An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
So, in case someone’s still following, new chapter’s up for my TATTOOARTIST!AU. But because it’s really long, and by that I mean 4700 words, you really don’t want to read it on my blog. Trust me. Here is the link, and I hope you’ll still find something likeable even so long into this story and even after these idiots finally kissed :)
A/N: Here’s a part of it though. As a teaser. Kind of.
“No, I don’t trust you, and no one can blame me.”
“This hurts, Mikey,” Gabriel pressed his palm to his heart. “It truly does.”
Michael’s scowl only deepened.
“I’m not opening it.”
“I haven’t tricked you in forever!”
“Exactly.”
Michael tried to push the box back into Gabriel’s chest, but the younger pulled his hands away as if he was forced to touch some rotting carcass.
“Hell no! It’s bad luck if you don’t open your own present!”
“Then it’ll be a nice box in the closet!”
“Micha-eeel!”
“Just open it already,” Balthazar cut in. “We’ve been waiting for your sweet asses for hours, don’t drag it out any longer. My liver thirsts for some wine.”
Michael cut a disappointed glare at the Brit, but as there was no one to back him up in this windmill fight he turned his frown at the pretty purple box in his hands. He took a deep breath - from the nervous bob of his throat anyone would expect him to lift the package to his ear to check if it was ticking. Then, surrounded by the tense silence of the room he pulled the ribbon loose.
Just as he opened the lid—
Michael disappeared in a glimmering, shimmering cloud of glitter.
“WHAT—?”
“THE FUCK!”
“OH MY GOD!”
Someone howled with laughter.
Another one, Anna, who stood way too close to Michael, choked on a mouthful of glitter.
“You fucking moron!” was Lucifer’s reaction. He stomped up to Gabriel and smacked him on the top of his head.
“Why-y?!” the younger sputtered in indignation, his laughter smothered into hiccups.
“You know that I just put a tattoo on his chest!”
“Well. Let’s hope you sealed the foil right.”
While the sharp, murderous glint in Lucifer’s ice blue eyes was one of the most terrifying sights, it came nothing close to the low, almost gentle tone of Michael’s voice as he called out Gabriel’s name. The serene smile under the raining glimmer at each blink made the sight all the more frightening.
“Come here, little brother,” Michael said.
“No…!” Gabriel squeaked in true horror.
Michael inclined his head. From his hair, brows and eyelashes glitter filtered to the ground and his shirt. “I said, come here.”
“Fuck no!”
By now Gabriel should have known better than to even attempt to outrun Michael twice the same day, especially when he wasn’t strapped to a dissecting table.
The younger barely made his way from behind the couch in hopes ofan escape through the kitchen when Michael was already there. He caught Gabriel by the arm, spun the smaller man around and gave him a smothering hug, even going so far to pick him up and bury his head in the crook of his neck - mindful to rub off as much glitter on his little brother as he could.
Initially Gabriel kicked and whined and screamed, but after he realized there was no way out from Michael’s iron hold he gave up and took his punishment like a kicked puppy.
Later on Gabriel would be a bit troubled about whether his present was a design of pure genius, or if it was a total disaster as his skin itched from the glitter for the entire next week.
However, the moment Raphael sent him a short vine of the glitter bomb going off in Michael’s face made him forget all his misery.
A/N: Sobbing for some reason, but look who hasn’t added a word to her law essay and updated a fic thought long forgotten? I’m so awful, I wonder if I’ll ever get back to recent updates or if my writing will ever catch up again to my BB style. Ah, yeah, that’s what the sobbing’s for.
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Even though he could feel irritation rippling through the muscles in Michael’s back under his hands Lucifer didn’t let him go from the kiss. Hell, he would be damned if he let go now! So he rather took advantage of the groan and pushed his tongue into the other’s mouth sliding along the back of his teeth until Michael tried to bite down. Then he pulled back.
Michael glared daggers at him, but all Lucifer could do was grin. He would suffer any injury as if it was the brightest gift ever if it meant he got to see the sea green of Michael’s eyes turn the colour of the warm passionate night.
“Oh please don’t bother. Just until I take a photo and Gabriel will owe me a fortune.”
In the doorway Raphael stood, phone in her hand. When Michael directed his glower at her she only looked back as unimpressed as ever.
“Taking pictures without permission is really rude,” Lucifer noted.
“Because you never do that.”
The blond scoffed in indignation. “Sketching and taking photos for blackmail are entirely different.”
“It’s not blackmail. It’s serious business,” Raphael said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “If you have a problem, talk to your brother about it. Or you could have simply gotten together years ago.”
“We didn’t get together.”
The sentence rang worse in the air than the clap of thunder in the middle of the night.
He cut a quick glance at Michael. His heart stammered to a stop. God Almighty, Michael looked so scared in that blink of the moment. Lucifer just wanted to go back and kiss him. He wanted to kiss away the tightness from his lips, to get the other’s eyes to slide shut instead of looking at him with such disappointment and heartbreak.
“You know what, Raphael?” Before he could spit out how it was none of her business, Michael gently touched his wrist to shut him up.
“Where are the others?” Michael asked without looking at Lucifer.
Raphael’s eyebrow arched by a fracture in irritation. Her jaw clenched.
“I was nominated Messenger instead of Gabriel.”
“What?”
“He planned you a birthday party, Michael. I came to fetch you, and also warn you. We all know how bad you take to being jumped from behind a sofa in a dark room.”
A strange expression of long-suffering endurance and gentle appreciation crossed Michael’s features.
“Fine,” he said. “Just let me freshen up a bit. I can still feel the chair sticking to my back. Bathroom still to the right?” Without waiting for an actual answer Michael already passed round Lucifer.
And okay, wait, why, where was Michael going? How was Lucifer supposed to make his slip up to him if he just disappeared like that? He just wanted to wrap his arms around his new boyfriend - he wanted to call Michael his boyfriend - and never let go. And that went definitely not only for hugging and snuggling but kissing – hell, Michael was like Heaven to kiss –, and he really wouldn’t mind if the making out turned into bed-rocking sex—
“Keep it in your pants, Satan.”
Like a freezing shower in the summer heat Raphael stepped up to him.
Lucifer still remembered with painstaking accuracy their first meeting six years ago. He received only one glare disguised as a modest nod of a greeting during the whole lunch. He immediately knew Raphael wasn’t going to be pleasant to fool around with. (It naturally didn’t deter him from occasionally drunk-texting, torturing, teasing and complaining about Michal being an ass, but he kept it to a minimum.)
Before Lucifer could retort, Raphael went on.
“Now you have five minutes to kiss and make up.”
Lucifer not so subtly gaped at her.
“If you make him more heartbroken than he already is…”
“You know,” the blond said, finally finding his voice again. “I think Michael can kill me all right on his own.”
“Unfortunately he has a weak spot for you.” She said low and deep-rumbling like the distant thunder. He’d let you destroy him again and again, Lucifer remembered the beginning of yet another one of her terrifying speeches. He wondered if she could ever top it off.
“God bless, you don’t.”
She didn’t even hum. She didn’t need to give sound that the whole Eastern coast could taste her approval. This menacing, silent damn, right he could feel resonating and crackling with electricity in his marrow.
“You’ve got four minutes left.”
.
Lucifer paused before the door, his fist at the ready to knock. His heart was hammering away second after precious second. What was he so worried about? They didn’t even fight this time. (Yet.)
Before he could change his mind, he barged into the room and closed the door behind himself. If he was going to get punched, well, he better got over it sooner than later.
As expected, and really, he should have known better, as soon as the door tore open Michael’s head whipped around, his shoulders squared, hands pulled up in front of him for defence and ready to strike.
When he saw it was only Lucifer he let out a deep breath and visibly slumped against the basin. The water was still rushing from the tap.
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Seriously?” he groaned. “You know I can’t handle an ambush.”
Lucifer scoffed. “It wasn’t an ambush.”
“Lucifer.”
“Okay, fine. Fine. I’m sorry. Sorry, okay?” he said, and crossed that one step separating them. He gently caressed his hand over Michael’s shoulder, his fingertips brushing the white scar of a bullet having gone through him. “Sorry.”
“So many sorries?” Michael asked a bit strained, but he at least let his hand fall to his side. “In advance for a lifetime?”
“No, you idiot. For outside. I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay.”
In that one word there was everything that wasn’t o-kay with Lucifer’s life. Michael stepping down, curling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and pulling up a marble wall around himself because he, for some blatantly stupid reason, couldn’t have what he wanted. Because whatever Lucifer dictated were acceptable terms until they didn’t have to be apart.
“No, Michael, it’s not.”
It was only a momentary slip, something that had been on Lucifer’s tongue after each kiss for so many years so it slid past his teeth without him noticing.
There was pain in the questioning quirk of the dark eyebrow.
Lucifer took Michael’s face in both of his hands.
“You are such a fucking idiot, Micha, I can’t even bear with you.”
The other tensed up, he could feel the jaw tighten under his palm, but Lucifer only allowed a smile to curl on his lips, and pulled Michael closer.
“I want to hold you. I want to kiss you, and I want to fuck you,” he purred against the brunet’s lips. “Right now I want to kiss you most, but I really, really want to have you. Call you mine. I mean it.”
Up from this close Michael’s blown pupils were black pools with a thin strip of sea around them. Lucifer could feel his skin prickle with warmth and turn pink. He couldn’t help himself but push forward to devour that thought of distance between them. Their lips fitted together just as perfectly as before. Heat pooled in his chest and with a burst spread through his limbs, filling him up with the warmth of summer as Michael wrapped his arms around his waist.
This time it was the tip of the elder’s tongue to probe at the seam of Lucifer’s mouth. Eagerly he opened up and deepened their kiss.
He surged forward, pressing Michael against the basin, his hand slipping into the thick dark locks. All he wanted was to be close, melt together, absorb all the other’s warmth, his scent, the feel of his skin, so that no sneering voice in his head could ever claim that this was all but a dream that he had never had Michael as his—
“Boyfriend,” Lucifer gasped, tearing away from Michael’s hungry mouth. “You are my boyfriend.”
He frowned in confusion, but then a grin, a full teeth-flashing grin spread on his face.
“Damn right. And you are mine.”
Lucifer returned the smile. He felt like he was actually radiating.
Then his eyes slid down to Michael’s chest. It was angry red around the sailboat. Lucifer failed to realize the heat of the irritated skin seeping through his shirt under the furnace that was his boyfriend. His boyfriend. He loved the sound of it.
“I should cover it up.”
“How about you kiss me first?”
Lucifer’s gaze lifted to the other’s face. Before he could word his disbelief and concerns about Michael’s mental state he felt hands carding through his hair and he was pulled back onto desire-tasting hot lips and he all but forgot to protest.
Their knees bumped as they stumbled back, the porcelain edge of the basin pressing into the small of Michael’s back. One of his hands had left their grip in Lucifer’s hair to turn off the tap, but it was quickly back pulling him closer until they could dissolve into each other from thigh to chest.
There were so many things happening all at once. Michael’s fingers massaging his scalp, his tongue eagerly mapping out every inch of his mouth, while the other hand slowly but purposefully made its way under Lucifer’s shirt.
Suddenly a chilling sensation shot through his spine. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with Michael’s clever mouth. Lucifer froze.
“Did I do something wrong?” Michael asked, but the blond mostly only saw his spit-shined lips moving.
He shook his head, cleared his throat.
“I think our five minutes are over.”
“What kind of five minutes?” Oh, even suspicion sounded sexy on that hoarse tone.
“Our five minutes to kiss and make up.” Michael still didn’t look convinced, so Lucifer pecked him on the lips once more before he took a sobering step back. “Come on, I’ll cover up your tattoo.”
“Raphael?” Michael asked, connecting the dots. His eyes gleamed with mirth. “Are you afraid of Raphael?”
“Right. Who would be afraid of a sociopath?” Lucifer rolled his eyes.
Before he could turn to leave the bathroom and also hopefully forego Michael’s best friend skinning him alive and leaving his carcass to her teething puppy (as she had promised the last time they met) Michael caught hold of his wrist. Under Lucifer’s vibrant gaze he lifted the hand and kissed the knuckles with such naked devotion that effectively turned the blond’s knees into jelly.
Okay, updating because I'm procrastinating like a pro. I hope you won't find it too lame despite the state my brain is currently in.
Read it on AO3
Tattoo finished. Yay! (this one, remember?)
Lucifer hummed a silly little tune to distract his mind from running in one thousand and some more directions, as he wiped Michael’s chest and side clean of the smeared paint and declared his masterpiece ready.
“Go on, check it out in the mirror,” he told Michal.
There was a tiny uplift at the edge of Michael’s lips. It made warmth bloom in his chest. He didn’t ruin that perfect torso after all.
“So. Did I get it right?” Lucifer asked smugly leaning against the side of the mirror. “Do I know you as good as you assumed?”
He watched the slow arch of one single, dark eyebrow. The soft shadows and patches of pale yellow light glided over Michael’s face painting his eyes a warm shade of green. The man took his time scanning in methodically every square inch of his new tattoo. The lazy movement of the white sails as the muscles shifted like the sky-coloured sea. Each flutter of the eyelashes counted a handful of tiny white stars, and slowly, very slowly Michael’s gaze finally settled on the bright scar-like star over his heart surrounded by a red hue of irritated skin.
The way Michael smiled made Lucifer’s insides flutter with the purest joy he could ever imagine.
It was barely there, some stranger might not even recognize it for what it truly was. But Lucifer knew. He knew if he never saw the sun again, he still wouldn’t be left in the dark. Not ever.
“You do know me best,” Michael told him.
Their eyes met, and the intensity of the burning emeralds caught the smug reply in Lucifer’s throat.
He was still under their spell even when Michael glanced about.
“Where’s everybody?”
Lucifer blinked himself back to consciousness, but just as his heart was about to finally slow back down it suddenly skidded several beats. Truly there was no one around. Neither of them noticed as all five (or more?) people disappeared from the tattoo shop.
“They’re probably hiding in the back,” Lucifer answered half-heartedly.
Maybe he was supposed to check, go round and through the backdoor scare the shit out of his damned colleagues, and most of all his annoying little brother, but this feeling in his guts told him that indeed there were only the two of them left behind. But why?
Why…?
So that you could finally work up your courage, you fucking idiot.
He was going lightheaded from the heat cruising in his veins.
It had been years. Years and years, sometimes Lucifer would count three decades of something, and why now? Why now all of a sudden?
His feverish eyes raked over Michael’s body until it settled on his face; the deep triangular shadow over his eyebrow, the sharp light on his cheekbones and jaw, the gentle yet fervid look as he couldn’t tear his eyes from the star on his perfectly carved chest.
“Hey, Michael,” Lucifer asked, he felt he could fall apart at the seams any time.
Michael blinked up at him.
“Hypothetically, if I let you. Just in theory,” he took a deep breath. “What would you draw on me? As a tattoo.”
For a second he wondered if Michael remembered why he brought this one up all of a sudden. The tiny flickering flame of hope was just about to blink out, but then he caught that glimmer in the other man’s eyes. A bright glimpse of sunlight reflected in the most beautiful precious stone, and Lucifer had to clench his teeth to bar his heart from jumping out of his throat.
Michael took a step. He was now standing right in front of the mirror, and even despite the five inches still separating them the fine hairs stood on end on Lucifer’s arm as if stretching to touch the naked hot skin of the other’s shoulder. He leant closer, and his breath drew mist on the mirror. Then followed a little symbol.
At this angle Lucifer couldn’t see it correctly, but he was already afraid if he moved an inch his knees would give up on him.
There was something uncertain, almost shy in his expression when Michael turned to Lucifer again.
“This,” he said. “I’d draw this on you if you’d have it.”
In the fading moist there was a clumsy heart.
Lucifer’s eyes widened. Not just imperceptibly when he was surprised, but close to the size of saucers he was sure. He froze. Words tumbled on his tongue into a neat knot stifling the firestorm roaring in the pit of his stomach burning all the butterflies to fine colourful ashes.
Do you mean it? Do you really mean it? You must mean it. Please tell me you mean it!
Michael looked back at him with such raw honesty.
Without further thought, not that he was really capable of that at the moment, Lucifer reached out, cupped Michael’s cheeks in his hands and pulled him onto his mouth for a kiss that was long, long overdue.
At first Michael made a small surprised sound, and Lucifer worried that he would soon have to fight all his selfish desires or be prepared to lose everything, but then he was met with eager hot lips and hot hands burning palm prints on either side of his waist.
Waves of pleasure rolled through him from head to toe, and he was pretty sure he mewled a little, but Michael swallowed down the sound, hungry and eager, as if he had tasted ambrosia for the very first time and could never get enough of it. Oh did Lucifer know the feeling!
When he finally pulled back, Lucifer’s head thudded against the mirror’s cool surface.
Damn, none of them bothered to slip a tongue into the kiss, how could they still look so debauched?
Oh but how couldn’t he feel like he was going to swoon this instant when Michael was still so close, hands on his hips and nose nuzzling his cheek moving to his ear at a languid pace. So sweet and adorable that Lucifer felt inclined to snort and add a malicious jibe, but he couldn’t help it. When he, too, was grinning like he just won the lottery.
“Not bad for a first kiss,” Lucifer eventually mustered. He sounded just as wrecked as he felt. “Ouch. Hey!”
“What?”
“Don’t what me, you just bit me!”
Michael hummed and dipped his head back where it rested in the crook of Lucifer’s neck. He half-apologetically kissed the spot where he just nipped the blond.
“What was that for?” Lucifer only didn’t try to shove Michael away because it was only the other man keeping him upright and standing.
“This,” he kissed the spot again, sucking the skin into his mouth and letting it go with a loud smack. “Is because of your shitty memory.”
“No way!”
He cocked an eyebrow, and up from so close it looked even more sarcastic, but before Lucifer could go on and demand how there was no way he would forget a kiss he had been dreaming about for damn decades Michael dove back for another slow kiss.
Just when Lucifer gasped at the first swipe of tongue on his lower lip, only the tip touching his teeth the bell over the door rang an outraging happy jingle.
.
TBC (I'm not sure but I have 2-3 mora parts left.)
Tattoo~ yay! I hope the final explanation won't sound disappointing!
Previous
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“You are an insufferable asshole and I don’t know why I’m putting up with you.” Lucifer grumbled.
“The sentiment’s mutual. And I won’t allow you to give my son presents. Ever.”
“I thought I saved last Christmas.”
Michael snorted in agreement. “Yes, but then I didn’t have my nails painted pink of all colours.” Cas had gotten a bit obsessed with painting nails after his last visit. Lucifer treasured the proof of that saved in several copies on his phone and computer. “I have a son, Lucifer.”
“Pink is a nice colour, don’t be such a sexist little bitch about it.” He only sent a magenta shade because Cas was five and kids his age liked vibrant colours. When he grew older – well, it would be neon pink all the same, but for the sole purpose of causing embarrassment.
Yet the memory of Cas’s birthday party faded quickly with the easy mood as well.
He frowned, absentmindedly running his finger along the edges of the cigarette pack hidden in his pocket Lucifer wondered what to ink where next. He felt so frustrated, like ants crawling under his skin or a million pins prickling the sensitive patches of the inside of his wrists and moving up the length of his arm, and then further down his back—
He needed to know what the tattoo was for. What, if three months back Michael was so vehement against getting inked up. What has changed?
“Besides, who would watch Disney with you?” Michael asked, placating after a longer rant about something.
“Disney…?”
Oh… Oh!
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“Oh, you must be fucking kidding me!”
“What?!”
There was a tiny voice at the back of his head that warned he really shouldn’t ignore answering Michael when his voice reached this edgy demanding tone, but oh come on this was overly ridiculous but at the same time also so, so good.
Okay, he really had no reason to be this happy about his sudden revelation, but Lucifer just was. It made him feel so special – it was ridiculous how easily Michael could absorb that, truly ridiculous but also oh so amazing!
“Lucifer, I didn’t—I didn’t say anything bad this time!” Michael pushed himself up on one elbow, “There’s no reason why we should fight even on—“
Lucifer felt inclined to squelch the word in Michael with his mouth on his, but God knows how that would be taken, so instead he just had his hand muffle the other’s rushed words.
“Shut up and lie back down.”
For a tense second Michael’s eyes seemed to glow under his furrowed brows, but soon he gave up, glanced heavenwards (no doubt with a short prayer for strength) and let his body fall back on the cushioned seat.
Michael had his tattoo done for Lucifer.
Well, for their shared childhood, which inevitably included Gabriel as well, but also all the years from that particular day in April when Michael rang the bell to their house, and when it was Lucifer who answered, he just pushed the tiny grey furball in his face with a dead-serious expression saying “It’s yours.” Even only five, short and still chubby Michael wasn’t good on questions and requests. In its imperfection, though, it was a perfectly strange first meeting. It foreshadowed all the angry screaming in their relationship. Conveniently the first took place already at such a tender age when Lucifer wasn’t allowed to keep the kitty he was gifted with.But it also included the comfort the elder boy offered in the warmth of his room just across the street, surrounded by brown and gold and small lead soldiers.
The tattoo was made in remembrance of the first time they watched Peter Pan (because Chuck and Becky was getting a headache from all the re-runs of the Lion King) and as soon as the credits started to roll they dashed out into the garden to hunt for a fairy. They wanted to fly to Neverland. They wanted to cross the sea, fly over the clouds, fight pirates and the crocodile with the clock in its belly.
It was made for all the fights they had over Becky’s ridiculous pink hat, the dismantled peg and the wooden sword. There had been vicious duels for the role of Peter Pan. Eventually though, Michael usually gave in to be Captain Hook (he could be the captain!) because he was older and had dark hair. When Gabriel joined the arguments became even more heated because now there was the role of Tiger Lily no one wanted to take. (Immediately, Michael grew really eager to play the Pirate Captain when the colour of his hair came up again at the role-allocation.)
It was also made for that one time they pulled their little chart to the top of the hill at the end of the street, and hinting golden sand all over it (and Gabriel) they rushed down the slope, shrieking with joy, pretending they were flying on the ship Lucifer just finished inking. Until one wheel got caught in the curb and the three of them went flying for real.
That afternoon marked the first of many trips to the hospital in Lucifer’s life.
Also the last time of their flying ship in action. The brothers’ parents just happened to be at home to witness the incident (and also hear both younger boys wail, and a few minutes of fruitless soothing attempts later Michael too joined into the chorus of weeping kids) and somehow all blame fell on the eldest of the group.
Michael was eight the first time he nearly drowned himself in guilt.
When his arm got better the first thing Lucifer painted during art class was the three of them on their sky-sailing boat. Just for good measure he dumped a lot of glitter on it. He gave it to Michael. It earned him the brightest smile in months.
Later on however, even though they were forbidden of such games for the remaining years while they could all fit themselves in the chart they still watched the movie at least once a week. Lucifer and Michael regularly climbed to the roof of the Shurley house and watched the stars, straining their eyes if they caught sight of flying children or golden ships.
Michael still had that painting.
Well, not the original one, because during one of their fights back in the day Lucifer had torn it to pieces, but a taped together scanned version in his wallet. Next to a picture of Castiel.
And now, while Michael had his wallet for those pictures all right, he was going to wear it under his skin as well. Forever and ever. For Lucifer, and for their times together and apart.
The tattoo wasn’t for Castiel – and it filled Lucifer with snow-like joy. It connected to the boy, of course, the apple of Michael’s eye, but only by that he hadn’t seen the movie just yet. He wasn’t interested in playing Peter Pan with his daddy or with his friend like they used to when they were little.
It was for Lucifer.
And the star he had planned couldn’t have been a better choice.
Chances were that Michael had counted on Lucifer’s ages old jealousy and self-importance issues, and Lucifer loved him for that as much as he was annoyed with him for the very same reason.
But he could make it even better.
“Do you have any idea what a white tattoo is?” he asked casually as he rolled his chair over next to Michael’s left side.
“I think you’ve mentioned them once.”
“It’s like I’ll put my own hand-made artistic scar on you. A brand.”
“I’m certain you’ve left your fair share of scars on me.”
Lucifer’s lips curled into a smirk that would make anyone run for their lives, or at least cross themselves in fear of the Devil, but Michael knew better. He only smirked back.
“Do you do a lot of them, though?”
“White tattoos? No, not really. I mainly do angels, demons and devils, and that requires a lot of shading.” He mused for a short while. “But now I remember I once made a white wing on a shoulder. It was, well, unique.”
“I bet.”
When Lucifer pressed his fingers just over Michael’s heart he flinched a bit, biting back a small gasp.
“Ticklish?” Lucifer sneered turning on the tattoo machine for the last time that day.
“Are you taking much longer?”
“Cry-baby.”
“Brat.”
“Dick.”
“Shut up and finish this already.”
“Asshole.”
Lucifer only didn’t receive a smack on the top of his head because Michael knew all too well that tattoos were permanent.
.
TBC
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A/N: I hope I wasn't much of a disappointmen!!! It's only I draw Michael with his tattoo first and I used the ship from Peter Pan as a reference, and then I foun the idea of it cute... now it turned out a bit lame. But I hope it's just me.
There aren't much left, 2-3 chapters maybe, but I really gotta succumb to this writer's block kind of feeling and try my hand at my exams. Ugh. Don't expect much creative activity from me until the 13th is over.
Domestic fluff with water-wars and nail-polish (for ratpenatu) while Lucifer is giving up on riddles.
A/N: Oh hey, look at that I updated! Thank you its-tartedelart for nagging me! I still don't know when I'll write the next 2 chapters, ugh.
Previous
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“You picked up fishing?” Lucifer shot another guess as he stretched to pop his spine back in its place.
Damn, maybe it wouldn’t be this painful being bent over Michael when both of them were a little bit more naked. Okay, how about much more naked? – He mentally smacked himself. It’s been a while since he last got laid, and it was totally just his sex-drive talking. Thinking.
Wasn’t it to be called a day when Michael declared ever-trouble-making, drop-out, disgrace, little-bitch Lucifer honourable of all things?
The blond placed his elbow next to Michael’s shoulder. His thoughtful gaze unconsciously rested on the other’s face.
“A new beginning should have been two years ago.”
Lost in his musings he totally missed the little shadow flickering at the edge of Michael’s mouth.
.
Back in June Lucifer could recollect some memories from the godawfully early hours when only crazy people like Michael, and also little monsters like Castiel were awake. Memories varied from the pleasant warmth of Michael's back under his pillow-wrinkled cheek, to how nice the bed smelled, especially now, that it possessed a tinge of smoke he would just never be able to scrub from his skin. He blinked his bleary eyes, and at the foot of the bed, he thought, he caught sight of the little beast. Castiel pouted, his chubby arms crossed over his equally chubby chest. Lucifer deemed the subject of the hushed conversation between father and son unimportant. He was busy being asleep, thank you very much.
"...s sleeping in my place."
"Come on, buddy..." Michael's deep purr resonated through his ribcage where Lucifer managed to squish his face against. "..." there was also something else said that was limited to a constant rumble. Lucifer groaned, giving sign of his disapproval.
"Just for a wittle bit."
"Ten minutes.”
"Twenty?"
"You won. Okay."
Michael squirmed again, now pushing back against his bed-mate until he managed to relocate the pliant, sleep-heavy body at his original part of the bed. Not that Lucifer would be complaining (much), if he had been awake. He had a knee worked between Michael's thighs, an arm slung over his waist, and face right in-between the other man's shoulder blades. If he were just half-conscious he would never want to get out of bed.
.
“Survival?”
“Not in particular.”
.
Lucifer had a difficult morning, what with the sun beating down on the back of his neck, and with a sadly empty cup gaping at him while he slumped over the kitchen table.
Michael’s kitchen was worse than a minefield. There was no way he’d go snooping for coffee. Michael owed him that much! (Who was nowhere to be seen around the house, and some note about him getting back in 30 just disappeared somewhere down the drain.)
The kids’ shrieking – crying out loud that “We oughtta keep quiet HUSH!” didn’t count for being quiet for fuck’s sake! – woke him just early enough that the sun glared in through that gap between the house wall and the porch roof, right into his face. Obviously, draping himself over the immaculate table was easier than pulling his chair, say, two feet to the left.
He had dozed a bit, or at least he assumed he did because otherwise he couldn’t jerk awake every now and then. Seriously, why weren’t children in the top ranks of causes of death charts?
The next time he snapped awake was when the kids skittered past him, one nearly falling flat on his face in one leg of his chair. When he heard the front door open, both devils were huddled behind the corner of the fridge.
“I’m home,” Michael called out from the entrance hall. “What, no one’s gonna greet me?”
Lucifer snorted a dry laugh at the tabletop. “Hey asshole.”
“Morning, Morning Star.”
Lucifer groaned.
“Hello, Dean!”
A gasp sounded from the hellhole. Then the blond boy shuffled into the light. “Hello, Uncle Mike.” Dean greeted his best friend’s father. “How did you know I was here?”
“If you want to keep it a secret don’t leave your bike in the front yard.”
“Oh.”
“Right.”
Dean’s little declaration of him and Cas going out to play was drown out by Lucifer’s choking laughter. It quickly grew into a belly-shaking laugh that threw him back in his chair. By the time his sides were aching he had nearly slipped to the ground as he gasped out between guffaws.
“Uncle—Uncle. Mike? Re-heally? Uncle Mike?”
Michael patiently waited until he calmed down, panting sprawled out in his seat clutching his sides as if that was the only way to keep his body together. Oh boy, he hadn’t had a good laugh like this since forever!
“So,” he pressed out finally somewhat normal. “Have you grown old, Uncle Mike?”
“I figured it’s retaliation for Castiel calling Mary Aunt Mary no matter what. It apparently makes her feel old,” Michael shrugged unloading his backpack onto the counter. “It’s either Uncle Mike or Mr. Shurley. For which I’m definitely not old enough.”
“You’re almost there.” Lucifer countered.
“Mhmm. Do you want to join the elder’s club?”
Now that he mentioned it, Lucifer hadn’t gotten an Uncle or Mr. attached to the Luce. Maybe he should show some gratitude, eh?
The warm spluttering of the coffee machine, though, was like music to Lucifer’s ringing ears. Thank all existing deities Michael didn’t take the little jibes to the heart. Otherwise Lucifer would just simply die in the kitchen of his way too bright Sun.
.
“Are you going spiritual on me? Like all those ship and storm stories with Jesus walking on water and shit?”
Michael hummed. “That honestly skipped my mind.”
.
Lucifer would never understand how Michael could put up with not only his boy but with Dean mixed in the daily programme as well. The otherwise shy and reserved Castiel turned into a mini Gabriel next to his friend. It was like – impossible to bear with energy. Yet somehow, Michael managed. And Lucifer hated him for it.
He didn’t care that Michael ‘owed’ the Winchester family for looking after his son when he wasn’t home. He didn’t care that John and Mary needed every precious calm moment they got with baby Sam finally walking and running about as a perpetual-motion self-destructive machine. Getting bullied into joining the water-fight going on in the backyard was inhuman, witchcraft and definitely a violation of every treaties protecting various human rights.
With an impending sunstroke and half-deaf Lucifer totally felt violated in his rights to life.
Even though he made a bigger target, the children’s fine motor skills weren’t yet good enough to aim the soaked sponges to actually hit him. Not to mention to hit Michael. It was not supposed to be this easy! Michael’s shirt was not supposed to be clinging to his chest like a second layer of skin proving a rather distracting sight. That was just—Ugh, Lucifer hated playing with kids.
When Dean dumped an armful of sponges in the inflatable pool Lucifer simply stepped out of the water to avoid a few clumsy shots.
Clearly he didn’t have enough coffee to make up with so much light, and heat, and energy-vampire kids.
Castiel’s shriek of exhilaration jerked him out of his musings as a sponge bounced off his side, leaving a dark wet spot on his shirt.
“Cas, you’re out!” Dean cried.
Lucifer only missed Little Nightmare.2 by an inch. (Okay, so maybe playing dodge-ball wasn’t that bad when it eventually hit Michael’s hip. Damn those jeans were tight!)
“No! ‘M not!” Castiel called back.
“Oh? But I can clearly see the hitmark,” Michael said, while slow and menacing like a hunting panther circled the pool to near his son.
“But I’m invinsile!”
“It’s In-vin-ci-ble, Cas!” Dean corrected.
“I AM!”
Next second, just in time with Michael’s grinning “Are you?” Castiel’s shriek rang along the whole street. As if the boy weighed nothing Michael picked him up and threw him over his shoulder.
“You can’t kill me! You can’t kill me!” Castiel chanted while kicking and flailing his arms around, sometimes landing an accidental little flap on his father’s broad back.
While Lucifer just stood and watched, honestly but not officially bewitched by the teeth-flashing blinding grin on Michael’s face, Dean sprinted at the man both arms full of soaked up sponges. He totally didn’t care that his own Batman T-shirt was getting drenched as he ran into Michael’s hip in a kamikaze-mission. In the middle of the short-lived fight everyone got soon really wet, and in the end it was only Michael declared dead and out, since both boys claimed themselves as invincible.
“Okay now,” Michael said after a while setting the two boys back on their feet. “Why don’t we get dry before lunch?”
He helped them get out of their soaked shirts, and was just about to pull his own off over his head when Dean pulled at one fold of his jeans.
“What is it?”
Dean motioned for Michael to lean down, but even though he at least managed to grasp the point of whispering secrets, pointing at Lucifer made it quite suspicious what he wanted. Especially when straightening Michael asked with a semi-mischievous expression “Is that so?”
“No.” Lucifer said, trying to maintain as much dignity and hostility in his looks as he could glaring at his childhood best friend while backing away. “Don’t you dare—! MICHAEL!”
To his own misfortune Lucifer just happened to make his retreat in the direction of the pool, his feet catching on the inflatable ring. So it didn’t prove too hard for Michael to lock his arms around the blond’s middle and as an unstoppable force tackle him into the water.
Even with the elder consciously blocking a part of the fall it hurt. It fucking hurt and Lucifer didn’t appreciate his nose filling with water. It didn’t help much that by the time he surfaced from the calf-deep water, spluttering and coughing up curses Michael sat next to him, legs still entwined, laughing with his head thrown back.
“You bastard!” Lucifer cried.
The next moment he was straddling Michael’s waist in an attempt to put his hands around the brunet’s neck and drown him into his own child’s pool.
It took the whole bunch nearly another half an hour to scramble out of the water and hang their clothes on a string to dry.
By the time John came over to remind his oldest son that his mother didn’t appreciate little boys being late from lunch, they were nearly all dry, Lucifer and Michael on the doorstep (since Lucifer wasn’t allowed to smoke in front of the children, but damn if he was willing to put up this great amount of stress without nicotine) and Cas and Dean playing in the sandbox.
Lucifer grumbled. Of course he did, because it would have been really strange if in the short course of one day he grew overly fond of this little cheesy-family drama. But he would secretly treasure all the blooming bruises on his side (a proof of the kids’ flailing limbs), along with the memory of Michael’s bright smiles and the weight of his arm around Lucifer’s waist.
.
“Naomi died quite a while ago, too…”
Michael nodded along solemnly.
It was in a way soothing. Lucifer wasn’t sure if he could finish the tattoo as he had planned it if he was about to learn it was to remember Castiel’s mother. The flood of jealousy coiling burning cold in his belly was still present even after five years of last meeting the woman.
.
Moving into the suburb and playing Daddy made Michael surprisingly bitchy. Not only had he complained about Lucifer’s smoking habits on end (even though they finally moved away from labelling it as a mortal sin) but now even the scent of nail polish was driving the elder up the wall. Needless to say Lucifer took special satisfaction in lining all the little bottles he had opened in a line to pick which one he fancied on his nails that weekend.
Michael only rolled his eyes and murmured something about having two children under his roof.
Castiel, on the other hand, finally worked up his courage to climb onto the other stool next to Lucifer, and clinging to the tabletop peer at the fine brush strokes covering the pink nails in dark blue. Lucifer glanced up at the boy – on his face sat the same intense concentration that was so characteristic of his father before an exam. He didn’t say a word, just went back to painting his middle finger.
“Why are you doing that?” Castiel asked.
“Because it’s pretty.” Lucifer answered, blowing at his nails.
“Like the pictures on your body?”
“You like those?”
Castiel nodded enthusiastically, eyes shining with wonder.
“Hear that, Michael? Your son wouldn’t mind a tattoo on you.”
Before Michael could snap back that he didn’t care, Castiel’s head whipped around in a way that even Lucifer cringed at. Damn, the little monster was growing on him.
“Daddy wants a tattoo?”
“No!”
“Not even that archangel Michael I was telling you about?”
“No.”
“The one with the spear—“
“No.”
“It’d fit just fine on your shoulder.”
“No.”
“Can I have one?” Castiel piped in, his head constantly turning from one adult to the other as if he was watching a tennis match. “Daddy?”
Michael’s face lost all colour in one second just for all of it to flush back in a heartbeat. The last time Lucifer saw the other turn so red from collar to the tip of his ears was when Michael caught him making out with a guy in high school who looked disturbingly a lot like the elder.
“No, Castiel. They don’t wash off. You know, we’ve talked about this yesterday.”
“And these?” the boy was too lost in the wonders of colours to be fazed by his father’s glare over his head that clearly told Lucifer I’m going to kill you.
Lucifer grinned in return, “Don’t bring your child’s creativity down, Micha.”
For a second he was worried Michael would launch into a lecture about being a manly man and how painting one’s nails qualified as anything but! However, if possible, he only turned an even deeper shade of red, before he mumbled something that both Castiel and the Devil in human disguise understood as his consent and turned away.
“So, Cas,” Lucifer started pushing the wild, vibrant coloured little bottles in front of the boy (he knew purchasing these had to be the best deal of his life). “What colour do you prefer?”
A couple of minutes later when wine coloured clouds finally didn’t wreathe on the back of Michael’s neck and shoulder Lucifer was patiently waiting for his nails to dry (only a few seconds now), while he desperately tried to keep the smug smirk from stretching too suspiciously across his face. Castiel had the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Absorbed in his ministrations so deep that Lucifer would bet his long eyelashes fluttered creases in the surface of the paint. Which, incidentally, covered at least the whole knuckle of each finger. It might have been easier if he just dipped them into the bottles. They would have fitted in.
Finally finished painting his little finger Castiel shoved his hand under Lucifer’s nose.
“Lookit, Luce!”
The blond smiled. It was a surprisingly honest and merry smile.
“Nice. Why don’t you go and show your dad?”
In a dash Castiel slipped off the chair and right before Michael could turn around (heroically trying to mask up the feeling of impending horror on his face) the boy was at his side clinging to his belt loops, smearing the side of his jeans with pink and neon yellow nail polish.
“Daddy! Daddy! Am I pretty?”
Michael bent down to examine his son’s art work, for the moment uncaring for the state of his jeans.
“Of course, Castiel,” Michael said. “Especially this green ring finger.”
The boy’s face lit up like the Christmas tree. “It’s green. Because Dean’s favourite colour is green!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s blue,” Michael murmured straightening up.
Castiel paid the snide remark no heed, he probably didn’t even hear it, because he was there clinging to his father’s jeans again. “Daddy, daddy! You have to paint your nails too!”
“What? Why?”
“Because Luce has his blue nails. I have pink, and green, and yellow, and blue, and you have to too!”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea Castiel. I’m not that clever with my hands.”
“Nonsense,” Lucifer grinned. “Cas and I can do that for you.”
“Yes! Daddy, please!”
After five minutes of intense arguing Michael sat at the table, his fingers widely spread as if his hands were strapped down. If one only looked at his expression they would think his nails were being ripped from their beds. While in reality they were only getting painted.
During the whole process Castiel and Lucifer chattered like real BFFs, while Michael put his multilingual swearing ability to good use (though always careful to keep it low enough that there was no way his son could pick up any of the words). For the boy it proved to be an easier job than painting his own tiny pink nails, and, frankly, he did a pretty good job with the indigo polish. Even though, after the translucent, glittery layer was added and Castiel was munching on his sandwich Lucifer cleaned the accidental swipes from the nail beds.
“I need to take a picture,” Lucifer declared.
Nearly choking on his last bite, Castiel crawled on Michael’s lap and proudly showcased his pretty painted hands (there didn’t remain a lot of colour on his nails) while it took a few stern orders to get Michael to pull his own into the picture frame. He was acting as if he had some stinking, poisonous concoction smeared all over his fingers. When in reality it looked rather pretty. Like a small splash of night sky with the shyly glimmering stars.
“We look all pretty now,” Castiel declared.
“Yeah, sure,” Michael agreed with the weariness of a soldier fresh from a draining mission.
When the boy disappeared to prepare for his nap and Lucifer just turned back to cap his paint collection, he didn’t even have the time to gasp Michael was so close up in his face.
“You know this is the worst way of stealing a kiss,” but oh, please don’t pull away!
“How do I wash this thing off?”
On a second note maybe some shade of emerald would have complimented Michael’s eyes better. A metallic green.
“Not feeling macho enough?”
Michael gaped at him a little before his eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
“Are you trying to challenge me?”
“Why, yes.” No? Totally. Lucifer grinned and sneaked an arm around Michael’s waist. It settled there perfectly.
“I’m not going anywhere like this.”
However final that declaration sounded after Castiel’s nap, and by the time they finished their re-run of Disney’s Peter Pan (long-long time of obligatory tradition) they went out to get some ice-cream. With Castiel swinging on their hands. And Michael blushing and scowling the whole way. Especially when it came to paying.
.
And there he was. Lucifer just finished the ship and totally ran out of general ideas why someone would want it tattooed on his side.
Lucifer and Michael are sleeping together. But-- but not like that!
A/N: Okay, so it turned out pretty long, and I assume you asked for me to finally upload it to AO3 for it's easier to keep track of my irregular updates and also because it's easier to read there. So, feel free to click through and read it there. Though for the record I'm always so happy for your tags when you reblog my fics, so in case please don't spar me those :) You can leave comments there as well :)
It was the middle of June the next time Lucifer agreed to go and visit Michael and Castiel. With another huge load of issues squeezed behind a dam that was already leaking nightmares and awfully, embarrassingly pleasant dreams, but Lucifer could manage. What was another thirty years to survive, huh?
He was supposed to spend the weekend at Michael, and most preferably also trying to bond with Castiel– now that the boy wasn’t sickly pale and mostly unconscious. Fantastic.
It was supremely the airline’s fault that it was already 7 p.m. when he arrived. Cutting a few hours back from the torture he willingly exposed himself to was only natural. He wasn’t that masochistic after all.
And still, it took Lucifer several deep breaths to stay, and he really just caught his feet from backpedalling from the doorstep. He quickly rang the bell, the casual ding-dong, ding-dong providing enough distraction from memories of the last time he stood right there.
The door opened.
“Daddy says it’s rude to ring a bell so long.”
Lucifer took a quick double take of the situation: his finger still on the bell-button, and it was tiny Castiel in a Superman T-shirt clinging to the doorway. Whoops. Just as he forced a smile on his face that hopefully didn’t look like he wanted to devour the kid in whole, Michael appeared in the lobby with the sternest frown to ever frown directed at Castiel’s back.
“Castiel, what did I tell you about opening doors?”
The kid flinched, as if he was just smacked upside the head. He turned away from Lucifer, little hand bunching up the material of his shirt, exposing a good half of his round belly, looking up at his father, truly ashamed.
“But it was wingin’ so mush,” he mumbled.
“You don’t open doors to strangers without me.”
“You said Loosh was coming over.”
Lucifer couldn’t believe his ears. Was that supposed to be him? Was this whined, sing-song one-syllable word his name?
Michael seemed to read the incredulity mixed bafflement thickening in the air for he shot Lucifer a bemused look before turning back to his son.
“You don’t open the door without me.” Michael said with finality.
“Yes, Daddy,” Castiel mumbled, then he actually turned to close the door in Lucifer’s face if Michael didn’t sweep him up and placed the boy on his hip.
“It’s okay, Castiel,” he said, all stern edges melting off his voice. “Now, say hi to Luce.”
“Hi,” and it was only so much for little Castiel to lose his attitude. He hid his face in Michael’s shoulder and only gave a shy little wave to Lucifer. Who only waved back. No need to force socialization just yet.
“Hello, Lucifer,” Michael said.
The hand clapped down on Lucifer’s shoulder was warm, hot with the force of a concealed movement vibrating in his wrist as he just stopped himself from pulling Lucifer into a hug.
That… hadn’t happened since… well, since Michael first came back from war.
“Was I interrupting something,” Lucifer asked easily as if he didn’t notice anything, “because I could come back in a bit.”
“Took you long enough to arrive,” Michael all but pulled him in from the doorstep. “Still, you couldn’t skip dinner time.”
“Whee!” Lucifer said voice flat, almost resigned.
It wasn’t that Michael was a bad cook. It’d been long years since he nearly burnt down the whole kitchen in his first apartment, and surely had had to practice a lot with his son around, just… the elder lacked certain amount of creativity not to follow the recipe’s orders to the letter.
Michael clapped Lucifer on the back as he ushered him inside.
Lucifer was relieved. The house was warm, just as the air outside and the welcome hug he didn’t receive. Michael’s radiance, the darkened emerald glimmer in his eyes never ceased to make Lucifer’s heart want to beat out of his chest. Only the lack of an actual curling shadow at the corner of his mouth, the barely stirring shadows on his face made the crazy drumming painful until the threat of tears welling up in Lucifer’s eyes.
Injuries can be covered but some just cut too deep. Yeah. Fuck his life.
.
Dinner went down probably much more eventful than Michael had hoped for.
It started all with Lucifer noticing Castiel obediently stuffing his face with the vegetables next to his dinosaur-shaped meat cakes, which, obviously, wasn’t a really child-like behaviour. So, after making sure that he had the boy’s attention, Lucifer started to casually push his own boiled broccoli to the edge of his plate. Then, as soon as the frown appeared over Castiel’s brows (seriously, why had Lucifer ever doubted he was Michael’s kid?) Lucifer started complaining (“You really should take some cooking courses from Gabriel. He’s cutting back on sugar, and it’s finally edible for everyone.”) to distract Michael.
The result was a finely shaped chaos when after about five minutes Castiel stated that he was done eating, can he go play a bit before sleepy-time? Michael absentmindedly nodded his approval before he actually checked his son’s plate. He grabbed the tiny arm just in time before he could escape eating his vegetables.
“But Loosh doesn’ have to, too!” Castiel protested, trying his tiny best again at the whining and kicked puppy looks. (He could pronounce Lucifer’s name without a glitch, it was just the whining that could drive Michael up the wall.)
“He has to, and he will,” Michael said sternly cutting a sharp look at Lucifer. “Right, Luce?”
Lucifer scoffed. He crossed his arms over his chest peevishly. “No way.”
At the same time of Castiel’s tiny “See?” sounded Michael’s warning tone of “Luce.”
Oh, that one syllable had all the onslaught power of an angelic army rushing at him with blazing swords, but Lucifer should be damned if he didn’t have the whole nine circles of Hell at his own.
“No. I’d eat a sponge sooner than these.”
It obviously could have been easily arranged, and certainly if Michael’s hand wasn’t full with his child in a second Lucifer would have had to fight off a washcloth being stuffed into his mouth. Thank goodness for small mercies and that Michael was determined to keep his cool and authority, so it took rather long minutes until Castiel got bored of Daddy’s stern looks and climbed back into his chair.
Meanwhile Lucifer cackled like a maniac internally. So much, there were tears welling up in his eyes. But they didn’t conceal his vision enough that he didn’t check for the closest escape root in case Michael wanted to gut him with a spoon.
.
Eventually everyone came out alive as the ultimate reason of “You’re not going anywhere until the plate is empty,” and Michael’s eternal patience trained and improved to inhuman levels at boot camp paid off.
Right now Castiel was watching some cartoons in the other room while Michael put the remaining into the fridge, and Lucifer eyed a spot through the door in the living room as if it had personally offended him.
“That wall is outrageously empty,” he mumbled.
Michael followed his gaze. “I was hoping to hang one of your pictures there,” he shrugged, “Only you haven’t offered one yet.”
The accusation should make Lucifer uncomfortable, except—
“I had offered to paint for you.”
“How do I hang a tattoo on the wall?” Oh dear god, if the boy inherited Michael’s sense of humour the family was damned.
“You don’t, ‘cause you can always carry it around.”
“I keep my wallet for that.”
“That can be stolen,” Lucifer tried.
“No. My answer is still no for a tattoo.”
.
After Castiel was tucked in bed, they talked. As if Lucifer hadn’t shut Michael out of his life for weeks when the other probably would have needed some support the most.
They chatted about Lucifer’s rediscovered obsession with roses and gardening, and how were the chances for him planting and nourishing an apple tree into growing fruits in his apartment. Michael found the idea ridiculous, what with the frequency of Lucifer’s hangovers and how he hated light sneaking into his room before noon, but the blond was determined.
Also in retaliation Lucifer tried to convince Michael of fucking finally calling his poor son any different than the whole long monstrosity of Cas-ti-el, because it was freaking long and a mouthful.
In conclusion neither of them budged. Michael was still calling his boy Castiel (“That is his given name, he should wear it with pride.” “How, if no one can remember it properly?”), and Lucifer was still mentally measuring how big pot he would need for his baby apple tree.
.
“Do you mind?” Lucifer asked shaking his packet of cigarettes in Michael’s face.
“Not in my house.” Michael said without looking up from his scribbling.
“Come on,” Lucifer drawled, draping himself over all the papers scattered on the dinner table. Seriously, did organizing a birthday party require such serious planning as if Michael wanted to invade the street commanding a garrison of mutant gummy bears? He still had two months until Castiel’s birthday! “Don’t you want to smoke the peace-pipe with me?”
“Aren’t we at peace? Besides, I don’t smoke.”
“I can aggravate you enough for that. Wanna bet?”
Michael finally looked up to glare at Lucifer. He only flashed a sweet smile. Crawling half over the table so that he could take up his rightful place only a breath away from Michael’s Epic Frown of Disapproval he playfully tilted his head.
“Just a drag, Michael. Or should I breathe it into your mouth?”
“Again?” Michael shot back with a tinge of aggravation in the colour blooming high on his cheeks.
“Again?” Lucifer repeated head tilted curiously. “Have I tried it before? Must have been pretty drunk.”
“High… You were actually pretty high.”
“Did I succeed though?” He didn’t even try to mask up the excitement in his voice, only the wolfish grin spread wider and wider.
Michael snorted. His eyes blinked to the side. “No. What do you think?”
“That it’d be a damn shame if I don’t remember it.”
“I could have told you all my dirty secrets and you wouldn’t even remember we talked,” Michael said standing from his seat.
“’cause I know them anyway.” Lucifer drawled. He leaned back in his chair to watch Michael load the washing machine. It was a nice sight.
The sardonic, soft Sure was totally lost on him.
.
With the fresh scent of the night mingling with the curling smoke on his skin Lucifer felt his way through the darkened corridor to Michael’s room to grab his night wear before he went to check out if Michael had loaded up the guest room or not. So that he would be prepared where to be headed after a shower.
He managed to open the door without a sound and even locate his bag in front of the wardrobe. Short after he started rummaging for a clean pair of boxers Michael called out, hoarsely.
“Luce, if you sleep on the couch so help me God I’ll murder you in the morning.”
An impossible and pathetically wide grin threatened to split Lucifer’s face in half; his heart jumped in his throat, and it took him a great special effort to keep the mirth out of his voice. Compelling his mouth to twist back into one of his trade-mark smirks he carefully climbed on the bed with Michael’s half-asleep form caged between his arms, one knee bumping into the curve of the other’s ass under the covers.
“I thought you didn’t like me stinking up your four-poster bed princess,” Lucifer purred while he rubbed his stubble-covered cheek on Michael’s naked shoulder. “But in that case I’ll just leave out the shower,” he flopped down on top of Michael, “also brushing my teeth,” and also exhaled deep into the other’s face.
His laughter was muffled in the crook of Michael’s shoulder as he pushed Lucifer’s smoke stinking mouth away from his nose.
“Just wash up and come to sleep already.”
With one last move before he threw Lucifer off the bed Michael ruffled the blond mop of hair in a fashion that was a recurring habit still from their childhood. Another affectionate move that was strictly Lucifer’s privilege.
On silent feet Lucifer danced off into the bathroom.
When he took up his part of the king sized bed Michael was already just barely clinging to the world of the awake. He almost fooled Lucifer, but it was really more sleep than wakefulness as the older snuggled up in Lucifer’s blissfully cool and wet side.
.
Now there, no one had the right to think about anything going on here. They had been sleeping together ever since Lucifer became agile enough to climb trees without breaking an arm, and also since they perfected the volume of knocking on the window that would wake Michael but not his parents. Which was somewhere around in first or second grade. Who counted, huh?
But strictly as in actually sleeping and in the same bed but That. Fucking. Was. It. Sleeping. In the same bed. End of discussion. Don’t listen to Gabriel, he knew shit.
(The little bastard would obviously miss to mention the part of the story when he begged with huge golden, tear-flooded eyes that Lucifer took him along to one of his nightly escapes; or how they occasionally woke with the boy snuggled in between them. More likely how Michael woke abruptly tumbled to the hard ground because Gabriel had kicked him out of his own bed and was now sprawled all over his brother.)
Actually, this whole sleeping in the same bed had only been an issue once.
Usually, by the time Michael arrived home for his leave Lucifer was single from the moment his plane touched American land (don’t question it, no one dared to), except for one time.
The brain of Lucifer’s boyfriend for the week froze on the spot when, while he just dropped by the blond’s apartment for some breakfast after work, he was suddenly greeted by a half-naked and sleep-mussed Michael just slipping out of Lucifer’s bedroom with a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.
Michael offered a polite wave before, unfazed, he continued on his track to the bathroom.
Boyfriend of the week stared, dumbstruck.
Lucifer didn’t blame him for that. Like really, who could be blamed who had ever laid eyes on that chest?
However, screaming bloody murder at such impossible hour of 6.30 am was truly unforgivable.
By the time Michael emerged from his shower with the steam still curling on his skin, Lucifer was happily single and sleeping as if nothing had happened.
Previous - in case anyone needs a reminder as for why everyone is so worked up in this chapter.
It seemed that no matter what their meetings always had to end up in disasters.
After Michael slipped away into Castiel’s room and Lucifer reluctantly stretched out on Michael’s bed, as per his usual place, there was just no way he could close his eyes and rest. The memory of Michael’s chapped lips at the corner of his mouth stole the breath away from his lungs. The darkness turned suffocating; the fading scent of the other on the pillow and the sheets was like inhaling scratchy incense fumes.
Despite all that he waited wide awake, counting off the folds of the curtains. But when Michael didn’t turn up after hours of tossing Lucifer made up his mind. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself, showing how worked up he was.
Sunrays barely tickled the edges of the horizon, and with his bag thrown on one shoulder Lucifer glanced into the living room, then into Castiel’s room where he finally found Michael; drifting somewhere among uneasy dreams mixed into the illusion of wakefulness perched in an armchair next to his son’s bed.
“Michael,” Lucifer called out gently. He didn’t reach the other’s shoulder when he suddenly jerked awake.
Darkened eyes glimmered with alert.
“It’s just me,” Lucifer hurried to assure him.
“Something wrong?” Michael asked, his voice hoarse. The way he gripped the arm of the chair showed how much he wanted to jump to his feet, fear and desperation cutting his world in half as lightning strikes in a storm, but all that light illuminated the whole room as well. Michael’s new barriers, Castiel, and all the old bounds they probably could never squeeze past no matter what they do.
“No,” Lucifer shook his head tightly. “I’m just going. Now that everything’s fine.”
Michael cut a quick glance at the sleeping Castiel. “I’ll give you a ride to the airport.”
“Don’t worry about it. My taxi just arrived.” It took all tiny morsels of his pride collected to be able to say the next sentence putting out the last slight spark of hope in Michael’s eye. “I’ll see myself out.”
And that was it.
.
Afterwards Lucifer had his own personal share of Hell, the only worse time being when Michael announced he was going to Iraq. In their final (and then it seemed dreadfully Final) argument Michael tore the golden sword from his neck and threw it away, features hard and unforgiving, something that still haunted Lucifer to the day.
Again and again he was forced to realize how much Michael meant to him.
An anchor, even when they so passionately hated each other they could make fire rain from the skies, a steady strong presence who knew everything about him – because eventually he always confessed.
Lucifer could take God betraying him. Damn, it was so easy to throw away his faith, but this? How could he handle when he cut himself off from his guardian angel as well?
He became irritated, edgy, easily angered and quick to lash out. Several times he had been threatened to be thrown out of the tattoo parlour and he could go back travelling around the country if he didn’t change his attitude.
When Gabriel came up to him to try and talk some sense into the chaos that was residing in place of the blond’s brain he accidentally struck a sensitive nerve, and it was only his luck and Lucifer’s insomnia taking the worst of him that Gabriel’s hand wasn’t pinned to the table with a knife.
There it was all bundled up in Lucifer’s skull. Nightmares, the curse of his too wild and vivid imagination, insomnia, the thick odour of smoke and turpentine oil that wormed its way into the furniture, his clothes, his inked up skin, and then the layer of ash and dust. Yet, they weren’t heavy enough to build up a barrier on the track of thoughts.
Michael didn’t call him. Occasionally some messages arrived to keep Lucifer updated on how the Shurley family was doing but there never was any question posed at the end. Nothing that actually indicated a call for him to actively pick up the conversation.
Or was it?
Was it time for Lucifer to address their problem?
Should it be addressed at all?
Should he bring up that almost-kiss?
He still didn’t know what he thought about it. Maybe he tried to keep huge iron gates closed with all his might so that he could wonder and eat himself up some more, but he couldn’t tell for real!
Or maybe Michael was the one afraid of the time when Lucifer’s reaction would blow up in his face? Ruining everything they had ever had?
Or was it finally Lucifer’s fucking time to grow up, put his vanity and pride aside and initiate a proper, calm conversation?
No. That sounded ridiculous and impossible. Impossible.
He didn’t even notice when he had poured his heart and all his desperation out to Abaddon – friends with benefits since forever, but everything had its limits. Like no mentioning of the awkward week right after Lucifer forgot that Michael hadn’t left for home yet, and so the elder just walked in on Lucifer and Abaddon working off some steam together. Surprisingly, there had been no big fuss at all. Only Michael’s smiles grew even rarer, but that had been a constant decline in that so connecting one and one might have been a bit… liberal? Pompous? Self-important?
Either way it was never to be mentioned. Along with Michael.
Yet, when Abaddon suggested “Why don’t you just text him back?” so casually that it hurt, it actually stuck with Lucifer for some reason.
Maybe only because Lucifer’s nerves were finally giving in on him.
Either way, one night when he found himself sitting in front of a canvas full of dancing wings made of light waltzing with shadows and dripping darkness on the rainbow coloured shards of chaos, the stud of his cigarette barely dangling from his lips, covered in layers of paint that would only come off along with his skin Lucifer fished his phone out from under a heap of clothes, and after long minutes of pondering on what to write he sent a text message to Michael.
Then and there in the middle of the night it said:
?
Pretty eloquent, huh?
Lucifer was just about to throw the phone back in the corner when it lit up with a reply.
Whh are u stil awakw???
Painting—was all Lucifer answered simply. His overworked heart was thumping in his throat making him feel sick.
Show me—Michael answered back, now awake himself.
Lucifer lit another cigarette, wiped his fingers as best as he could, then fumbled with his phone for a good five minutes before he could snap a picture of his headache inducing painting.
True enough, Lucifer used to hate the brat. On the sole principle that he took up most of Michael’s time.
Whenever on leave, Michael wanted to spend as much time with his son as possible.
It was understandable since he experienced what an absent father could do. At the time Lucifer made sure the elder had felt such consequences for days and even after then the marks remained visible. And Lucifer respected that in Michael. Honestly. He sure would have went to beat some sense into that thick skull army or not if Michael turned out to be a father anything like his own.
But also there was the point he had never even had to entertain the thought seriously of Michael becoming an actual father.
They barely talked for the next months after Christmas.
Until it suddenly changed on a Wednesday evening in March.
After having ignored all his calls during the day he was tipsy enough by 8.30 that he missed the buttons on his phone and Lucifer had to answer his call.
As for how the conversation went, well, it was a little fuzzy, but the alarm vibrating in Michael’s stifled tone made getting on a plane immediately a good idea. During the flight, nursing a forming headache Lucifer could make up only fragments, but they were enough to make cold, uncertain fear coil in his guts. Words like hospital, accident, and Castiel.
When he arrived next morning, darkness still hugged intimately the death-coloured hospital. He thought he would look actually worse than Michael. Hurt pride and a hangover didn’t make anyone look more appealing, but he was sorely mistaken.
In the waiting room Michael was like a dark flame that swallowed more light in its agony of paradoxical existence. The man was pale, dark purple circles around his hollow, sickly gleaming eyes, and the ripe mango coloured bruises and stitches on his arm and jaw, nor the cast bracing his left wrist could make him look any more alive.
“Michael,” Lucifer called out for him. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry,” was all he got as a response for half of the day, which only served for Lucifer’s temper to blow up.
“I’m sorry?! Sorry for what the fuck exactly?!”
It wasn’t nice but the sterile white walls quickly grew thick with tension. Layers of venomous hissing, creased by sharp glances and malicious insults, until finally Michael broke and in clipped words explained that Castiel was sick, had been for days with what he assumed was whooping-cough, and just as Michael was about to take him to the doctor…
There came a long silence that pissed Lucifer off. And while he was getting worried sick, too, because there was no fucking way Michael would be so worked up over just some seasonal sickness, (and why the fuck did he look like a car had gone over him?!) he refused to even acknowledge Lucifer’s presence for the next minutes. He just, closed up.
Eventually, when the blond stormed off he bumped into Mary Winchester, just on her way to check in on Michael (who, at this point was sitting with a painfully straight spine at little Castiel’s bed). She explained, that yes, it was a car that accidentally swivelled into Michael’s just as he buckled Castiel in. It was their luck it came from the driver’s side. If one can call such thing lucky.
Back from their coffee-run, because Lucifer still needed some time to cool down, after casting a glance at Michael sitting on the edge of Castiel’s bed, caressing the boy’s forehead and murmuring gentle words into the tousled black locks Mary put a hand just below Lucifer’s elbow.
“I’m glad you could make it.”
Lucifer only arched a brow. He was about to take his leave, thank you very much. He wasn’t welcome here at all, not to mention needed. He was no good with this support crap.
“He does need you,” she smiled with the all-knowing force of a mother.
“Not really. We just fought.”
“But he sits more like an actual person. Not like a piece of stone.”
.
The day crawled on with a speed any slug could beat.
Either Lucifer watched Michael put up the strong face that grew from a big brother’s to a father’s smile of strength, or when Castiel slipped back into sleep they sat side by side, shoulders just a breath away from touching, waiting. Waiting for doctor’s reports. Waiting for when Michael could take his son home. Waiting for Michael to open up.
Michael talked to the doctors and Lucifer took care of the small talk with John and Mary. They were nice people.
All along Michael was being eaten alive by a leviathan from the inside, lips only a firm line, no sound of cries for help escaping. If there were any.
.
They spent the night dozing on the uncomfortable bench in the waiting room, by the early hours of morning, everything still and unmoving, Lucifer found his head resting on Michael’s thigh, and warm fingers absentmindedly playing in his hair. As he looked up, however, his bleary eyes caught the hard look on Michael’s face.
It became immediately clear why they hadn’t been kicked out of the place.
.
All morning Michael had been talking to the doctors. Just from the set of his shoulder Lucifer knew that he was stressed out and wanted to blow something up. Or maybe someone.
By the afternoon it definitely turned into someones.
Even though he grew up with no blood-brothers Michael adapted to become the elder sibling of both Lucifer and Gabriel, and even if the blond had cursed him into the dead of nights at least once a week, he was the best big brother anyone could ever ask for. Always strong, and though short in temper, he was reliable. A mountain would move sooner than Michael when he set his mind to something. He grew into the role of the Archangel Michael, guarding his family with his blazing sword.
Yet he had two spots where he could be attacked from. The exact same that gave him his strength – responsibility and faith.
About half an hour ago a man and a woman entered the waiting room.
They glanced around, when they eyes caught on Lucifer they visibly cringed. This close to crossing themselves they turned rather to Mary to ask about Michael, saying they were from his congregation and came to show support from the community.
Lucifer didn’t trust their smiles a bit.
He was right. Only if he wasn’t!
When Michael returned from the chapel, oh man, was he devastated. Demons, and angels, and all kings and royalties of the Earth would run from his path; stars perished in his eyes, and the gleaming dust was threatening to spill from his eyes.
He marched right up to Lucifer, and in that moment no past injuries of pride, no jealousy, no scars mattered. Because Michael’s was fresh, and raw, and salt was just rubbed into the whole length of it.
Lucifer opened up his arms, and as puzzle pieces clicking in place Michael stepped into his embrace, just where he belonged. The younger became the force to break dams, to crack the earth over a long-slumbering volcano, a chest to trust, and arms that held. A place where they both were equally vulnerable.
Michael stood, head bowed and painfully still.
There was no change in the pattern of his breathing. His shoulders didn’t shake with the force of his sobs. The world weren’t strong enough to stand in the howl of his agony. Only stardust poured on Lucifer’s shoulder, soaking the shirt on his collarbone.
As Lucifer wrapped his arms around him, he made sure the demonic eye tattooed red and inky soulless black on the back of his left hand was glaring right at those supporters.
.
On the night their trials finally came to an end and Michael finally laid Castiel down in his own, finally comfortable and warm bed the two men were standing in the darkness of the living room. No one really thought about switching the lights on. Silhouettes seemed to be the only things either of them could take at the moment.
Doubts, wandering thoughts stifled the air and made the silky night scratchy and rough.
How could one address what had happened in the hospital? Should the silence even be cracked? Threaten the truce, the momentary peace by one accidental spark of a fight?
Before Lucifer’s mind could go overdrive warm hands cupped his face, and Michael was…
Michael was really, really close, his breath fanning on the blond’s chin—
In one second stretched into one impossible eternity Michael leaned up that one inch he needed and pressed his dry, desperation-tasting lips to the corner of Lucifer’s mouth.
Lucifer stood stock still.
He could taste the fear, feel the lightning bolt that struck Michael immediately at the contact, the one that made him rile back, stumble, so uncharacteristically unsure and terrified of himself – not even the scraping claws of the cold night air that slipped in the crack of an almost-kiss could wipe away that paralyzing, raw taste.
“Ah, I- I’m sorry,” Michael stammered, barely above the sound of the wind rattling outside.
All Lucifer could do was stare back into those huge blown eyes.
“It’s okay.” He hoped some voice accompanied the stumbling move of his lips.
A blink later Michael slammed heavy teller doors on any trail of fear. Soon, he was back to his steeled, disciplined self.
“I’ll check in on Castiel,” he said softly. “Your place is ready as always.”
And he slipped away leaving Lucifer alone to hate himself, and then both of them. To name for what, exactly, would take too many old wounds to tear up.
