him another glass. Lucifer's interest had been piqued, and he wanted answers. He could wait. And so the fallen angels sipped on their drinks, lost in their own thoughts. For a solid fifteen minutes.
"Who'd you lose?"
The demon flinched like he'd been sucker-punched. "Satan below! Do you have ADD? 'Cause... you... you're about as subtle as a bag of bricks to the head. I ssssssaid, no talking. What part of 'quiet' doesn't make it into your daft American brains? You talk, talk talk. American brains, gah. Small American brains."
"I'm not American," Lucifer denied, sounding miffed.
"You sure as Hell aren't English! Something off about it," The demon barked. He tapped his glass and his leg started bouncing, bit blood pressure skyrocketing with stress. "I came here for...to relaxxx, not to get intel, inteerooh," he struggled.
"Interrogated?"
"Yes, you know what I mean! Do you know me or somethin'? Are you drrrunk?" The demon cried, fantastically rolling the R."
"Well, to be perfectly honest, I did come here to tell you off, but now you've got me invested. I'm curious as to what could make a demon grieve," Lucifer admitted with a small sip.
This gave the red-haired man pause. But after a moment, he wagged his finger. "You... No. That's not... People dun' know that. I mean, the witch, and maybe, maybe those kidsss, but they don' count. How... How? An' quite frankly, well, frankly, that's none o' ya' businessss. Neither of it. None of it!"
Very suddenly, the demon seemed to realize on a more fundamental level what had been asked of him. He let himself sober, just a little, and stared into the devil's eyes.
"Who are you?"
"You know who I am."
Considering the statement, Crowley looked a little more thoroughly at the man. Black hair, a generous amount of guyliner, overall well dressed, wearing a v-neck waistcoat. Had some very nice shoes on. But no, no humans he knew looked like this man, and neither did any demons.
"Nnnnnope! No idea. Every single bell in my noggin remains un-rung."
Lucifer found this, well. Quite odd. Save for Armageddon, which he was not proud of, he had been using this body the entire time. Every demon knew what he looked like. The fact that this one didn't concerned him. Maybe he was wrong? At a dead end, Lucifer decided to go for the thing that Chloe had always found unnecessarily invasive.
"What is it you desire?" He asked, without the typical excessive amount of charisma bleeding out from him.
"Him. I want him back, and..." he trailed off. "I don't know what I want. I want him here, but not... I don't think I could. Why am I telling you this?"
That was of no use whatsoever. But it was insightful.
"Who's he?" Lucifer prodded.
"None of your damned business," Crowley spat, Lucifer's verbal spell having worn off almost immediately. "I don't even know why I'm still sitting here. You're not good conversation, I'm tired and the last two weeksssss have been Groundhog Day. Actually," he says while stumbling out of his seat. Lucifer watches the demon shuffle over to one of the tables, and he plops himself down in a much more comfortable chair with a warning scowl.
Lucifer manages to, once again, respect Crowley's personal space for only a few minutes before he's moseying back to the demon with the bottle necks in one hand and his glass in the other, and sits himself down across from him. Crowley barely looks up.
"What's your name?" He asks while setting the drinks down on the wood surface.
Crowley's head slams down on the table with an uncomfortably loud thud. Passers-by glance at them. The tables are pretty sturdy, but Lucifer's almost sure he heard a crack, and he's not sure if it was the table, or the demon's head.
"The more you ask me, the less I want to tell you," he says, pointing at him with the same finger that holds his glass. "My name is Crowley, damn it. Please, leave me alone."
Lucifer, mid sip on his next cup of whisky, chokes on the drink and struggles to get it going down the right way. Coughing and sputtering, he wipes away stray alcohol that had made its way down his chin, and gently fixes his appearance. His throat burned a little. Look, he was glad that Armageddon had been stopped. Well now of course, with the vacation to Earth, the club, Chloe and Ella, young Beatrice, Dan, even. But he hadn't been before. In fact, he'd been trying to forget about that whole fiasco, thank you very much. It was honestly very embarrassing.
"... Well, that's certainly a first. Never seen that reaction before."
He looked at Crowley with inquisitive eyes. This was the demon that had stopped Armageddon? It simply wasn't possible. Though, now that he thought of it...
He flipped through pages of his memories— and there he was. 'Say it Adam! Say it again!' The small, black-suited ginger had yelled from behind his rebellious son. And as he contrasted that image of Crowley from what was here now, he didn't see the same man. The demon who had the gall to display openly rebellious behavior in front of him during the failed Armageddon was not the same man who was practically crying into his drink not even an hour ago.
"Where's your angel?" The devil asked, remembering the oddly dressed being with the flaming sword, standing strangely close to the taller one. Lucifer could vaguely recall being quite bemused by this.
Crowley growled, shot up from his seat with a fuming expression, and pulled Lucifer up and out of his chair, by the lapels, to his eye level. Well, glasses-level. Lucifer let him, schooling his surprise into something impassive and unimpressed, trying to remind himself of what he's learned through his time with Linda. Yes, unfortunately, Lucifer saw a lot of himself in his highly distraught ex-field agent.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Crowley asked, now very sober and very angry. "Are you stalking me? Do you find this funny? Do you find this entertaining? Because, let me tell you, I am not entertained. I'm not even slightly, marginally amused. What the hell do you want from usss...hmggh! Me! What do you want from me?" Crowley growled in a low voice, not wanting the entire nightclub's eyes on them. Lucifer took note of Crowley's poorly-concealed slip-up.
After a quick second of contemplation, Lucifer's eyes lit up with a gentle red glow. Nothing terrifying for a demon, he didn't think. He stared at the dark glasses, hoping to catch a glimpse behind them, but the only thing visible were his eyebrows, albeit very expressive ones. They flew up high as his eyes took in what they were seeing.
"Shit!" the demon whisper-yelled, dropping the man's lapels with a hiss.
"Shit indeed," the devil said, calming his nerves. It wasn't exactly like he was in an amazing mood to start. Maybe the red eyes were too much. Too much for anybody.
Crowley turned around and began a short three-step pacing back and forth. He ran a hand through his hair, obviously stressed, and placed one hand on his jutted hip. The demon sniffed.
"You, er, you gonna discorporate me? Send me back to Hell?" He says, sounding something in between accepting and disappointed. He sounded much less upset while sober— it was easier to compartmentalize when he wasn't drunk out of his mind.
Lucifer threw his head back, and rolled it around. "Don't think so. You haven't given me a reason to, yet," he says, plopping right back down into his seat. The other man did not sit down, so Lucifer started pouring fresh glasses for both of them. Again, immediately after pouring, he downed it. He needed to be a little tipsy for any heart-to-hearts, if they were to happen.
The demon thought that he had given the devil plenty of reason, personally. Especially if he knew about the lies in his field reports. Evidently, the demon thought, he did not. There would probably be a much stronger reaction if he did. But he wasn't complaining.
Lucifer looked the man up and down as he stood there. It was unclear what he was looking at behind those damned sunglasses. He recognized the demons' look very well, and it made him deeply uncomfortable; the look of someone drowning themselves because they feel as if they've lost it all. Clearly, the being was obviously a usually very well-dressed, fashion-aware man. But his outfit looked like he'd been wearing it for a very long while, the odd necktie around his neck practically untied, just loosely wrapped around one another. The peak lapels on his jacket almost looked like they were drooping too.
Crowley looked towards the exit and contemplated running.
"If you're thinking of running," Lucifer says knowingly, pouring himself another glass, "Ah... Hm. Well I suppose I couldn't stop you. I mean, I could follow you, but I actively advocate against unfriendly stalking in my bar, and I wouldn't want to be hypocritical, now would I?" He said, actively avoiding eye contact. See? No unnecessary threatening. Thinking things through. Extending an olive branch.
The demon just stood there, baffled. "Unfriendly stalking?"
"Look. I'm in the same boat as you, for Dad's sake. You think I can go back to Hell? No! Especially not in this outfit. The tie alone is two hundred dollars. Ash stains are very hard to get out, you know."
Crowley slowly scooted in and began pouring himself more, filling it up all the way. No space at the top to just take a whiff of it, just downing and refilling. After a nice, long sip, he kind of just... stared at the other man. He dressed well. More modern clothing choices than his own, he noticed. But it was very well chosen. It was evident to the demon, by the way the devil held himself, dressed himself, even spoke, that he had been on Earth for a while. Not "a while" in otherworldly being terms, but enough to sit down and change. Despite everything, despite not even wanting to be sitting down with this man, be anywhere near him, really, well. He found himself curious, despite everything screaming at him to just get up and go, run as far as he can despite the fact that it would be entirely useless. Not to mention, he was tired. Tired and in need of another 1000-year nap. Crowley tried to shake it off by knocking back another glass of rum.
It didn't work.
Neither of them said anything for a good, long while this time. Time passed comfortably; they poured, drank, occasionally stole from each other's bottles. When Lucifer's bottle was gone, they both used Crowley's. Lucifer squinted at the glass in his hand, still tasting faintly of the previous drink. They didn't mix well.
"How long you been here?" Crowley asked, looking down at the table, rhythmically tapping away at the side of his glass.
"A bit. Eleven years, give or take a bit. Was around in the forties, nationalism at its peak. Mostly been staying around the Los Angeles area. I was in New York City for a while, though. Ah, well... Vegas, too. I guess. Not for very long, though."
"Suppose at some point you made your way around to the U.K., then," he said, half-asking.
"Ah. Well. Not quite. Been to the U.K. to pop in and out, really, but I never stayed there. I suppose you're wondering because of the accent?"
It was unclear what the response to that was, as Crowley neither moved an eyebrow nor made his eyes visible. Lucifer had the feeling he didn't take those glasses off very often.
"I just liked the accent, really. Thought it was more pleasant than sounding American."
That made Crowley move a little.
Lucifer cleared his throat and raised his pitch. "I don't think I'd be taking quite as many people to bed if I sounded like this," he stated, with the strangest sounding false American accent he has ever heard.
"Hm. I see."
"Yes. It's douchey."
"Most definitely," Crowley mumbled, sounding like he was only half listening. Still staring, though. He realized what he'd let slip, and flinched a little. He relaxed a little upon seeing that the other man didn't care, but made a note to himself to watch what he said.
"Last I remember, that's what a certain brother of mine sounded like. Dad, his voice is annoying," he said, scoffing.
The two of them went quiet for a little while longer, the silence a little more companionable. At least, on Lucifer's end. He was still quite uncomfortable; demons were unpredictable at best. This one had the worst track record of all in that department. But the demon had managed to hang with an angel. From the moment he had surfaced, looking down at Adam and the two supernatural beings, it was obvious to him that the two knew each other quite well. He must have some redeemable qualities if he's friends with an angel.
Eventually, after a few more drinks, Crowley reclined in his seat. He managed to be satisfied with whatever he had seen.
"I'm supposed to be more freaked out about this. For Satan's sss... mmm, ah, no. That's weird. Maybe I'm too drunk to tell. I'm coming to adjust to the unexpected. I think."
Lucifer just slowly raised an eyebrow in return. It seemed to be the man's main method of communication. 'Hey,' he thought to himself, 'at least it was English.'
"You see, I heard..." the demon stops to reform his sentence. "I was under the impression that you, eh?"
"I what?" Lucifer asked, unsure whether to pretend to act like a sixteen year old girl receiving juicy gossip or if he should prepare to be offended, to furrow his brows and act shocked. Maybe once he would have gotten offended by the opinions of demons, when he cared about order and respect. He imagines the place has gone to shit without him, not that he cares.
"Well. There was talk about how you had gone and taken a nice vacation on Earth, but I didn't believe it. They said that you said you're... retired?
"Yep," he said, popping the P. "Hm. I was hoping it would take them a little while longer to notice my absence. It's not like I'm ever actively down there giving out torture commands. I figured I could buy myself at least five more years before they started to throw fits..."
"Doesn't always work out that way, unfortunately. Buying time, I mean," Crowley said bitterly.
"No. No, I suppose it doesn't," he replied, both of them thinking of not-too-dissimilar situations.
Lucifer sighed and flicked the rim of the glass. "Did you ever meet Cain, while he was on Earth?" He asked abruptly, disrupting the more casual flow of conversation. Why did he ask that? Was he trying to sabotage himself?
Crowley blinked. "Once or twice, yeah. Why?"
"Did you ever think he had the capacity to do good?"
He pushed a hand through his red hair, messing it up. "Wow. Loaded question. I mean, I suppose so? I never really liked him, personally. Bit of an arse. Didn't really change in the times between when I saw him. Why do you ask?"
Lucifer didn't answer. He dipped a finger in his glass, coating his finger with the rum, and rubbed his finger around the rim. It made a very faint humming sound as he did so. It was slightly soothing, having something to do with his hands.
"Not important. Just curious," he replied, convincing himself that it was in fact unimportant so it could not be a lie.
Lucifer's slight bout of mania dying off, he suddenly found himself quite tired and unwilling to continue the line of conversation. It was his own damn fault, anyway. All of it. He had steered it in that direction himself. Lucifer took his hands off of the now empty glass and placed them in his lap, fiddling with his onyx ring's stone. He could very well get up and leave, if he wanted to do so.
Honestly, he didn't.
Maybe it would be nice to talk to someone about it, someone who he does not know, who wouldn't try to offer him advice. He cares for Linda with all of his heart, truly, but she would always offer solutions. He didn't need solutions right now. Perhaps the man in front of him would understand. He looked like he might. He could choose to never see him ever again, after all.
"He's, dead, Cain," he said, choosing his words carefully. He straightened himself out in his chair, but let his back rest comfortably against the cushion.
Crowley sputtered. "Dead? That's impossible. He had the, the little thing! The tattoo, the mark!"
"He got rid of it," Lucifer said in an odd drawl. Maybe it was disdain.
"How?"
"He cared for someone," Lucifer said, running a hand through his hair. Hair which, atypically, did not have any product in it.
Crowley sat on this for a moment. He then threw one leg over the side of the chair, and left one leg hanging down in the middle. The man slouched so deeply that only the top of his spine would be in contact with the red plush seat.
The demon's brows furrowed in contemplation. "Wow. Didn't know he had it in him, really. Last time he was in the West End he was a real git. Took a nice, long nap until I was absolutely sure he was gone."
Lucifer looked at the bottle of rum and realized it was empty. They drank that rather slowly, all things considered.
"Then again, you..." the demon tried to continue, but cut himself short. He looked down at his own now empty glass, staring at it so intensely, it were as if he were trying to shatter it with his mind. He probably could, if he focused hard enough.
"Then again, what?"
"It's nothing," Crowley said, squirming a bit in his seemingly uncomfortable position.
"That was a lie. And if it's about me, it's not nothing," Lucifer retorted. The demon curled into himself, making his body look infinitely more contorted. Lucifer reflected on this for a moment; realized maybe his voice went just a little sharp. "Tell me," he added, softer than before.
"Guh. I was... If you could change, he could as well? I don't know. Something like that. The thought wasn't done... baking?"
"I thought that as well. I suppose I was wrong in thinking he could change.... or perhaps I was wrong in thinking I changed." Lucifer slumped in his seat, his hair miraculously looking far messier than before, despite the fact that he did nothing to it. The devil placed his elbow on the armrest, and laid his face in an open-faced palm, shutting his eyes.
Crowley looked baffled. At what, he wasn't sure. Maybe the lack of context. Maybe the sudden loss of confidence and false bravado.
As the two sat across from each other at the same table, Crowley seemed to have a realization. With an almost imperceptible hand motion, merely the flick of a finger, the empty rum bottle filled with wine, and so did their glasses topped themselves off. Right to the brim.
"I heard that," the other said through closed eyes, words muffled by a cheek being pressed into teeth.
It took the tired man a moment to realize what that meant, but he blinked awake as soon as he had processed the sound that he had heard just moments before. Right before he was about to ask something likely very insensitive or perhaps even offensive to the other fallen angel, the nightclub music seemed as if it was amplified by several decibels. Thankfully, it was surprising enough to cut off his word vomit.
The other being twitched at the change in sound as well. Damn that DJ.
After a moment to think of everything that could possibly go wrong with asking, and then promptly disregarding it, the devil cleared his throat. "Do you want to go someplace nicer?" He asked, throwing one leg over the other. "I have a penthouse on the top floor. Nice view of the stars." It was less of an ask, and more of a request. It was too loud down here. He usually liked it loud, but again, this wasn't his usual.
Fear of rejection suddenly hit him like a truck, and his heart thumped twice as hard in his chest. Was he seriously nervous about the acceptance of strangers now, too? He darted his hand forward and took a nice sip of the freshly poured glass of wine. It was definitely older. He didn't allow himself much time to enjoy the glass, practically tossing it down his throat like a child would throw a bean bag into a cornhole board. A noisy, ungraceful slide.
Casually, and without much thought, Crowley sighed. "Sure, why not," he said, standing up on two very long legs.
Surprised, Lucifer stood up as well, his body moving without his head. He already had his glass in his hand, but before he could himself, Crowley had already picked up his own glass and the bottle of now inaccurately labeled alcohol.
"Right. Okay," he said, inhaling deeply.
He led the demon out of the bar, up the stairs into the mezzanine, and pressed the button for the lift up to the penthouse. The doors opened immediately, and the two stepped in, leaning on opposite sides of the walls. Lucifer pressed the "up" button.
'Shit,' he thought to himself with a sigh, 'I most definitely did not clean the bar'.