Summary: It’s the morning after Lucifer and Michael cross paths. In their dreams, they think about each other. Now? Well, the grind never stops. Let’s see how they both feel about it. . .
6:16 in L.A. It’s mid-May now, so the sky is often bruised between the last vestige of darkness and the first whisper of dawn, a watercolor blend of indigo with carnation, puffy clouds, the sun? Somewhere there, always there, it’s Los Angeles. Once upon a time, looking at the transition brought Louis – no, sorry, Lucifer, he decided he’d stick to the bit – much peace. You know what they say, after all: silence is golden. What’s more golden than waking up before everybody else and hearing nothing? Fucking nothing. For the world to stand still for just one Goddamn second before the mayhem of traffic and ringing phones and another who-done-did-it, there was just this: the sound of male crickets flittering their wings together so fast that they were screaming for a mate with the percolator on the front left burner crackling.
This is a ritual. It’s supposed to be a ritual, it always is. Mother always taught Lucifer that, in the lineage of women who conjured something from nothing. Ma, how do you have so much energy? A younger version of himself would ask. And ma, his sweet, dear ma, just made it a point to smile while her eyes twinkled like she was holding back the secrets of the universe. Magic, sweetheart.
There’s no magic today, though, not when Lucifer has missed his window. 6:16 was about the time he was already awake,
(up an’ at ‘em),
reviewing whatever case he was about to tackle that day with the suit on and the coffee close to done. Right now, the only magic he was summoning was the fact that he was even awake to begin with after three hours of fucking sleep, the looming knowledge of the average person being able to remember one dream per week weighing down on him like a rabid hound. How rare it was for a man like him to meditate on his visions (men don’t dream, haven’t you heard?) and remember them with such puncturing clarity that it made whatever cloud cover was going on this morning rupture.
I want you.
Lucifer remembers, words echoing like the bullets he used to let sing from his revolver. I just um, I forgot to –
Glossy, pouty lips. Long, blonde hair. Oceanic eyes that ripped the Titanic itself to shreds at some point. It was all there, the Barbie Killer, evidence being held in his hands as they rut, groan, kiss, whisper. There was some cruel irony in here, Lucifer thinks as he finally swings his legs off of his mattress to feel the cool, uneven surface of his wooden floor, where they’ve done this before. Could he name where? Tuh, the fuck he could. Might’ve been some thousand years ago when they were a pair of knights swearing oath to some stupid kingdom just for them to fall in love. Might’ve been a few thousand years ago when humans just figured out religion could be a thing and they were too busy worshipping each other. Just for the fun of it, it could’ve been a whole billion years ago, before humans were a concept, stars snapping into place and galaxies forming, where a pair of angels who didn’t need shoes frolicked through the grass and tumbled onto each other.
(Why does your name sound so familiar?)
Oh, that’s enough. Enough, Lucifer thinks, dragging his hands along his face with a sigh before he gets to it. The first thing to do is shower; normal Lucifer would have done this about half an hour ago, already up an’ at ‘em like a good soldier man does. Today’s version of Lucifer is glad to even be up despite the fatigue already cracking his skull in, one foot after the other to the shower, yes, boots, boots, boots, boots, they’ll go marching up and down again –
Creak. Creak, creak. The shower is a cranky thing to get started since luxury wasn’t exactly Lucifer’s modus operandi, so it takes a few for the water to warm up. Enough time to brush and preen, do the brows need plucking? Nah. No new acne, God wouldn’t that be weird considering he’s getting old. Just the same set of crows feet beginning to set in with a kiss of grey at the roots.
(Am I turning into my mother? Lucifer wonders for a good second as he studies himself beneath the dim, plaque-yellow lighting. Is this what it’s like to keep marching on when you’re at the end of the rope?)
On it goes. The shower is hot now; it feels good. Awake enough to be awake once Lucifer pairs it with a few gentle smacks to his cheeks. After that, the coffee must be started – it takes the old bastard stove a few extra ticks to wake up just like him, which means a breath in between entering the world again and being in the comfort of his own apartment, he can lotion up, hand upon hand from the tips of his toes to his face. Never be caught ashy, another warning his mother would say, you know how them folk will look at us if you are.
Yeah, right. Like Lucifer would ever be caught lacking like that. Okay, so he got bested by a dream today, big deal! At least he could say he won’t be bested by caulky looking elbows or knees. And anyway, he’s awake enough now to push forward despite the disadvantage of glossy lips and blonde hair and somebody who looked at him like he was their whole universe. Uh-huh. Another average day in L.A if you had to ask him.
“Holy Jesus Christ, boss.”
Is the first thing Auriel says to Lucifer after having rolled his way into the office, a fresh mug of coffee in tow. He was often one of the first ones in, having preferred to ensure the settings on his camera were up to snuff and get a headstart on reading the news so he wasn’t as caught off guard by whatever tip the chief detective received about a crime. “You don’t look like you got a lot of sleep last night. . .er, I mean, less than usual. Everything alright?”
Just fine, Lucifer says with a tone that is clipped, his brow furrowing. By this point, he was three cups of joe in with a cigarette in his other hand, the map of Los Angeles unfurled out upon the table. How silly would it be for the chief detective to tell his photographer — or really, any of the boys — that he was jerkin’ it at an ungodly hour to the Barbie Killer? Yeah, fucking ridiculous, so he pulls together the few brain cells that are working this early and spins a little white lie. “Got a disturbin’ phone call on my personal line last night is all.”
Oh? Auriel asks, both brows raising some as he invites himself into the boss’ office. Every time he came in here, those paintings felt like they stared him down, eyes following his every move. “Is it about —”
Yep, Lucifer interjects with a sigh like he’s disappointed about hearing this news. “She struck again. Took some dude down named ‘.44 Catcaller.’ I ain’t get none too far with researching this loser but, from what I remember off the top of my head, his whole penchant was puttin’ a round in the skull of men he dragged home. Nothin’ fancy when you compare him to The Barbie Killer.”
Hardly, Auriel murmurs his agreement, standing now over Lucifer’s desk as he eyes all the pen markings. “Did whoever tip you off tell you where they saw the body parts?”
Sure did, Lucifer says, biting down on the end of his pen. His best guess as to where The Barbie Killer would dump them is to pick another random queer pub close by. Therefore, he concludes, the best spot would be A Hint of Heaven, but one thing Lucifer is insistent on doing, brain cells active or not, is keeping the case for himself until he can put the last nail in the coffin. “But the tip ain’t seem the most reliable. It could be a crapshoot if we go check it out, so don’t cry if we don’t find shit.”
Auriel snorts, shakes his head. “You’re the one that said any tip is a good tip, right? It can’t hurt any to check it out.”
“S’pose it can’t hurt at all, you’re right.”
Lucifer concludes with the hint of a smirk, rising up to his feet. He’ll stroll around the desk and pluck his wide-brimmed hat off the rack, trenchcoat whisking about in the air as the detective shrugs it off his shoulders. “Let’s give the other boys about ten to come on in before we get to rollin’. I need another cup of fuckin’ coffee in the meantime.”
6:16 IN L.A! On a normal day that ends in -y, Michael doesn’t see the black-blue bruises of the sky turn into their wistful pinks and oranges. No. What he sees is nothing because he’s fucking sleeping until the last possible minute, having bathed the night before in his opulent tub with four silver claws at the rounded corners. Before the dream as one would call it, he was cracking open a book called Earth and High Heaven by – oho, wouldn’t you know it – Canadian author Gwethalyn Graham.
A Jew describes another Jew as another human being. . .
Begins one of the most poignant quotes Michael has ever read. Well, he’s read a lot of them, to be fair, but it’s rare he gets to read something that makes him feel centered. A part of something. Not fragmented by the wrongs of a few just for the masses to loathe. Do people know that, by the way? Being a middleman minority isn’t fun.
(Everybody knows Jewish people make the best brokers, that’s why you are one).
And those words ringing in the killer’s head despite having sedated, strapped down, and tortured the stupid bastard .44 killer still make his blood boil. What did that idiot loser asshole say fuck him for? What did he say fuck Lucifer for? Lucifer, who, having caught him in the flesh not just once but twice was inclined to be curious rather than accusatory. Lucifer, who Michael knows – no, not a theory, knows – he’s the Barbie Killer is just letting him run amok without judgement, as if to say ‘this must be done,’ as if to say ‘I want to see what you got.’
(In the space of his time in the bathtub, Michael is gripping the book so fiercely one would worry he could rip it to shreds).
Anyway,
It’s 6:16 in L.A. Michael should be asleep. He’d like to be. The job doesn’t start until 7 and he’s learned how to get dressed in 10 minutes so long as he lays out his outfit the night before, because it only takes another 15 minutes for him to get to work. That was the point. That’s why his father set him up for this. Something simple the killer could do in order to obscure his murder spree. For the last four years, it wasn’t the worst; he made it a point to be so efficient despite only being part-time that nobody would dare fire him. Besides, his track record was stellar! A whopping 99%, two whole points above the appropriate average of most. The loss of his 1% boiled down to a spoiled idiot who didn’t heed his advice about investing into the stocks of a failing company, which resulted in, shocker, a net profit loss. And when the man came storming in furious about this loss, despite Michael’s warnings, he just said ‘you ignorant Jew, I thought you lot were supposed to be shrewd!’
The one percent. That one. The only one. Always one, isn’t it, one who can float or sink a whole career. Yeah, okay, Michael wasn’t going to make this his whole life’s work, the brokering; he had grander plans – or simpler, depending on how one describes it – one where he could just breathe. Not have to wake up so early. Simple things like teach children how to read in the afternoons. Have children of his own (he can’t bear but he dreams of it, too often for it to make sense). Until then, somebody had to eradicate the wicked from this world and he seemed most equipped to do it, so it’d be his life until then, the two-faced existence of a broker by day, justice serving hero by night.
Ain’t so sweet an’ innocent, are ‘ya? But it’s okay.
Dream Lucifer rings in the back of Michael’s mind, the thing that woke him and kept him up despite his body’s protest for more sleep. I do love me a bad girl as long as she’s good to me.
And then they fucked. Fucked so good even while awake, Michael could feel it. How they made the porcelain rattle. How they breathed and gasped and murmured and moaned. For that fleeting, glorious second, even with his cock, he felt like a proper woman, one who was seduced with more precision than even he could muster while hacking up limbs. It was in that second that Michael wanted so badly for Lucifer to actually capture him and say ‘it’s fine that you kill, I just want you.’
(This is the part where, while still waiting for his sheets to dry, Michael masturbates again. He rocks into his palm as he prefers to do, pretending he has a cunt, yes, this is a cunt, and his cunt was sensitive beneath his palm as he imagined what kind of naughty things Lucifer could say into his ear).
Release, after the fact. Another load that spilled onto his chiseled abdomen (God, why aren’t they curves?), face flushed, the buzz, a new high that no amount of coffee could replace. Lucifer didn’t seem like a bad man — far from it, Michael’s seen motherfuckers like him spin the block for far less — and that’s what he likes about the detective. He believes there’s something worse inside Lucifer that just was begging to come out, because who the fuck names themselves after The Devil? The Devil. He was called the Father of Lies and the Seducer of Many, with a tongue so silver it made the metal in Heaven tarnish. There was just no way a man of grand morals was so well behaved.
Six one six in L.A. Michael should still be asleep for at least ten more glorious minutes but he’s not. Not a typical day if you had to ask him.
“Holy Mother fuckin’ Mary, kid.”
Is the first thing Cassiel says to Michael when the blonde walks on by. Since Cassiel is co-head of the brokering firm, he’s naturally in earlier, and yes, he knows Michael hates mornings, but he’s never seen any clear delineation of bags under his bruising, blue eyes like that before. “Talk about no sleep, much?”
“I will be fine, boss.”
Michael grumbles out, barely disguised as witty banter. He tried to down the largest mug of coffee he had back home to be ‘functional’ because he’s not about to tell anybody – not even the ones he kills who can take such a secret to their literal grave -– that he was jerking it to the man who’s trying to catch him at an ungodly hour. “Just a restless night. I know one of my most important clients is due to come in today.”
Cassiel just raises a brow, kicks it back in his chair, and throws his legs on the desk since nobody is here quite yet. “Worst lie I’ve ever fuckin’ heard in my life, and trust me, kid, I’ve heard a lot. You never get nervous, why now?”
Shit. A brief wave of panic grips Michael because he knows Cassiel is right, that’s why he was their best junior broker. Still, he wouldn’t have gotten four years deep hunting unworthy bastards down if he didn’t know how to spin some tricks of his own.
“Just because I don’t appear nervous at times doesn’t mean I don’t get a little testy on the inside.”
Michael counters now, turning to his boss with the barehead hint of his classic, smug face. “I’m certain you too were nervous at one point when you were about to secure bank yet could not tell if it would happen, right?”
Tuh, Cassiel retorts, “that shit was about a million years ago, there isn’t a damn fool these days that phase me.”
Talk out of your asshole more, Michael rebukes with a brow raise and a face that looks akin to disgust. Briefly, Cassiel wishes he could smack the breaks out of this bratty bastard and teach him a proper lesson. Michael goes on:
“Trust me, old man, I would love to hear it.”
An impasse. Then, both of them chuckle some while Cassiel shakes his head. “Kid, who put that mouth on you? It could use a rinse out.”
Michael just raises both of his brows and goes ‘hmph,’ then smirks in his own cold, calculating way. “My father taught me. Now if you don’t mind, let me go get set up and at least put one more cup of coffee in me. I get the feeling I’m about to have a long day.”
Real Gods Require Blood 
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