Chapter Text
Lucifer glanced through the window into the restaurant, ostensibly to check if his date had arrived yet. That he caught a flash of his own reflection proved a happy side-effect. He undid a second button at the collar of his shirt, adjusted a cufflink and smoothed his perfectly coiffured hair.
He was looking good; naturally, he was. And there was Lieutenant Marcus Pierce, sat in a candlelit booth toward the back of the middle-brow eatery, so awkward and stiff he might as well have a steel rod up his butt.
Maybe later. If you’re a good boy, Cain.
At least Marcus wasn’t brandishing a bunch of flowers. Lucifer would’ve been morally obliged to stuff an entire rosebush up his arse, which still wouldn’t be punishment enough. He drew a swift lungful of car fumes and night air, ready for the plunge. An odd flip-flopping sensation in his tummy stopped him in his tracks.
That. Was. NOT. Nerves.
Absolutely not. Marcus’s attempts to woo him were hilarious and nauseatingly endearing, and nothing Lucifer couldn’t handle. Still, he was going on a date with the man who invented murder. Anything could happen. His butterflies must therefore be explained by a detached interest and a smidgen of anticipation, because he honestly had no idea how tonight was going to turn out. Things had been so much simpler when Marcus just wanted to beat the shit out of him, and fuck him through the furniture…
The hand that grabbed the back of Lucifer’s collar came seemingly out of nowhere, yanking him away from the window with formidable force. A large be-cloaked figure manhandled him into the nearest grimy alley, before Lucifer had even gritted his teeth in a snarl.
He wrenched his attacker off him, hurling them away with such energy their skull should’ve cracked when they hit the opposite brick wall. Instead, his assailant used the momentum to spring back and serve a sweet right hook to Lucifer’s jaw.
“What the bloody hell?”
Lucifer touched his split lip, pulling his fingers away to blink at them in the gloom. Yup, that was blood. Had the Detective crashed his date? Was she hovering nearby? Not impossible, as she’d been distressingly über-protective over him, since he and Marcus had their noisy “fight and fuck” episode in the interrogation room.
Or, far worse, he’d been blessed with a visitation from one of his more unpleasant siblings.
The figure before him, who matched Lucifer in height and outshone him in sheer bulk and rippling muscle mass, dropped their cloak. A face similar to his own—though less well-proportioned, squeakily clean-shaven, and far less handsome—flashed him a pearly grin. “Hello, Lucifer. Still boning the humans, I see?”
“Hello, Michael.” Lucifer squared his shoulders, standing his ground. “Still not got laid since the beginning of time, I see?”
“Shut up, you filthy slattern.”
“I’ve missed these brotherly tête-à-têtes.” Lucifer edged closer, thrusting his face right in Michael’s. “Hold on, no I haven’t. Compared to you, conversation with Amenadiel is as droll as a soiree with Oscar Wilde, and I should know. So, tell me, what this disagreeable surprise is in aid of, then bugger off.”
“For once in all eternity, you’re right. I’m not good with words. Let me tell you in my language.”
Michael unleashed his wings. Lucifer, resolved to counter him, did the same. Unfortunately, that was the final time in the next few minutes that Lucifer managed to match his brother.
As he was smashed backward into the brick wall for the umpteenth time, Lucifer mused on how bloody unfair it was that Dad had diminished his powers when he’d sent him to hell. Back in the Silver City, Lucifer could have bested any of his brothers and sisters, save possibly Amenadiel at his peak. But since he’d fallen to become the devil? Ugh, even Uriel had overpowered him.
His ears ringing and seeing stars, Lucifer collapsed in a heap on the ground. Michael grabbed the front of Lucifer’s thoroughly ruined shirt and dragged him to his feet. Lucifer, gulping down a throatful of blood, seized the opportunity to headbutt Michael, which probably hurt him as much as his victim, but regained him a little of the upper hand. He kneed Michael in the nuts, finally shaking the bastard off. Michael tottered back, clutching his man-parts. Lucifer kicked his legs from under him.
Lucifer leaned forward and braced his hands on his thighs, wishing the world would stop spinning and that his damaged wings didn’t feel heavy as rock. “Unless you’ve literally come here for a bout of uncivilized fisticuffs,” he gasped, between panted breaths, “I’d dearly love to know why you’re ruining my date.”
Michael leaped up, recovering more quickly than was fair. He hurled himself at Lucifer, who he slammed back into the wall again. His fighting technique was as tedious as his command of language. He wedged his thick arm chokingly tight under Lucifer’s chin.
“I’m here because of your date,” drawled Michael. “Cain took a hit out on you. And I’m the hitman he chose—nothing but the best for his beloved Lucifer, so it seems.”
“What the f—?” Lucifer hadn’t seen that coming.
He didn’t see much else coming, either, for an indeterminable period of time. Michael set upon him mercilessly, until Lucifer stopped trying to fight back. He concentrated on countering the blows and curling in on himself, using his wings and arms to defend his squishiest parts.
Eventually, Michael hauled Lucifer onto his knees, one hand gripping Lucifer’s bicep as Lucifer struggled to keep upright. The weight of his wings wasn’t helping. Seeing as he’d scattered way too many divine feathers across this squalid human passage, he decided to get rid of them… and found he couldn’t. Michael had one fist clenched about Lucifer’s left wingtip, preventing Lucifer from retracting either wing. Letting go of Lucifer’s arm, he whipped out a knife. The serrated blade glinted in the dim light.
“I was going to send you straight back to hell,” said Michael. “But I think I’ll have a bit of fun first.” He scraped the blade gently, almost teasingly, around the base of Lucifer’s right wing.
Lucifer laughed, spitting out more blood. “You’re going to cut off my wings? I know there’s nothing new under the sun, but you could at least torture me in ways I’ve not tried myself.”
“Oh, but the night is young,” breathed Michael.
Lucifer’s next pithy retort withered on his tongue, as Michael hacked the blade deeper and began to saw off his wings.
***
Marcus turned his key in the latch, and slipped into his dark apartment. He felt a fool. Lucifer had stood him up. What did he expect? You don’t ask the devil out on a date, and expect it to go well. And yet… Lucifer had seemed up for it, in a wryly amused, Lucifer-ish fashion. Marcus didn’t feel as much pissed off about being left hanging, as disappointed and plain, old-fashioned sad.
He reached for the light switch and flicked it up—then startled, his jaw dropping lax.
There was a man chained to his wall. Someone had broken into Marcus’s apartment, hammered iron bolts into the masonry, and chained up an individual—who, beneath the blood and bruises, possessed a smoking-hot and decidedly familiar body.
Lucifer.
Marcus’s mind raced in vain for an explanation. He blinked dumfounded, then launched forward to help. The way Lucifer hung limply in his bonds suggested he was unconscious.
Or maybe not.
As Marcus approached, Lucifer lifted his face, a glowering mask of rage. Blood streamed from a cut above his hairline, and his lower lip was slightly swollen. He bore his teeth, emitting a wounded, angry sound caught between a hiss and a moan.
“Hello, Pierce. I have to say—I’ve been on better bloody dates.”