Chapter Text
Wilbur often plays a game in his head when he’s bored. He pretends he has the power to reverse time, and he chooses one of the infinite paths he might have followed in the aftermath of Earth’s creation. Sometimes, he decides to author a different calamity, not that he can remember much about his own in the first place. In other fantasies, he reveals himself to humanity before that righteous prick of a half-mortal is sent by the Father to do his Lord’s bidding. His imaginings are often grand and miraculous, a byproduct of his true name spending years gathering dust in the depths of undiscovered desert tombs.
Despite his mind’s tendency to wander far beyond his own capabilities, Wilbur enjoys his life as it is. He travels, and he eats wonderful food, and he occasionally participates in – or starts, depending on who you ask – a war. Once a millennium, a human will catch his eye, and time slows to a reasonable pace until Wilbur can’t stand the heartbreak of their growing old. He hasn’t experienced the feeling in at least a century, probably more, and isn’t eager to go through the process again.
He certainly isn’t expecting to encounter the next addition to his list of mistakes in a small Boston coffee shop, hunched over a thick textbook with a furrow in his brow and an iced americano clenched tightly in his hand.
Wilbur allows his gaze to travel the length of the other man’s body, casually observing his lean build clad in a Harvard Law sweatshirt and black sweatpants. Between the gear and the absurdly large book, Wilbur makes the astute assumption that he’s a student at the local Ivy.
Exam season, Wilbur decides once he remembers that it’s mid-November. He’s been to university more times than he can count, from the time they began as open classes at sunset on beautiful Greek beaches to the more modern Oxford at the turn of the century. Even as long as it’s been, he knows vividly the stress of this time of year.
At some point he reminds himself that he must stop staring, or others in the café will notice his unblinking focus on this incredible stranger. He is incredible, although perhaps not by mortal standards, with his dark eyes and even darker hair, his delicate hands and soft cupid’s bow. The stranger looks down at his phone in the next moment, and Wilbur catches a smile that makes his undead heart flutter in his chest. He’s so richly human that Wilbur wants to eat him alive, in every sense of the word.
His own phone buzzes on the table, the screen lighting up to reveal a missed call from “Toms.” He sighs, taking a sip from his drink and typing out a quick excuse to his younger brother, paired with a promise to call back as soon as he’s home. It’s despairingly easy to lie to the archangel, although Wilbur thinks it’s just in Tommy’s nature to trust implicitly rather than a trait inherited from his spot at the Father’s right hand.
“Excuse me?”
Wilbur jolts in his seat and whips his head up to face the voice as if he’s been caught with his hand so far into the cookie jar it might as well be in the oven. Normally he’d be disappointed in himself for reacting in such a way, but any feeling of self-loathing dissipates immediately because it’s the stranger come over to talk to him.
“Ah – yes, h-hello,” Wilbur stutters, plastering what he hopes is a grin across his mouth and desperately attempting to maintain eye contact. “Can I help you?”
The man raises an eyebrow, and his lips quirk with the hint of a smirk as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “What’s your drink?”
Wilbur stares hard at the cup in front of him, trying very much to remember what asinine thing he’d told the overworked barista to put together for him. He draws a stiff blank, thoughts clouded by the scent of light cologne and old paper emanating from the stranger.
“Um,” he says intelligently, and if he didn’t know any better he’d say that the other man’s sudden and slight cough was a laugh in disguise. “I actually couldn’t tell you. Something with vanilla, I think, and over ice.”
“Well, I can see that much myself,” the stranger teases. Wilbur feels himself blush against his will, but he supposes it’s better than that blood running in the opposite direction. His face heats more when the man holds out a hand, clearly intending for him to take it. “I’m Alex, by the way.”
The demon takes the proffered appendage as calmly as he can, forcing his body to stop shaking with a combination of caffeine and nerves. “Wilbur, or Wil, if you’d like.”
“You’ve got a nice accent, Wil,” says Alex, and Wilbur almost has a heart attack because the man is moving to sit across from him. “I don’t meet a lot of people from across the pond, and when I do they’re not nearly as pretty.”
Wilbur has coffee halfway down his throat when the human spouts his compliment, which is not ideal considering he spasms for a moment and chokes theatrically, alerting at least a third of the café to his near-death experience. Fortunately, Alex seems much more amused than annoyed if his knowing smirk is anything to go by.
“Sorry,” he manages through heavy breaths. It suddenly occurs to him that he is an ageless creature of evil getting flustered over a mortal in a coffee shop, and he briefly wonders what mistakes he must have made to reach this point. “Just startled me, is all. I’m not really –” he cuts himself off, avoiding for a moment Alex’s twinkling gaze. “Not really used to compliments.”
Alex’s smirk widens considerably. “I could fix that for you, actually. Guaranteed, if you give me your number and let me take you on a date, you’ll never get so worked up over me calling you pretty ever again.”
Wilbur has to actively prevent himself from hyperventilating. He’s been with countless humans over the centuries. He’s flirted and fucked strictly more than his fill, and yet Alex has the ability to render him utterly useless with a few cheesy lines.
“Sure,” he croaks. He scrabbles through his pocket for the pen he usually keeps there – Tommy had given it to him last time they’d spoke in person, and he can’t bring himself to throw it out – and shakily etches his number into a damp napkin. He senses Alex’s eyes on him as he does it, happily in tandem with his teasing grin.
“Thanks,” the man murmurs as he takes the napkin, and Wilbur shudders when their finger brush against each other. “I’ll be in touch,” he says over his shoulder as he stands and struts back to his own table to grab his bag, winking cheekily on his way out of the café.
Wilbur lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, his forehead rapidly coming in contact with cool wood as he all but collapses. He groans quietly when his phone buzzes again, the soft and incessant melody of “The Able Sisters” echoing right by his ear.
He lifts his head just enough to eye the name at the top of the screen, although he doubts Tommy can sense his annoyance across time and space. It’s with the comforting thought of throttling the pesky archangel next time they meet that he answers the call.
“What could possibly be so important that you call me twice in a row, Theseus?” he gripes before his brother can chirp his typical greeting. He knows that the bad feelings will leak out of him the moment he hears the unwavering joy in Tommy’s tone.
“No need to use that name, big man,” is Tommy’s casual reply, clearly unphased by Wilbur’s testy attitude. The demon can admit, if only to himself, that his family’s tolerance of his moods fills him with a sense of comfort. “You know I don’t mean to pry into your life, but I have some important information you’ll want to be privy to.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Wilbur scoffs. “It’s not a festival invitation, is it?”
Tommy huffs out a laugh, and Wilbur notices with some concern that his younger brother sounds tired. Exhausted, really, if the lack of excessive exuberance is any indication.
“I wish it was,” the boy says, sounding more fervently wistful than Wilbur has heard him in at least a decade. “It’s a serious matter. I would rather tell you in person, actually, if you have the time.”
Wilbur makes a noise in the back of his throat that could either be a growl or a laugh. “This seems like an excuse to get me in front of the pearly gates again, Toms, and we both know what happened last time we attempted it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Wil,” Tommy says with a sigh. A bolt of concern shoots down the demon’s spine, because his brother only takes that name in vain when he’s truly frustrated. “I’m breaking about a million rules to get you this news, the least you could do is humor me.”
“Alright, alright,” Wilbur caves, dropping the front and allowing himself to fall into the person he reserves for Tommy alone. “I’m in America at the moment, d’you think you could make it to Boston sometime this week?”
“Boston sounds nice,” the archangel acknowledges, and Wilbur can hear the slight smile in his voice. “Of course you’d make camp in a home of revolution.”
“I can show you all the sights, if you visit,” the demon promises. Now that he’s noticed the strain in Tommy’s words, he’s made it his mission to offer relief. “There’s even a nice little café that serves those pastries you like.”
“Oh my god, scones,” Tommy moans, and Wilbur laughs. “I haven’t had one in years, big man, you have no idea.”
“It’s a plan, then,” Wilbur says with a sense of finality. “Text me when you arrive, and I’ll make up a bed for you in the living room. Surely they won’t miss you for a couple of days, and we can do all the fun American things they’ve got around here.”
Tommy sighs again, deeper this time. “I’ll only be able to stay for a couple of hours, Wil, but I’d love to hang out for a bit while I’m there. We can do the café and a monument or two, yeah?”
Wilbur staves the disappointment rising in his chest with an iron fist. As much as he acts put-upon when Tommy intrudes in his life, he misses spending time with his younger brother. “Yeah, of course. Another time, for everything else.”
“Yeah,” Tommy agrees, but he sounds melancholy, as if he doesn’t quite believe himself as he says it. “I’ll text you, alright? Keep your phone on you in case it’s at an odd hour, they’ve got me busy at the moment and I don’t know when I’ll be free.”
“Sure Toms,” the demon says, sensing the heaviness in the younger’s voice. “Call again soon, alright?”
“Will do, big man.”
The line beeps, and Wilbur carefully sets the phone on the table in front of him, gaze directed far, far away from the café. He misses the earlier days of Earth, when he and Tommy would sneak away to a country neither had been to and cause mischief until they stumbled upon an adventure. Those were the days before his brother became an archangel, and consequently lost much of his boyish disregard for the rules. Wilbur can taunt it out of him, every once in a while, with carefully chosen dares and promises of great fun, but it isn’t the same as it was a millennia ago. It’s another reminder of his age, and his desire for his Eternal Sleep.
He notices more consciously the condensation sinking into his skin where he grips his cup, his fingers soaked with the evidence of ice long lost to a mixture of cream and espresso. His lips twist with disgust as he shakes off his hand and stands, slinging the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder and grabbing his phone. He spares a cursory glance for the abandoned cup and its pool of gathered water, before exiting the café and starting on the path back to his apartment.
Alex is having a shit morning when the stranger in the coffee shop won’t stop staring at him.
His alarm didn’t wake him up, and he’s half-convinced it didn’t go off in the first place because his circadian rhythm is superb and infallible. Fortunately, Karl was wandering around the kitchen banging pots and pans fifteen minutes before Alex was meant to catch his bus, effectively forcing him to check his phone in annoyance and thus see the time. He’d thrown on the first sweatshirt and pants he saw and sprinted out the door, his roommate frantically waving a forgotten charger at his back.
He hadn’t known about the last bit until he was already on the bus, forehead dripping sweat and accumulating odd looks from his fellow passengers. Karl texted him a list — a full list! — of things he’d forgotten in his mad dash out of the apartment. Not that many of them were integral to his morning, considering his primary responsibility was an exam at eleven-thirty. He had his textbook and enough cash to get him a chai latte at the café he’d taken to frequenting, and that’s what mattered.
Naturally, they’re out of chai at the shop, as well as the breakfast sandwich he usually gets. He orders a croissant and an americano, and sends up a quick prayer promising celibacy if the meager calories get him through the four hour ordeal of an exam he has in approximately forty minutes.
Alex finds a spot nearest the window and settles in to absorb as much arbitrary information about early Supreme Court cases as he can. That’s how he finds himself trapped beneath a pair of intense brown eyes conspicuously latched onto him from the moment he sits down.
At first, he’s a bit annoyed. There’s a lot on his mind, and the last thing he needs is someone hitting on him while he tries to study. He firmly decides to focus on his work rather than the distraction, because to do otherwise might spell his own failure.
In between paragraphs detailing the transfer of rights, however, he manages to sneak a few surreptitious glances over his shoulder, and what he finds intrigues him. The stranger has got to be at least six-foot-something, and his face is partially covered by dark curly hair that Alex has the inane urge to run his fingers through. His features are delicate, as if they were carved by a particularly careful doll-maker. His fingers tap an incessant rhythm into the table, driven by a beat Alex can neither hear nor identify with any real confidence.
The stranger is pretty, if he’s being honest with himself, and he can’t remember the last time he was distracted from his work by a pretty face.
He takes a deep breath, channeling whatever game he has left in his head between copious amounts of law trivia and whatever Nintendo update Karl had been rambling on about this morning, and approaches the stranger’s table.
Alex finds out that the stranger’s name is Wilbur, and he’s even prettier when he blushes. They flirt a bit, and he manages to get the man’s number without much hinderance besides his own overused pickup lines. He dips as soon as he’s accomplished his goal, eyeing the time with slight concern and breaking into a light jog once he’s out of the café.
Through a combination of sheer luck and incredible bus timing, he manages to get to his exam room before the professor even walks through the door. It goes swimmingly, despite the earlier distraction preventing him from doing much last-minute cramming. He chats with a couple of friends from class afterwards, then starts back for his apartment.
As he walks, he pulls the crumpled napkin from his pocket and keys the number written on it into his phone. He hesitates when prompted to give his new contact a name, eventually deciding that the comedic effect of “Wilby <3” is too pedantic to follow through. With a secretive grin, he sends a quick “hey ;)” and shoves his phone back into his pocket.
The giddiness that fills his chest reminds him of middle school, when everyone shared their crushes at the lunch table and expected something to happen. It’s a light feeling, more carefree than he’s experienced since coming to Boston for his first semester of law school, and he loves it. He can’t believe he’s getting butterflies thinking about a man he met just this morning, especially considering it normally takes him weeks, if not months, to appreciate someone’s character enough to be attracted to them. Wilbur has said all of ten words to him, and he’s already gone for him.
His heart skips as his phone buzzes tellingly, and he whips the device from it’s hiding place to check his notifications. A grin tugs at his lips when he opens his messages and sees the first one.
Wilbur, 3:23pm
Hey there ;)
Assumed you were studying for an exam earlier, how’d it go?
Alex has to fight the absurd urge to giggle at the idea that Wilbur is observant enough to recognize what he’d been doing in the café. It doesn’t make sense for him to find the thought equal parts vaguely hilarious and sweet, but he’s in the mood to allow nonsense.
Alex, 3:24pm
Fantastic, I’m a god
Are you a student too??
Wilbur, 3:24pm
Not at the moment, no
I’m glad it went well! Can I take you out for a celebratory drink?
Alex fully runs into the door to the stairwell leading up to the apartment he shares because he’s so consumed with typing out the perfect response. He shakes his head at himself as he pushes through the threshold and starts taking the stairs two at a time, face still buried in his phone.
Alex, 3:26pm
Sure, if you come looking like you did earlier
Wilbur, 3:26pm
Didn’t peg you for a librarian kink, but I do love a challenge
Alex, 3:26pm
Hey now, no need to expose me like this
Wilbur, 3:26pm
Oh? I thought exposing you was the goal
Alex takes a deep breath in through his nose as he crests the stairs at his floor, his body compensating for both the exertion and Wilbur’s messages. He’d seemed so easily flustered in the coffee shop, but Alex is the one fighting down a blush now.
Alex, 3:27pm
Buy me a drink first, and then we’ll see
Wilbur, 3:27pm
Name a time and place, sweetheart
A gust of air escapes Alex’s lungs as he unlocks the front door of the apartment and shuts it behind him, kicking his shoes off with more force than strictly necessary. He can hear Karl in his room shouting at his computer, and the sweet scent of freshly-baked brownies wafts in from the kitchen. His roommate must have been indulging his sugar craving this morning.
Alex, 3:29pm
I’m free Wednesday night, if that works for you
Wilbur, 3:29pm
Mm, I’ll have to cancel my reading hour but I think I can squeeze you in
There’s a nice pub near campus called Gafton’s, I could treat you to dinner as well
Alex, 3:29pm
Oh, I know Gafton’s
What a classy first date ;)
Wilbur, 3:30pm
What can I say, I enjoy spoiling my dates
“Alex? Is that you?” Karl shouts down the hall, effectively ripping said roommate from his pleasurable reverie within his phone. “It better be you, I’m not emotionally prepared to fight a burglar.”
“It’s me!” Alex calls back from his spot leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s not sure when he ended up here, but it must have happened at some point in his conversation with Wilbur. “I just got back from my exam.”
A head of messy brown hair pokes out from around the corner of the hallway that leads to Karl’s room. “I made brownies.”
“I can see that,” Alex acknowledges with a laugh. “I’ll have some in a minute.”
The head bobs as the shoulders connected to it shrug out of Alex’s line of sight. “It’s a new recipe, so I won’t blame you if you only take one. I was thinking of adding espresso next time.”
“Whatever is in it, I’m sure it’s great,” Alex assures him. Karl nods his assent, then disappears from his place in the doorway, followed a few seconds later by the sound of his door closing. Alex shakes his head in fond exasperation at the quick conversation, knowing his roommate’s tendency to be easily distracted by his own thoughts keeps him from engaging on a singular topic for very long.
He ignores his phone for the moment and grabs a brownie from the tin, sticking half of it in his mouth and nearly dropping the other in his haste to get a paper towel to set it on. Once he’s situated, he pockets his phone and plops himself down on the living room coach, turning on the TV with his unoccupied hand. He flips to a random football channel and turns the volume down until it’s barely audible, creating a soothing background noise.
Alex, 3:37pm
I hope to experience that firsthand
Wilbur, 3:37pm
It’ll be more than a hand, if you’re lucky
Alex laughs out loud when he reads the other man’s response. He never would have expected Wilbur to speak like this after their brief conversation in the café, and each message makes him even more pleased that he’d approached him in the first place.
Alex, 3:37pm
Not sure if I should be turned on or scared atm
Wilbur, 3:38pm
I’ve found that a combination of both is ideal
Wish I could chat longer, but my pesky brother requires my attention
Talk to you later, darling ;)
Alex, 3:38pm
No worries, talk to you later ;))
Once he’s sent the last message, Alex scrubs a hand over his face and tries to decide whether he should be excited or concerned that Wilbur sparks this reaction in him. After all of a moment’s internal debate, he determines that, if nothing else, the health benefits of more regular sex will get him through mid-term season.
And if Wilbur turns out to be more than a wily distraction, who is he to change fate?