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Even as he drove away, he knew he would be back. He didn’t lie, not even to himself, not even if it would make things easier. He didn’t want to be a pawn, but he would be one for her. All he wanted at the moment though was not think. Thinking made his scars itch.
He was angry at his Father, angrier than he had been in a long time, but more than angry, he was disappointed. No, not at dear old Dad, but at himself. Angry that he had allowed himself to hope again. Hope was a dangerous thing.
He reached into his jacket for the flask, frowning as he pulled it out, and throwing the empty container on the seat next to him.
Lucifer walked into the bar, hoping for a decent bourbon, but as this was the middle of the desert and his was the only car among a scattering of Harleys, it could go either way. He wasn’t perturbed by the odd looks he received as he walked to the bar, nor in any mood to deal with anyone who wasn’t pouring a drink, but as was often the case, he drew attention whether he wanted it or not.
He brushed off the hand that had settled on his jacket, quelling the words on the owner’s lips with a harsh look and moved past them, adjusting his jacket as he reached the bar.
“Not from around here?”
“As you see.”
The bartender, a tough old biker himself, felt that something about this patron wasn’t quite right, but heard something in Lucifer’s voice that was familiar, a sense of loss that was hard to ignore.
“Bourbon?” he queried, not quite sure why.
The corners of Lucifer’s lips curved into the slightest of smiles, “However did you know? Well, let’s have it then. Tell me this watering hole at least carries a decent one?”
“Not usually, but I have a bottle stashed under the bar I’ve a feeling you’d appreciate.”
Lucifer brightened at the old man’s words, for the first time since he left L.A. he stopped thinking, and his back stopped itching. He quirked his brow at the man, and gestured with his hand, casually leaning against the bar as the bartender walked to the other end of the bar and crouched down. It took a minute of digging, but before long he emerged from under the cabinets with a bottle in one hand, using the bar rag to wipe the dust off with the other. The bartender grabbed two glasses on his way back to Lucifer, setting the glasses and the bottle in front of him.
“Oh you dear old man, this is a surprise. Do tell me, wherever did you come across this?”
Lucifer picked up the bottle and studied it as he waited for the answer, delighted to be offered Pappy Van Winkle’s Family reserve in such an off the path biker bar.
The bartender chuckled warmly, “Come now, we bartenders must have some secrets. This one’s been hiding a bit too long as it is. Let’s open it up and give it some air.”
Lucifer handed the bottle back to the bartender, who made quick work of opening it and pouring two fingers in each glass. He took one for himself and handed the other to Lucifer, who clinked his glass lightly before swirling the liquid within.
Lucifer looked to the bartender, “Then I suppose I must thank you for sharing your secrets with me.”
He lifted the tumbler to his lips, inhaling the spicy scent of the aged bourbon, before taking an appreciative sip. This particular whiskey never failed to remind him of old leather chairs in even older libraries and always made him crave a cigar. It made him want to know more about this wizened old bartender, working in an out of the way and run-down bar, and for some reason it seemed appropriate that he would have a bottle like this squirreled away. Said bartender, nodded at Lucifer before drinking from his own glass, his knowing eyes meeting Lucifer’s over the rim of the tumbler as he took a sip.
“Now son, tell me, what is it you’re running from?”
Lucifer was taken aback, of all the questions he expected from this man, that had not been one of them. His emotions must have played across his face slowly enough for the bartender to catch them, because he laughed, a gravely yet pleasing sound, before taking another drink and setting his glass down.
“I see you’re used to being the one asking the questions – the one in control – yes?”
Lucifer nodded, “I don’t typically have to ask, but yes, people like to tell me things.”
The bartended grinned, “I’ll just bet they do. I met a guy, oh I’d say 10 or 15 years ago now – you remind me of him – and until now, despite this bottle he left me, I was never quite sure it really happened.”
Lucifer practically recoiled away from the bartender, after having leaned in to hear his story, but his curiosity kept him from fleeing. He drained the rest of the glass, barely noticing the bartender’s slight shrug as he refilled Lucifer’s glass.
“Even I’m telling you things I meant to keep secret, were told to keep secret, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that secrets can be insidious dangerous little things. It’s better to have the truth, I think. Sometimes more hurtful, but at least in the end, it’s all out there.”
Lucifer stared at the man, not sure what it was he was trying to tell him, or if he even wanted to know. The bartender took his silence as permission to continue.
“I had just started working here, back then we got more traffic than we do now, it was before the bypass was built. The owner, Lynn, was a tough old bird, 90 if she was a day, but she had a soft spot for people like me, people trying to get back on their feet after a run of bad luck, or as it happened to be in my case, a run of bad decisions. I had just gotten out of jail – again – and I needed work, but work was hard to find. I was trying to get as far away as I could from my old life when I stopped in this bar, stood right where you’re standing now, and spent the last of my money on a good whiskey. Lynn took one look at me and had my measure before I even took a drink. She told me she had an apartment above the bar I could stay in for free if I could be trusted to show up for work on time and not get so drunk that I couldn’t pour drinks.
“Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I offered to start immediately. I had been at it about a week, when a man showed up about ten minutes before we were supposed to open, I let him in because no one ever showed up that early anyway, and after years in prison, I missed the constant presence of other people in my days. He came in and asked for my best bourbon, much like you, but when he saw what was on offer he laughed and said he’d be right back. He went outside for but a moment, and when he came back he had two bottles. The one sitting right here and another he opened.
“We talked for over an hour, about inconsequential things at first, but before long I had shared my life’s story with him, and my shame about my past. He touched my hand briefly after we spoke, and it was like a burden lifted from me. He didn't stay long after that, but he did mention something that stuck with me, even after the memory of his visit faded, and I had long convinced myself, even with this bottle as proof, that I’d imagined everything from that day. He told me that eventually his son would show up, and that I’d know him when I saw him, and that when I did, I should give him this bottle. That I shouldn’t tell him where I got it from, but I should give him a piece of advice.
“Don’t run, he said. Tell him not to run.”
Lucifer gripped the edge of the bar, feeling suddenly lightheaded. His Father did not visit Earth anymore. His Father had not visited Earth in thousands of years. He wanted to run away from that bar. He picked up the whiskey bottle, intent on throwing it as far away from him as he could, but the old bartender was quicker than Lucifer could have guessed, laying his own hand on top of Lucifer’s.
“Don’t. It’s not worth wasting good bourbon on an old man.”
Lucifer barked out a harsh laugh, “Of course He was here. As if I needed another reminder that Father dearest orchestrates everything to His own pleasure, to hell with the consequences.”
Lucifer shook the bartender’s hand off and picked up his glass, draining it in one long swallow, setting it down on the bar forcefully, fully intending to leave.
“Wait,” the bartender’s voice was quiet, but it stopped Lucifer anyway.
“Before you go, perhaps you’ll listen just a bit longer.”
Lucifer narrowed his eyes for a moment, but nodded. The bartender refilled Lucifer’s glass and topped off his own.
“Continue,” the word sounding more like a curse than an invitation coming from Lucifer, but the bartender didn’t take it personally, watching the younger man drink for a moment before speaking again.
“The man, before he left, spoke about something else. Back then, I thought it was advice intended for me, but after your reaction, I think perhaps it was meant for you. He told me that we make our own decisions, even if someone else puts the pieces on the chessboard, even if we know the outcome of the game. I’ve thought about that for a long time, and what he might have meant. For some time now, I’ve figured that he meant we have to live with the decisions we make, no matter the circumstances that force them.
“I had to live with the crimes I committed, it didn’t matter that I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, or that I never had anyone to tell me right from wrong. I had to live with walking away from my wife, and my child, even though, at the time, it seemed like the only option. I had to live with knowing that when they needed me most, I wasn’t there, and now they’re gone, and I can’t be there for them. I felt manipulated by forces beyond my control. I felt like a pawn. I let that feeling guide me into decisions I have regretted ever since.
“You see, he told me not to tell you any part of our conversation at all, that I shouldn’t even mention meeting him, but that I should just tell you not to run, that you’d see it as the sign you needed, but that’s bullshit. You can find a sign in any damn thing, and sure, don’t run is good advice, but the better advice is that it doesn’t matter what someone else thinks about you, it matters what you think about you. I think that’s what he meant when he said we make our own decisions, because when we do, we have to live with how we feel about them.”
The bartender looked down then, at his own glass, before bringing it to his lips and draining it, refilling it as he spoke again.
“My wife and son died before I got the chance to make things right, and it’s been 30 years, but every night before I go to sleep I wish I could wake up back there, and instead of walking out, I wish I would have made the decision to stay, consequences be damned.”
The bartender refilled his glass and Lucifer’s. The younger man picked his up, but didn’t drink from it, instead he looked at the bartender.
“My Father…” Lucifer trailed off, taking a sip before returning his gaze to the old man.
“He used me. And worse? He used someone for whom I…” Lucifer paused, searching for the right word, resisting the one that came to mind, “…care. He made me, once again, a pawn in his orchestrations. Bloody hell, he even knew I would stop here. Who wouldn’t run away from that?”
The bartender nodded, sipping his drink thoughtfully. He regarded Lucifer carefully for a long moment, taking in his appearance, noticing small details that had escaped him at first, namely the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down his patron’s shoulders. He wondered briefly how he had known that this was the son the man referenced so many years ago. The bartender figured it was the eyes, like the old man some 15 years ago, Lucifer’s eyes were ancient, but where the old man’s had exuded wisdom, Lucifer’s glinted with secrets begging to be found. The bartender understood then, why people liked to tell him things, even if right now Lucifer’s body language belied his weariness. However, more than just their eyes were similar; both the old man and the one before him had that sense of loss with which he was familiar, as if something precious had been taken away. The bartender looked down at his glass and back up to Lucifer, catching his gaze before speaking.
“Yes, you’re right, who wouldn’t run?” the bartender lifted his glass, taking a measured sip, “But then again, who would stay?”