Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Come on…” 

Lucifer turned the key again, teeth clenched. The engine coughed and sputtered, but refused to start. He tried again. And again. He slumped forward after the fifth attempt  and started knocking his forehead against the steering wheel—gently at first, then harder. 

Seventh Avenue. Of course that’s where the car chose to die. With his luck, it would be stripped for parts and propped up on cinderblocks with him still inside by morning. It was the perfect punchline for a day that already felt like a bad joke. 

It had started that morning when he’d opened his email to find one of his most important deals—a joint venture with Vox Tech—had somehow gone from “on-track” to “tits up” during the five hours he’d been asleep. Two hours of tense phone calls and one firing later, he’d managed to more or less right the ship. His reward for the miracle? A dinner date with the company’s namesake himself a week from the day to “smooth things over” in person, which had all the appeal of a double root canal. 

Lucifer didn’t like Vox Squalus. There was something slippery about the man. Slimy, even. He‘d honestly wanted nothing to do with the tech mogul when the man’s lawyers had approached him about partnering on a top-secret “urban redevelopment program.” The man was apparently looking for a place to build VoxCity. To Lucifer, Vox’s grand vision for a “living laboratory” that would use technology to advance human well-being sounded like an excuse to have the stupidly rich pay for the privilege of being guinea pigs for Vox’s science experiments, but the Morningstar clan had practically drooled over the project’s potential and Lucifer’s mind was made up for him.

About an hour later, there was an email from his lawyer: Lilith wasn’t happy with the amount of alimony he’d offered and wanted more—news which thrilled his ulcer. staring at the screen, Lucifer was about ready to tell his lawyer to liquidate all his assets, Eden Holdings included, and just give the woman whatever she wanted while he went to live on a desert island. 

Maybe there he could get some sleep without choking down Temazepam every night.

He rolled into the office at nine-thirty, pushed paper, put out fires, and did all the bureaucratic bullshit that came with running a Fortune 500 company. The hours dragged until his secretary informed him it was time for dinner with his brother, Michael.

The reservation was at the new Noma installation. Eight hundred and fifty dollars for the prix fixe menu and it tasted like ash under Michael’s disdainful gaze. 

No matter what he did, Michael found fault. Then again, Michael was the golden child who’d followed their father into politics while he was the would-be artist who had to be strong-armed into real estate management.  

It also didn’t help that Lucifer gave Michael plenty to find fault with. 

“Have you made the entertainment arrangements for the gala?” Michael asked in between the Nordic yuba with beach greens and gooseberries and the roasted cauliflower served with pine needles and horseradish cream. 

Lucifer nearly choked on his wine. Fuck.

“Um, yeah! I’m, uh, I’ve made a shortlist of options.”

Michael sighed after a beat of silence. “You haven’t even started looking.” 

“I’m going to get it done, Michael. Don’t worry.” 

“The gala is next week on Thursday. Need I remind you that you’re the one who asked for the chance to improve your standing with Father? The optics of this fundraiser will be important, more for your own reputation than my reelection campaign. Do not foul this up, Lucifer.” 

Lucifer managed to choke down the rest of his dinner and flee to his car. He knew he shouldn’t have been driving after drinking, so maybe him finding himself stranded with a dead car in easily the seediest place in town was karmic retribution.

He got out of the car and slammed the door shut. “The power of German engineering my ass,” he muttered, flipping off the hood ornament. The chop shop could have it for all he cared, the piece of shit. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he started down the street.

Walking alone at night was… not a great idea. His blond hair, flawless suit, and cufflinks practically screamed “mug me” in neon letters. But he needed to move, to do something to get rid of the impotent rage that wasn’t kicking the shit out of his car tires. Plus, he wasn’t sure how much anyone could actually see of him with almost every other streetlight broken. Well, shot out, really. Delightful. 

The rain started about fifteen minutes out: thin, cold needles against his face that threatened to turn into a downpour at any moment. Lucifer paused, an absurd laugh stuck behind his teeth. Of course it would rain. His life was nothing more than one Hallmark Channel romcom trope after another: the terrible day, the broken-down car, the rain. Now all he needed was a meet-cute with a beautiful woman who’d fix everything in a snowball fight montage so they could live happily ever after. 

Hah! 

He turned up his collar against the autumn rain and kept walking. 

Music was the last thing he expected to hear in this hellscape, let alone jazz. He actually thought he might be losing his mind; it really wouldn’t have surprised him given the day he’d had. However, the music got louder as he neared the corner, proving that he was not suffering from some kind of auditory hallucination or having a stroke. Someone was definitely playing the piano, and there was some other instrument, too. A clarinet, maybe? 

He followed the sound to a nondescript box of a building just off the main avenue. The brickwork was crumbling and the tin roof had all but rusted out, but music—good music—and the sound of at least half a dozen conversations poured out from the open windows into the crisp night. The sign above the door was in as bad of shape as the rest of the building, but under the yellow glow of the halogen lights, Lucifer was just able to make out the name, The Seven Rings.

Lucifer hesitated. All it would take was one busybody with a smartphone and his face would be all over the morning gossip rags alongside headlines like, Fortune 500 CEO Spotted Slumming It in Dive Bar at Midnight! As if he needed to give Lilith any more fuel for their custody battle of Charlie. But it was beginning to rain in earnest, and Lucifer ducked inside to avoid getting completely drenched. 

Whoever said you couldn’t judge a book by its cover had clearly never visited The Seven Rings. The inside was just as worn out as the exterior had promised. It looked like it hadn’t been updated since the mid-80s both in terms of aesthetic choices and in the overall state of disrepair. It wasn’t terrible, he supposed, but the velour carpeting under the bar made him cringe. If the bathroom was carpeted, too, Lucifer decided he would take his chances in the rain. 

He caught the attention of a waiter who led him past a (fake) marble column and over some (very real) drug paraphernalia lying on the floor to a circular booth seat. It had a good view of the low stage on which the band played and had the added benefit of being very far from any carpeting. 

Lucifer made sure to keep his collar up and his head down as the greasy-haired young man took his drink order, but if he had recognized him, then he did a damn good job of hiding it. Then again, the kid was probably too high to pick out any fine details. His pupils were the size of pinpricks. 

The waiter disappeared and Lucifer scoot-shimmied across the balding velvet seat cushions. Whoever invented booth seating had to have been a sadist; there was absolutely no way to slide inside without looking like an absolute moron. Fortunately, it seemed that none of the other “patrons” had noticed his little dance number, too preoccupied with their own dubious goings-on. Lucifer was sure he’d spotted a handful of prostitutes and at least one drug dealer, and the poker game going on in the corner was something he most definitely did not want to be involved with. 

The waiter returned with his drink and set it down on the table, sans coaster, and left him to it. Lucifer hadn’t exactly been expecting Jonnie Walker Blue label, but, fuck, whatever they’d put in his drink was so bottom shelf that they probably stored it with the cleaning products. 

He took another sip, anyway, and turned his attention to the house band, which was currently playing Chet Baker’s “Tenderly.” They were good—too good to be playing at a dive like this. He knew trying to make a living as an artist was tough, but there had to be better paying gigs than whatever this place was offering. Nursing his disgusting cocktail, he wondered grimly if it had to do with them being animalfolk. The sax player was clearly catfolk. The others were a little harder to tell, but he thought that the pianist might have been at least part viperfolk if the scale-like pattern on his hands was any indication. 

Lucifer sighed through his nose. The Equal Rights for Animalfolk Act might have been passed in the early 60s, but its promises of economic, social, and political equality hadn’t exactly come to pass. That wasn’t to say it hadn’t done any good. It definitely had. But it had also ushered in a far more subtle era of bigotry. While companies couldn’t hang a sign on their door saying “animalfolk need not apply,” they also didn’t need to. They had plenty of other ways to make sure that animalfolk remained disadvantaged that were all entirely above board. Lucifer tossed back the rest of his foul drink and signaled to the bartender for another. It suddenly seemed like the perfect night for drowning his despair for humanity in terrible alcohol. 

A murmur rippled through the crowd and Lucifer lifted his head from the upholstered back of the booth; he must have dozed off sometime after his third drink.

He located the source of the disturbance entering from stage right and promptly forgot how to breathe. 

Lucifer knew beauty when he saw it, but beauty alone didn’t hush a crowd. But the smirk at the corner of her mouth, the slow rake of her eyes across the room? Now that had a power that had every man in the place leaning just a little closer. 

She arranged herself prettily in front of the microphone, settling into her hip so that one of her long legs peeked out of the front slit that ran from her ankles almost all the way up to the seat of men’s dreams. The beadwork stitched in feather motifs on her Jazz Age dress shimmered with her every move. Her deer ears twitched softly from her crown of black-edged red hair that tumbled down to her mid back. 

With a nod to the musicians, she wrapped her black-dipped hands around the microphone stand, finger by red clawed finger. 

“You had plenty money 1922…”

The bass came in under her, steady as a guiding hand on the small of her back. 

“You let other women make a fool of you. Why don’t you do right…”

The piano joined with a shimmer as the drummer brushed out a smoldering rhythm. 

“…Like some other men do? Get out of here, and get me some money, too.” 

She moved like she felt the music with every inch of her body, swaying her hips from side to side and snapping on the two and four, and, God almighty, that voice. It was soft as smoke and strong as good rye, and Lucifer could only wonder what such raw talent was doing in a place like this.   

The song ended, and Lucifer felt like an electrical current connecting her to the crowd had been switched off. He finally pulled a deep breath into his lungs. 

He had to know who she was. She didn’t belong in a dump like this, where the fake leather seats were cracked and the floor was sticky with God only knew what. She needed to be at the Blue Note, or Preservation Hall, or Green Mill. He reached into his coat pocket for his phone. Even a dive like this had to have a website, right? Maybe they had a list of their performers. 

His pocket was empty. He must have left his phone in the car. 

Lucifer took a deep breath for a count of four, held it for four, and exhaled for four. It didn’t do much, but his higher reason told him it was a better idea than hurling his glass at the opposite wall of the club. 

He wanted desperately to hang around to see if the woman would sing again, but he had to go get his phone. He briefly considered having the club call him a cab, but decided against it. He wasn’t sure he could trust a driver willing to come to Seven Avenue so late—or early, depending on how you looked at it. God only knew how many emails he’d already missed. He flagged down the waiter and gave him a fifty to cover the drinks along with what was undoubtedly a generous tip. He then pulled out a hundred dollar bill which, he said in no uncertain terms, was to go to the singer and then headed reluctantly back out into the darkness. At least the rain had stopped.  

His car was still where he left it and seemingly intact. However, on closer inspection, he found that the hood ornament was nowhere to be seen. Lucifer laughed and sincerely hoped that whoever took it enjoyed their trophy. He slid inside the car and, sure enough, his phone was on the center console. The screen lit up when he picked it up. He had several missed calls and an email from Lilith with the subject line ALIMONY?? in screaming capitals. He also noted that he had 1% battery before the screen went dark. 

Lucifer sat for a while, staring out the windshield at the night in front of him. Was this what his life was meant to be? An endless succession of corporate crises that, in the grand scheme of things, didn’t matter diddily squat? Heart-burn inducing, tasteless meals with his brother? Financial disputes with his soon-to-be ex-wife? 

…missing Charlie’s entire childhood? 

Feeling hollow, Lucifer put the key in the ignition and turned. The engine ground hopelessly, but he did it again.

And again.

And again. 

“Car troubles?”  

Lucifer turned his head at the voice and nearly did a double take. Her dark jeans and oversized bomber jacket were a far cry from her glittering gown, but only a fool wouldn’t have recognized her. She eyed him warily from the sidewalk where she sat on the seat of a worn out bicycle, one foot still on the pedal. 

Lucifer realized he’d been staring and gave his head a little shake. “Uh, yeah. It’s, um, it’s dead. Phone’s dead, too.” He added. He got out of the car and shut the door. He made a point, however, not to get any closer to the woman. The last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable. 

“Uh, yeah,” Lucifer said with a little shake of his head after realizing he’d been staring. “Um, it’s, uh—yeah. It’s dead. So is my phone.” Lucifer got out and shut the door. “I was just going to walk up a few blocks and try to catch a cab.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “This is a rather unsavory part of the city, sir. I would not recommend walking alone this late.” 

“You’re walking alone, too,” he countered, but the woman dismissed him with a wave of her pretty hand. 

“I have a bicycle. Furthermore, I know how to look after myself. You, on the other hand, are dressed in a three-piece suit and have just gotten out of what appears to be either a Mercedes or a Volkswagen. You might as well have a target painted on your back, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” 

She wasn’t wrong. “I hate to ask, but would you mind if I used your phone to call a cab, then?” 

“Apologies, but I don’t have one.” 

Lucifer blinked. “You don’t have a phone?”

“Not on my person, no. I prefer not to carry one.”

“Seriously? That’s—wow. That’s definitely not something you hear a lot these days. Okay, so no phone. Got any suggestions, then? Otherwise it looks like I’m back to walking.” 

The woman sighed, an ear flicking as she appeared to size him up. “I could show you where you can find a cab—one that will actually take you where you want to go and not to some secondary location.” 

Lucifer went a little pale. He hadn’t even considered the dangers of getting into a cab in this part of town. Still, he hesitated. 

“I don’t want to make you go out of your way, though. Also, how do you know I’m not some kind of, you know, creep?”

She gave him the same smirk she’d worn onstage. Even without the lipstick, it still made Lucifer’s stomach do a little flip. 

“I tend to be a fairly good judge of character. And as I said, I know how to look after myself. I am certain I could hold my own against you. But come. Let’s be off, shall we? I do want to try and get home before the sunrise.” 

She swung off her bike and started walking down the street, leaving Lucifer to follow. 

Lucifer listened to the soft clicking of the woman’s bicycle chain as they walked, stealing little glances at her whenever they neared a streetlight. She was a statuesque woman, maybe standing an inch or so taller than himself at five feet nine inches, and her physique called to mind bombshells of the past like Marilyn Monroe. She was still wearing her smoky eye makeup from the club, which made her doe eyes look impossibly large. 

Her eyes cut in his direction and caught him looking. “Something?” 

Lucifer rubbed the back of his neck. It’d been a long, long time since he’d felt like a bashful schoolboy. “No, I—no. Sorry.” He hesitated, uncertain if he should continue. “I saw you sing tonight.” 

The woman looked ahead. “I know. I saw you. You were sitting fairly close to the stage, not to mention you stood out quite a bit from the other guests.” 

“I—oh. …why didn’t you say anything?” 

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to be seen. I understand the importance of discretion.” She paused, looking over to him again. “Mr. Morningstar.” 

The blood drained from Lucifer's face only to return seconds later in a furious blush. He tried to cover his discomfort with a laugh. “Oh, I—um. Heh. Ah, yeah. That’s, um—that’s me.”

Her eyes softened, clearly taking pity on him.  “I’m not going to tell anyone that you were at The Seven Rings, sir. I know you didn’t intend to be there in the first place.” 

“Yeah. I thought I would walk up a couple blocks to see if I could find a cab, but the rain really started coming down, and I heard some music, so I thought I’d just duck in to wait it out,” he rambled on until he finally found the courage to say what he actually wanted to. 

“You were amazing.” 

The compliment didn’t land as he intended. Her smirk changed into a polite little smile, the kind he often hid behind at corporate parties when all he wanted to do was scream. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

Lucifer shook his head. “I mean it. It was incredible. You had every person in that place hanging on your every word. You have talent.” 

She scoffed. “You heard one song.” 

“I wanted to hear more,” he countered emphatically. “Hell, I thought I was gonna cry when I realized I’d left my phone in the car and couldn’t stick around for more. What on Earth is someone like doing, singing at a place like that?” 

The woman shrugged gracefully, but there was a cold fire in her eyes. “Why does anyone do anything? Money.”

“Yeah, but other clubs—”

“And,” she continued, cutting him off, “I’m afraid I’m not a good fit for the, shall we say, ‘aesthetic sensibilities’ of the finer establishments.” 

“‘Aesthetic sensibilities’?”

Her ears flicked pointedly and the penny dropped for Lucifer like a lead weight into his stomach. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault in particular.”

“They’re idiots, all of them. They don’t know what they’re losing out on.”

“While that may be true, that fact does nothing to help me pay the bills. Those ”idiots” are the ones who hold the purse strings, after all.” 

“Yeah,” Lucifer replied, chastened. Then, he remembered. “I left you a tip. A hundred bucks. Did you get it?”

The woman’s eyes went wide. “You—no. I did not.”

Lucifer scowled. “That son of a bitch. Here.” He breaks out his wallet and pulls out a crisp one hundred dollar bill.

“Put that away!” She hissed, eyes darting around. “Do you want to get mugged?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Lucifer hastily put his wallet back in his suit pocket. 

“Imbecile!” 

“Yeah, I know. I get that a lot.” He smiled sheepishly. “How can I get you your tip, then?” 

“It’s fine. I don’t need it.” 

“But I want you to have it. I can’t imagine that place is paying you what you’re worth.”

“I said that it’s fine.”

She seemed angry, and Lucifer didn’t understand why. What he did understand was that suddenly this was far more about him being stupid enough to pull out cash in a place like this. 

“But—” 

“I don’t need your charity, sir.”

Lucifer’s eyes widened and he held up his hands. “It’s not—I didn’t—”

“Walk two more blocks and wait on the corner. You can hail a cab from there.” 

She swung her leg over her bike and Lucifer did the only thing he could think of. 

He grabbed her handle bars. 

“Let go this instant!” 

“Just—you would just wait a second!”

“I’ll scream! I swear I will!”

It was absurd. Here he was, a man of forty-three years struggling in the street at nearly two o’clock in the morning with a young woman who might just have been young enough to be his daughter. Seen in the best light, he was making a complete ass of himself, but knowing his luck, someone was going to see them and call the cops and then he’d have a whole new set of problems to deal with once his mug shot was all over the evening news. He needed to admit that he’d somehow stepped in it yet again, let go, and cut his losses on this miserable farce of a day. 

Instead, he held on tighter. 

“I liked your music! It made me feel something, and I haven’t felt fucking anything in so long, and I just—I just wanted to…” 

She stopped struggling as he trailed off, a little out of breath. The admission had somehow taken more out of him than their little altercation. 

The woman watched him, waiting. “You wanted to?”

“To… thank you, I guess. The tip was the best way I knew how. I didn’t mean to insult you. I really didn’t.” 

Lucifer removed his hands from her bicycle. To his immense relief, she didn’t immediately make a run for it. Something in her gaze seemed to soften until she looked away with an indignant sniff. 

“I prefer to earn my keep, if it’s all the same to you.” 

“You prefer to earn your keep,” Lucifer repeated slowly, the gears in his head creaking into motion. It was a stupid idea. Grade A, grass-finished bullshit. But he’d felt a spark when he’d heard her sing, and he’d be absolutely damned if he lost it now. 

Perhaps she could sense it, too, because she took one curious look at his face before pinching the bridge of her nose. “I feel like I am going to regret asking this, but… what?” 

“If I tell you, you have to promise that you’ll hear me out to the end, okay? And, uh, maybe not punch me.”

“...I reserve the right to punch you if necessary.”

“Right. Okay. That’s fair.” 

Lucifer took a deep breath. 

“I have a business proposition for you.” 

Chapter Text

“Jesus Christ, where the fuck have you been? I was aboutta call Husker and everyone to start lookin’ for you!”

“Apologies, Angel, dear,” Alastor said as she shucked off her coat and hung it on a peg in the wall. She waited a moment to see if the weight would pull the thing right out of the drywall. “I was unexpectedly delayed.”

Angel crossed his upper most set of arms over his chest while the hands of his lower set remained firmly on his hips. “Ya don’t fucking say. Jesus, would it kill ya to have a fucking phone like a normal person?” 

“And give the government access to my location at all times? I’ll take my chances without one.”

“Glad to know your little fucking conspiracy theory is more important than my blood preasure, ya jerk.” 

Alastor turned toward Angel, prepared to explain yet again that her concerns about carrying a mobile device as a member of a marginalized minority group under the current administration was entirely valid, but she relented with a sigh. Angel’s anger was a poor disguise for his worry, and Alastor was more than two hours late returning to their shared apartment. Had their positions been reversed, Alastor was sure that she’d be giving Angel a thorough dressing down as well. Not to mention that Angel had been nothing but hospitable toward her since she’d moved in a month or so after she started to work at the club. 

Husker, her bassist, had brokered the introduction once Alastor had let slip that she was commuting almost forty-five minutes by bicycle through the worst part of the city to get to the club from where she’d been living. Alastor had initially balked at the suggestion. She was an intensely private person with a strong opinion about the rules of propriety, and Anthonoy—or, Angel Dust as he was known to his patrons—was a stripper who seemed to hit on anything with a pulse. But after an awkward first few days, Alastor found herself growing fond of the spiderfolk man. While sometimes his openness towards sex still made her uncomfortable, they both had a deep appreciation for the culinary arts and Alastor was delighted to find that he genuinely enjoyed jazz. 

“It was not my intention to worry you.” She nodded toward the center of their small kitchenette and flashed her most charming smile. She’d barely made it through the front door before Angel had started in on her. “...may I come in, then?” 

Angel raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Yeah, yeah. Get in here an’ get warmed up already, ya fucking nuisance...”

Alastor toed off her shoes and stepped bare-hoofed onto the old laminate tile. The chill felt lovely under her tired hooves. 

“Sooo, are you gonna tell me about this unexpected delay of yours?” Any remaining irritation bled from Angel’s face, leaving only concern behind. “You didn’t run into any trouble, did ya? Ya not hurt or nothing, right?” 

Alastor gently diverted Angel’s reaching hands. “No, dear. No. Quite the opposite, in fact. I encountered a gentleman whose car had broken down on Seventh a few blocks down from the club.”

Angel stared at Alastor, processing what he’d said. He leaned his backside against the peeling formica counter top. “You stopped to help some guy on Seventh?”

“That is correct.”

Angel stared a moment longer before he sighed. “Imma need some coffee for this. You want some?” 

“As long as it’s not instant,” Alastor replied as she sat down at the kitchen table. 

“Hah! As if. My Nonna would slap me from beyond the grave.” Angel pulled a red and yellow can of Café Bustelo from the cabinet. “No, ma’am. We use a moka pot in this house. Wanna tell me why you would help anyone on Seventh in the middle of the night, let alone some guy?” 

“...would you believe me if I said that I am simply a good samaritan?” 

Angel snorted as he scooped some coffee into the base of a well-loved moka pot. “Not a chance, dollface. So what gives? Ya got a death wish or something I should know about?” 

The question was a valid one. Seventh Avenue was not the place to get involved in things, least of all in the dead of night.

“Not at all.”

Angel set the moka pot on the stove and lit the burner. “So what gives?”

“For one, he was rich.”

Angel turned around slowly. “...and I’m assuming you had reason to believe he wasn’t a pimp or a drug dealer.” 

Alastor nodded. “He was a sheltered idiot with more money than sense who’d had the bad fortune of having both his car and his phone die on Seventh. He showed up at the club, too, just as the rain picked up. He said he’d been on his way to try and catch a cab.” She paused, deciding to keep the fact that the man in question had been none other than Lucifer Morningstar close to the chest for now. “He heard me sing.” 

“Ooooh?” Angel cooed as any lingering concern seemed to vanish. “And did mister tall, dark, and loaded hear your voice and fall head ova heels for ya?” 

“Well, not exactly, but…” 

Angel raised an eyebrow. “But…?”

Alastor pulled the elastic from her hair, and her mane came tumbling down past her shoulders. She massaged her sore scalp with her fingers. “I was taking the man up to where he could find a reliable cab, and he said he had a ‘business proposition’ for me. He said that he had a slew of social engagements and parties for which he needed entertainment. He wanted me to sing for them and, on occasion, act as his date. In return, he’d pay for any necessary incidentals—food, accommodations, clothes—in addition to a stipend of eight thousand for about a week.” She huffed. “Can you imagine?”

Angel’s eyes went wide and a grin split his face. “Holy shit. That’s amazing, Alastor!”

Alastor blinked. “What on Earth about anything I just said is amazing?” 

“Uh, how about the part where some guy wants to pay for you and all ya stuff for a whole week? Talk about living the dream!”

“More like a nightmare,” she grimaced. “I turned him down on the spot.” 

“What the fu—why?” 

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” Alastor asked, unprepared for Angel’s obvious horror. “He is a man, Angel, dear, and any man who is making such proposals to a strange woman on Seventh Avenue is not interested in music.” 

Angel stared at Alastor until the moka pot started to sputter. He took it off the heat and sighed. 

“Alastor. I love ya like a sister, but sometimes you are just so stupid you make me wanna smack ya.” 

“What?” Alastor asked, affronted. “What on Earth did I do?”

“The man is basically offering ta be your sugar daddy for the week, and you tell him no!” 

“My—you cannot be serious!”

“About which part? That he wanted to be your sugar daddy, or that you're a dummy for tellin’ him no.” 

 “I’d never agree to such an arrangement!” 

“Why not? From what you told me, the guy’s got a thing for your voice, right? Why not tug on those ol’ philanthropic heartstrings of his an’ get him to support the arts by supporting you? 

Angel poured their coffees, and Alastor used the break in the conversation to collect herself. 

“…I was unaware you knew such difficult words, dear.”

“Hah hah, jackass.” Angel took the seat across the table from Alastor. “But… okay, look. You’re in a shitty position. I get it. Believe me, I do. But you need the money, right? And I get that you don’t wanna strip or nothing for it.”

Alastor’s gaze shifted to the side. “Angel, I never meant to imply that I think badly of your line of work—”

Angel waved her off with a little smile. “I know that, so don’t worry about it. Stripping ain’t for everyone. But…” Angel’s smile faded with a sigh. “Look, that guy was offerin’ you eight thousand for a week of singing and looking pretty on his arm, and I bet your bank account hasn’t had that much in it at one time for years, right?”

Alastor looked down into her cup of coffee as Angel took a sip of his. He was right. Considering her current monthly earnings minus the cost of bare necessities, she was staring down the barrel of a future in which she’d be trapped singing at that horrible club until she was no longer attractive enough to do so—if the loan sharks let her live so long.

To make matters worse, the cost of replacing her bicycle after her old one had been stolen last month had cost her dearly. Angel had kindly covered what she couldn’t for her share of the rent, but even so, she was very close to falling behind on her loan repayments.

“And, I mean, would givin’ up your v-card for eight K really be so bad at the end of the day?” Angel continued, pulling her from her thoughts. 

“My what card?”

“Your—” Angel sighed. “I mean, so what if you ended up having to have sex with him? Ya do the deed, ya get your bag, and ya leave with more money than you’d have made in six months singing in that shitty club.”

But Alastor was already shaking her head. “No. Absolutely not. There is no way that I will ever have a—”

“—sugar daddy?” Lucifer gasped once he’d finally coughed the last of his appletini out of his lungs. “Oh, no. No, no, no. It’s not like that at all, Ozzie. I just—all I did was ask her to sing at the events I have coming up—”

“—and you’d pay for all her needs on top of an allowance of nearly ten grand,” the man sitting across the small table from Lucifer said with a frown as he slid a napkin towards him. A waiter eyed them nervously. Bar Les Étoiles had an exclusive guest list, and it would be a PR disaster to have one of their richest members choke to death on the premises. 

Ozzie sighed and rubbed his forehead as Lucifer covered his face with his hands. Lucifer had told him over the phone that he wanted to meet to discuss some situation he’d gotten himself in with a woman, but this was not what he’d been expecting. Not by a long shot. 

“Luci, man, I love you, but I swear to God, you are the dumbest smart guy I have ever met.” 

“Oh, my God, Ozzie, what did I do?” Lucifer moaned, slowly pulling his hands down his face. “That’s not what I meant at all. I just thought—and she was so good, Ozzie, oh my God, if you had just heard her sing, you’d—” 

“Take a breath, Luci.” 

Lucifer sucked in a breath and let it out as a sigh. “I just… I just wanted to help. It had been such a fucking shit day and then she was just there, like some angel of song, and—”

“Lucifer. You heard her sing one song, man.”

Lucifer collapsed in on himself like a deflating soufflé. It was painful to watch. He knew better than anyone that Lucifer was a master at paving the road to his own personal Hell with nothing but the best of intentions. 

Asmodeus—or “Ozzie” to his closest friends—had first met Lucifer when they were assigned as roommates during their first year at their fancy private college upstate. Their families may not have run in the same social circles, but there was enough overlap that they knew who the other was before they even introduced themselves: the second son of a political dynasty and the only child of a famous movie studio executive. 

Lucifer spent the first week of that semester rolling out the welcome mat with every possible overture of friendship. Ozzie couldn’t understand why. Lucifer outranked him in virtually every metric of the social order: influence, money, power. But the harder Lucifer tried to “make friends” like it was his first day of kindergarten, the more Ozzie got the feeling he was just trying to kiss his ass. After all, the guy had about as much game as an over-eager golden retriever and he struggled socially as a result. Ozzie, on the other hand? He played hard with the cool crowd, had VIP status at exclusive clubs, and even got bottle service—never mind the fact that he was only eighteen. Rules weren’t meant for people like him, and as far as he was concerned, Lucifer Morningstar was just a try-hard who’d only gotten into college through his family connections. He didn’t need him. 

It wasn’t until after the scandal broke that Ozzie learned who Lucifer really was. Ozzie’s so-called friends had scattered like autumn leaves in the wind once the news broke. The discovery of his father’s porn studio itself was unsavory enough, but the allegations that he had underage performers on the roster had made even Ozzie toxic by the sin of association, and no one wanted to risk contamination. 

He holed up the room he shared with Lucifer for a whole week, ignoring his roommate’s awkward yet earnest attempts at conversation or invitations to go get food. Leaving the room was not an option. Ozzie might have cut an intimidating picture at six-two and two-hundred pounds of almost pure muscle, but inside he was barely a man. He couldn’t bear hearing the whispers of his peers. 

Things reached an inflection point one night when Lucifer approached him with none of his usual hesitance. “Get up,” he said.  

“Fuck off, man,” Ozzie replied from his bed, but instead of backing off like he usually did, Lucifer just doubled down. 

“Get up. I want to show you something.”

Ozzie sat up and tried to stare Lucifer down, but Lucifer just looked at him with a calm sort of patience that made him feel a little small. He glanced at his alarm clock. It was 11:23 on a Monday. It wasn’t likely they’d be many students out at this time. 

“Man,” he said, running  his fingers through his unwashed hair in an attempt to tame it. “This better be good.” 

Of all the places he thought Lucifer might bring him, the studio arts building wasn’t one of them. Lucifer let them in with his key card. Ozzie frowned. He’d thought that only art majors could get in after hours, and he knew for a fact that Lucifer was majoring in business. Lucifer tapped his card to one of the private studios inside and let them in. He flicked on the light, and Ozzie drew a sharp breath. 

The room was filled with winged angels and devils with reaching hands and desperate eyes carved into marble and limestone. Some were small—only a few feet high—while others were nearly as tall as he was.  

“Holy shit,” Ozzie said despite himself. He moved closer to one of the statues to examine the details of each and every feather on one of the angel’s wings. “Did you do this?” 

Lucifer rocked back on his heels a little, and Ozzie can see a trace of the roommate he’d grown used to. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were a business major.”

“I am.” He smiled crookedly. “A business major with an undeclared second major in studio arts, sculpture focus.” 

“So how’d you get a studio, then.” 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “How does anyone get anything around here? Money. College professors don’t make nearly enough, anyway.” 

Ozzie was bemused. All this time, Lucifer had never let on in the slightest that he knew how to play the game that governed the lives of the students at their fine and storied institution. 

“Anyway, I didn’t bring you here to show you my art.” Lucifer walked to a locker of tools and came back with a sledgehammer. He handed it to Ozzie. 

Ozzie hesitated, but took it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” 

Lucifer pointed toward the center of the room. On a dais was a block of limestone in the process of becoming a person. It was an eerie sight, like someone was trying to escape from the block rather than something being carved into it. 

“Smash it.” 

Ozzie took a step back from Lucifer. “What?” He looked at the beginnings of the statue again. “No, man. I’m not going to smash your statue. Why the hell would I do that?” 

“Just… smash it. You’ll feel better. Trust me.” 

Ozzie looked at Lucifer like he was crazy. He was crazy. Ozzie was calm, cool, and mature. He didn’t need to smash up some stupid piece of rock to feel better. 

He didn’t. 

He let the sledgehammer fly. 

He hit the rock again and again until his hands were tingling from the impact and he tasted salt between his lips. He dropped to his knees once the rock had turned to rubble and he cried. Lucifer moved to his side, but offered no kind word or touch. He simply bore witness to his outpouring of grief in a kind of silent camaraderie. 

His tears mixed with the limestone dust to become the cement that bound their friendship together, and a little over two decades later, it was still just as strong.

Which is why Ozzie felt particularly qualified and completely justified to tell his friend just what an absolute idiot he was. Although perhaps it wasn’t really necessary. Lucifer seemed to be doing that just fine on his own.

He looked up at Ozzie. “What do you think I can do to salvage this situation? Do you think I should go to the club and try to apologize?” 

“First, no, you should definitely not go back to that club. That’s just asking for trouble, and you know it. You get caught there, and you know Lilith is gonna work that to her advantage every which way she can. But more importantly, you made a pretty bold offer to that lady and she said no in no uncertain terms. Going to her place of work is just gonna be trampling all over that refusal. She’s got your number, right?” 

Lucifer nodded miserably. 

“Then you’re just gonna have to wait and see if she reaches out to you. Look, I know you wanna make things right, but sometimes the best way to do that is by doing nothing at all, alright?” 

Lucifer knew Ozzie was right, but that did nothing to take away the sting. His meeting with that woman was just another of a long string of failures. He knew nothing about this woman, but he had the feeling that it would take nothing short of an act of God for her to ever deign to call his number. 

But Lucifer was wrong.

It wasn’t an act of God that prompted her to call after nearly a week of silence. 

It was the act of a certain slimy pimp.