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Lucifer diverts you into a cafe when it becomes clear that storm was not a passing one.
There’s an old grandfather clock set against the far wall and it’s the first thing you really take notice of. It stands out, brass and mahogany contrasting with the white counters and light wood tones of the rest of the cafe. Inside the glass case, an ornate pendulum swings, driving the vintage hands around the clock face.
The smell of coffee comes next. A haze of malt, roast, hazelnut, and vanilla. Had it not been for Lucifer’s guiding hand, warm and firm, pushing you past the cafe’s welcome mat, you would’ve stood there a beat longer than what would be considered polite. You drink it in, allowing it to overtake the sharp smell of ozone of the storm outside.
“Welcome to the Roasted Respite,” you hear the barista’s cheery greeting over the roar of the storm.
“Respite? How quaint,” Lucifer says, flicking water from his bangs. You resist mimicking him even though rain water laminates your hair and clothes to you like a second skin.
“A little water never hurt. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of getting a little wet,” you reply.
“Don’t mistake your discomfort for my own,” Lucifer scoffs while doing his best at keeping his water-logged coat from slip-n-sliding off his shoulders. “I just thought, perhaps, after the pace you’ve had us running at, a warm beverage would do you well.”
“We don’t have time to get side-tracked.”
You glance at your list of errands— it’s little more than paper mache in your hands now, curling around your knuckles and ink words bleeding into blue smears.
“Is a to-go cup so beneath you, my little lamb?”
“No, but a hot beverage isn’t going to help us get back home faster.“
Lightening strikes followed by a health bout of thunder. It shakes the cafe windows and you hear the clang of the barista dropping something solid and metal. A quick glance over the shoulder shows you the torrent you narrowly escape, signs across the street little more than a blur behind a screen of water. It suddenly occurs to you that Lucifer’s birthday present might not be waterproof. Perhaps a few minutes wouldn’t eat into your plans too much.
“I doubt a hot beverage would slow us down either,” Lucifer deadpans.
“You know,” you sniff after a beat of silence, “to-go cups are beneath me. I wouldn’t drink out of anything less than glass.”
You feel the tingle of Lucifer’s amusement through your pact.
“Excellent. You look in rather desperate need for a pick me up and I’m feeling rather gracious today.”
Lucifer starts towards the counter. You watch as the barista freeze under his gaze, milk frother left to sputter and squeal, trapped as they were under the gaze of The Avatar of Pride. Well, even if he looks more like a half-drowned Pride and Prejudice character than an all-powerful demon, in your humble opinion.
You inch forward to get a better view of the menu, your shoe-sock squelches answering Lucifer’s one-for-one. Perhaps a little rest wouldn’t eat into your plans too much.
So the rain continued. The barista assured you that the weather, was in fact, typical for the season. Lucifer had to be convinced that there was little risk of being flooded-out. You had to be convinced that the rain was not, no matter what your imagination was telling you, letting up. After shooting out of your seat for a third time (before promptly being struck down by a crack of thunder), the barista pointed out the modest pile of card games on one of the bookshelves before nervously excusing themselves to the back of the cafe.
Cribbage it was, then.
Lucifer snaps a card down on the table, his carefully manicured nail catching lightly on the edge of the card stock. You answer him with your own, feeling a little smug as frustration flashed briefly across his face. You may have taught him poorly on purpose, the difference in your little cribbage pegs was more a reflection of your poor teaching than Lucifer’s wit or skill.
“Don’t looks so amused. You’re not even halfway to sixty.”
“Amused? More like impressed. You’re doing an admirable job catching up to me.”
“Perhaps if my instructor had been more through, such tragedy could have been adverted,” Lucifer says, “Who knew that you, too, could stoop as low as Mammon.”
You do a mighty good job gasping indignantly.
“And here I was singing your praise,” you pause to count out the points you won from the round and move your peg up the board. “If I was actually like Mammon, I would’ve taught you the game wrong, and that would be a farce, not a tragedy.”
Lucifer chuckles and you bask in the sound. He leans back in his seat and toys with the buttons around his cuff. You found yourself enraptured as he fastidiously rolls up one sleeve, then the next, bare hands revealing bare skin. You can’t remember the last time you saw him so relaxed—so publicly undressed-- free from all the little things that his position begets; the titles, the pleasantries, the image of corruption dressed in devilish black and red. In your mind’s eye you can see Lucifer’s coat, vest and gloves splayed out across on empty cafe table. A little lake has formed below the sodden fabric, threatening to spill over from the terrazzo floor onto one of the cafe’s many cozy rugs.
But he was free of the heavy things too; his brother’s well-being resting heavily on his heart, Diavolo and the Devildom on his mind, and the endless nights of work on his body. Stress was a familiar ornament on Lucifer, but it didn’t suit him, you decide. It was just a matter of getting him something new.
“Is there something the matter?”
Lucifer looks to you curiously, hand halfway across the table to retrieve your cards for the next shuffle.
“I can’t remember the last time you looked so…relaxed,” you say, “Apart from evenings in your study, I mean. Aren’t you concerned about the rest of the things we need to do?”
“On any other day, certainly, but I like to think I’m allowed a little truancy on my birthday.”
It’s not the answer you were expecting.
“You? Skipping out on responsibility?”
Lucifer leans across the table, fingertips brushing against your skin as he slides the last of your cards out from underneath your palm.
“I am not my brothers. We will complete your list, but I don’t see why the experience has to be an unpleasant one. Well, as unpleasant things can be with you around,” Lucifer says, smile free and unrestrained. You feel something warm settle in your chest, and you’re sure it’s not just your latte.
The moment is broken by a particularity bright flash of lightening followed shortly after by the rolling drum of thunder.
“I’m sorry. About all this. I shouldn’t have agreed to run so many errands. And this storm. I mean, it really feels like shit-frosting on a shit-cake.”
“How appetizing.”
The warmth from before rises to your face. “I’m being serious,” you say, sitting up a little straighter. You have half a mind to reach into your sopping wet jacket to fish out your birthday gift.
“Good, because now I know how to play this mortal game of yours. You cannot rely on underhanded tactics to maintain your lead,” Lucifer says as he starts dealing out the cards. Cribbage, a little voice in the back of your head reminds, he’s more interested in cribbage than your pity.
“Luci…” you test, picking up your cards slowly.
“Perhaps more motivation is in order; whoever reaches sixty points first pays for our next drink. There was a drink on the menu called a ‘London fog’. I’m keen on trying it; London has always been quite welcoming to me.”
You purse your lips together, then glance at your fanned out cards. In your periphery you catch the imposing figure of the grandfather clock. You can’t quite make out the time, but maybe you don’t need to.
“Don’t sound so sure of yourself,” you say, reverting back to your teasing tone, “Your pegsmanship has improved but I can still out-peg you.”
Lucifer makes a face; you call it a win.
The grandfather clock sings out Good Morning to All just as Lucifer claims his inevitable victory. He smiles in a way that makes you forget briefly about your damp socks before sending you off to retrieve his winnings. You have to yell a little to be heard above the last chimes of the clock’s song and briefly wonder if the baristas ever got tired of hearing the old thing go off everyday.
You’re pretty sure you would, but you weren’t going to judge them either way.
As the barista bustles behind the counter readying your order as the last chimes of the clock sound you give into the urge to pull out your DDD. Sixty-six messages greet you, some from Satan and Levi, fewer from Beel and Belphie, and most from Asmo and Mammon. All bemoaning your absence. You could half-imagine the chaos of all seven brothers running around top-side.
Like herding cats, you think. Large ones. With opposable thumbs and a taste for human souls. Despite your best efforts, you crack a smile imagining it. The six of them, cheering you on, pushing you forward, happy to carry out every detail of Lucifer’s birthday surprise planned by your hand so your moment of gift-giving went all according to plan. You try to remember how you imagined the exchange to go. The setting, the time, the words, they all seemed so important hours ago. Now you can’t quite recall. Funny how that works.
You glance up from your DDD and catch Lucifer browsing one of the cafe’s many bookshelves. As much as you loved chaos, you loved seeing Lucifer at ease more.
“Your drinks are ready!”
Two to-go cups in hand, you make the short journey to the back of the cafe where Lucifer stands, wry smile dancing across his features as he pages through a book.
“Here you are O’ Grand Victor of Cribbage,” you start, holding Lucifer’s cup like it weighed of gold and gems, “A reward worth of your achievement.”
“Paltry offerings for one such as myself,” Lucifer teases, “Perhaps you should do some reading to learn what a demon of my standing deserves.”
He angles the open book towards you. You recognize Bosche’s Triptych of the Temptation of St. Anthony on the far page, opposite to a wordy section on demon economics. Somehow you doubt the contents lined up with what your learned at RAD, but double checking would’ve required interest.
“Oh do they now? What else does this so-called expert say about demons?”
“Quite a bit unfortunately,” he chuckles. You lean closer and watch as sections on pacts and summoning transition into chapters on demonic anatomy and methods of overcoming demonic charms.
“Demonic charms eh?” you say as you try to catch the page with the edge of one of your cups, “Does it have a section on what to do when you’ve already bound the seven most powerful demons in the Devildom to yourself?”
“What to do? What a strange question,” Lucifer’s voice dips low, the change in mood punctuated by the snapping of the book. He stands so close now, looming over you, a shadow, like a summer’s night perfumed with fennel and oak while the brightest star watches overhead.
“I imagine a soul capable of commanding the avatars of greed, envy, wrath, lust, glutton, and sloth could do anything they pleased. Ah. Well. So long as I allow it.”
You feel his breath tickle across your neck, and his hand ghost over yours. For a moment you feel the heat of him, skin on skin, before it disappears, taking the warmth of the to-go cup with it. Absent warmth, you reach out and grasp Lucifer’s shirt.
“I hope you’re aware,” Lucifer says, voice lower still, “You may have bound my brothers, but you are bound to me.”
You take a breath, head momentarily clear enough to put things together, “Is that why you were so non-pulsed by the storm today? You were just happy to keep me to yourself.”
Lucifer your hand off his shirt and gives your hand the most chaste of kisses.
“There is little greater you could give me for my birthday, my little lamb.”
You feel suddenly very warm. Desperate not to overheat, you open your mouth and words vent out.
“I guess that means you don’t want the gift I got you then?”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, if I had known you were so easy to please I wouldn’t have bothered with a gift,” you say, then immediately cringe. “I’m sorry that came out wrong. I got you something and you can still have it, if you’d like.”
Your hands claw at your pocket, fumbling a little with the velvet box. A passing thought tells you to open it — like an offering — but you mentally swat it away — too proposal-like — and decide that pushing it into Lucifer’s open hand was good enough. He hesitates.
“My little lamb, you didn’t have to.”
“Yes I did. In fact, I wish I could give you more because you deserve it,” you stop there, words held in limbo as Lucifer opens the box. The velvet is more than a little damp, and the little decorative bow had all it’s charm drowned out of it, but the satin inside is still shiny and crisp. Of course, the box didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, not when set against the gift you had chosen. You feel faint as his brows furrow, and his lips part. It never occurred to you how it would feel to have a gift rejected until this very moment.
“A star shard?”
You nod, still struggling with the whole breathing thing. He pulls out the pendent, a crystal the defies description caught within a deceptively complex silver housing. For a moment it shines like the sunrise.
“Morningstar,” you strangle out at last.
He pulls you close and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Thank you.”
It takes another half-hour for the storm to clear. Mammon texts you something absurd while Satan more practically points out that the rain has thinned enough for you to get going. He’s quick to clarify that it’s you that he misses; he couldn’t care less about Lucifer.
“They miss you too,” you reassure him. You don’t understand how he resists the urge to roll his eyes.
The rest of the texts are an frantic attempt to salvage what remained of Lucifer’s birthday plans. You skim through before typing back something like sounds good or whatever works best for you all, and sliding your DDD into your driest pocket. There was no point in fretting over details when Lucifer has already had a wonderful birthday.
You slip a generous tip into the mason jar on the counter and meet Lucifer outside just as sunset hit, the sun saying a fond Adieu! In gold and saffron before slipping over the horizon. You slip your hand into Lucifer’s and he smiles in response. Peaking underneath the collar of his shirt you spot the shine of a silver chain.
“Happy birthday.”