Chapter Text
What most people would call routine, Alastor would prefer to call it ennui as he gets off the tram a couple of blocks close to his workplace. He doesn’t like the tram, people are too cramped and sweaty in the morning and evening rush, but he takes it anyway because his mom’s house is a good hour away from the city center.
Alastor, as his day usually goes, walks the cobblestone road past high-arched townhouses and wide, flat buildings shaped like squares. Sometimes those buildings were storefronts with papers taped to the window with job openings and even auditions. On his way home Alastor usually prefers to look through them consideringly, wondering for a moment if he should take one of them.
However, this early in the morning, Alastor is only concerned about making it to his job. There are still chickens running rampant around the streets, clucking and cawing at anyone unfortunate enough to pass by, and Alastor quickly walks past those too. Surprisingly, despite the hour, there are already street performers set up on a corner that he passes by frequently, happily playing away on brass instruments for a nickel.
Alastor stops at the intersection right before his workplace and enters the coffeehouse there. It’s fairly new and Mimzy praises it as the “bee’s knees of coffee, darling”. He had eyed the prices through the window when he passed by before and deemed it affordable enough for him. The bell chimes overhead as he enters, and is glad to note that there are far less people than he expected. He takes a seat by the bar, the stools bright red and eye-catching.
As far as coffeehouses go, this one is cozier than Alastor expects, despite its reputation of being a popular breakfast joint. The bar and most of the shop are made of rich wood with large windows, casting sunlight inside to keep the entire room lit. Behind the counter is a pale, blond man wiping a mug clean while listlessly staring into space in a completely white, pressed uniform with the sleeves folded to his forearms and an apron around his waist. Alastor clears his throat to attract his attention and the man quickly stows the mug away, throws the rag over his shoulder, and goes for the menus under the counter.
“Good morning,” the man says with a smile as he places the menu in front of him to peruse. “First time?”
Alastor doesn’t purse his lips but he doesn’t immediately take the menu. “In a coffeehouse? No.”
The blond man rolls his eyes and says, “Obviously not in a coffeehouse. I meant here. I don’t recognize you. I typically recognize most customers.”
“Do you now?” Alastor asks, feigning interest. He eyes the menu and it’s your typical assortment of coffees, teas, and pastries. “Well, you’d be right. I’d never come in through here. Although, I heard that the coffee here is spectacular! The cat’s meow, if you will. I’m not one for making opinions without trying them out for myself, though.”
“You’re in luck then. I’m the one who makes that spectacular coffee,” he—Lucifer, as the tag on his shirt reads—says with a proud grin. Alastor’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything as Lucifer continues, “Go on then. Pick one you’d like.”
“Just a brewed coffee.”
Lucifer hums, takes a fresh mug, and the bubbling pot of coffee behind him. He pours a glass for him and slides it over. “One brewed coffee,” he says with a smile.
Alastor raises an eyebrow. “Charming.”
“If you’d really wanted me to do more than pour you a cup, you’d have ordered something more complex. Like an espresso or a latte.”
“That’s because the quality of your coffee still remains to be seen.”
Lucifer doesn’t reply, simply smiling as he waits for Alastor to take a sip. When he does he almost drops the mug in his shock. It’s good. Really good. Mimzy wasn’t joking. The coffee has nothing added in—no sugar, no cream, completely black—and yet it feels luxurious on the tongue with a round, full-bodied flavor that doesn’t leave a nasty, astringent aftertaste when the beans are too burnt after roasting. If this is the simple drip coffee being made, Alastor wonders what the espresso is even like.
Something must show on his face because Lucifer’s smile seems to be practically glowing. “So? How is it?”
He licks his lips then moves to take another sip as he says, “It’s decent.”
Suffice it to say, Alastor returns as a frequent regular. He leaves his mom’s house earlier than usual so he can spend a few extra minutes ordering and enjoying his morning coffee in the coffeehouse. He learned very quickly that the only time the coffee is ever that good is if Lucifer is working at that time, so if he doesn’t see him working, Alastor skips his morning coffee and drops by again later during lunch.
“Should I be concerned?” Lucifer asks as he prepares his order—a double espresso this time. “You’re my most consistent customer.”
“Bull,” Alastor says, leaning on the counter with a beignet in front of him. The pastries are not as good as the coffee, but it does its job as a midday snack, especially when Alastor dunks the delicacy into his coffee to quell its sweetness. “I’m your coffee’s most consistent customer. You’re just the unfortunate hanger-on.”
“You’re always so quaint and amiable to me, you know that?” Lucifer says, words dripping with sarcasm. Alastor finds that while Lucifer usually moves between unerringly polite and kind, he can pull out a drier and more sarcastic version of him with enough needling.
“I suppose it’s my Southern hospitality.”
Lucifer snorts, filling up a cup with Alastor’s espresso and nudging it towards him. Alastor takes it and the smell is absolutely divine, steam curling under his nose temptingly. He takes a sip, the taste smoothens the harsh edges from his commute and his morning is immediately lightened. He sighs contentedly—delicious as always.
A soft noise disrupts his musings and Alastor looks up to Lucifer watching him with an odd look in his eyes. He frowns. “What?”
Lucifer blinks, shakes his head, and says, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He leaves to talk to other customers, easily side-stepping away from explaining what exactly he was thinking. Alastor stares after him, eyes narrowed as he takes another sip of his coffee.
There are times when Alastor notices this behavior from time to time when Lucifer stares after him with an odd expression. It’s unnerving and immediately puts him on edge. Each time Alastor tries to call him out on it, Lucifer does the same thing and sidesteps around it. It makes one wonder what exactly he’s thinking, but it is not Alastor’s problem as long as he gets his morning coffee.
It can get irritating though, especially when it’s particularly early that morning or if he had been drinking the night before. Alastor is one to enjoy attention, but this particular brand of attention always leaves him annoyed. He polishes his coffee off, pays his drink, and leaves without a second glance back. Lucifer is staring after him again with that same look.
It’s a slow night in the jazz club when Alastor sees Lucifer again, this time roaming the streets of New Orleans well after dark and outside of his coffeehouse uniform. He is looking lost and a little confused as he stares through a few speakeasy windows, curiously. He is also alone.
Alastor isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Alastor’s murder victims don’t typically bleed gold nor do they complain very loudly about being stabbed in the head with the knife still sticking out of them, but Lucifer seems to be the one exception.
“Please try not to cut my hair,” he says, squirming in his binds. “It’s already at the perfect length as it is.”
Alastor rolls his eyes, pulling the knife out of his head and intentionally cutting off a lock or two of hair right in front of his eyes, the hair falling as bangs across Lucifer’s forehead. He huffs, annoyed, but Alastor ignores him because the wound at the top of his head quickly begins to close. The tissue-like spun gold seems to stitch itself together without any prompting. When it finishes, the pale skin at the top of Lucifer’s head is unblemished and the only indication of any injury is the blood matting his golden locks.
Curiously, Alastor sticks the knife in a different body part—Lucifer’s shoulder this time, who gasps in shocked pain—and the same bright gold blood seeps out and soaks into the white coffeehouse uniform. He takes the knife out again and the wound stitches itself back together. In less than a minute, the skin underneath is soft, smooth, and unsullied.
“How interesting,” Alastor says to himself, twirling the knife. “Does it work everywhere?”
Lucifer edges away, grimacing. “Yes, it does, but kindly keep all pointed objects away from my person—or any person, really—because I am not a pin cushion.”
Alastor hums, shaking the blood from his knife. “That’s true. A proper pin cushion wouldn’t be this wet—”
He sticks the knife into his back and Lucifer yelps, “What did I just say?!”
“—or this mouthy.”
Lucifer mouths around the word, face twisted in both offense and annoyance. “If you know that none of these stabs are working, why keep doing it?”
Alastor’s grin broadens and he shrugs, pulling the knife out again and watching in wonder as it stitches itself back. “Because it’s actually quite fun. Almost… stress-relieving.”
“Stress-relieving? Right, and you couldn’t have considered one of the coffeehouse’s tea options instead?”
“Why order tea when I can order your coffee?”
“That’s not the point! How about meditation?”
“That’s boring, obviously,” Alastor says, rolling his eyes “Have you considered writing a book? Worst ways to talk yourself out of an attempted murder.”
“Would have to be a threat to life first to be an attempted murder,” Lucifer says, smirking when Alastor’s tongue clicks in annoyance. “Have you considered writing a book about the worst ways to get away with murder? It could be your autobiography.”
Without any more fanfare, Alastor quickly cuts a deep wound right through Lucifer’s throat, effectively rendering him mute for however long that will be. He smiles when Lucifer gapes back at him with wide, blue eyes. “Oops,” he says with faux sheepishness. “I think my hand slipped a little. Must be because I was so excited to get started on that autobiography.”
Lucifer huffs silently, kicking out, but Alastor steps back before he could land a hit, laughing.
“Well, clearly, you’re not human,” Alastor says, eyeing the way Lucifer’s neck is already close to healing completely. “So what exactly are you then?”
“An angel,” Lucifer manages to croak.
“An angel?” Alastor blinks in surprise. “Like from the Bible?”
“With the wings and the halo? Yes. That angel.”
Alastor eyes the top of Lucifer’s head and his back, but neither of them sprouted the aforementioned halo and wings to prove his point. “Right, but aren’t angels usually up in Heaven?”
“Yes, usually, but I’m your guardian angel,” Lucifer says, nodding and standing, the bounds around his hands and body falling away like water. Alastor watches in awe as it happens, shoulders stiffening in slight alarm, but Lucifer simply beams and offers his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Charmed,” Alastor says as he takes the offered hand, shakes it, then pointedly wipes his hand on the front of his suit, much to this angel’s consternation.