Mo Xuanyu paces the length of the southern courtyard, wringing his hands and glancing every now and then at the closed gates with fretful anticipation. It’s early enough in the day that the other servants are well-occupied with other tasks that the kitchens are mostly empty, but he would rather not risk having to explain himself, or for someone to report back to Lan Wangji. He glances up at the sun high up in the sky.
A series of sharp, rhythmic knocks startles him out of his thoughts. He hurries to unlatch the gate, pulling it open just enough to let the hooded figure slip through; he latches the gate again quickly while glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone else had come past. When he determines the coast is clear, he waves for the mysterious visitor to follow.
“You’re late,” he says under his breath as they wind through the various passageways towards the western courtyard. “Did you bring it?”
“Of course,” the visitor replies in a clear, youthful voice. “How has he been? Did the previous prescription help?”
They turn the corner and pause to let a maid through; she peers at his companion curiously, but scurries away with a quick nod when Mo Xuanyu clears his throat. He glances around again and motions for them to pick up the pace, eager to get out from under their prying eyes.
“He was improving for a while, especially since we moved here,” Mo Xuanyu replies. They reach the western courtyard and he hurries them towards Wei Wuxian’s chambers. “But lately the headaches have been getting worse, and I’ve caught him doubled over from the pain even though he tries to hide it.”
He knocks on the door to Wei Wuxian’s chambers.
“Xian-ge,” he calls, “it’s me. I’ve brought him.”
“Come in.”
He pushes open the door and steps aside to let his companion through first, checking to see if anyone is around before he closes the door behind him.
Wei Wuxian is sitting up in bed, his hair loose and unbound, a cloak over his shoulders despite the warm weather. He pulls the covers aside as they approach, sliding his legs over the edge of the bed; Mo Xuanyu takes hold of his outstretched arm, but presses a hand to his shoulder to keep him seated.
“Xian-ge, you should be resting,” he says. “Get back into bed.”
“Stop fussing, A-Yu,” Wei Wuxian sighs, but lets Mo Xuanyu tuck his legs back under the covers anyway. Once he’s done, Wei Wuxian waves him to the side so he can get a better look at their visitor. “You’re here.”
Their visitor pulls the hood back from his head, unveiling a young man in his mid-twenties with clear, bright eyes and a soft mouth. He drops to one knee and presses his right fist over his heart, bowing his head.
“Tangzhu,” he says. “Please forgive me for returning so late.”
“A-Yuan.” Wei Wuxian reaches out a hand for him, his eyes soft. “Come here.”
Wen Yuan raises his head, a smile blooming across his face, and launches himself forward, wrapping his arms around Wei Wuxian’s waist and burying his face in his lap.
“Xian-gege.” His voice is muffled against the blankets. “Xian-gege, I’m home.”
Wei Wuxian pats him on the head gently, running his palm over crown of his head and coming to rest over his nape. He squeezes his eyes shut and inhales deeply, biting back the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. They stay like that for a while, savouring each other’s presence. It’s only when a sharp pain lances through his abdomen and his whole body tenses up against it involuntarily, does Wen Yuan pull away.
“Xian-gege,” he breathes, concerned. He reaches for Wei Wuxian’s wrist and feels for his pulse. “How long has this been going on for?”
Wei Wuxian shudders through another stab of pain.
“A month,” he grunts. “Give or take. It’s not been so bad lately though.”
Mo Xuanyu snorts. Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan both glance his way—Wei Wuxian in warning, and Wen Yuan with amusement—but he folds his arms over his chest and and looks away without offering further comment.
“If you say so,” Wen Yuan says placatingly. He shakes his head and releases Wei Wuxian’s wrist, expression sombre. “The damage to your body is serious, Xian-gege, and you must treat it seriously. Qing-yi was able to get to you in time back then, but traces of the poison still linger in your body.”
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes and sighs, his hands twisting in the blankets.
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know. But there’s nothing we can do without the proper antidote. None of the prescriptions we’ve tried have been able to clear it out of my system completely.”
A sudden, blinding pain explodes in his head and he doubles over with a gasp, clutching at his hair, burying his face in his knees. Mo Xuanyu takes a few steps towards him, but Wen Yuan holds up a hand to stop him in his tracks. He gently removes Wei Wuxian’s hands from his head and replaces his with his own, rubbing soothing circles into his temple until the tremors in his body subside.
“These last few years I’ve been doing a lot of travelling,” he says softly as he feels the tension easing beneath his fingers. “Gathering whatever information I could. But the qianjidu in your body is no ordinary formula—Wen Ruohan had Qing-yi modify it especially for use in the war. The formula was destroyed, along with all her research, when she—”
He breaks off, biting his lip. Wei Wuxian takes hold of his hand and squeezes gently, his own eyes pained. They share a small, tremulous smile.
“Qing-yi was smart though,” he says. “She made copies of her work and sent it out in secret. Most of them were destroyed, either by Wen Ruohan himself, or in the aftermath of the war. But one.”
He rummages in his robes and produces a small stoppered vial, which he presses into Wei Wuxian’s palm. Wei Wuxian looks down at it, eyes wide, scarcely daring to breathe for fear that it may disappear.
“I tracked it all the way to Dongying,” Wen Yuan tells him. “But it’s incomplete. Parts of it were lost over the years, so we had to fill in the gaps as best we could, even though we’ll never be able to match Qing-yi’s skill. Still, it was enough.”
Wei Wuxian clutches the vial to his chest and stares at Wen Yuan.
“A-Yuan, tell me this isn’t—” he whispers, voice cracking. “This—it isn’t—it can’t be. A-Yuan—”
Wen Yuan smiles at him through his own tears.
“It is, Xian-ge,” he says. “It’s the antidote.”
Notes:
Dongying - Japan
qianjidu (牽機毒) - a poison whose main ingredient is Strychnos nux-vomica seeds containing the neurotoxin strychnine. It affects the central nervous system and causes the victim’s body to seize and convulse involuntarily until they’re bent backwards like a bow, and they usually end up dying of asphyxiation, cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, multiple organ failure, or brain damage. A high dosage can kill a victim in 15-30 minutes. In smaller doses, seizures caused by strychnine poisoning can start as early as 15 minutes after exposure and last 12–24 hours.
There is no antidote for it according to today’s medicine, but it can be managed over time. It was commonly used by Emperors in Imperial China to execute treasonous officials and concubines.
For the sake of the fic though, and because Wen Qing modified the formula for the poison, we’re going to say she was able to develop an antidote. The reason why his symptoms are so mild in comparison to what’s described above (e.g. no seizures that we’ve seen so far) is because they’ve been managing it and trialling different antidotes over the years.
“Er-dianxia, there’s a boy outside who says he has a message for you.”
Lan Wangji does not appear to have heard, and does not turn from where he is studying the map laid out on the table in the centre of the tent with his generals.
“Did he say where he was from?” Lan Guoyan asks in his stead. “What does he look like?”
The soldier shakes his head.
“He’s young, probably no more than fourteen,” he says. “Not a soldier. Nothing on him to identify any possible allegiance or master.”
Lan Guoyan raises his eyebrow.
“Er-dianxia,” he says to Lan Wangji. “It’s suspicious. I’ll go and deal with him.”
Lan Wangji waves his hand dismissively, but the soldier at tent flap blocks Lan Guoyan’s exit with a bow.
“He has requested to speak to Er-dianxia directly,” the soldier says. He fishes a piece of paper from his sleeve and holds it out with both hands. “He says to show this to Er-dianxia if he will not agree to see him.”
It’s crumpled and frayed at the edges and yellowed with age. Lan Guoyan hands it over warily, but Lan Wangji does not seem too bothered. He turns away from the map to unfold it with only half a mind; it changes as soon as he sees the contents—he inhales sharply as he stares at the message, hidden from view from the rest of the tent, and the hand holding it begins to shake. Concerned, Lan Guoyan steps forward to take it from him, only for Lan Wangji to close his fingers around the paper, crushing it in his fist. He rounds on the soldier.
“Where is he?” he demands. “Bring him here immediately.”
“At once, Er-dianxia.”
As the soldier hurries out of the tent, Lan Guoyan turns to his cousin
“What is it?” he asks, worried. “What does it say?”
But Lan Wangji is too focused on the entrance to the tent to answer. He clutches the piece of paper close, as if afraid it will somehow vanish into thin air. Every muscle in his body is quivering with tension as he struggles to hold himself still, to stop himself from running out of the tent to meet with this mysterious messenger. It’s a look that has become all-too familiar in recent months, ever since he returned from Yunmeng: hyper-aware of his surroundings, constantly chasing the shadows on the fringes of his awareness, searching for something—someone—that continues to elude him.
Sometimes, Lan Guoyan thinks he can understand. He knows those shadows too, sees them creeping up on him when he finds himself alone with his thoughts. But he has been on the front lines for almost a year longer than Lan Wangji, has had time for certain feelings to fade. Still, he understands, so he does his best to hold Lan Wangji together until they can return home.
“Hanguang-wang.”
The boy bows low at the waist, his hands clasped before him. Lan Wangji shifts almost imperceptibly towards him, hands twitching as if to reach out, but changes his mind at the last minute. Instead, he draws his shoulders back and fixes him with a penetrating gaze.
“Raise your head.”
Lan Wangji’s heart sinks as he takes in the unfamiliar features, his own face shuttering behind the stern, expressionless facade to mask the bitterness of his disappointment. He holds up the crumpled piece of paper.
“How did you get this?” he asks.
The boy smiles without a trace of fear or concern about facing down the renowned Second Prince of Gusu.
“Responding to Hanguang-wang, it was given to me,” he replies simply.
“By whom?”
“An ally.” At Lan Guoyan’s disbelieving huff, the boy bows again. “Please be assured, Jing-junwangye, Qishan Wen is no friend of ours. My master and I are allies of your cause.”
He straightens again, still smiling serenely at them. Lan Guoyan frowns, his hand going to the hilt of his sword in warning.
“Who is your master?” he demands to know. “How do we know we can trust him?”
But the boy ignores him, turning instead to Lan Wangji and eyeing the piece of paper in his hand knowingly.
“Hanguang-wang,” he says. “You will do well to keep your forces concentrated in Jiangling and wait for reinforcements from Baling before you march on Yiling.”
“Baling has declined to come to our aid in fear of Qishan Wen forces,” Lan Wangji tells him. “Why would they come now?”
The boy’s smile turns secretive, and Lan Wangji feels a faint twinge of recognition in the way his eyes dance with amusement. When he speaks, his voice is full of confidence.
“Ouyang-jiangjun owes my master a life debt,” he says. “He will come.”
He meets Lan Wangji’s eyes squarely, the smile on his face settling into one of polite deference. There is something odd about this boy, something familiar that Lan Wangji cannot name, but it is enough to sway his judgment. He inclines his head at the boy.
“Many thanks to your master,” he says over Lan Guoyan’s protests. “Tell him I will heed his advice.”
“Dianxia!”
The boy’s smile widens once more and he bows again.
“My master will be most pleased,” he says. “I must return to deliver the news. Best of luck, Hanguang-wang.”
“Wait.”
The boy turns around, already half out of the tent.
“Yes, Hanguang-wang?”
Lan Wangji hesitates, glancing down at the paper in his hand.
“What is your name?” he asks. “Why are you and your master helping us?”
The boy bows, one last time.
“Hanguang-wang can call me Diezi,” he says. “We are the Eyes of God.”
Notes:
jiangjun (将军) - General
Diezi (蝶子) - Butterfly; also sounds very similar to the word die (諜), which means “spy”, taken from the Chinese name for the Eyes of God organisation (diezhitianyan 諜紙天眼) from Legend of Chu Qiao
The glee in Dean’s voice was palpable. Sam almost knocked over his chair as he leapt to his feet. There was only one kind of gift Dean could be talking about.
"For me?" he tried very hard not to squeak.
Dean set the package down and Sam pounced on it. He unwrapped it carefully and found a small box. Inside was a carefully woven pair of gloves.
The House of Novak Humbly Hopes that this Proclamation of Courtship will be Accepted by Sam of Winchester.
And beneath the words was scribbled: Dear Sam, I do hope you will at least consider my offer. Sincerely, Lucifer.
"Oh," Sam said. "Oh.”
They had been friends in childhood, it was true, but they’d drifted apart as Lucifer’s duties increased. Sam had fallen to studying and their friendship had waned. They had spoken briefly at the Midsummer Ball of times past and of a book they had both read.
Apparently he had managed to leave an impression on the young prince.
"Lucifer, huh?" Dean was reading over Sam’s shoulder. "What will you send back?’
There were three traditional options for Sam’s response. An unpainted stone would offer polite disinterest, but leave room for the first section of courtship to be completed as tradition demanded. Something made of metal would be a cordial acceptance, and a jar of honey would show delight.
"Metal," Sam decided. "But well send it back today so he knows I'm definitely interested."
"Little Sammy's all grown up," Dean fake-cried. Sam hid a smile and went to procure a candlestick.
A hand closed down over his throat and Sam kicked out wildly. He caught the second man's knee, judging by the sound of it, but the fingers around his neck tightened.
"Got him," a voice hissed from behind his ear. "Grab his horns."
Two hands pressed down over the horns atop his head and the vibrations of fingers dragging across them made his senses scream. A hand pressed a dank cloth down over his nose and he choked into darkness.
He woke to a dizzying sense of nausea and the feeling of someone poking him in the face.
Sam waved the hand away blearily and rolled over to vomit. He pressed his head to the cool stone beside the mess and tried not to panic.
"Sit up," a voice insisted. He ignored it.
"I said sit up, and you'd better listen if you want to live," said the voice again. "They're going to send you out there in just a minute, and you're going to have to fight."
With a great deal of effort, Sam forced himself upright and blinked as the form came into focus.
"Better," she said. "Take these, they'll help with the nausea—" She pressed a pill into Sam's mouth and he swallowed automatically, still woozy. She wiped her fingers off with a grimace and offered him a knife, handle first.
"Hold onto this," she said.
He accepted, numb, and folded his arms around himself, hiding the knife in the crook of his elbow. She patted him on the back.
"Good job," she said. "Keep those down, alright? Good luck."
She must've gotten up and walked away, because when Sam next got his brain to focus she was gone and instead his attention was caught by the sound of a crowd.
Two guards stepped out from behind the door and seized him beneath the arms, dragging him to his feet. They hauled him back out and down the hall. Sam stumbled repeatedly, trying to get his feet under him while simultaneously craning his head to try and get a look at where they were going, because he could hear a roar like a crowd.
The girl who’d given him the pills must’ve lied. Sam’s stomach had settled, but the world seemed to twist away from him in the edges as if he were peering through a glass bowl and the all the colors seemed too bright.
Then Sam was tossed out onto a dirt floor with a cruel-faced full-demon standing over him.
"Ready?" a voice called, too loud and echoing in Sam's ears. What had that girl given him?
Then that didn't matter, because the announcer shouted, "GO!" and there was a knife swinging at Sam's throat.
He dodged out of pure instinct and fell back a step. The demon lunged again and Sam hopped out of the way. He took advantage of the demon's moment of imbalance to shove him to the floor.
The demon rolled back onto his feet. He grinned up at Sam, crouching, testing the weight of the blade.
This time, he aimed for Sam's legs.
Afterward, Sam could only say that his memories were too drug-blurred to remember properly what had happened. If he thought for long enough, he could see—blood, lots of it, and he could hear cheering.
Next he remembered staring up, head pounding, at the sun glaring down piercingly, a crow cawing from a powerline.
"Awake?"
Sam tried to respond. His voice crawled like sludge off his tongue. "Ghhuff," he said experimentally.
The owner of the voice snorted. "Yeah, you're awake. Hey, everyone, the new boy's up and about!"
Someone whooped sarcastically. Sam forced his arms to cooperate and sat up.
"The name's Benny Lafitte," said the voice. "Welcome to Hell."
"Purgatory," Sam corrected, hoarsely, reflexively, because he had known with a sinking heart where he was from the moment the memories had knocked on his aching head.
"Too true," Lafitte responded. "We're betting on how long you'll last, so I have to ask—you any good at fighting?"
"Cheater!" a voice teased from Sam's left.
Sam was in a cage.
A system of cages, really. They sprawled out across the dust, disappearing into a warehouse nearby. He could sit, but not stand, although he might be able to stretch out if he ducked his head.
"Shit," he said pitifully, and dropped back down onto the ground. "Fuck."
*Whispers* Fallen!Lucifer in the bunker eating raw cookie dough straight out of the tube, in the middle of the night, and that's how Sam finds out that the others got out of the cage
whoops this was more hallucination trauma than cute, sorry
hilariously, part way through this i began hallucinating, wow irony
"What the fuck."
Lucifer hastily set the cookie dough down. “Hello, Sam.”
"Why the hell are you back?" Sam demanded.
"When the angels fell, Michael and I took the opportunity to escape the cage. With a significant lowering of heavenly power, there became cracks in the walls—"
"Yeah, spare me," Sam groaned. "At least you dropped the whole ‘we never left the cage’ spiel."
Lucifer stared at him. “I feel like we may be discussing different things,” he said carefully.
"What?" It wasn’t Sam’s most articulate moment.
"Sam, who do you think I am?" Lucifer asked.
Sam gave him a look. “You’re Lucifer.”
Lucifer nodded but looked confused. He was picking at the paper wrapping on the cookie dough. “Then, when did I make you believe that you were in the cage, rather than here?”
"Two years ago," Sam said slowly. "After my wall broke."
Lucifer stepped forward, encouraged when Sam didn’t back away. “Sam, I think what you experienced was the trauma that the cage would cause to a human soul. My prison would have seized upon any vulnerabilities and tied them to a…to a being who had also…caused trauma. I assure you. I am real.”
"You’re not," Sam said.
Lucifer took another step forward. “Your hallucination. Could you touch him?”
"No," Sam said, and then understood. "No, I—" He grabbed at Lucifer hands and held them, stunned. "You’re here."
"I’m here," Lucifer promised. He paused. "Also, I feel an apology may be in order. I did not intend to eat your food, but I found I was unexpectedly hungry."
"It’s fine," Sam said. "It’s really fine, I can’t believe you’re actually here. You came back to me."
Lucifer smiled at him. “I’ll always come back to you, Sam.”
disclaimer: your angel boyfriend is not a good therapy choice. if you are experiencing hallucinations or something else brain-wise, come chat me up on my personal. i've got lots of resources and would be happy to talk.
Notes: if there's weird name/pronoun shenanigans in this chapter point it out! i changed them around so i could turn this in as an assignment for a class.
[ao3 link]
Ch2
"So what are we going to do?" Gabriel asked, looking troubled.
Lucian grinned terrifyingly and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Maps, building plans, routines, names, faces, it’s all there,” he said. “I’ve been a sleeper agent for about fifteen years.”
"Wow, really?" Sam said, surprised and even honored to have been (unknowingly) dating someone so deep undercover. Gabriel mimed gagging at his expression.
"How are we infiltrating?" Gabriel asked. "Since some of us haven’t spent a decade worming our ways in."
“Well,” Lucian said, “I have put in applications for Gabriel to be a janitor. Sam will have to infiltrate on the sly though. I need bugs in the main offices. There are plenty of conversations we need to know about that I’m not privy to.”
…
Sam slowly opened the door and peered in. With one last quick glance behind him to confirm that he was in fact alone, he slipped inside and shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief. The mission was so far proving to be very stressful indeed. Gabriel’s job was fairly simple - pretend to be janitorial staff and eavesdrop the hell out of the executives. Sam, on the other hand, was left to his own devices.
Namely, sneaking.
He heard some people pass the dim supply closet, talking loudly. Once they were gone he held his breath and began to search for the message Lucian had left him, not daring to turn on the lights. It was tucked way back in the corner, behind the mop. Upon touch, Sam realized that there were two notes. One of which, supposedly, was from Gabriel. He carefully slid them into his pocket and pressed his ear to the door. Silence. He opened it a crack and stepped back out before striding down the hall as casually as possible.
"Hey, you there!"
Oh. Shit.
Sam turned to find a young executive striding towards him.
"What were you doing in the supply closet?" she demanded.
"Uh," Sam said, and forced a blush. “I spilled my coffee. I was just going to grab something to clean up.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “Couldn’t find any?”
Damn.
“Thought I’d try getting the stain out with water first,” he tried.
She rolled her eyes and patted his arm. “Sure,” she said. Her hand knocked against his as she flounced off. Sam grinned and waved her off. Ugh. He hated having to make up spur of the moment lies.
Dean had always said his face tended to give him away when he was uncomfortable. He’d learned to make use of that to make his stories more convincing, but that didn’t make them more fun to tell…
The communication device in eir ear clicked on.
“Agent R, at your service,” the voice murmured. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.”
Oh. Sam tamped down the smile that wanted to creep onto his face. He’d keep that in mind. Once he’d checked if she was trustworthy, of course.
With that terribly uncomfortable conversation out of the way, Sam made his way to the parking lot with ease. He’d need to pick up equipment, and he quickly read Lucian’s note.
路西服店，南京路, the note read simply.
That was only a few blocks away. Given traffic, it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to get there. He flipped to Gabriel’s note.
L keeping secrets, the note read. Have heard things about M. Talk more soon.
M must be Michael, he figured. Later that evening he’d find away to speak to Gabriel. Give him a time to catch up over the mics, maybe.
In the mean time, he had a job to do.
Sam went to pick up the equipment.
南京路—or, in English, Nanjing Street—was, as always, bustling and crowded with shops everywhere. Sam squeezed his way through the crowds, grateful for his height that allowed him a better view of where he was headed. Although the street was not as beautifully lit up as it would be at night, Sam still thought the hundreds of shops were quite a sight. He had only been to Shanghai once before, and hadn’t had much of a chance for sightseeing, whether or not it was part of the job.
He located 路西服店 with some difficulty, still snickering to himself at the play on words. 路西服 translated roughly to “road suit”, but 路西弗 meant “Lucifer”. They were pronounced identically, and Sam had no doubt that the pun was no accident.
He slipped into the shop and up to the shopkeeper, a young person with sharp eyes. “路西弗送我来这里,” he murmured. Lucifer sent me here.
She grinned in a way that was eerily reminiscent of the man himself, and said simply, “来。” Come.
He followed her back into the building where the shopkeeper tapped out a code into an alarm system. “如果你是对的人，让电脑看一看你的眼睛。” If you are the right person, let the computer see your eyes.
He bent to let the retinal scanner check his eyes and smiled when the door clicked open. She patted him on the back and headed back to tend to her shop.
Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting the door neatly behind him with a soft click. Fluorescent lights turned on and began humming. Sam looked around.
The room looked like, well, a spy’s secret storage room.
It was nothing more than a plain concrete room not unlike a very small basement. Everything was neatly out away on shelves or in the two closets. In the middle of the room there was a table with a note on it. Sam crossed to pick it up.
C—it read—Top shelf of the left cabinet. Everything you need should be in there. Don’t mind the ticking, it’s just the recorder for the bugs.
There was no signature, not even an L, and the handwriting didn’t match what Sam had seen of Lucian’s hand before, but there was nobody else it could be from.
Trying to push away worries about his and Lucian’s practically nonexistent relationship, Sam went to check out the closet. There was indeed a computer hooked up to a recording system that ticked intermittently, and on the top shelf there was a stack of equipment. He carefully pulled it down and dropped it into the table.
There were the bugs for the top offices, of course, and an oxygen mask as well as sticky-padded gloves. The special suit that would give protection from cold as well as padding to try and help prevent clanking was there, too. And lastly, the ever-useful flashlight.
He stored the bugs, oxygen, gloves, and flashlight in his briefcase, but quickly stripped and put on the protective suit before redressing himself and heading back out. The woman at the desk didn’t give him a second glance as he slipped back out onto the busy street.
Now came the hard part.
Sam crawled through the air ducts of the company’s building with the flashlight clenched between his teeth, making as little noise as humanly possible. He was almost to the first office, and prepared the bug to rest just on the outer edge of the heating vent.
The office belonged to Zachariah Adler, one of the top people in the company, falling short only to Michael and the mysterious head of the business, who was off in Mumbai currently. Once Sam had tapped their offices, he would escape the building through the sewers. He wasn’t looking forward to that and was very grateful for Lucian’s state-of-the-art equipment.
He was just preparing to insert the first bug when the vent abruptly yanked open. Harsh hands dragged him out and onto the ground.
“Got him, sir,” a voice said in the distance, presumably belonging to the owner of the foot pinning him down. Sam struck out and managed to spring free. He knocked one security guard back with his elbow and had pulled his gun halfway free when a click echoed near his ear.
He froze and turned slowly to see who was holding the gun.
First he saw Michael Milton wearing a stiff, cold expression. He turned his eyes to the other person.
“Really, Sam,” Lucian said, hand on the gun never wavering. “You should’ve known better than to trust a crook like me.”
Im new to the sending prompts thing but im gonna send you one cause I think its awesome to see where y'all go with them :3 sams a king and decides to go out on a ride on his horse and stumbles apon lucifer in a meadow~ (I hope I did that right)
you did just fine friend <3 it's been a while since i wrote high fantasy! the dialogue was fun.
Sam gently pulled his horse to a stop at the sight of the man collapsed beside the road. “What’s this?” he asked, and hopped down neatly. He carefully approached the stranger and touched his shoulder.
The man jolted awake and his eyes flew open, revealing a startlingly piercing gaze. “I need to speak to the king,” he said urgently.
Sam smiled. “You’re in luck,” he said, and offered a hand up. “That would be me.”
He offered his wineskin, but the man didn’t take it. “Truly?” he asked. “Then Lady Luck must be on my side indeed. I am Crown Prince Lucifer of the kingdom of Heaven.”
Sam offered a short, respectful bow. “Well met,” he said. “May I ask how you came to be here?”
Lucifer sighed. “I find myself in need of assistance,” he said. “My brother Michael has claimed the throne that rightfully belongs to me.”
“That is serious business indeed,” Sam agreed gravely. “I would be pleased if you would join me at my castle so we may discuss this further and so you may be cared for and have your dignity returned to you.”
“You are as kind as I have heard,” Lucifer said. “My deepest gratitude is offered to you.”
Sam smiled at him and gestured to his horse. “Please. The castle is not far. I can walk while you rest your legs.”
“I would not wish to impose,” Lucifer said, but looked a little hopefully at the horse.
“It would be no imposition in the slightest,” Sam said, and offered an arm for easier mounting.
Lucifer swung up onto the horse with a grace that belied what Sam suspected was a talent for animals. “I had a horse of my own for part of the journey,” he said regretfully. “I was forced to leave her behind at the border of our countries.”
“I am sorry for that loss,” Sam said. “If it would please you, you may have your pick from the stables for your journey home.” He smiled after a second. “After we discuss the fortunate chance for an alliance we seem to have stumbled upon.”
“An alliance indeed,” Lucifer said as they started up a slow walk. He cast a swift glance at Sam that could have been written off if his gaze hadn’t left energy trails that made heat rise to Sam’s face. The prince was a sorcerer, Sam realized with only mild surprise. The intensity of his gaze had shown a strength of will that spoke of magic. “I look forward to our negotiations." Lucifer's smile was a slow crawl of a smirk, and Sam couldn't quite keep himself from responding in kind.
Notes: Note, format change. This story is more serious than the other verses, which are just "hey i might write more of this" than multichapter fics. This would be the exception. (:
[ao3 link]
Ch1
He was already moving before the enemy even hit the ground, packing the rifle away and swinging to his feet. He clattered down the stairs quickly before falling into a more even pace as he reached the floor beneath the roof. His shoes tapped quietly against the linoleum.
“Well?” Gabriel’s voice said in his ear.
“He’s done,” Sam said.
Gabriel’s accomplished grin was nearly audible when he spoke again. “Well, that’s that all wrapped up. Good job, team.”
Sam rolled his eyes even though his partner couldn’t see him.
“You going home after this?” Gabriel continued.
“We’re not supposed to use the mics for chatting,” Sam muttered once he was out of earshot of a pair of office workers.
“Nobody cares about the rules the way you do, C,” Gabriel sighed. “I can’t wait to be reassigned to someone who’s less of a stickler.”
“I am not a stickler,” Sam gritted out. “We won’t be reassigned at all, you realize, considering that we managed to finish the job. Also, it’s Campbell, not C.” He slid a bluetooth onto his ear to give himself a reason to be talking aloud.
Gabriel was quiet on the other end for a few long seconds, and Sam was seriously considering just taking the bug out if Gabriel was going to be childish about it, but then, “Shit, fuck,” Gabriel complained. “I lost again, this game sucks balls.”
“So get a different one,” Sam said.
“But I’m not bored of it yet,” Gabriel insisted. “I have to play it out or it’ll nag me for months.”
“I’m sure.” Sarcasm didn’t quite drip from Sam’s voice, but it was a close thing. “I can’t wait until you get reprimanded for playing minesweeper or whatever during a mission.”
“I don’t play through anything important,” Gabriel insisted, which was a flat out lie, Sam had heard him tapping away at his keys in an involved game of tetris when he’d been facing down terrorists once. “Whatever, C, you’re super predictable. I am celebrating with a lovely lady I met the other day. Let me guess, you’re going home to your apartment to pet your cat and read articles on fascinating topics like global warming and the mating habits of some type of bird in eastern Brazil.”
“Something like that,” Sam said. “Asshole.”
“You love me,” Gabriel disagreed, and then, “Ooh! Jackpot!”
“Goodbye, Gabriel,” Sam said, dryly, and discreetly turned the mic off. He stepped out the doors of the building and onto the sidewalk beside the busy street. He took a breath to regroup before heading home to shower and drop off his bag. He made his way back to the apartment complex with the ease of practice. He took a fast shower and stopped to shave off the stubble that had started grow back in. He didn’t let himself think long about what he was doing before he headed out.
Not thinking was the best way to handle this really terrible decision, he thought.
Lucian was there, just as he’d simultaneously hoped and tried hard not to anticipate, bent over to sight along the length of the cue. Sam slipped through the crowd to the bar, ordering a beer quickly before blending into the crowd to watch him work.
Sam had helped hustle enough pool as a child not to give a crap about the loud man getting beaten, preferring to keep his attention on the grace with which Lucian dominated the game.
The man accepted his loss with minimal grumbling, which was fairly unusual. Lucian nodded and shook his hand. His eyes flashed over the crowd for a moment and Sam knew he’d been spotted when a shark’s grin grew on his face. Lucian clapped the man on the back and melted into the crowd.
Sam felt his mouth turn up into an answering smile despite the fact that Lucian wasn’t there to see it anymore before returning to the bar. He finished the beer in one pull and ordered a scotch from the bartender.
“Good boy,” a low voice said in his ear, and Lucian snagged the drink from his grasp. “Care to go for a walk?”
Sam sighed pointedly. “Well, I don’t know, I was really hoping to just kick back and have a few drinks.” He closed his hand over Lucian’s and tugged the drink close enough to sip.
“You’re a tease,” Lucian told him, as if he himself wasn’t the biggest tease in the world. “I have better drinks at my place, anyway.”
“You’d better,” Sam said, and turned back to the bar to pay. The chill of Lucian’s fingers on the back of his neck, quite familiar by now, was both a comfort and a promise.
They went for a walk, not quite touching but close enough to brush sleeves. Lucian liked to drag things out like that, but his home wasn’t far.
Sam had purposely avoided any thinking of them being together in any way, but they had somehow fallen into a pattern of enjoying each other’s company whenever Sam’s job allowed it.
Not that Lucian knew Sam’s day job was spying, of course.
They fucked in the constant mess of Lucian’s sheets with him murmuring praises into Sam’s ear, rolling his hips and sucking a bruise onto his collarbone. Sam was quieter for the most part, gasping against Lucian’s neck and leaving finger-shaped bruises on his hipbones. They were both hushed in the aftermath.
“I think I might take that drink now,” Sam mumbled into his hair.
Lucian laughed, the vibrations shaking Sam’s arm where it was draped over his chest. “You know where I keep the glasses, get it yourself. And pour me one while you’re at it.”
Sam rolled his eyes and did as he was told, padding naked to the kitchen to fetch the bottle. He honestly thought he might like this part of the evening better than doing the deed itself. There was something peaceful about sharing a drink and leaning into each other, sharing air and and body heat until they were both warm and content before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Yeah, Sam thought sleepily. Sex with Lucian was great, but Sam treasured just being able to be close to him.
…
Gabriel was already seated outside the office, fiddling, of course, with his phone. The meeting they were there for was a standard assignment one, since they’d finished their last job.
“What game is it today?” Sam asked, half out of polite curiosity and half out of a desire not to sit in silence for the next few minutes.
“Angry birds,” Gabriel said. “Back to the old standard until I find a new one.”
“Have you tried sudoku?” Sam suggested. “It’s pretty entertaining.”
“Hm,” Gabriel said noncommittally, and then, “Here we go.”
The office door swung inwards and the secretary stepped out to usher them in. Sam gave her a quick smile, which Muriel returned politely, and followed Gabriel into the room.
Naomi was briskly tapping away at her computer keys. Sam slid into one of the free chairs and patiently waited for her to finish her sentence. Gabriel squinted down at his phone and poked the screen.
“Please put that away, Agent Gabriel,” she said without looking up.
Sam caught Gabriel’s scowl out of the corner of his eye.
She snapped the laptop’s screen shut with a firm click and turned to face them, cool and unruffled as ever. “I have an important task I would like the two of you to become involved in,” she said without preamble. “Before you can be a part of it, I’ll need you to submit to psych evaluations as this job includes topics you may find difficult.” She looked at them straight on. “It may seem a little unusual for me to summon you directly just to tell you to take preliminary steps before your next mission, but I feel a need to impress on you the seriousness of this undertaking.” She leaned forward. “The infiltration has been years in the making, and now that we’ve gotten to this point, I need agents as talented as the two of you on the job.”
“We’ll do our best, ma’am,” Gabriel promised. He’d had trouble with the tests in the past, Sam knew, so he was unsurprised by the uncharacteristic seriousness.
“That’ll be all for now, agents,” she said, sitting back in her chair again. “Please report to the psychology unit at your earliest convenience.”
Gabriel stopped just a little ways down the hall. “Wait a second, won’t you?” he said. “I’m gonna grab something from the vending machine before we head over.”
“You know, I’m pretty sure the psychologists will pick up on how you eat your pain,” Sam called after him.
“Fuck you too, Campbell,” Gabriel said absently, and shoved a few coins into the machine. Sam leaned up against the wall and tried to wait patiently. Gabriel deliberated over the choices for a long moment. "So," he said casually. "Nice hickies."
Sam flushed and managed not to look away in mortification. "Shut up," he said.
"No, really, they almost seem artistically arranged."
"If you keep talking I'm going to inflict gory details on you," Sam warned. "I might even beat out your disgusting chocolate syrup story."
"Ha! Not likely." Gabriel bent down and then straightened back up with a candy bar crinkling in his hands. "Shall we get going, then?"
They got themselves over to the psych department without much more fuss, Sam deflecting any comment that might be brought back around to his sex life, which was really none of Gabriel's business, anyway. They were ushered into separate rooms and Sam sat in an uncomfortably too-small chair across from a sharply-dressed woman. Behind her was a one-way mirror.
“I’m Agent Hael, Campbell. We’ll start off easily enough,” she said, getting straight down to business. “Just simple word associations. Tell me the first word that comes to mind after I speak. Apple.”
“Orange.”
“Clever.”
“Blade.”
“Test.”
“Fail.”
“Dream.”
“Sweet.”
“Bright.”
“Pure.”
“Mother.”
Sam broke eye contact.
Hael wrote something down.
“Burn.”
“Responsibility.”
“Dean.”
…
They flew out the next day, headed across the Pacific to Shanghai. Gabriel took a sleeping pill and snored softly for several hours. Sam watched a really terrible movie and tried not to overheat with nervous energy. He jiggled his leg and stared out the window to the dark emptiness until his eyes burned.
Project Azazel was the name of the group that had killed his parents. Sam knew he must have just barely scraped by on the psych eval considering how he currently felt.
Gabriel hadn’t said much between then and now. Sam had waited for him to leave the room so they could regroup. Half an hour had passed before Hael emerged and told him Gabriel had left already.
Sam suspected that Gabriel might have stormed out, considering his tenseness and the sleeping pill. He usually was too wound up on airplanes to sleep much, and preferred to stay awake anyway.
Sam hadn’t had any idea that their families had been killed by the same people until Naomi had told him last night.
It was an odd realization, to have known someone for so long and then to turn around one day and know that you had the same formative traumatic experience as a child. Gabriel obviously hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but Sam yearned to speak to him about it, compare and see what had gone different, ruminate on how their adult lives had been affected.
Gabriel had never mentioned any family before, but now Sam wondered if he had siblings. His parents would be dead of course, that being how Project Azazel operated, but he might have surviving family left. Would what had happened have driven a wedge between him and his family like it had done to Sam and Dean?
Gabriel snored unhelpfully. Sam sighed and dug around in his bag for earplugs. Might as well at least try to sleep. Wouldn’t do any good for him to arrive in Shanghai dead exhausted and too jetlagged to think.
He did doze on and off, waking up long enough to see how far they were and groaning when they were just over halfway. They did land finally, Gabriel miserably airsick and Sam miserably tired. They stumbled off the plane and managed wakefulness long enough to try and eat (or, in Gabriel's case, drink tea and turn greener) before collapsing into sleep.
The next morning was a hard one. Sam nearly drowned in the shower, feeling like he'd come down with the flu. Gabriel had stopped gagging at the idea of eating but was woozy from having gone some time without food. They managed to stumble around enough to consume breakfast and fought off sleepiness long enough to regroup.
"Naomi said that he would find us tonight," Sam reminded them both in an undertone. "So we have a day to kill."
"I know, C," Gabriel snapped, and Sam stopped trying to recite their itinerary.
Sam managed to stay awake nearly the entire day (he’d taken a nap at three, not able to resist any longer). Gabriel sat in the window and tried to absorb sunlight via photosynthesis as the dim afternoon light faded. Sam turned on the lamps once he woke up to read. They waited.
The knock came at a quarter past five. Gabriel and Sam both stood to answer the door, but Sam fell back to let his partner be the one to open it. The agent coming to meet them was one of the best, having kept cover while infiltrating Project Azazel for the past twenty years.
Gabriel opened the door, and Sam dropped the book he’d been holding.
“Hello, Sam,” said Lucian. “Hello, Gabriel.” He swept into the room without stopping to ask permission. Gabriel shut the door and cast Sam a befuddled look.
“What the fuck,” Sam managed.
“I promise I didn’t know when we first met,” Lucian said. “When I did learn, I had no choice but to keep my identity a secret in order to protect both of us.”
“C?” Gabriel asked. “You want to explain?”
“This is, uh,” Sam said. “We. We’re together.” He winced at his phrasing. “Sort of.”
“Agent Lucifer,” he said, and extended his hand. Gabriel shook it warily.
“How did you know that Gabriel is my real name?” he asked.
The name hadn’t even registered to Sam.
Lucian hesitated before answering. “That...is somewhat more complicated,” he said carefully. “You may wish to sit down.”
Gabriel raised an impressively dubious eyebrow.
“I was present on the night your parents died,” Lucian offered.
“But you’re my age,” Gabriel said, and then turned white. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucian said.
“No, you can’t—I was there when they killed you. I watched.” Gabriel’s voice was shaking with the effort not to rise in hysteria. “You can’t be alive.”
“I’m so sorry,” Lucian said. “I thought you were dead, too, until a few months ago. I wish I had known.”
Sam stayed quiet to let them have their reunion.
“Luci,” Gabriel said, sounding a lot younger, “you’re a complete asshole.”
Lucian smiled a little at that. “I’m very glad to see you, little brother,” he said.
Gabriel muttered something but looked overpowered with emotion. Then, “Wait,” he said. “Did Michael—”
“This is where it gets complicated,” Lucian said apologetically, and gestured for them both to sit.
Gabriel sank into the chair this time, and Sam picked up his book before following suit. Lucian sighed.
“Michael’s alive, too,” he said. “But...he’s working for Project Azazel.”
