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"—aid to get the fuck out!"
Stopping just outside the front door to your building, you find yourself looking upwards in search of the noise. With some of the windows open to the multiple apartments, it proves difficult — and even more so when following the guy's clearly angry if the screaming is anything to go by, a lot more windows suddenly go from dark to light when even from the outside you're able to pick up the sound of something being thrown against a wall.
Then again, something like glass breaking. A door slamming shut, silence for a couple of seconds. More shouting, and well — would you look at that, the whole apartment building is now awake.
You turn to look at the Lamborghini parked in front of the building, completely out of place in between beaten-up cars and the garbage on the sidewalk. Whoever deemed to drive that in this neighborhood clearly doesn't care for their safety, and bitterly you can't help but think, that even if it did get stolen they probably wouldn't care either.
It's not difficult to put two and two together from there.
A male voice screaming his head off at almost 12 a.m. and a ridiculously expensive car parked in front of the building. Someone got caught cheating, and by the looks of it you made it just in time to witness the spectacle.
Now, you're not usually one for drama in your life, and the most entertaining things that happen in this part of the city are maybe the occasional break-ins and on that one occasion where a wanted fugitive took a couple of kids hostage, just right in front of your apartment building.
Classy.
But—
But, a cheating scandal? Unheard of, and quite frankly more welcomed than some of the most dangerous shit that goes on in this neighborhood.
You fumble to get the key inside the lock for about a minute, maybe not so sober as you thought you might've been when you left your friend's party — but you do end up inside anyways. Inside the lobby you don't see anyone, and it isn't until you move towards the elevator that a couple of doors from the first-floor residents open, like they were waiting for you.
More shouting, and jesus fuck that guy is loud. When you wince at the tone and make eye-contact with one of your neighbors, you give them a rueful smile, pointing at the ceiling.
"How long has this been going on for?"
The lady you ask gives you a cold look, the dark-bags under her eyes clearly spelling out her slumber was interrupted by the fighting.
"Ten minutes. It's your apartment, honey."
You furrow your eyebrows, move towards the elevator and press the button to call it down to the first-floor. "That's... but there's no one there."
"Does she look like she's fucking lying to you? Tell them to shut the hell up." and that's from a man two doors down from nice lady, with a phone in hand and the numbers 9-1-1 big on the screen, and you don't get that. Why do people insist on having the size of their text be so obnoxiously big.
The elevator dings and you step inside. It's only when the door closes behind you and you're headed up towards the fourth floor that their words sink in.
It's your apartment.
But that's not possible, you can't help but think as you step outside of the elevator once you reach the fourth floor. When you step into the hall, you notice that all of the doors remain steadfastly shut but there's still light coming from under them, so clearly everyone's awake. Satan said he'd be over at his family's—
Except no, not all the doors are closed.
The hallway isn't dark, not by any chance, but even then it's quite obvious that there is a door open and the noise is coming from there, there's no more screaming anymore but you do hear voices—two voices.
You find yourself speed-walking towards the door, trying to figure out what the hell is going on and, really, it's not your brightest idea — barging in into your apartment, slightly tipsy, while two strangers are arguing inside your apartment which you had locked earlier in the night before you left. When you get close enough to it you notice that there's pieces of glass on the floor, the flowers pathetically lying on the wet floor outside your door tell a story.
A glance at the wall provides the explanation of where all the water went.
You don't even get to say anything because suddenly you bump into someone, and you feel something hard hit you against your side. You take a stumble back, surprised when you don't land flat on your ass and then look up.
"Satan?" the name leaves your mouth in a confused gasp, because your roommate is apparently back, sooner than expected.
He looks like crap — you only manage a quick assessment at his general figure given his body language and the way he seems to want to get as far away from the apartment as possible. His face is flushed red in anger, lines on his forehead from the way he's frowning hard enough to match the wrath you can see reflected in his eyes, hazy and clearly not completely here. The white shirt he wears is wrinkled with the top two buttons undone, it looks like he was pulling at it.
You catch a sigh of something dark red on one of the sleeves and splattered on the front of the shirt, some of it on the sliver of skin that peeks out from under his shirt, and when your eyes finally land on his hands — one curled into a fist and the other holding his motorcycle helmet. Well, now you know what hit you — you can't help the bout of apprehension that begins to coil low in your gut.
This is new. You've never seen Satan so angry before in the six months the two of you have known each other.
"Are you okay?" You take a step forward, voice low.
A lot of things flash through his eyes — usually a bright emerald that held more warmth as opposed to the eyes locked with yours in front of you right now.
Anger, regret, and then something that borders on apologetic. The haze in his eyes seems to disappear just the slightest amount, Satan opens up his mouth and then snaps it shut when a voice calls out his name from inside the apartment. The two of you look at the door, and you witness the instant his face goes stormy again.
Just who the fuck is inside your apartment that has him like this?
"I'm leaving." He begins to walk past you.
Shit, you glance nervously at the door and then back at his quickly retreating figure. Knowing him he's probably going to take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
"W-wait!" You call out, cringing at the way your voice echoes back in the hallway. You're not sure what compels you to say the following words, maybe the fact that you're still not fully sober, or maybe it's the mess of feelings that you often try to ignore when it comes to Satan, but you end up saying them anyways; "Wait for me."
You see Satan hesitate in his step, but then he opens up the door to the building's stairs and slams it shut behind him.
You bite your lip. You're not sure what that means but — you're not letting him storm-off like that so late in the night alone.
Priorities however, remind you that there's still someone inside your apartment. You walk until you're in front of it, and then you step in.
It's... it's not a pretty sight. The dining table is turned on it's side, Satan's favorite painting is barely hanging on to the wall by a single nail, the living room looks like a complete mess and you're pretty sure the kitchen doesn't fair any better. It looks like a bull ran rampant inside the apartment.
Your lips run into a thin line as you inspect the damage, ignoring the holes on the wall in order to set your eyes on the man standing right in the center of the living room.
Black hair, taller than Satan, and dressed a little too formally for the hour. He's pinching his nose in annoyance, eyes closed. Even from here you can see that half of his face sports an ugly bruise, and it's on it's way to swelling, a split lip to match and blood running down his nose. That settles the question of who's blood is on Satan's hands.
He hasn't noticed your presence yet, too distracted doing god knows what.
You catch sight of the ring he wears on his hand; The big, dark stone on it is vaguely familiar. You run your hand across your own fingers, absentmindedly playing with your own ring. It only comes to you in a second that it's the same ring.
You're not slow, it doesn't take long to figure out it's one of Satan's brothers.
The implication of him being inside your apartment doesn't sit well with you. You take another step forward and end up stepping on a piece of ceramic that you hadn't seen there. It brakes even further under your shoe, and then you're locking eyes with the stranger. You suck in a breath, because fuck, the hair and the body might not even be similar to Satan's but there's no denying they're related.
Even the anger under his gaze is eerily similar to Satan's. So this must be Lucifer.
"Buddy, I don't know who the fuck told you you could show up here unannounced, but I need you to get out." Your voice is stern, and you don't back down even when he looks at you coldly. Lucifer's lips thin out as he very deliberately eyes you from head to toe. His eyes linger on your hand for far too long, and his expression goes sour.
You hide your ring behind your other hand.
"And who are you, exactly?" The voice matches the looks, and for a brief second it almost feels like you're the one that's intruding.
You grit your teeth. You're not sure if the way he questions you is what's making you upset, or the fact that he doesn't seem to know who you are because Satan has not once mentioned you before to his siblings — and then that ugly part of your brain says, well why would he? you guys aren't dating. You're just lonely and decided to starve it off with each other, pathetic, really. Or maybe, maybe because you hate knowing the fact that Satan's lost his grip tonight because of the asshole standing in front of you.
You don't know a lot about Satan's family, or rather, specific details. You know he has seven siblings, all male around the same age give or take a few years and a little sister that he hasn't met yet given the fact that he's cut contact with them for the better part of two years now. You also know that they're all prodigies in their areas of work, just like Satan. He never talks about his parents, he doesn't go into detail about what his brothers do. You know they're rich, and that you only find out about when he bought you an island once, when drunk, because you mentioned wanting to own one of the ones in that popular video-game that everyone seemed to be playing.
(That happens around the fourth month of you two living together, and shortly afterwards he gives you the ring he always wears around his neck on a chain. He says it's an apology present, because you had freaked the fuck out when you found out you owned an island and then you had begged him to undo it, however that goes about. He said he still felt like he wanted to give you something, "Because I can," and then you had to put some ground rules very fast. No more surprise islands, for starters. A ring you could do with, it's simple and if you really went out of your way to ignore it, you could pretend it wasn't worth more than what you make in a year).
"None of your business," You don't care if it's unfair of you to judge him based on the conclusions you have drawn, Satan has never been forthright with his personal information and that's fine. But you still wave towards the mess, "I don't know what you did to set him off like that—"
"—Me?—"
"—But you're going to fix all of this, and then you're going to close the goddamn door behind you." Your mind keeps racing back to the thought of Satan not even being downstairs anymore, and you're betting on the chance that he still is, because you haven't heard the sound of his motorcycle coming to life, and despite the earlier ruckus, tonight is awfully quiet.
There's something tired in Lucifer's face when he regards you, but the intensity in his words nor his look remains changed. "He did this."
You throw your keys at him, disappointed when he catches them with one hand. "I don't care, you started it. Fix it. I know you have the money you asshole."
Lucifer says something else, but you don't get to hear it. You're out of the apartment and headed towards the elevator before he can catch up to you. As you wait for the elevator to go down, you feel the adrenaline from earlier beginning to slowly leave your body. It seems like an eternity before you're finally down in the lobby and then outside.
The air is slightly warm, does nothing to cool off your skin from the sweat on your skin. You spot Satan on his motorcycle, he's not wearing his helmet. You don't say anything as you step up to him, aware of the tenseness in his shoulders, the way he grips the throttle.
When he finally notices your presence, you're relieved to see that he doesn't look as pissed. The frown on his face is still there, but it's less pronounced. The time he spent waiting down here has him cooled down slightly. Satan doesn't say anything, just stares at you. Your eyes flicker to Lucifer's car, then back at Satan.
Are you okay is what you want to ask, but you find yourself stepping closer to the bike and then getting on.
Satan lets out a small noise and hands you his helmet, you stare at it for a second. "What about you?"
"Don't need it."
You frown, "Yes you do, you can't just—"
Satan says your name through gritted teeth and you shut up. "Just put it on."
After a beat you comply. You know he's just reacting impulsively, and you might not like the fact that he's being irresponsible, but then again — he knows how to ride a bike, and you trust him.
"Where are we going," you voice it louder than maybe you should've, if him flinching is of any indication. You've never worn a helmet like this before however, so you're not sure if he can even hear you.
"Somewhere, anywhere." A pause. "Far from here." Far from him you hear unvoiced.
"Okay."
You wrap your arms around his chest, you can feel him tense under your touch, but then slowly relaxing. The engine under the two of you rumbles into life, and Satan takes a few seconds of breathing in and out before he sets out into the night.
It takes you a few seconds to realize that this is the first time you've ever ridden with him on his motorcycle.
Satan drives and drives and drives.
When he said 'far away' he wasn't joking. At some point the two of you must have the left the city, but that doesn't seem to deter him in the slightest. It seems to do the opposite in fact, if the way he picks up speed is of any indication.
You grip tighter onto him, trying to plaster yourself into his back as much as you can. An hour has to have passed already since the whole confrontation, and you're already on your way to being completely sober. There's just something about the feeling of the wind hitting against your skin as Satan picks up speed that makes your thoughts clear, and with that you no longer feel the effects of the drinks you had before.
The buildings turn to smaller houses, and from there to trees.
Satan doesn't seem like he's going to stop anytime soon. You close your eyes for a second, and when you open them you notice that he's decreased his speed significantly.
When you look around, you find that the environment around the two of you has changed from thick forests to open fields. Some houses are scattered here and there, but that's about it. The road is empty save for the two of you, and the moon is bright and high up in the sky, illuminating the path in front of the two of you.
"Don't let go," you hear Satan say. It takes you a moment to realize you probably dozed off for a little and slap yourself mentally. Good job you dumbass.
"Sorry," you mumble and pray that the wind takes it with it. When you resume your hold around Satan's chest, he let's out a noise you feel rather than hear, and then he picks up speed again.
For the second time that night, Satan begins to decrease the speed.
At first you think it's because you're not holding on tight enough, but then you realize that no, it's not that. When you look around, there isn't even anything worth stopping for — the houses had decreased in number around what you guess must've been ten minutes ago, and since then you haven't seen a single house nor soul in the road.
The actual reason only comes into your mind when Satan keeps decreasing the speed and you're suddenly aware of his body tensing up again, slowly you start to pick up the sound of his voice until it grows louder — and then panicked.
"—no, no, no no no no— fuck!" The motorcycle gives a last rumble before it stops. Satan's leg shoots out to the road, and it's the only thing keeping the two of you upright. He does something then, you're not sure what exactly. But clearly it helps the motorcycle stand upright, because the second he does that he shakes you off, walks and walks and walks away from you until finally he stops, and let's out the most anguished noise you've ever heard.
It sends shivers down your spine, and suddenly you're tasting something sour in your mouth.
You take off the helmet and get off the bike, leaving it behind on the seat. You're standing awkwardly by it, unsure of what to even do here.
You've seen Satan angry before, you know he tends to break things sometimes... never anything big; pencils, paper. Small objects that he might have at hand.
You know that he's easily riled up, anger silently simmering under his skin, a bomb waiting to be provoked into exploding. You know how ugly his personality gets when he's pushed to a corner, how mean and awful his insults and words are — venomous, cutting sharp and dangerous like a knife.
But you also know he's been working on that — the rage. You know he's been making progress at finding different outlets, writing out his emotions. You know he likes reading books and how his gaze softens when he speaks to you. You know he likes to bake every now and then, and even though his cupcake designing skills suck ass, the delicate way in which he takes his time perfecting little details. The gentleness that he seems to reserve only for you alone, openly.
You know he has problems, related to his family. Even if he says it doesn't affect him, that he doesn't care. You know it does.
There's something heartbreaking about the scene before you however; because Satan doesn't have anything to break, and no one to direct his anger to. The screams that leave his mouth are torn and they just sound sad, there is no anger left in the way he's acting now. You wonder just what the hell happened at the family reunion, and what Lucifer and him were even talking about to get him to this state.
You're not sure when you began to move — possibly when he began to run his hands through his already disheveled hair and began to tug and pull, or maybe when he let out another pained sound and his legs had given out from under him, and his body began to wreck with tremors — but then you're kneeling down besides him and pulling him close to you.
Satan stops making noise then, and his whole body tenses. You feel him trying to push you away, but you hold on tighter.
"Stop." You say, lowering your head until your lips brush against his hair. You don't close your eyes, too aware of the rough road under your knees, the fact that the two of you are in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the road, watchful of the cars that might show up at some point.
(Who are you kidding, that voice says always present when less needed, you just don't want to look at him, because it hurts seeing him so broken).
Satan stops pushing away, and slowly the tension in his body begins to unwind again. His whole body is still shaking with slight tremors but it's slowly going down. You're pretty sure you're going to have a wet stain on the front of your shirt because of his tears, and you don't care, not really.
Ten, possibly fifteen minutes go by in complete silence. You let Satan calm down, and only let go of your one-sided hug when he starts to sit up properly. He wipes his hands on his pants, dirty from the ground, before he rubs his eyes, then his face. He lets out a small, frustrated sigh.
When he looks up at you, there's something off about his eyes. It certainly explains why he looks at you for a few seconds, and the lines of his mouth harden. He pulls away from you completely.
"I don't need your pity."
You reach a hand out to him, "Satan, what? I'm not—"
"Just because we've had sex before doesn't mean I want or need your pity," the way he says your name is cold, and ouch.
You blink at him, trying your best to not show how hurt you are by his words, you should feel angry and you are — but you don't think... this isn't the time. He's just trying to push you away, and you're not going to give him the satisfaction.
You try to level him a blank stare, to try and show him that he hasn't hurt you, that you're pissed at him but it doesn't seem to work because his face flickers briefly and there — guilt. Maybe you need to work on your poker-face more.
"Don't be an ass," you say. When he stands up, you have to stop yourself from reaching out to help him when he sways to the side, but he corrects himself easily. "I'm not your punching bag, you don't get to treat me like that just because you're angry."
"I didn't ask you to come."
"I know."
"So stop complaining, you brought this on yourself."
You take a deep breath, stand up. He's not even looking at you, his shoulders are hunched. You notice him playing with the cuff of his sleeve, a habit of his when he's feeling bad about something. It's that small detail that stops you in your tracks.
You re-evaluate the situation.
Your phone is dead, and you know Satan doesn't have his because you saw it lying broken near Lucifer's feet at the apartment. The motorcycle is out of gas, and you're both stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing for miles. Satan is trying very hard to get under your skin and... and it's working.
"C'mon," you say and grab a hold of his arm. You're surprised to see he lets you tug him along, even if he doesn't look too happy about it. "We can't stay here."
"..."
"You don't have to talk to me either." You step up to the motorcycle, and notice that he's not even looking at you. You scowl, "or look, it's fine. I don't care, we just need to move."
Satan's jaw tenses, but after a full minute of silence, his green eyes slide to yours. "There's nowhere to go."
You motion with your head behind the two of you. "I saw a diner and a gas station back there, it shouldn't be longer than a twenty-minute walk." Maybe.
He doesn't look too happy about the prospect of walking, but he ends up undoing the lock that keeps the motorcycle upright, grabs it by the throttle, and then turns it around. You grab the helmet before it falls off, and with one last look at you, he begins walking down the road, dragging the motorcycle with him.
You wait a few seconds and begin to walk after him.
"You know," you begin after a good amount of time in silence has passed, "when you told me you were going to visit your family, I was worried."
"..."
"I don't know what happened, and I'm not expecting you to tell me tonight, or any time soon." You sigh, fiddling with the helmet in your hands, staring at your reflection on the visor. "But a while back you asked me to make you the person I rely on when I feel like shit, and I don't know if I ever got to say it back. I thought my actions would be enough, for you to, I don't know... confide in me."
"..."
"What I'm trying to say is, because I don't want any more misunderstandings." You pause, feeling tears prickling at the corner of your eyes. You're not even sure why you're so upset right now. The ring on your finger shines beautifully under the moonlight, and it's this that gives you the courage to continue. "Satan, I'd like to be that person for you. You don't have to do this alone, you have me."
Since you never look up, you don't catch the way he looks back at you as you speak.
True to memory, the diner comes into view after the two of you have spent the better half of an hour walking. Satan hasn't directed a single word at you during the whole trajectory, and after the first twenty minutes of trying, you too gave up.
To be completely honest, you were a bit emotionally drained. You even feel guilty about it, what's with Satan's earlier emotional breakdown that didn't seem to be anything born from anger but something else. But the thing is, that you're so used to his energy because of living together, that it's difficult to not feel down when he's feeling down.
Satan has an overpowering presence, and sometimes it's good — when he's happy, mainly.
When the two of you stand in front of the place, you notice with relief that there's movement from inside and there's a neon sign that reads Open 24 hours. You cast Satan a glance, still besides you and looking straight ahead. You notice that he looks relatively normal, and save for the fact that he refuses to even look your way or speak, it doesn't even look like he was crying and screaming earlier.
You kind of envy him, you're pretty sure you look like a mess. Even the dark circles under his eyes don't look half-bad and—
No.
You clear your throat, enough of that, you have things to do. You motion towards the diner. "I'm going to get us something to eat and drink, you can just... go."
As expected no answer, but then he moves towards the gas station and you let out a huff of air.
The diner isn't empty. You're surprised to see a couple of people inside, some eating, and others clearly sleeping. There's a cute waitress behind the bar that rushes towards you when she sees you. There's a nervous smile on her lips, and when she looks you up and down from head to toe, and then her gaze flickers to the outside where Satan is at, you can't help but be confused.
"Hon, you okay?"
"Uh, yeah?" shit, do you look that bad? "Sorry, I'm just... could I get a menu?"
She hesitates, just the slightest amount, before the expression of concern in her face turns to something forcefully sweet. She leads you to a booth away from the windows, much to your displeasure since you can't see Satan anymore — but it's fine. She takes your order and then walks away after letting you know that it's 3:20 a.m. when you ask.
At least ten more minutes go by where nothing else happens inside the diner. You hear the sound of plates clinking from you're assuming is the kitchen, and save for the occasional voices of the other people inside, nothing happens. At some point, the waitress comes back with the order — your favorite drink with some french-fries drowned in cheese that looks a little too on the yellow side, and a couple of slices of pizza with a dark cup of coffee for Satan.
You wait a few more minutes for him, but when you realize he's not coming aside, you begin to eat. The helmet on the table is your only companion.
You're halfway done with your fries and on your way to finishing one of Satan's pizza slices when he slides in into the booth in-front of you. You swallow the mouthful and watch him.
His eyes are looking everywhere but you, and there's a displeased turn of his lips down.
Baby steps you think to yourself. The fact that he's here is a good sign. You're not sure what he gets like after a breakdown of such magnitude, but this? this is somewhat familiar, you can work with this. The reluctant silence.
"You didn't have to come," it's the first thing he's said in the last thirty minutes, voice hoarse and low. When you look up from your plate, you find him looking down at his lukewarm coffee cup.
"I know." You say, and then, because you feel like he might need to hear it; "But I wanted to, because I care about you."
"I said some awful things," finally he looks up at you, you try very hard to not slide your eyes towards his hands playing with the cuff of his sleeves.
"You did."
Satan goes quiet then, and then his eyes widen momentarily when he notices the pizza in front of him.
"It's for you," you say and push the plate towards him. "I figured you were hungry, or something."
"You're too nice," he says, and then grabs a slice.
"I know."
"I'm not a good person," when he says your name you meet his eyes. There's something somber in his gaze, and it vaguely unsettles you.
You swallow, but don't say anything about that. Satan keeps staring at your face like he's looking for something, and whether he finds it or not you're not sure, because then he starts eating his pizza slices and that's the end of that conversation.
When the waitress comes back to your little booth, you see her eyeing the scrapes and bruises and cuts on Satan's knuckles, his hands. Her eyes flicker briefly to the dried blood on his chest, and then her eyes go over to you.
It occurs to you just how ridiculous this whole thing is. Sitting in a diner in the middle of nowhere with a man that seems hellbent on keeping you away from everything but the bare surface of who he is, eating pizza and french-fries while you're wearing a ring that could buy at least twenty of these diners and have money to spare while you're wearing a shirt with alcohol stains.
It should scare you, the fact that you've known Satan for the better half of a year, and that the two of you are... something, and yet he keeps on putting up these dumb walls.
The fact that this is the first time you've seen one of his brothers, and it had to happen at the expense of your apartment. Of Satan's mental-health.
"Anything else, hon?" The waitress asks.
You twist the ring on your finger, aware of the way Satan stares at it. You give the waitress a nice smile.
"Yeah, actually. Do you know where the nearest motel is?"
Satan isn't happy about it, but the fight seems to have left him alongside with all of the anger from before. Fifteen minutes later with some pretty vague-ass directions, the two of you end up parked in front of a very run-down motel. Satan seems wary of letting you step inside the main office building to get the keys, so he does that himself while asking you to remain outside. It takes at least five minutes before he walks out, and then he grabs your hand and leads you towards the room.
It's on the second floor in a separate building, and the steps aren't even illuminated. Satan complains about this, and his hold on your hand tightens briefly, like he doesn't want you to trip and fall.
The sentiment is sweet, except for the fact that you can see the sun beginning to peak from behind the mountains, and the sky has taken a pretty blueish-grey color that you know will soon start to bleed into something much more brighter.
The door to the motel barely budges in when Satan tries to unlock it, so you take the key away from him before he can try again. He seems annoyed that you interrupted him.
"I can do it." He says, there's a certain edge to his words.
"I know," you seem to be saying this a lot, you squeeze his hand back, "but I told you you can count on me, right?"
Satan loses the eye-contact battle, grumbling something under his breath. You're somewhat relieved to see the way his ears redden just the slightest amount.
His thumb brushes against your skin, once, twice.
The inside of the room is quite honestly modest, looks better than what you would've expected, given the outside conditions. One glance at Satan shows that he's not too happy about the interior, and even less when he notices that there's only one bed. When you walk inside, his hand slips your grip and you look back to see him standing outside the door.
You're not sure what the look on his face means, but you don't like it.
"What is it?" You sigh, and head towards the nearest outlet. You get lucky when you find a phone charger, and waste no time in plugging your dead phone in it. When you look towards the door, Satan is still standing outside.
"I asked for two beds." He says, voice flat.
You eye the bed in question, "Okay, so?"
His lips purse, and then he steps inside the room and closes the door behind him. You feel your body relax a bit, you're not sure if you have any more energy to argue with him. Still, something about his phrasing and the silence has you thinking...
You call his name, he looks at you. "You don't want to share a bed?"
He winces, "It's just—"
"—It's a yes or no question."
His fists tighten. You really shouldn't provoke him, it seems whatever happened at that family reunion has his fuse shortened quite significantly. "If you'd let me finish then maybe—"
"Hey," you call out, and step up to his personal space. You cup his face, brushing your thumb against his cheek. His eyes look so conflicted, it hurts you a lot. "This wouldn't be the first time we've shared a bed."
Satan sighs, "I figured you wouldn't want to sleep next to me, given all of this."
"Why would you think that?" You ask, but Satan doesn't give you an answer, and you don't push it any further. Now that the two of you are here and there's a bed present, it seems like all of the events from the previous hours have finally caught up with you. The two of you move in silence as you take off your shoes and lay down on the bed. It's not cold enough to need a blanket, so just lay on top of the sheets. A few minutes later Satan joins you, and you're very aware of the space he keeps between the two of you.
You take it upon yourself to scoot back until your back meets his front, and it seems that's all the invitation he needs because then one arms drapes over your waist, pulling you closer to him. You can feel his breath at the top of your head, and he hooks a leg over yours. His fingers play with the hem of your shirt.
It's nice, he's warm, and if you don't think too hard about the cuts and the scrapes and the vague smell of iron emanating from him, then you find it very easy to start slipping into slumber.
Satan shifts, and presses a kiss to your head. "You got scared earlier, in the apartment."
His voice is low, soft, and if it weren't for the fact that the two of you are so close to each other, you would've missed it.
"I was," you admit. "I've never seen you that upset."
"Because I don't want you to ever see that side of me."
"Have you considered that maybe I do?" You sigh, bringing a hand up to lace your fingers with his. It's a bit uncomfortable, given the ring on your hand, but Satan lets out a pleased sound when he feels it. "That maybe I want to see all of you."
You feel him shake his head, "Not this, never this."
"You don't get to decide what I want Satan."
This brings out a small laugh from him, amused and sad. He squeezes your hand. "No, I don't."
He doesn't say anything else, so neither do you. It's not the progress you'd like to have achieved, but then you have to remind yourself that this is the first time you've seen such a side from Satan. The fact that he's been vulnerable in front of you already is but a small step.
It occurs to you that he could've left the apartment and not waited for you, but he made the conscious decision to let you see him like this.
You're not sure how to feel about it.
You wake up to an empty bed. At first you're confused as to where the hell you are, your surroundings completely different from your apartment. Then you notice the light illuminating the whole motel room, and your memory comes trickling in slowly.
The spot next to you is empty and cold, only the imprint of Satan's body left on the sheet. You try to not be disappointed by the fact that you woke up alone. Then you ignore the dumb panicked thoughts that seem to want to keep you company while you put on your shoes, go to the bathroom and rinse your mouth with water as well as wash your face.
There is no way he left without you.
When you move to unplug your phone, you notice that it's close to 2 p.m and yikes. You didn't know just how exhausted the two of you were.
You unlock your phone only to notice that you have a couple of text messages from an unknown number. Then you notice that there's been a deposit to your bank account and — holy shit.
Well then, you think. That settles the question of who was texting you.
You make a mental note to let Satan know about it, even though you're not sure how he's going to react. You figure he'd be more upset if you didn't tell him his brother sent you the equivalent of a whole year's rent in order to pay for all of the damages.
For some reason you can't quite explain, it doesn't sit right with you. It almost feels like he's sending you the money, and then some more. Like that's all you were here for, the money.
You find yourself playing with the ring in your hand, nervous. The way Lucifer had looked at you when he realized you had Satan's ring wasn't pleasant.
Shaking your head you push that back, way back. You pocket your phone and step outside, closing the door behind you.
From the second floor, you easily spot Satan near his motorcycle, crouched. Curious, you begin your descent down the steps until you're standing a couple of feet away from them. A small smile tugs at your lips as you watch Satan coo at a black cat, his voice soft and lighthearted.
"I didn't know you liked cats." You say and Satan turns his head to look at you, he looks a bit better. Rested. His hand never leaves the cat alone.
"I didn't know if you were allergic to them."
"You could've asked." You raise an eyebrow.
Satan sighs and stands up, the cat purrs and rubs against his leg. He seems delighted by this, and the smile on his face is genuinely soft.
You hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're not sure when else to bring this up. "Lucifer texted me."
His shoulders tense. "Oh?"
"He sent me a shit load of money." You walk towards him, hands in your pockets. "Like, a lot."
Satan looks at you confused. "Why would he do that?"
"Compensation," you shrug, and then you look down because the cat has deemed you interesting enough to now want your attention. You let it rub against your leg, distracted.
You miss the way Satan's face sours and darkens at your response, but it's gone by the time you look up.
You hold out your hand, and takes his in yours. His thumb brushes against your hand, soothing.
You eye the motorcycle, "You ready to go home?"
Satan shakes his head, but remains quiet. He looks like he's thinking about something, and a part of you can't help but feel annoyed that you don't know what it is. Maybe you shouldn't have brought up Lucifer. You take one last look at the cat, and an idea pops to mind.
You squeeze his hand, and Satan hums, looking at you. "There's an animal shelter, downtown. We could go... spend a couple of hours there, if you'd like."
Satan looks at your a second before his gaze softens, and the smile he gives you makes your heart skip a beat. It's not the ideal solution, and you know there's a lot the two of you need to talk about... but, that doesn't mean it has to happen now.
"Sure."