For a long moment, Stephen said nothing. The weight of what he had seen, what he had felt—it pressed against his ribs like a vice, his mind scrambling for logic, for reason, for anything that made sense.
But there was nothing. Just Lucifer. Just the impossible made real.
Stephen shook his head once, twice, before he muttered, "So you really are the devil, then."
Lucifer's brows lifted slightly, but he didn't gloat. Didn't tease.
Just watched.
Stephen exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. Then he glanced up, giving Lucifer a dry, tired smirk.
"Well," he murmured, eyes flicking over him as he tried to regain his composure, "you don't look very demonic."
Lucifer sighed, rolling his eyes as he, without fanfare, flexed his shoulders and, behind him—something stirred. Not fully visible. Not enough to burn Stephen's mind with the impossibility of divinity. But just enough to see hints of pure white feathers, barely brushing the edges of reality, shifting like they were just on the cusp of existence.
Soft, radiant—breathtakingly out of place in a world like this.
Stephen stared.
"Sorry to disappoint you with my lack of horns and goat-like features," he said airily. "Though, really, if they were going to slander me, I wish they'd chosen another animal. I hate goat's milk."
Stephen blinked, caught off guard as Lucifer continued—as if he hadn't just shattered Stephen's perception of reality.
"Can't even blame Pan, poor bastard," he muttered, adjusting his cufflinks. "He was just as much a victim of humanity's slander as I was."
Stephen let out a huff of laughter, because the words, the tone—it was ridiculous and insane, but so much like the Lucifer he's got to know. And maybe that was why—just for a moment—he felt himself relax.
Because Lucifer, the angel and the King of Hell, was also a dramatic, ranting, self-indulgent bastard and, somehow, that made this easier. Less like his mind was unraveling at the seams.
Stephen exhaled, rubbing his temple as he muttered, "You're a piece of work."
Lucifer beamed. "I do try."
Stephen leaned back, finally taking a sip of the whiskey Lucifer had poured him. Then, with a dry smirk, he muttered, "You know, I was joking about the whole 'demonic' thing."
Lucifer tilted his head, intrigued as Stephen swirled the amber liquid in his glass, eyes flicking to Lucifer's still-faintly-visible wings.
"I know you're an angel," he continued. "Grew up hearing all the stories of the Bible as a child."
Lucifer's brow lifted. "Oh?"
Stephen exhaled, gaze distant for a second, like he was pulling from long-buried memories.
"Yeah," he said, shrugging. "I grew up on a farm. Family was very religious. Big on church, big on community."
Lucifer perked up, intrigued, as he gave Stephen a slow once-over. A pointed once-over. From his impeccably tailored clothes, to the pristine, expensive watch on his wrist, which, Lucifer was almost certain, was different from the one he'd been wearing the day before.
A slow, amused smile curled at Lucifer's lips.
"A farm boy?" he mused, golden eyes twinkling with delight. "You?"
Stephen rolled his eyes, already regretting his life choices. "Don't start."
But Lucifer was already picturing it.
"Hard to imagine you wrangling cattle in Armani," he teased, eyeing the watch again. "Or, shall I say, wrangling debt to maintain your absolutely modest lifestyle?"
Stephen shot him a dry glare, taking another sip of whiskey.
"Oh, this is delightful," Lucifer mused. "Did little farm-boy Stephen have a cowboy hat? A trusty steed? Perhaps a dramatic tale about his first heartbreak with country music sounding in the background?"
Stephen deadpanned. "I hate you."
Lucifer beamed. "Do you, now?"
Stephen pointedly ignored him, returning his focus to his drink.
Lucifer chuckled, stretching out comfortably as he rested his chin on his hand, golden eyes gleaming with genuine interest.
A farm boy, raised in faith, now a prickly, stubborn, wildly expensive doctor?
"So," he murmured, voice smooth, "tell me more about your early life, farm boy."
Stephen blinked. Because of all the responses he had expected, actual curiosity wasn't one of them.
His first instinct was to deflect, so he scoffed lightly, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
"Pretty sure my early life isn't nearly as interesting as yours must have been," he said dryly.
Lucifer didn't take the bait, though. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying him with an intensity that made Stephen feel far too exposed.
"You'd be surprised," Lucifer murmured.
Stephen shifted, feeling strangely off balance, because Lucifer—the smug, insufferable, endlessly dramatic Lucifer—wasn't teasing him. Wasn't trying to push his buttons. He just… wanted to know.
Stephen swallowed, and the question slipped out before he could stop himself. "Why?"
Lucifer's smile dimmed, but not in a dramatic way. Not in an exaggerated pout or a wounded huff. It was in a way that felt… real, as if he hadn't expected the question himself. And the white shadow of his wings shifted behind him, rustling softly—a contrast to his otherwise relaxed demeanor.
Stephen's breath caught, because the wings have moved without the usual grace Lucifer easily exuded. It was a subtle movement, unconscious.
Lucifer was composed, posture easy, expression unreadable—but his wings? They betrayed him. It was a tell that Stephen didn't know why made something warm curl in his chest.
It was… charming. Oddly so.
And the realization made heat crawl up his neck, settling high on his cheekbones.
When Lucifer's eyes flicked to him, sharp as ever, Stephen looked away. He cleared his throat and muttered, "Forget it."
Lucifer's smirk slowly returned, though this time it was softer. Less like a challenge and more like a secret. And Stephen didn't know what to do with the way Lucifer tilted his head, still watching with the same, unsettlingly earnestness.
"I said it before, didn't I?" he murmured. "I want you to be my friend."
Stephen's breath hitched, because, yes, Lucifer said it before. However, he hadn't expected that answer now. And certainly hadn't expected the sincerity.
Lucifer smiled, but it wasn't his usual smirk—it was lighter, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.
"So," Lucifer continued, seemingly deciding to give him a break as he leaned in just slightly, golden eyes warm with amusement, "what did your family have? Goats? Sheep? Horses? Oh, do tell me there was a pig named Wilbur."
Stephen groaned, posture relaxing as he rubbed his forehead.
"Jesus," he muttered.
"Him, I don't talk to much," he said cheerfully. "Daddy issues, you know how it is."
Stephen shot him a look, but Lucifer simply grinned. And before Stephen could think better of it, he answered, honestly: "No goats. No horses."
Lucifer nodded thoughtfully, still smiling.
"But we had sheep," Stephen admitted, trying to ignore the way Lucifer's eyes lit up and his wings perked up.
"And?" he prompted.
Stephen sighed. "...And there was a pig."
Lucifer's smile widened. "Oh, do go on."
Stephen crossed his arms, glaring down at his whiskey. "...His name was Piglet."
Lucifer blinked before his face split into a delighted grin.
"Piglet?" he repeated, laughing. "Like Winnie the Pooh's Piglet?"
Stephen glared. "I was five."
Lucifer laughed harder and Stephen downed the rest of his whiskey as the angel, still grinning, leaned back in his seat, looking far too pleased.
"Tell me, Doctor," he purred, "did little Piglet like belly rubs?"
Stephen gave serious thought to punching him. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, settling high on his ears.
Lucifer was having far too much fun with this. So Stephen did what any self-respecting man would do when faced with his own mortification.
He tried to change the subject. Poorly.
"We also had cows," he blurted out, reaching for the bottle of whiskey as he served himself.
Lucifer arched a brow, pure amusement radiating from him. "Did you now?"
Stephen took a long sip, glaring at the amber liquid as if it had personally wronged him.
"Yes," he muttered. "Cows. Lots of them. Milk and everything. Very exciting. Anyway." He set the glass down with more force than necessary. "Tell me about your life."
Lucifer chuckled, leaning back, utterly unbothered.
"My life? Oh, my dear doctor, most of it's been recorded already. Badly, of course, but the gist of it is fairly close to the truth." He waved a hand. "The rebellion, the Fall, the whole fire and brimstone aesthetic—humans have never been ones to resist a bit of dramatic storytelling."
Stephen rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, leaning in slightly. "I don't care about the grand history, Lucifer. I want the embarrassing stories."
Lucifer paused and, for half a second, Stephen thought he had actually caught him off guard. But then, Lucifer smirked, golden eyes flickering with something unreadable.
"Embarrassing stories?" he echoed smoothly. "My, my, Doctor, how scandalous."
Stephen held his ground. "Fair is fair."
Lucifer hummed, gaze flickering over him with amusement—but there was something else, too. Not on his face. Not in his body language.
But in his wings. The soft, barely-there shimmer of them behind him—They puffed up, preened.
It was subtle, but undeniable. And Stephen—against all logic, against all reason—found himself entranced by it, because for all of Lucifer's casual confidence, his practiced arrogance—There was something in him that was deeply, profoundly pleased about being asked.
Not just about his legend. Not about the devil's tale. But about him.
Lucifer's smirk widened slightly, gaze gleaming.
"Oh, Doctor," he purred, tapping a finger against his glass. "You are interesting."
Stephen, stubborn as ever, refused to be deterred.
"So?" he prompted, crossing his arms. "Got something for me, or do I have to assume you were always this infuriating?"
Lucifer laughed.
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