Chapter Text
He gasps at how deep the infernal blade pierces his skin, sound barely leaving his lips, his twin’s arm tight against his chin. By the time it hits the bridge of his nose, blood is running into Michael’s left eye, and yet the fury has yet to abide in his twin; he can feel Sa - Lucifer’s body shaking against him, the closest they’ve been in millennia, closer than even before their famous battle, the one he’s seen on the silly pieces of worthless metal around their necks or in majestic paintings giving their fight so much more weight than it deserves.
Lucifer was a selfish sibling, one he’s unfortunate to share a face with, part of a fucking soul with, it felt like a times, like now, as he feels the knife begin to cross his cheek, his twin speaking through a tunnel, but they’ve never needed that to understand each other, have they?
Michael knows it inside, where he feels the Power of their Father, only half of the Demiurge, creation. They’ll never be mistaken for each other again.
Why in the name of their Father had he never thought of this before?
Michael wakes to the sound of the tide, the waves lapping against the shore to his right. He’s clothed, at least, though that may be due more to Lucifer’s laziness than lack of wanting to get one over on his twin. He’d have to care to leave him naked on the beach. The light’s peach over the horizon, the rising sun — Michael scoffs, starting to sit up, and notes the mirror on his lap.
The last word, even if not a sound is uttered.
That’s how it is between them. How it’s always been.
Holding up the mirror, Michael traces the deep, angry red gash across his face and laughs. Laughs and laughs. All the Heavenly Host could see when they looked at him was his failure, was gimpy Michael who tried to fly as well as his twin, tried to be the best son when he was told since birth his mirror image was the favorite, the fucking Lightbringer. He’s a shadow, the one left behind no matter what, and even getting rid of Lucifer did nothing to diminish the brightness of his light.
Now, now Michael is Michael. Lucifer thinks he did his twin a wrong?
He’s given him a gift.
His face burns from the sea air, and even after he washes it, it burns. Michael doesn’t have much experience with infernal weapons, just knows the wound will heal much slower than he’s used to; down here, he doesn’t have access to Raphael’s gift or another angel’s feather — he blanches at the thought of even touching one of Lucifer or Amenidiel’s, unclean things, self-created, fallen angels who no longer share in their Father’s grace.
(Except they do, they do.)
The penthouse had been his Earthly dwelling, and he’s not returning to the Silver City before he’s finished with his task. There’s so much more he can do, even from the outside. He knows how everyone fits into his brother’s life, now, knows the weak points, the scent of their fears he can play on.
Michael also knows his twin is physically vulnerable when around his precious Detective.
It won’t be good to just get into the heads of his friends, though. Lucifer unbalanced is a sight to behold; Michael has watched through the years as he’s lived on Earth, as emotion ruled over duty, anger and impulse over a moment of thought.
Same old Samael.
It’s what made him so easy to manipulate back in the Silver City. Michael belonged to the shadows, where he planned in quiet, waited for the right moment, said the right words, and like a mousetrap, his twin would react with a vicious snap. He always felt too much, wondered too much.
(And for some reason, Michael was the one who couldn’t handle it all, who decided it was just easier to follow what Father instructed and not question anything, and how he resented Samael, but of course he could handle it, the fucking perfect angel he was.)
And when Michael gets the chance to tell his twin about all he did, the ways he played him to get him the fuck out of there, oh, he relishes in it.
When he smiles, his face aches and his wound re-opens.
Lucifer is visiting his Detective. It won’t be a long visit, the woman still dealing with the news of being created as a gift for the Devil, and her temper’s been short each time he attempts to re-connect. If only Lucifer had been direct with her. Michael rolls his eyes; fear rules Lucifer’s life. He stinks of it, reeks, even more than the stench of Hell.
(Or maybe that is the stench of Hell, maybe he should just take a moment and — )
All he has to do is get the jump on Lucifer while he’s within the radius of the Detective’s influence. It’s taken a few days, what with all the effort he’s been putting in with Daniel, and just a bit with that lab tech at the station. And Charlie. Oh, how far his eldest brother has fallen, creating a child with a human.
The air of Venice is cool this time of year, coming off the ocean in a wafting breeze that, as Michael waits in the courtyard two buildings down, catches his right shoulder every so often, cramping up tight muscles even more, his wing itching to be let free. Half the tension comes from holding it in down here, though the damn thing doesn’t feel any better being out.
He huddles deeper into his jacket, thankful for the warmth of his turtleneck. How much longer is this farce of a visit going to last? The sounds of a beach city at night blend together around him, people walking towards the boardwalk, cars trying to navigate the narrow streets. There’s so much life down here with these ants, lives as short as the turn of a page. What’s the point?
Footsteps click on the sidewalk, sharp and measured — oh, some of that training sunk in, didn’t it — prompting Michael to loop around the other building to come up behind Lucifer. His brother reacts as he expects — his wings come out before he turns, mouth opening to say something, probably sarcastic. But Michael expected that, knows all his moves, and isn’t playing by proper rules anymore like their fight in the penthouse. His face burns and isn’t his, despite his earlier joy. His hand shoots out and grabs the upper arch of Lucifer’s right wing before it fully unfurls and yanks, pulls out and down in the same way he remembers his own wing, back when they were fledgelings, when one twin kept questioning and feeling and the other stopped and didn’t understand.
Lucifer screams — it’s cut off from the Venice night, swallowed by the sound of swooshing feathers.
Stomach churning, Lucifer attempts — and fails — to keep his feet under himself as the pair lands and stumbles to one knee. “If that is what you experience with each flap of those things,” — he motions weakly with his left hand — “it is no surprise you took to the books rather than — “
What’s left of what he considers a rather biting remark on their childhood is cut off by the slam of a knee in his face. His head snaps back, and Lucifer lands on his ass. Ah, yes, he doesn’t have the high ground at the moment, the pain of whatever his twat of a brother did to his right wing buzzing down his spine like electrified ants. The move managed to dislocate his arm as well, a downside of Father putting wings on the template of this form, the damage done at the same time, within close proximity to the Detective.
And smarting just the same.
In fact, as Michael takes a moment, Lucifer notes, as soon as it stops spinning, that the room they’ve landed in looks familiar, an empty living room in the same style as the Detective’s, almost like one of the smaller units, if he remembers correctly from the case they worked that lead to her obtaining the lovely place. There are little signs of a quick evacuation. While most of the furniture is gone, there are a few photos are on the floor, papers scattered, dishes broken and left. A subtle rage has been bubbling in the back of Lucifer’s mind ever since he learned what Michael’s willing to do for his mission to destroy Lucifer’s life on Earth. Apparently, frightening humans from their home to gain an advantage is one of them.
Lucifer sighs, gathering his feet under him. “Frightening people from their homes, now, are we?” He’s a bit unsteady, dizzy from the pain that continues to grow and the blow to the head — the Detective is certainly within range for him to be vulnerable — but covers it the best he can.
“Well, look at us,” Michael comments, casually leaning against the breakfast bar. He pushes off it and circles Lucifer, grinning. “Now don’t we look a bit more alike.” He motions between their right shoulders, how tightly Lucifer’s holding his, the wing behind it drooping. “Ouch. That’s got to hurt.”
“You would know.”
“Low blow, bro, considering you’re the one who broke it.”
The statement takes Lucifer by surprise and he stops tracking Michael. “Pardon me?”
Michael’s wings flare, well, as much as they can, the left one’s primaries swiping at Lucifer. He bends backwards, earning just a scratch across his middle just above his belt buckle, but goes to correct his balance with his wings, forgetting one’s damaged already. Pain blossoms through the bones of his right wing as it extends on instinct, causing him to cry out as he falls, half hitting the wall behind him. In wanting to protect the injured limb, his left wing and hand take most of his weight, and he uses it to push forward, launching himself at Michael, catching him around the middle and taking them both to the ground.
“I did not break your limb,” Lucifer growls, getting in a solid right hook. His knuckles tingle from the hit, but the damage to his brother’s face makes it worth it.
Michael swings and Lucifer easily ducks, going in for another hit that glances off Michael’s cheekbone as the latter wraps his leg around Lucifer’s middle and flips them, now straddling his twin. “You did,” he says, grabbing his brother’s arms and pinning them to his sides. Lucifer growls and tries to free his upper body, rewarded with a headbutt from Michael. “You did! And you played it like an accident! Treated it like it was nothing!”
Above him, Michael’s face is twisted in rage as he rains down blows, each making it harder to understand what he’s going on about. Lucifer blinks slowly, marveling at how easily humans lose their cognitive abilities in a fight, because surely this is what's happening. Restrained as he is, his dislocated right shoulder is screaming at him, joining the agony of his wing, now truly broken, all with full mortality. But as Michael continues to rage, Lucifer begins to lose touch with the outside stimulus, his vision beginning to tunnel as the pain in his head hits an electrifying crescendo —
-- then nothing but him, eyes all but slivers.
Michael grins wildly above him, breathing heavily, and pushes his hair from his face. “Forgive me, brother, I forgot how weak you are when so close to your precious Detective.”
“If you touch one hair,” Lucifer sputters, blood spraying from his lips as he grounds out what he can.
Michael tisks. “This isn’t a conversation, Sam. You had your say,” — he traces the near-healed wound on his face, one that will heal to a scar on a face once seen as perfect — “now it’s time for me to have mine. You see, you reminded me of who I am, and I thought I’d do the same for you.”
By the time Michael gets off him, Lucifer can only roll his head to the side and spit out the blood collected in his mouth.
Michael scoffs. “Mortals,” he says to the unconscious form on the ground. Because that’s what Lucifer is right now — not the Will of God, forming the stars in the sky, or the Poison punishing the first mortals before the formation of Hell, nor the Devil in his twisted Kingdom — no, a mortal, a puny, weak human who won’t wake up for awhile after that pitiful fight.
No, Lucifer at his full strength is a delight. They’re so evenly matched, now. Michael’s always had extra power, but now, after millennia spent learning to fight from demons, Lucifer’s speed and agility has morphed into something else, the rules of engagement no longer binding him to the fighting style learned by the angels. The fight in the the penthouse reminded Michael of their youth, when they’d run drills and practice new moves only to find themselves mirrors of each other, matching punch to punch, sword to sword (when he could still read what was happening in Samael’s mind, when it was open to him, when he felt the first stirrings of something more, the emotions, he knows now, that Father was going to gift the humans, had gifted — )
Now he finds himself standing over that perfect angel who broke every fucking rule and still found favor, still sat at the fountains and regaled their siblings with his tails of weaving stars from atoms and dust left from the beginnings of the universe, how he flew between the stars already created to pull together planets, and how he gave them all different characteristics based on how he was feeling that day.
Feeling. There is nothing good in feeling. Just fear. That is where the true measure of a being lay. That’s where the most power comes from. That’s what Michael was designed for. To be the Sword of God, to make the humans obey out of fear.
(And maybe that’s why he scoffed when his twin spoke of his feelings. Because he feared them, his own feelings, because he’d have to look at what he fears — no, no, don’t go there, he can’t.)
Gathering his twin in his arms a second time was always in the plan, but is more difficult as his right wing has sustained more damage; it won’t fold in as easily, hanging over Michael’s arm, the feathers still glowing with starlight, the divinity spreading up his arm. He lets out a yelp of surprise. “Disgusting,” he says. It’s a lie, like everything else. He pushes until they fold away, making flight easier.
But he does it. Says goodbye to the apartment and the area of vulnerability for his twin — what a ridiculous thing, love. His brother rather stay with the Detective, with Chloe, despite her introducing him to the concept of pain, simple, every day pain. Death, illness. He could just leave. But no.
“Love. How ridiculous,” Michael tells Lucifer, the latter’s head lolling against his shoulder. For one moment, Michael allows himself a weakness, and brings a palm to Lucifer’s face, holding it, remembering so long ago. Maybe, what was that feeling?
He takes flight before he lets it be named.
Celestial steel burns like dry ice, a deep chill passing through skin and muscle to settle in his very bones. Lucifer wakes quickly once he feels the cold sizzle up his spine, each thin strand of chain branding his skin through his clothing. He knows this feeling, has felt it once before, is sure there aren’t many — if any — other celestials who know its bite.
Knows it had to be brought down just for him.
Lucifer doesn’t move, just waits for his hearing to come back, the volume turning up, fog clearing. Someone — Michael, probably — paces, not too quickly, so he isn’t impatient. Everything feels slightly disconnected, awareness coming in waves that crash over him, pulling him under. When he surfaces, the pacing is across the space, the middle time missing. He tries to hold on, keep himself from losing time, but finds, as his energy wains, it to be a losing battle.
And so he floats until the steps grow quick and impatient and he’s kicked over onto his back, two items thrown onto his chest. “If only you had imagination, dear brother,” grumbles Lucifer, finally opening his eyes.
They’re on the main floor of Lux.
All the tables have been cleared, the piano pushed to the side. The bar area is dark. No staff to be seen. The only lights on are the ones on the wall announcing the name of the club, casting harsh shadows across the angular planes of Michael’s face as he steps back.
“Choose,” is all Michael says, looking down at Lucifer’s chest. His eyes don’t move from his twin’s, challenging, who will break contact first? Wrapped tightly in the softly-glowing chain, Lucifer can do little but wiggle on the floor, his powers negated by his bindings. The same sense of helplessness he felt Beforewashes over him, that he is at the mercy of someone else. Except before, he had believed his Father loved him, and had that flicker of hope that things wouldn’t end horribly.
Michael holds no such affections.
All he has, laying at his twin’s feet, no misconception of mercy, is his pride. And so he looks down to see what lays on his chest.
A whip and a cane.
He knows why Michael chose them. For an angel with the power to draw out fear, he needn’t use his gift to suss out this fear of Lucifer’s. He remembers, thought a haze of pain, as he felt his mortality come up to bite him in the ass, Michael mentioning something about remembering who he was. All he’s been doing has been about, first, taking Lucifer’s life, and when he couldn’t do that, destroying it, showing everyone who he really is, according to Michael.
Which is a rebellious monster who belongs in Hell, Father’s decree it no longer requires a warden be damned.
This, this is more. This is revenge. This isn’t about a mission to blow up whatever happiness Lucifer has managed to carve out in this small part of the Earthly plane. This is personal and, as usual, Lucifer has no idea what he’s upset about. Shouldn’t Lucifer be the one who’s upset? Michael manipulated him, used their bond to keep the trust, and stabbed him before watching him burn as he was banished from the Silver City for eternity. Why, because Michael lived in Lucifer’s shadow? How was that his fault?
“If you don’t, I will for you,” intones Michael, approaching slowly. “There are pros and cons to each, as you well know.”
Lucifer takes a steadying breath. The memories of being whipped before the Heavenly Host for asking, then his wings being caned before he Fell so he wouldn’t be able to escape his fate, they flash through his mind. “It seems you made a trip to the Silver City to get some toys.”
“Just for you, Sam,” Michael grins. “I brought them with.”
“And this helps you achieve what? Get out your frustrations? There are many lovely ladies I could introduce you to that could help you in a much more constructi — ”
Michael’s right wing flares out and strikes a primary against his neck, pulls back, smacks him across the face, and returns to his neck. “Whip it is.”
Pulling back his wings, Michael smiles and grabs the whip from Lucifer’s chest, along with a handful of chain. He winces, tilting his head at the pain, and lets out a little laugh. “Wow, this stuff really packs a punch, doesn’t it? You must really be hurting, aren’t you, brother?” And throws him into a table, bolted to the floor in front of one of the booths.
He strikes fast and hard. The table to the chest knocks the air from Lucifer’s lungs, hard edge pushing chain into his abdomen, and he’s gasping as the first snap of the whip snaps diagonally across his back. The heat of it doesn’t hit him right away — halfway through a breath, fire licks across his skin and steals the air back from him, a shout choked off. The second and third snaps come quickly after, and the lack of air makes his head spin as he tries, again, again, to breathe, nerves on fire from the inside out, with heat where blood spills and ice where the whip meets the cold chain. There’s nothing but the alternating sensations of pain and the lights around him, lights like stars that, in some odd way, bring him comfort. I’m not alone here.
Lucifer smiles, eyes on his stars. I missed you all.
A hand grasps his hair and pulls hard, pinpricks of pain across his scalp, dragging his head and body with it. “Sammy, oh, Sammy,” Michael mocks in sing-song, shaking his head ever-so-slightly.
Lucifer drags in a lungful of air, then another, only able to shallowly expand his lungs as the fire on his back keeps him from pressing back against it. It’s a balancing act, his body remembering it — not just above, but when he landed, when he was weak, showed just a moment of weakness, the demons ready to —
“How many lashes do we have left?” Michael breaks in. “I wasn’t there.” He pulls Lucifer’s head back and crouches down.
“Liar,” growls Lucifer. He remembers that day, his warning from Father, that his words were more than thoughts in his head, but could threaten the Heaven they’d been living in. Siblings were listening to him, now, thinking about what he was saying, and Father was — Lucifer has always thought Father was scared. Whatever it was, Michael had been there, hiding, and their eyes met for a moment, just a second, and Lucifer hadn’t recognized who was looking back.
His head is thrown down and hangs over the front edge of the small table. Four, five — “I think I’m getting the hang of this,” Michael exclaims.
Lucifer hopes the bastard’s shoulder gives out on him before they reach ten.
His desires never matter though, and Michael toys with him in intensity and speed, always pulling him back before he can get back to his stars, spiral into the black. The soles of his shoes can’t find purchase anymore, floor too slick with blood. He hangs and bites through his lip and ignores the taunts. Let Michael get his fill. This isn’t anything he hasn’t taken before. Ignore who it is, the face and voice.
The last is weak, a caress against his abused skin. It’s surprising in the lack of intensity, but that’s how they’ve always been connected — hurt one, hurt the other. Lucifer imagines Michael stretching his damaged shoulder, trying to find it inside himself to interject some lip when his twin decides to talk.
But Michael doesn’t. Just throws the whip at Lucifer’s feet and stalks to the bar.
With not much else he can do, Lucifer attempts to slide to his feet, meaning to gracefully hit his knees before hitting the floor. However, execution was nowhere as graceful as anticipated, and he slammed to the ground on his right side, drawing a groan from him, dislocated shoulder, damaged wing beyond — Lucifer unconsciously rolls to his back and lets loose a scream, vision whiting out —
Halfway through a sip of some very fine bourbon, Michael hears Lucifer hit the ground and smirks when his twin’s scream is cut loose by, well, he’s probably passed out again, like the weakling he is. Earth, while yeah, has it’s delights and is definitly more entertaining than the Silver City, isn’t meant for them to live on. There’s no divinity here, no way to live how they’re meant to. Half a life, containing powers, wings hidden away — play with the toys and then go home.
The alcohol is fine, he reflects, holding his glass up to the light. The tumbler is classy, expensive, even if several are probably broken each night by drunk humans. A weight in his left hand, his right arm resting on the bar. Twenty lashes may have been ambitious, but he’s wanted to do that for so long. Put his brother in his place. Remind him that criminals are punished and if he’s not going to go back to where he belongs, then the punishment is going to come to him.
All of this excess, opulence, attention to the best things — it’s the opposite of Hell. Michael’s visited, just the once, after he threw his brother down there, just to see what it was like. To make sure it was justified, worthy of the punishment. He gets it, he really does, but Lucifer doesn’t deserve it. If anyone does, it’s Michael. The one who stopped the war, who saw where Samael’s thinking and feeling was going and made sure it was tossed out before things got really bad.
And he’s so close.
It takes less time for Michael’s shoulder to calm from a blazing heat between his neck and shoulder, extending down his arm, than it does for Lucifer’s back to stop weeping blood. Michael discards his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, crouching down next to his lump of a brother. He’s on his back, feet hanging over the step up to the booth, still confined by chains.
Oh, how he relishes this moment. Allows himself a moment to commit it to memory. His brother lying in blood on the flood of his club, face half covered in bruises. The chains have burned through his shirt, causing pieces to have fallen off, revealing the burns against his skin.
But it’s no fun if he’s asleep.
He pulls the glove that came with the chains from his pocket and slips it on before grasping a handful of the fine divine metal and pulling his twin to his feet. Holding Lucifer aloft, he knows what he next has to do. What he’s wanted for so long. And then his brother can go back to his life and try to keep from being manipulated like mouse in a maze. He may escape the path being made for him for awhile, but only finds dead ends.
It’s been amusing to watch for eons, never getting old.
One backhanded slap is all it takes to wake his twin, though wake is a relative term. Rather, his eyes crack open, slits of fading red hellfire to brown, glazed with pain. They roll around, searching for something to focus on, or perhaps the ability to focus.
“You are really making this tedious,” remarks Michael. Lucifer’s roving eyes find his and attempts to roll them in annoyance.
“You can always stop. I wouldn't mind,” suggests Lucifer after a moment, voice thin.
“Oh, no, we’ve one thing left,” coos Michael, looking over his shoulder at the discarded cane in the middle of the dance floor. “Just get your wings out and we can get started.”
Lucifer’s face pales, a stark contrast to the dark blood dried on his face, eyes on the cane. It's more a pole or staff, thick and unyielding, the ultimate punishment for an angel of God. It's only been used once, wielded only by Michael who hesitated as he followed the orders given to him by their Father.
No, no, don't think about that, never doubt the word of Father.
Michael shakes his head, clearing it of those whispers of doubt that have been getting more insistent as of late.
No, this is to prove he was right. No room for doubt.
Lucifer is trembling where Michael’s hand rests against his chest, eyes still on the cane over his shoulder. “No.”
“No?”
“No, I am not letting out my bloody wings, Michael, just for you to break them!” He's yelling by the end, eyes meeting Michael’s. “There's nothing you can do that will make me.”
Still holding Lucifer aloft, he walks backward, approaching the cane, noting how the trembling has increased with each step.
“Don’t you think that was thought of?” grins Michael. “What angel in their right mind would allow their wings to be damaged in such a way?”
“You did.”
Michael stops. Just stops. The comment was a whisper, one a human would have missed, but they’re better than humans, advanced, and hear so well.
“Let me clear something up for you, Brother,” growls Michael, pulling Lucifer so close, their noses touch. “My wing was your fault. And you didn’t care. Just pretended it was a joke. This damage — “
“Is because you didn’t go to Raph to get healed, just moped around hoping I’d, what, notice it was damaged and beg for forgiveness at your feet?”
“Yes!”
“I didn’t make you fly into that outcropping.”
“Enough!” demands Michael. “If you had said something, if you had taken something seriously, I could have been healed and fine. But you treated me like a joke. Who would be next? Who would trust you, listen to your words, and be hurt next? So it was time to purge you from — “
Lucifer roars and slams his forehead into Michael’s as hard as he can, snapping his head back and causing him to drop Lucifer to the floor. Stumbling back, Michael blinks, trying to clear his vision of black spots. On the ground, Lucifer is struggling against his bonds, on his knees, trying to get to his feet. His eyes have gone red with the glow of hellfire, a sign of the rage under the surface. Good.
The cane isn’t far; Michael snatches it up and turns to face his twin, who has gotten up onto one foot. It doesn’t matter. Let Lucifer think he has a chance. Michael has thought of all the patterns, possibilities.
He doesn’t give his brother a chance. Pivoting around to Lucifer’s back, he takes the rounded end of the cane and slams it between his shoulder blades, almost below them. Lucifer grunts and tips forward, kept upright by his foot on the floor, but nothing happens. Michael does it again, letting his own wings unfurl behind him, wide, dark, and imposing. There’s a crack and Lucifer screams as his own bright white wings attempt to unfurl, stopped by the chains around him. They burn through the feathers, the smell of singed hair and barbs rising between the brothers.
Each time he wakes, Lucifer knows his brother is giving him just enough time to heal enough so he can keep going. None of it would kill him, really — Michael thinks he knows everything, the perv he is, but he can’t see into Hell. Never saw what Lucifer had to endure to claim his throne.
That is a tactic in and of itself. Letting the long lashes on his back heal just enough so they could rip open when Lucifer’s wings are forced to unfurl, the pain of his skin tearing secondary to the absolute agony of his wings burning under the chains still holding him prisoner. This, he remembers. Back then, he had no frame of reference, had no idea what else the universe could do to him. Now, now he knows it is one of the worst punishments his Father could have ever devised.
Rather, Raguel, through is Divine Purpose.
Michael’s left him on the floor, deciding to sit in a chair pulled over so he can watch for the moment Lucifer wakes. When their eyes meet, Michael leans forward, the cane across his lap. “Don’t worry,” Michael says so offhand, like he doesn’t have his brother bound and bleeding at his feet, “I do have other things to do. Friends to meet, you get it. You just came back a bit too early.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow, focused more on breathing, short gasps all he can manage, his wings causing the chain to constrict him tighter. The lack of oxygen makes the room spin, doubles his twin at times, duel menaces scared and grinning.
Michael stands from the chair and leans the cane against the nearby wall. He puts on a strange glove — that’s how he can handle the chain — and lifts Lucifer easily, walking him to the chair. He lets his twin’s feet hit the floor and kicks them out, then pushes him to straddle the chair.
“Sit.”
At that command, Lucifer actually turns his head to look at his brother. They’re so close their noses almost touch, breath hot and shared between them. Lucifer’s stutters, shallow and quick. Heart in his throat, the former King of Hell finds himself wondering when his angelic brother was replaced with a demon from the Pit itself.
“What?” Michael asks. “Do I have something on my face?”
Lucifer grins but doesn't rise to the bait. “No. Just wondering if Mazikeen gave you lessons or you thought this all up yourself,” he starts, needing to gasp between every few words. “My compliments.” It may cause Michael to shove him down onto the chair with a bit more force than necessary, as the metal legs squeak as they bend.
There's no need to bind Lucifer to the chair at this point — despite the interludes of unconsciousness his twin provided him for a modicum of healing, his limbs are heavy with the weight of lost blood and violence. Fighting through the brain fog takes most of his energy, and he refuses to stay silent while his bro beats the stuffing out of him. Resilient to the end — doesn't Michael remember?
Michael doesn’t seem interested in talking anymore, his waxing poetic overtaken by those more base emotions of anger and hurt; the desire to harm. Just as much as his twin must feel his fear over the pain to his wings, Lucifer can taste Michael’s desires, identifies them easily with the brimstone and ash of Hell. It brings a bit of comfort, clears his head. Let Michael have his fun; as soon as Lucifer finds his way free, he —
He what?
He’s lost his lust for this type of punishment. He may despise his asshole of a brother, and yes, he spent a good half a millennium dreaming up ways to torture him if Michael ever decided to visit Lucifer in Hell, and sure, it felt fantastic to beat him in the penthouse, but now? Now he was thinking about how maybe him ignoring Michael’s injury because he was too ashamed to admit he’d done something that harmed him wasn’t the best way to handle the situation. Dr Martin would call recognizing that as growth, and suggest he apologize.
But does it even matter at this point? Michael always felt overshadowed by Lucifer, but perhaps he didn’t begin manipulating his twin until after he felt ignored by even the one who promised to always be there. What made Lucifer so easy to lead anyway? Which of his character flaws were responsible?
The first strike comes like thunder. He feels the disturbed air, the swish of the cane swinging at him before his wings shriek at him, each feather a pinpoint of pain that is both collective and singular at once. Bones don’t break — there aren’t any there to break — but his vision whites out and the nerves pop in his ears like the end of fireworks.
Then Michael strikes again, barely giving Lucifer a moment to breathe, his gasps never enough to fill his lungs, suffocating him with each hit. They were metered, before, on a plane of existence that didn’t require air; Lucifer chokes and sputters, tears beginning to form in his eyes.
He fades in and out now that Michael isn’t speaking anymore, trying to focus on breathing, wishing he could just fall unconscious again. Why won’t he stop?
When his twin laughs, he realizes he spoke out loud, and feels shame bloom up his chest to his cheeks.
He aims for the wing bones, then, and Lucifer’s eyes roll up into his head.
It’s a curious thing, what happens when an angel’s wing bone breaks. There isn’t any blood, since they don’t technically exist in the physical, but when manifested, they are as real as any other limb. Only a few have broken theirs, Michael included, his wing deformity a poorly healed one, but when in the realm of Heaven, healing help was only a moment away.
After relishing the scream that came out of his brother at the first break, Michael leans down, watching as divine ichor leaks where the bone broke the skin. It’s thicker than water, a bit milky — he reaches out a finger to snag a bit and brings it to his tongue — tastes like the stardust his twin used to come back covered in after each trip to light the stars. The ichor sizzles on his tongue, turning bitter, and he leans to spit out what he can.
Watching it drip, he thinks maybe he’s brought things just far enough. The club is closed and the day staff is still asleep, if not falling into bed at the moment. His precious Detective isn’t talking to him and her anger will probably keep her from checking up on him for awhile.
The break itself will leak until someone finds Lucifer, his very self weakening the longer he remains unfound. Michael will make sure someone finds him in time, but at this point, he’s done, hopes the wing heals poorly so they can be twins again, and then there won’t be such a difference anymore to make them, or their actions, distinct from each other.
Michael leans down and grabs Lucifer’s chin. “Sorry to hit and run, but I have other things to attend to.” He drops his head and pushes him off the chair. With a final drink, he places the glove to handle the chains on the bar and turns off the lights before pushing the doors to Lux open wide as he departs.
The only outlier is their stick in the mud of an older brother, Amenidiel. Time to put that part of the plan into motion.
First, find Maze. He may be able to hit two birds with one demon.