
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3794827.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Lucifer/Sam_Winchester, one-sided_Azazel/Sam_Winchester, Michael/Dean
      Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Lucifer_(Supernatural), Azazel_(Supernatural), Ruby_
      (Supernatural), Lilith_(Supernatural), Ava_Wilson, Tyson_Brady, Alastair_
      (Supernatural), Casey_(Supernatural), Michael_(Supernatural), Dean
      Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, prostitute!sam, Mildly_Dubious_Consent,
      child_prostitution, rape_not_between_Sam_and_Lucifer, Angst_with_a_Happy
      Ending, Slow_Burn, UST, Age_Difference, PTSD, mute!Sam, Depression, Self-
      Harm, Eating_Disorder
  Series:
      Part 1 of crush
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-22 Completed: 2015-08-07 Chapters: 32/32 Words: 103024
****** The Repeated Image of the Lover Destroyed ******
by itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary
     Sam is a prostitute. Lucifer owns the contract that keeps him in the
     brothel. There’s definitely something between them—but in their
     world, flesh comes at a price, and real happiness is far more
     difficult to keep intact.
Notes
     Massive shoutout to my fic director/beta/partner-in-crime, Hil, who
     originally came up with the idea for this fic, and who has been the
     greatest joy to work with as it has progressed. This fic would
     literally not be possible without you. Thank you so much for your
     patience and help in making this~ (Full-length thank you and fic
     explanation can be found here.)
     Sam is between sixteen and seventeen for the entirety of this fic.
     Lucifer is in his early forties. If you want to see what they both
     would look like, please click here (for Sam), or here (for Lucifer).
     Also, this fic was originally supposed to be steampunk, so any
     modern-day electronic appliances are supposed to be there. Title
     taken from a part of Richard Siken's Crush.
***** Chapter 1 *****
“You need more eyeshadow.”
Sam stares at Ava in the mirror. His face and hers both backlit by the sharp
white glare of the steam-powered electric lights surrounding its frame. “You’re
already using half the bottle,” he tells her, staring pointedly at the deep
scrapes up from the bottom of the jar. The mess of sparkling green on her
fingertips.
“Well,” she says, but she has the grace to sound embarrassed. “Sam—I mean—they
don’t want you looking like an infant, you know.”
“Oh, wow, I thought that was the whole point of child prostitution,” Sam
grumbles, and in the sheer white light Ava flushes further.
Ruby snorts from where she’s standing off to the side, her arms folded across
her chest, dark hair set strategically across her shoulders. “All that
sarcasm,” she murmurs, “no wonder he still hates you,” and before Sam can bite
back a retort, all scathing and nasty built up inside his chest like fire,
Lucifer himself appears in the doorway. Tall—though Sam seems to be catching up
with him, in small increments—and quiet and terrifying, the intensity of his
eyes as he stares at Sam in the mirror’s reflection only a fraction of how it
feels to face him head-on.
Which Sam does, if reluctantly. Feeling Ava’s fingers sliding slow off his
shoulders as she realizes she’s not going to get any more work done on him
right now, and Sam sits forward in his chair a little and watches Lucifer
watching him. All that dark, controlled power and cold lightning snapping just
underneath his surface.
“Talking about me, I assume,” Lucifer says, and he’s addressing all of them but
his eyes are only fixed on Sam’s.
“Don’t always talk about how self-centered you are, it’s unbecoming,” Sam
mutters without thinking. Ava tenses behind him and Ruby makes a little noise
at the back of her throat, but Lucifer just laughs. Sharp and not entirely
amused, but Sam isn’t dead or being pinned to the nearest flat surface, either.
So he counts it as a win. As opposed to
(“This one, sir, this one’s full of fire. Could put him in the training room
immediately, get him used to whips and chains on that tight little ass—”
“No.” Lucifer strokes his chin, staring amused down at Sam, where he’s being
forced to kneel before him, shaking, the back of his head still aching in
violent spasms from the blow he received earlier. Tear stains still drying on
his cheeks but he knows Lucifer will be able to see none in his eyes. “No,
bring him into my office. I’d like to see to him personally.”
“Fuck you,” Sam snarls, red-faced, furious, spitting at Lucifer’s feet, “fuck
you!”
Lucifer slaps him, one stinging vicious hit to his cheek. Cruel malicious look
in his eyes as he leans in, says, “You’ll have to come up with far more
creative backtalk if you want to survive here.”)
when Sam was twelve, and nothing in the world he said could keep him from
getting hurt.
“Are you done with him?” Lucifer asks Ava and Ruby.
“He needs—” Ava starts, and Lucifer levels her with a flat expression.
“It wasn’t a question.” Dismissive and curt as he crooks a finger at Sam. “Come
with me,” he says, and Sam slides out of the chair. Wearing black lace panties
fitted snug against his hips, silken garter belts hooked to the edges of dark
red fishnet stockings, and black leather heeled boots. His torso bare except
for the white silk tie around his right forearm, indicating he’s a virgin and a
newcomer at the auctions, and when Lucifer leads him out of the room Sam
shivers at how cold it is in the hall. Goosebumps popping out all along his
arms and shoulders, making his nipples harden, and Lucifer doesn’t disguise the
way his eyes drift down. Hungry possessive look, but Sam’s used to it. Has been
for years, now.
“What do you want?” Sam asks, folding his arms across his chest and flicking
his hair out of his eyes. Wishing they’d let him at least trim the ends, it’s
getting so long, but the boys with longer hair rake in more money, and Sam’s
been so on the cusp of his first auction recently that there hasn’t been any
point in asking.
Lucifer narrows his eyes. Gaze traveling up the line of Sam’s neck, across his
face. He reaches out, brushes a few strands of Sam’s hair back over his
forehead. “They like a touch of innocence, at least,” he says, and Sam narrows
his eyes.
“So I’m assuming my apparent age isn’t going to clue them in—” But he’s
shaking, not from the cold anymore, as Lucifer’s hand slides from his forehead
to his jaw. Clamping his mouth shut by pushing up just a little, and he says:
“Your mouth is going to get you in so much trouble one day, Sam.”
Sam glares until Lucifer releases him. Steps back a little and snarls, “You
aren’t supposed to lay claim on any of us before the auctions. Rules apply to
everyone, Lucifer.”
“Yes, they do.” Lucifer’s mouth is tight at the corners, betraying his
irritation. “Which is what I need to talk to you about.”
Sam watches his fists clench at his side for a second, his eyes cutting to the
side, and he takes another instinctive step backwards. Thinks about giving him
some line about not wanting to damage the merchandise so close to payment time,
but he doesn’t. He’s tired and that stupid eyeshadow is making his skin itch.
So he just raises his eyebrows, waits.
“The impression you make today is important,” Lucifer tells him, after a little
while. “How you show yourself to these people reflects on what kind of a sell
you want to make.”
“Yeah, or it reflects on how good you trained me,” Sam mutters.
“How well I trained you,” Lucifer snaps. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking.
You want to impress the clients and show them you’re worth something.” His eyes
cut across Sam’s body again, settling on the white band on his arm, and Sam
flushes despite his best efforts. “Virginity’s going to make you desirable, but
you’re older than most of my kids at these auctions. You need to let them know
you’re still young—”
“Again, I’m not really sure how they could miss that—”
Lucifer’s eyes slide shut. He takes in a deep breath, jaw clenched tight.
“Sam,” he says, voice tense. “You need to stop doing that.”
“Thought you liked when I’m sarcastic.”
“I think it’s rude and insolent and disrespectful, and I don’t know how I
haven’t beaten it out of you yet.”
Sam smirks. “You’re using synonyms. You just said the same word three times in
different ways, and you’re shitting on me because I said ‘good’ instead of
‘well’—”
“Sam.” Lucifer breathes out once, short sharp puff of air through his nostrils.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Stop. Your snark isn’t going to get you anywhere
good with my clients. You don’t want to present yourself as available to
someone who will take your arrogant childish nature as a challenge.”
Sam drops his arms, not really thinking, and cants his hip to the side. “I
thought they liked a challenge,” he says, but Lucifer is shaking his head.
“Not—listen. My clients can make or break my children. You aren’t going to want
to get stuck with someone cruel, simply because you couldn’t keep your mouth
shut—”
“Okay!” Sam’s almost shouting in the face of Lucifer’s tense quiet rage.
Doesn’t even realize Lucifer’s reached out and grabbed his wrist until he feels
the bones shifting under someone else’s fingers, and he winces. “Ah. Jesus
Christ, Lucifer. Okay. I get it. I won’t be rude. I’ll keep my mouth shut—or, I
guess, I’ll keep quiet, I know they like to see our lips parted—”
“Sam—”
“Silence. Right. Got it.” Sam glares at him ruefully, and Lucifer drops his
wrist. Letting Sam rub at it and stare, waiting to see if the pain will turn
into bruises. Wondering if he could wrap his virginity cloth around those
bones, instead, if it did.
The door at the end of the hall, the one that leads into the parlor, clicks
open, and Hannah sticks her head around the frame. “Five minutes until the show
starts,” she says, and Lucifer nods once. Steps back from Sam, expression
shuttering off. Going from annoyed and borderline-angry to cool, flat. Neutral,
and Sam watches the nothing steal into his eyes, until it’s as if there were no
emotions there at all.
“Behave yourself,” Lucifer tells him, moving towards the door. “You’re a full-
time whore, now.”
~
The auction is a three-day ordeal. The wealthiest clients come to the brothel
and spend the first two days walking through the suites, the youngest kids’
rooms, and the pleasure gardens outside, looking for kids they might want to
buy off. The third day is generally reserved for final offers and a massive
banquet in the dining hall, but Sam doesn’t know much about that part. Not yet,
anyway.
There’s a certain hierarchy to the whole thing. There’s the youngest kids, the
newest batches. The ones that have just barely hit puberty. Fresh and untouched
and Lucifer keeps them all in one long suite of rooms until auction day, only
letting them out to do things like wait tables and dance. Won’t let anyone
damage their skin before someone wealthy is willing to pay for it.
And someone is always willing to pay for the prettiest ones. The ones with the
smoothest skin and the bell-like laughter and the seductive glint in their
young eyes. The girls who get air-brushed and made-up for hours on auction day
by Ava. The boys who can pull off eyeshadow and rouge, who wear nothing more
than a lace thong and a leather corset as they drape themselves neatly into the
curtains and rock up, cocks straining half-hard against the g-strings, pubic
hair barely even sprouting but the clients eat it up. Toss in pound after sick
pound and Lucifer cashes it all in. More money to feed the business for another
three hundred and sixty-five days.
After those kids come the next-levels. Kids Sam’s age, like Drew and Lily and
Sarah. Already sold into what they all privately refer to as the fucking rooms,
spreading their legs every night for someone new, someone starved and lonely
and desperate. Sleeping until noon, then coiffing their own hair, doing their
own makeup. Wandering down to the kitchens for a quick bite to eat before the
first clients of the afternoon start showing up. Some of them are dancers and
waiters too, but most of them are just. Trying to get up in the ranks, by that
point. Trying to fuck their way into better social classes. So that, if they
haven’t already been bought for private use by a client, they might get there.
Or they might be given better stations at the brothel itself.
Brady got taken in by a client when they were all still just fourteen. Now he
doesn’t even fuck other clients when Bartholomew can’t make it, just wanders
through the parlor in the evenings and flirts and charms and keeps his lace
stockings on all night. Sam’s seen the looks he gets, jealous and longing, when
he’s curving his fingers down the thigh of some rich client with no aim at
having his mouth on his cock later, no anticipation of his tongue slipped into
the wet heat of a forty-six year old cunt.
After Sam’s age group there are slightly older teenagers, closer to adults.
Madison, and Amelia, who do makeup with Ava when they aren’t bending over
backwards on some rich mahogany desk. Ruby, who manages most of the dancers,
doesn’t really fuck casual anymore. Meg, who assists Lilith; Hannah, who
assists Abaddon. They’re all going to be madams, all training for it. Either
worked their parents’ debts off years ago but decided to stay on, or they came
later, working off debts of their own.
Which really is what it all boils down to. Debt, and the money the brothel can
gain from it. Most of the kids Sam knows are there because their parents needed
to get out of a bad situation, or because they were hooked on something—drugs,
gambling—and needed refuge so they wouldn’t get sent to jail. Sam’s orphanage
sold him—well, really, Lucifer was looking, but. Sam knows the orphanage he was
staying at would’ve sold him here anyway, if Lucifer hadn’t shown up first—
(Sam at six, watching terrified as his house goes up in flames. John standing
behind him, hands on his shoulders. Dean directly to his right, numb and
shivering despite the heat blasting off the burning wood.
“We’re all each other has, kiddo,” John tells him, then.
Sam at eight, watching John slam his fists into a man’s face in a bar. “I won
that money, you fucking piece of shit—”
Sam at ten, his father in the Black Mariah. Hands clasped, the gun wrenched
from his sweating fingers. “You get away from my sons!” he yells through the
bars as the carriage clips off. Big men coming behind Sam and Dean—
—Sam wrenched from Dean, screaming—
—Sam slammed into the backseat of a steam-powered car, driven away—
Sam at twelve, bruised and bloody in the back of the orphanage. All on his own,
fingers aching from the last time he broke Vincent’s nose, and the orphanage
head is all too happy to lead Lucifer right into his room. Cool-eyed and
appraising, amused tilt to his mouth as he looks, and Sam stares at him,
heated. Watches the money change hands and Sam is torn from stability yet
again—)
But there are worse places Sam could be. Worse than the brothel, where he gets
food when he wants it, a bed, a whole library full of books he can choose from.
Worse than a place like this, where he’s ignored for the most part by
everyone—well, until now. Worse than Lucifer’s grudging respect
(“He’s thirteen, sir. You’ve had kids working the staterooms who’re younger
than he is. You can’t keep—”
“I will do whatever I please with the people that work for me, and right now,
I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t want to be one of those people
anymore—”
“Oh, no. No, sir.” Backing away, hands clasped together. Sam watching narrow-
eyed and suspicious from a corner as Lucifer stares the manservant down until
he’s gone. Turns to Sam, his fingers clenched tight around the edge of his
desk, and he snaps:
“Get out of my office before I change my mind.”)
earned only because Sam refused to back down. Refused to give in to Lucifer,
the way everyone else here has.
Oh, yes, there are definitely worse places to be. Sam isn’t a stranger to
poverty. To filth and cold and sickness, because John drank all their money for
the week and they ended up in the poorhouse for a while.
He just wishes Lucifer wasn’t such an asshole. Then he could be genuinely
grateful for everything Lucifer has provided, and maybe he could think of a way
to show it without having to spread his legs.
~
“What’re you doin’ here?”
Sam glances over. There’s a kid from the youngest batch standing next to him in
the parlor, white virginity armband secured tight around her left arm. Fiddling
nervously with the hem of her lace skirt, and Sam can tell without having to
look too close that her corset has been stuffed. Both of them standing a little
off to the side, Sam because he’s taller and older than any of the courtesans
getting sold and he
(can’t stand this shit first time he’s ever been so exposed and not on stage
dancing god why didn’t someone warn him)
wants to give the younger kids a chance at getting bought first. So they can
get out of here faster. The girl just looks scared.
“I’m doing the same thing you’re doing,” Sam tells her, leaning back against
the wall and folding his arms across his chest.
“You’re kind of—old,” she tells him.
“Came here late,” he lies, slotting a finger through one of the hoops on his
fishnet stockings. He’s had enough experience with being known as “Lucifer’s
favorite slut” in the past to understand it’s better to just say that he’s new.
Instead of trying to get into the convoluted twisted specifics of he and
Lucifer’s—relationship. Especially since Sam doesn’t exactly understand it,
himself.
She bites her lip, staring across the room. There’s a group of older men there,
wearing suits and top hats, and they’re all eyeing Sam and the girl. Leering,
and Sam feels his nostrils flare in irritation.
(behave yourself)
“They like us, I think,” the girl says, her voice coming out all shaky though
Sam can tell she’s trying to sound enthused about it. She pushes her chest out
a little, flutters her eyelashes. She’s wearing eyeshadow too, pastel blue, and
Sam wonders if Ava did hers before or after she did his.
One of the men pushes himself off the wall. Heads over to where Sam and the
girl are standing, and Sam’s close enough to feel her trembling as he
approaches. Despite the smile that stays pasted on her mouth as he tucks his
fat fingers under her chin, turns her head to the left and right.
“Pretty whore,” he says, sneering, and Sam watches her spine stiffen slightly.
“D’you like what you see, sir,” she asks, and his tongue runs out over his
lower lip as he nods.
Then his gaze turns on Sam. “Another virgin,” he observes, eyes dropping from
Sam’s armband to his garters. The flex and pull of his calf muscles where they
disappear into his boots. “Ain’t you a bit old for auctioning day, son?” he
asks, his hand moving from the girl’s chin to Sam’s shoulder, stroking the skin
there.
Sam has to grit his teeth, hard, to keep his mouth clamped around the words
building up in his throat. “I’m new here,” he grinds out, and the man smirks.
Nods once, and takes a step back from them.
“I think I’ll take both of you,” he says, arms folded. Lifts a hand to gesture
at his companions, but then:
“The boy’s not for sale.” Voice coming from the shadows, sinuous and tight with
control, and Sam’s heart lurches for a second before he realizes it isn’t
Lucifer stepping into the light.
The man frowns. “Boy’s on the parlor floor during auction, seems to me—”
“Seems to me you need to learn how to listen,” Azazel interrupts, walking
forward. Until he’s just a few steps behind the fat man, smirking at Sam, those
eyes—
(Sam waiting tables on a long evening sometime in March. The tight waiters’
uniform clinging to his body: black lace underwear and a fitted corset. Little
white apron over his front, not doing much to conceal the line of his cock.
Night after night, putting up with the groping and the catcalls and the lewd
suggestions as he bends over clients’ tables to take their food back to the
kitchens.
Lucifer eyeing him from across the room where he sits at the head table. Gaze
fixed hungry and wanton on Sam’s ass, exposed pale and round in his thong. Sam
can feel him track his every movement as he walks across the dining hall, every
step he takes, bouncing a little because he’s still not quite used to these
heels.
Azazel eyeing Sam, too. Possessive and intent and Sam tries not to shiver when
they make eye contact, pretending he doesn’t see the way Lucifer and Azazel
glare at each other when Sam passes near either of their tables—
And then, one night. Sam bends over Lucifer’s table to get his plate, scraped
empty, and Lucifer’s fingers find the lace ties on his corset. Sam goes
completely still, all at once. Feeling Lucifer’s fingers cold and rough on his
skin as he undoes the careful knot, brushes his hand against the new patch of
exposed skin.
“I like that,” Lucifer tells him, meeting his gaze head-on. All fire and
burning and crackling energy, and Sam has to work at suppressing his shiver.
“Do you, Sam?”
“‘s all right,” Sam mutters, flushed from his sternum up, and Lucifer laughs,
sends him off.
But it happens again. And again. Until every time Sam goes to Lucifer’s table,
he expects something on his body to be touched. Hair ruffled, corset untied,
apron flipped up, exposing the tight fabric around his barely concealed cock.
Underwear tugged partway off his hip, garters snapped open.
Each time, Sam watches Lucifer’s face. The sneer as he touches Sam, never
looking away from Azazel. Something challenging in his expression, predatory
and terrifying. Marking Sam as his own without actually bruising his skin, or
paying money to take him to his bed. Azazel glaring the whole time, furious and
trembling in his seat.
Once, Sam goes in and Lucifer is distracted by a client arranging something
with one of the dancers. He moves around the room on unsteady legs, serving and
enduring and clenching his teeth under his smile, until he gets to Azazel’s
table. Azazel, who doesn’t work for the brothel, but stays at it almost
constantly. Azazel, who gives more money to Lucifer than any of the other
clients, but never seems to work. Azazel, who everyone hates. Even the most
vicious madams, like Lilith or Abaddon.
“Ah, Sammy boy,” Azazel says, catching Sam’s lace tassels, drawing him in.
Sliding one hand over his hip, drawing his panties down. Using the other to
reach up and start untying Sam’s corset laces, breath coming warm and wet over
Sam’s bare skin, and—
There’s a soft rough sound from behind them. Barely audible over the chatter
and music but Sam hears it anyway. Turns his head partially over his shoulder,
hardly aware of Azazel’s hand on his chest as he watches Lucifer watching him.
Seated now after his transaction, his fingers wrapped so hard around his wine
glass they’ve gone white. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Something dark and
overheated in his gaze and Sam feels a rush in the pit of his stomach,
prickling heat slipped like lightning down his spine. Jolting down between his
legs, and he’s ashamed and aroused by turns, but he can’t look away.
Azazel makes an interested noise. “This for me?” he asks, only a little
mocking, and Sam’s not even paying attention to whatever it is he’s talking
about until. Until his hand slips down between Sam’s thighs. Grips his half-
hard cock, thumb stroking over the head, and Sam jerks back like he’s been
burned.
“You little tease—” Azazel starts, staring incredulous at Sam, rising halfway
to his feet, but Lucifer’s there already. Mouth a thin white line, hand on
Sam’s shoulder, pulling him away.
“You don’t touch the courtesans prior to their auction day,” he says, and his
voice is cool. Disinterested, except for the way his fingers are trembling
minutely on Sam’s shoulder. “Surely you must be aware of that rule after all
this time, Mr. Lehne—”
“Of course.” Azazel sits back, hands raised. Placating and almost smiling, his
eyes hard on Lucifer’s own. “My apologies.”
You were touching me, too, Sam wants to say to Lucifer, but doesn’t. Just lets
Lucifer stand there for a moment, thumb digging into his shoulder blade as he
stares Azazel down.
He says, “Sam will be worth a good deal of money by auction day.”
“I believe it,” Azazel murmurs, hand on his crotch, and Sam has to look away.)
“What,” the client’s saying now, half-laughing, “has he been promised to you or
something?”
Azazel doesn’t take his eyes off Sam’s. “Yes,” he says, and Sam shudders,
feeling the visceral weight of Azazel’s eyes on his chest. His cock.
“Hey, if he’s in here, he’s still fair game—”
“He belongs to me,” Azazel snarls, and the noise around them dims just
slightly.
Then the door to the parlor opens. Lucifer wandering in, easy languid stride,
all slow and lazy and powerful, and he flicks his gaze over to Sam almost
immediately, blue eyes sparkling in the gas lamps dotting the walls. Something
dangerous and shadowed crosses his face as he looks from Sam to Azazel, there
and gone again in an instant, and he calls:
“Sam, you’re done.”
Sam can’t tell from Lucifer’s expression if he should be wary or relieved.
Steps forward, trying to avoid touching Azazel, and he says, “I’m sorry?”
“You’re finished,” Lucifer says. “You’re out of the auction. You’ve had an
offer made for you.” His mouth is tense, arms folded tight and unwelcoming
across the broad span of his chest. “Go wait in your dorm.”
“Oh.” Sam sort of stumbles backwards, the heels catching on themselves and
nearly tripping him face-first onto the carpet. They’re all staring at him,
everyone in the parlor. Impatient, because he’s distracting them from their
hunt for young flesh; but hungry, too. Azazel most of all, desirous and
grinning, and Sam’s stomach is churning by the time he makes it out of the
parlor and up the stairs.
~
The next two days of the auction go by fast. Sam stays holed up in his dorm,
the stretch of rooms he shares with four other kids: Drew, Sarah, Cassie, and
Brady, when he’s not with Bartholomew. Mostly trying to sleep as much as he
can, to not think about the girl he stood with in the parlor. That man’s thick
fingers on her skin, on her heaving chest. Sam wonders if he bought her yet. If
she’s still wearing that white armband, or if it’s been discarded in an
incineration tube somewhere, or left on top of her small pile of clothing.
He keeps waiting for someone to come take him. To spread his knees and fuck
into him, pounding and leaving a dent in the wall behind the headboard. Doesn’t
really get as much sleep as he’d like, keeps startling at the smallest noises
behind the door. His throat thick with fear that his buyer is Azazel, and he
can’t decide whether it would be worse if it wasn’t. Can’t decide why no one
has come for him, in all this time, scenarios spilling over in his brain as he
considers each of the possibilities.
On the final day of the auction, long after the brothel has quieted down. Long
after the sun has slipped below the horizon and the moon’s risen up on its path
across the sky, there’s a knock at the door.
Sam tenses. “Yeah,” he calls, and then bites clean through his lower lip. Taste
of blood exploding in his mouth as he remembers politeness, don’t be rude,
don’t give short answers, and thinks that if it’s his buyer come to collect,
Sam is already fucked.
But when the door opens it’s only Hannah. “Sam,” she says, and, “Lucifer wants
to see you in his office.”
Sam feels his eyebrows crease over his nose. “Why—”
“He just told me to come get you.” She shrugs, steps back. Fingers drumming
against the side of the wall, and Sam knows Lucifer doesn’t like to be kept
waiting.
He slips off his bed, follows her out. He’s changed since the auction, wearing
his casual clothes again, soft trousers and a loose-fitting tunic, and he
doesn’t miss the way everyone stares as he and Hannah head down the corridors
of the brothel. Envious and hateful of Sam, though he doesn’t understand
Lucifer’s favoritism any more than they do, and he ducks his head, hurries on.
Until they get to Lucifer’s office. First floor, behind the parlor and the
smoking room—cigarettes only, opium use reserved for the second floor. Hannah
knocks on Lucifer’s door and he calls come in immediately, and Sam goes.
Lucifer is sitting behind his desk. One leg crossed over the other, ankle
touching knee. His fingers steepled against each other, elbows resting on the
lacquered wood.
“We appear to be at an impasse, Sam,” he says, mouth just moving against his
hands.
Sam swallows. Tucks his lower lip in against his teeth. “Not my fault I haven’t
fucked anyone yet,” he mutters. “No one ever came and got me—”
“That isn’t what this is about,” Lucifer interrupts. Voice taut, rough. He
looks like he wants to scrape his hands down his face. Tired and worn, as close
to human as Sam has ever seen him. “Not really.”
“Okay, so what—”
“Azazel has offered to pay off all your debts,” Lucifer says. “He came to me a
few days before the auction and asked if he could become your exclusive client.
Purchase you entirely, own you, claim your body as his—however you want it
worded, Sam. He knows what you’re worth—and believe me, it’s quite a lot—and
he’s willing to pay it all so he can have you for himself.”
“Oh,” Sam says, and kind of has to sit down for a second. His legs gone shaky
and unsupportive beneath him, chest tightening in sudden terror. Snippets of
what he’s heard about Azazel before
(fucks so rough especially with virgins—likes pain a lot, like, more than the
average client—no boundaries—)
clanging around in his head, making it hard for him to hear Lucifer speaking,
still:
“You’d still live here, but it would be like Brady’s set up with his client—”
“I don’t want him,” Sam blurts. The words barreling out before he can stop
them, forcing themselves up through his clogged throat and making him wince.
Half-expecting to be struck, to be slammed into the wall and reminded of his
place here.
Lucifer regards him, amused. “You don’t want him?”
Sam’s whole face is bright red. The heat painful where it’s slathered into his
cheeks, but he shakes his head anyway. Nothing left to lose, now. “No.”
“He’d be your sole owner,” Lucifer says. His eyebrows raised slightly, curious
expression on his face. “You wouldn’t have to spread your legs for ten, fifteen
different men every night. And he’d pay off your debts, all of them, all at
once—”
But it’s Azazel, Sam thinks.
Out loud: “I just—no. I won’t, Lucifer.”
Lucifer’s amused expression gives way to something a little darker, a little
more impatient. “You have to perform your duties sometimes, Sam,” he snaps.
“The debt your orphanage left isn’t going to go away—”
“This can’t be the only option,” Sam says. Desperate. Almost pleading. Shaken
by how much he doesn’t want to go to bed with Azazel every night. To be
stretched out underneath him, their cocks rubbing together as Azazel ruts like
an animal—
“There’s gotta be something else,” Sam says, his hands clenched hard against
his thighs. Shaking so bad in the chair that it’s started to rattle against the
hardwood floor.
Lucifer is quiet for a long time, watching Sam. Both of them staring across the
desk at each other, Sam’s heart pounding so hard in his chest that he thinks it
might fly out. He can’t believe Lucifer hasn’t blacked him out already, sent
him off to Azazel. Can hardly believe Lucifer is even listening to him.
“There is another option,” Lucifer says, finally. The corners of his mouth
lifting, but it isn’t a friendly smile.
“Okay,” Sam says. “What is it?”
Lucifer untwines his fingers from each other. Arms folded down across the desk,
he leans over until he’s almost in Sam’s personal space. His eyes cold and hard
and daring Sam to say anything contradictory as he tells him:
“You can be mine, instead.”
Sam tells himself he doesn’t understand why the idea of belonging to Lucifer
sends chills arching up his spine. “I. You. You’re kidding, right?”
Lucifer raises one eyebrow.
Sam snorts out a laugh. Derisive and sarcastic without meaning to be, just the
way he is around Lucifer, like he brings out Sam’s absolute worst traits. “You
hate me, Lucifer,” Sam says, kinda incredulous. Though he thinks they both know
that isn’t quite true.
“You think any of the other clients here love the whores they stick it in?”
Lucifer asks.
Sam swears he feels the blood draining out of his face. “Oh, god, you’re
serious.”
Lucifer stands. Walks halfway around the desk, his head tilted a little to the
right. “You didn’t want Azazel paying your dues, Sam. I can put you back up for
auction next year but until then, you need someone to start helping you give
back. I can’t keep you here on charity forever.”
“Oh, is that what this is,” Sam says without thinking. His voice shaking a
little, and he watches trapped as Lucifer comes to stand in front of him.
Jerking his chin up, and Sam rises as if pulled by some invisible string. As if
his body wants to obey Lucifer’s commands on instinct.
Lucifer says, “Thought I told you to watch that mouth of yours,” hand coming
out in the small space between them to tuck against Sam’s jaw. Running a thumb
over Sam’s lower lip, pressing in a little, and Sam shivers. His eyes sliding
shut, throat jerking as he swallows.
“I’ve owned you from the moment they signed your release papers at the
orphanage,” Lucifer tells him. “Same as I own all my children here. But you.
You’ve always been—different, haven’t you, Sam.”
Their bodies are so close Sam can feel the heat radiating off Lucifer, despite
the fact that his skin is unnaturally cool. “Charity or ownership, make up your
mind,” he mumbles, and Lucifer’s grip tightens just slightly. His thumb
skidding down Sam’s chin, and he whispers:
“Open your eyes.”
Sam does, and Lucifer is right there, the intensity of his gaze staggering.
Overwhelming, so much so that Sam falters a little.
“Look at me,” Lucifer commands. His eyes blazing, glittering like so much
stardust. Sam trembling under his hand when he says, “This is my final offer,
Sam. Do you want to belong to me?”
(“I’m not a whore,” Sam snarls. His skinny fists raised in retaliation as he
faces off the angry blond kid who just punched his right eye. “This place is a
mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.”
“You walked through the front doors, you’re as much a slut as the rest of us,
you pretentious shit—”
“Oh, please, Brady, he hasn’t even fucked anyone yet,” one of the girls snorts,
mocking, from the sidelines.
Brady’s eyes drop up and down Sam’s thin frame, and he’s only been here for six
months but he knows what that glint in his eyes means. “That’s only what
they’re telling you,” he says. “Sam’s prolly been sitting on cock since the
night he got here.”
“I haven’t!”
“Dancer, too, I know,” Brady sneers, reaching down and pinching the slowly
growing muscle on Sam’s calves. “Doing splits every night for all those
people—”
Sam is shaking. “Shut up.”
“If it walks like a whore, spreads its legs like a whore—”
“That’s enough.” Lucifer’s voice, coming in from the hallway. Wandering in,
casual, his eyes flicking from Brady to Sam to their audience, and the other
kids at least have the decency to look embarrassed as they shuffle backwards.
“House rules, Brady,” Lucifer says, and his voice is soft. Almost gentle, but
Sam hears the current of held-back fury running just underneath. “No one mars
my dancers.”
Then he hands Sam a bottle of salve, scented vanilla and lavender. “Put this
on,” he snaps, already turning away. “You have a show in forty-five minutes.”
They hate him, afterwards. And Sam spends years wondering if they’d have felt
any different had they known Lucifer hit Sam, too, when he thought he deserved
it. Marked bruises where no one could see with his right hand, but offered Sam
ointment with his left.)
Sam takes in a breath. Exhales slow, shaky. His mouth working against Lucifer’s
tight grip, remembering pain but he’s also seen gentleness, and his voice is
steady when he says:
“Yes.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
There’s paperwork. Not a lot, because Lucifer owns the brothel, can skip a lot
of the hoops the other patrons have to jump through, but. Some. Enough to give
Sam another two-day reprieve from anything. Holed up in his dorm, stretched out
on the bed with his legs tucked under the blanket, a book propped up against
his thighs. Sarah coming in, or Drew, or Cassie, just to glare at him. Pet,
they snarl, jealous and hateful. Little fucktoy, and Sam strokes his thumb over
the seal on the back of the book. Golden marking that indicates it belongs to
Lucifer, subtle reminder that it’s just another gift from him, and he can’t
even deny what they’re saying.
He hears from Ruby that Azazel is pissed. That he came storming into Lucifer’s
office the day after Lucifer purchased Sam for himself, yelling about promises
and money laid down in advance, and that Lucifer had just. Calmly handed Azazel
his pounds in a sealed envelope, didn’t even look up from the document he was
signing. Gestured at the door and Gadreel escorted Azazel out, face contorted
in an ugly snarl. Growling low threats under his breath about revenge, but no
one’s paying much attention to Azazel, right now.
When Lucifer comes to get Sam, it’s the middle of the day. Everyone else is
either sleeping off the previous night or getting ready for the afternoon
shift, and Sam’s fumbling his way through the German translation of Coleridge’s
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, hand in his hair, when he feels it. Electric
violent current coming from the doorway, something powerful and raw filling the
whole room, and he turns, and there’s Lucifer.
“Get your things,” Lucifer says. “You’ll be living in my suite, now.”
Sam presses his thumb down on the centerfold of his book, closes his eyes. “So
I guess it’s time to start paying off my debts,” and he’s surprised to find
that he’s nervous. Physically shaken at the idea of sex, despite the fact that
he’s had two days to prepare for this. Five, really, counting the auction, and
Sam’s known for years that this is what he was destined for, that going on his
back and opening his legs has been his ultimate fate since he was twelve, and
yet.
But Lucifer doesn’t nod. Doesn’t do anything, really, except stand there and
stare. Heat and vague undertones of possession in his eyes but there’s nothing
in his posture, in the way he leans against the doorway, to suggest that he’s
going to slam Sam against the nearest flat surface and start fucking. It’s
disconcerting and strange and it confuses Sam worse than the idea of sex, and
he’s shaking when he stands, starts packing. Only relaxes when he becomes aware
of Lucifer’s gaze on his lower back, traveling down the curve of his ass, but
even then. Even then, nothing happens, aside from Lucifer’s curt:
“Hurry up, Sam, I have a schedule to keep,” and Sam throws his clothes in the
bag. His books and his favored top sheet and then they head upstairs together.
Through Lilith’s suite of rooms, all soft light pastel colors; and Abaddon’s,
dark reds and blacks, scent of blood in the air. Until they get to the very top
floor, where Lucifer resides alone.
There’s a bathroom on one end of the suite, flanked on each end by rooms. The
other end is just two doors, separated by a thin strip of wall, and Lucifer
waves a hand at the one on the left.
“You’re going to sleep in there,” he says. “I’m in the one next door, and trust
me, Sam—” He lowers his voice in pitch. Takes a step closer, and then another,
until Sam can smell the lust rising off his skin. “If you bring anyone back to
these rooms, I will know.”
Sam grits his teeth. Opens his mouth to snap at Lucifer, to ask him when
exactly has he ever been given the opportunity to fuck anyone anyway, but by
the time he draws breath Lucifer is already turning, heading for the stairs
again.
“Wait,” Sam calls, without thinking, and Lucifer pauses mid-step. His spine
going stiff, shoulders tense, like he’s surprised Sam spoke.
“Aren’t you gonna—I mean. Haven’t you been waiting all morning to get your cock
in my ass?” Trying for seductive, the way Sam’s heard the older prostitutes
talk to their favored clients, but it comes out too tight. Too much like Sam’s
trying not to throw up all over the five-thousand pound carpet under his bare
feet, and Lucifer only snorts a huff of barely-amused laughter before shaking
his head and heading out of the suite, shutting the door behind him. Leaving
Sam alone in an unfamiliar room, gripping a bag full of the only things he owns
in the world, and all of them really belong to Lucifer.
Honestly, Sam doesn’t know what he was expecting.
~
It’s strange, how little changes. At least at first. Lucifer still leaves Sam
alone, the way he has for nearly the full duration of Sam’s stay at the
brothel. Still has him dancing in the evenings, waiting tables, wearing the
familiar tight uniform and flushed all over when Lucifer meets his eyes across
the smoke-filled dining hall. This weird tension growing taut between them,
snapping and crackling almost audibly, until Sam jerks his gaze away.
The first night, after Sam’s shift has ended, he moves upstairs on shaking,
exhausted legs. Expecting—he’s not sure what, but certainly not to find
Lucifer’s door already shut. A note on Sam’s pillow: try not to make too much
noise when you shower, and that’s it. Sam takes his time under the hot water
spray, keeps anticipating Lucifer to push the curtain back and join him, but it
never happens. The water sluicing across his sore muscles, through the thick
tangles of his hair, and Sam can’t figure out if he’s relieved or disappointed.
About a week after Sam’s signed on as Lucifer’s consort, they bring in a whole
new wardrobe for him. Sam already owns clothes, enough to cram into his tiny
closet in his new room, but the fabrics come in for him anyway. Colorful and
soft and plentiful, silks and cottons and lace carried through the parlor and
up the stairs. Scarves and sweaters and trousers for the winter, loose-fitting
tunics and shorts for the summer. A few things like tights and corsets, several
pairs of thin lace underwear, but for the most part it’s just. Civilian
clothes, the kind that usually only the highest-up prostitutes are allowed, and
Sam feels so many hard eyes on him. So much anger and jealousy burning in the
room as they glare, and whisper, and point.
“The sex must just be incredible,” Cecily snarls, flipping her long dark hair
over her shoulder, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Dressed in a
black corset and garter belt, white poof frills around the edges, and Sam
stares at the hatred in her eyes and wishes he could tell her she looks nice,
too. “You must ride him every night or something, I mean—why the fuck else
would he be giving you shit? It’s not like you’ve ever done anything here—”
“Cecily, there’s a gentleman asking for you,” Ruby calls from the doorway. Her
eyes flat, neutral, but she shoots Sam a look as she leads Cecily away from the
room. One eyebrow quirked, glancing towards the kitchen, and Sam shuffles out
fast under her distraction. Surprised once he’s alone at how hard he’s shaking,
his fists clenched at his sides and he realizes he’s angry.
Because it isn’t as if he’s asking Lucifer for any of this. Isn’t as if he
wants Lucifer to spend this much money on him when he hasn’t even—when he
hasn’t—
It hits Sam like a freight train, what Lucifer’s doing, and he stumbles out of
the kitchen fast. Ignoring Inias’ indignant shout behind him, and he slams
through the back door and into the corridor that separates the kitchen from the
dining hall. Dimly lit and usually bare at this time of day, and Sam knows
Lucifer likes to conduct business transactions here for that very reason. Away
from his office, which he claims is too close to the noise-filled gaming hall
for his tastes, and Sam is. Honestly kind of shocked he even knows that, but.
It doesn’t matter, right now.
Lucifer is in the corridor, near the thick curtain that leads into the dining
hall. Discussing something in low tones with an older woman, clutching her
pearl necklace tight in her wrinkled hand, and Sam feels nausea rise up in his
stomach. The thought suddenly occurring to him that if Lucifer hadn’t bought
him, he’d be fucking people like her on afternoons like this.
He must make a little noise at the back of his throat, because her gaze snaps
to him. Amused expression crossing her face, and she says, “Well, Luci, I think
you have a little guest.”
Lucifer raises an eyebrow at Sam, who flares his nostrils in response.
Impatient annoyed gesture that isn’t lost on Lucifer, who bites a smile into
the inside of his cheek before turning back to the client.
“I’ll speak to you later,” he tells her, and she nods once. Heads down the way
Sam came, brushing past him as she goes. Soaked in wine and perfume and money,
the hoops under her skirt rustling too loud in the close hall, and a shudder
rails uncomfortable and hard down Sam’s spine. So that he almost forgets what
he came here for, until Lucifer touches his shoulder. His eyes sparking dark
and amused in the half light, and Sam grits his teeth against the bolt of lust
that spears him at that look.
“You wanted me, Sam?” Lucifer asks, and oh, god. The way he says it. Like he’s
expecting. Like he thinks Sam wants to get bent over the desk in his office
and.
“I needed to tell you something,” Sam says, steeling his voice against the
tremors in his chest.
Lucifer smirks. Leans against the opposite wall, not much space between them,
the way his hips are canted out. Arms folded across his chest, all predatory
and wanting. “By all means,” he says.
“Okay, I get why you hate when I’m sarcastic now, could you stop—”
Lucifer actually laughs, sharp and almost surprised. “My apologies, Sam,” he
murmurs, his eyes dropping to Sam’s mouth, and Sam flushes. His fingers flexing
hard against the wall at his back, and he’s glad it’s so dark in here.
“I.” Sam swallows. Suddenly feels ridiculous, standing here like this. His
chest almost plastered to Lucifer’s, breathing too hard and too loud in this
enclosed space, and he swears he can feel Lucifer’s heart beating through his
shirt. “You sent me clothes, Lucifer.”
“Ah, did those arrive today?”
“Yeah, and I—”
Lucifer’s eyes drop from Sam’s mouth to his chest. His crotch. “You aren’t
wearing them.”
“No, I’m wearing more clothes you bought me a couple months ago—”
“I bought those?” Lucifer drags his gaze back up to Sam’s, his mouth twisted at
the corners, like he’s trying not to laugh again. “I didn’t have very good
taste a few months ago, did I—”
“I know what you’re doing,” Sam interrupts. Sharp and too loud, but it gets
Lucifer to shut up, at least. Lifting both eyebrows this time, sliding his arms
from his chest to hang loose at his sides.
“And what exactly would that be, Sam?” With one hand coming up to adjust the
collar of Sam’s shirt, so that it fits more in the middle of his chest. Dropped
right under the visibly beating pulse of his heart in his throat.
Sam takes in a deep breath. The cool rough scrape of Lucifer’s fingers on his
skin distracting him, the way it always does. “You’re trying to buy me into
your bed, aren’t you.”
Lucifer’s hand stills on his chest. His thumb settled right over Sam’s sternum,
and Sam is suddenly very aware that he might have said the wrong thing.
“I’m trying to—” Lucifer starts, voice a cross between confused and irritated,
and Sam blurts:
“You think if you spend a shitton of money on me, buying me really nice clothes
and books and stuff—you think that’ll make it easier to get me to fuck you, or
something. Isn’t that—”
But Lucifer’s laughing too hard for Sam to finish his sentence. Hand sliding
off Sam’s chest and he backs up, head tossed against the wall, shoulders
shaking. Hand coming up to cover his eyes, to wipe the tears from their
corners, and Sam feels flushed and stupid and as angry as he did five minutes
ago, upstairs in the kitchen when the kids in the parlor had just been accusing
him of whoring himself out for extra gifts.
“What?” he snaps, when enough time has gone by and the sound of Lucifer’s
amusement is grating against his ears. “What the fuck is so fucking funny,
Lucifer—”
Lucifer reaches up, then. Wipes his eyes with the back of his hand one last
time, and his expression falls back into something more serious. Not quite
dangerous, but. It’s always there, with Lucifer. Simmering just below the
surface, and Sam thinks he could tread in his socks, on tiptoe, and still be in
danger of breaking the ice.
“You,” Lucifer tells him. “The fact that you think you have that much power.
That you could make me resort to buying fine things for you so I could fuck
you.” His hand comes up, tangles into Sam’s shirt again. Tugs him forward, so
that their bodies are flush against each other, Sam’s legs slotted with
Lucifer’s. His hands pressed on instinct against the wall, parallel with
Lucifer’s hips, and Lucifer is just. Holding him there. Owning him, the way
he’s contractually allowed to do.
“If I wanted to fuck you, Sam,” Lucifer says. Voice very low, now, very quiet.
Deeper than Sam’s heard it before, and rough. Like he’s just been drinking a
tumbler of whiskey, like his throat’s been scraped up with gravel. “If I wanted
you in my bed, I wouldn’t have to buy you anything to get you there.” His hand
moving up from Sam’s shirt to his throat, to the place where his pulse is
jumping frantic against the thin skin. “I would just lift you up—” pressing Sam
back against the wall behind him, their legs still tangled—“and tear off your
trousers—” his hand drifting between them for the barest instant, over Sam’s
hips, his groin—“and slide into you. Make you take it raw, just because I can.
Because Sam—” whispering now, mouth so close to Sam’s ear Sam can feel the soft
skin brushing against his own—“I’m the one in charge here. I’m always the one
in charge.”
Sam is so hard it hurts. His heart racing so fast he thinks it’s going to
explode out of his chest, and he wants to rock his hips up until he comes.
Wants to grab Lucifer’s hips and slam their mouths together, sweat dripping
down the back of his neck, and as desire twists down in his stomach and grips
him tight and unforgiving, he realizes for the first time consciously that it’s
always been like this for them. This violent angry subcutaneous volatile surge
of want, and Sam wonders if Lucifer would like it if he rocked down right now,
the crack of his ass riding just on his cock—
But Lucifer is dropping him. Stepping back. His irises glittering in the gas
lamps, smoldering with barely banked back intensity. Mouth tense, the restraint
obvious in the tight lines around his eyes. The controlled way he holds himself
alone is almost enough to have Sam coming untouched.
Until Lucifer turns from him. Disinterested expression on his face as he looks
away, towards the curtain in front of the dining hall.
“I bought you those clothes so you’d have something to wear, Sam. That’s all.”
Bored, even tone. Like the last thirty seconds never happened. He turns, starts
to walk away. Only stops when he’s at the door to the kitchen, and over his
left shoulder he says:
“You need to take an extra shift tonight waiting tables. Amelia has five
clients and can’t make it down.”
Then he’s gone, and Sam is left gasping. Bending over in the middle of the
hall, hand shoved down his pants, and he’s barely touched his cock before he’s
coming all over himself, shuddering and spilling almost violently into his
hand, against the inseam of his shorts.
He can’t decide if he hates Lucifer more than he wants him, or if it’s the
other way around.
He can’t decide which would be worse.
***** Chapter 3 *****
He keeps expecting Lucifer to fuck him. Keeps anticipating his bedroom door to
creak open every night, waiting to feel Lucifer’s tongue in his mouth, hand
pressed between his legs. The whole idea of it intrigues him, now that he knows
how it feels to get slammed into a wall with sexual intent, and as the days and
weeks roll by he stops feeling nervous about Lucifer taking him and starts
growing, in some vague way he refuses to look very closely at, a little bit
impatient.
Because Lucifer isn’t fucking him. There are heated hard gazes across rooms and
slow sardonic curves to his mouth. Mocking amused tilt of his head, and he’ll
say things deliberately just to rile Sam up. Bordering on cruel, sometimes, and
Sam hates that it gets him hard even when he’s snapping right back. Like
Lucifer’s voice is attached to Sam’s dick and he’s controlling him. Teasing him
because he can. No intention of following through, and Sam cannot figure it
out. Why Lucifer seems almost to get off more from toying with Sam, a cat
playing with its dinner before it pounces. It scares him and it makes him
furious and. It just makes him want, more and more. Aching in ways he doesn’t
have words for, and sometimes. Sometimes he’ll look at Lucifer. Think he sees
something of the same emotion reflected back at him, somewhere under all that
simmering rage and chilling reticence, but it never breaks out, and Sam begins
to think he should just resign himself to this for the rest of his life.
~
Sam’s been sixteen for nearly two weeks—Lucifer’s consort for a month and a
half. It’s the middle of May, and business is kind of slow, the usual clients
gone off for early summer vacations with their actual families. Leaving the
brothel full of single young patrons that the prostitutes secretly mock,
because they’re all so unsure of what they want, and a lot of restless inactive
nights dancing halfheartedly on the stage for no more than twenty-five people.
The usual set-up for evenings is that the clients come in. Get taken off to the
pleasure gardens, or up to the suites, or into the parlor. Inias cooks a dinner
for everyone and Sam dances with the others, and then he goes up to his room
for the rest of the night. Because there’s no point in being downstairs when
he’s not going to be flirting or fucking anyone. No point in standing around
watching Lucifer overseeing the workings of the brothel, conducting business
transactions in his office, when Sam knows he’s not going to get any attention
for himself.
One night there’s a thunderstorm, and even though the brothel is well-insulated
even fewer people show up than usual. So that by midnight, there’s hardly
anyone in for the evening that doesn’t live there, and Sam goes up to bed
early. Takes his shower, half-asleep through the whole thing, and heads for his
room in vague anticipation of an actual decent night’s sleep.
The fact that Lucifer is in his room puts kind of a damper on the whole
situation, though.
He’s sitting on Sam’s bed, a startling and unexpected presence after so many
weeks of barely showing up near Sam except when they’re downstairs, and Sam’s
fingers clench tighter around his towel. Hair dripping on the carpet as he
stands wet and suddenly fully awake in the door, and Lucifer looks up. His
mouth curling into something dark and sinful as his eyes drop down Sam’s bare
chest, slick with water.
“Well,” he says, “I can see all the dancing you do isn’t wasted.”
Sam flushes. Pretends he isn’t more than a little flattered at the compliment,
no matter how it’s been delivered. “What do you want, Lucifer,” he asks.
Instead of answering, Lucifer stands up. Moves towards Sam, until they’re
standing almost close enough to be touching, and he takes Sam’s wrist and pulls
him into the room. Reaches around him with the other hand, pushes the door
shut. His eyes flicking between Sam’s mouth and his towel, and he says:
“Relax your hand.”
It’s so quiet. The air suffused with the tension that’s been following them for
so long now, crackling hot and alive between them, charged up with the
lightning soaking the atmosphere outside. The only sound in the room their
breathing, short and sharp, and the consistent thick fall of rain against the
warped-glass window.
Sam hesitates, his free hand still clasping the towel in the front, and Lucifer
drops his wrist so he can fold his fingers over Sam’s. His knuckles brushing
just against the bare stretch of skin under Sam’s navel, and Sam is hard
instantly and painfully against the cloth.
“Let it go,” Lucifer murmurs, rough-edged, and Sam releases the tension running
down his hand, lets the towel fall to the floor.
Lucifer’s got him shoved against the wall almost immediately after, his face
visible for short seconds during flashes of light through the window.
Expression tight and dark and soaked in lust as he leans in, teeth on Sam’s
neck. Biting down and sucking long enough for Sam to feel it jolt into his
chest, and then he pulls back. His hand sliding between them and Sam inhales,
tensing up, anticipating—
Lucifer’s hand curves around the hot length of his cock and Sam gasps, tense
sound hissing out through his teeth as he arches into Lucifer’s hand. His hands
slamming back to grasp at the wall behind him as Lucifer strokes him in slow,
excruciating slides. Their skin dry and hot pressed together and Sam’s hips are
jerking forward without his permission, watching Lucifer—feeling the echo of
his teeth still sunk into Sam’s neck, the low burn of pain where Sam’s sure
there will be a bruise in the morning—
Their eyes locked on each other, the lightning crackling outside. The rain
falling in sheets and the thunder rolling overhead, shaking the walls,
Lucifer’s thumb skidding across the head and slicking up his grasp. Sam
breathing—but just barely. Teeth digging into his lower lip so he won’t cry
out, the feelings overwhelming and sharp, so amplified—so much different than
when Sam’s used his own hand before—
Lucifer growls, “Come for me,” and Sam’s hips stutter and jerk and he comes all
over Lucifer’s hand and his stomach and it hurts, it’s so good. A desperate
wanton ache between his legs and Lucifer strokes him until he’s dry, until his
knees aren’t supporting him anymore and he’s whimpering all soft and hurt under
his breath, sliding to the floor.
“Oh my god,” Sam breathes, over and over, all he can say. “Oh my god, Lucifer.”
He can still feel the ghost of Lucifer’s skin all scorching on his. Branded
into him forever, torturous memory, so much better than the way it’s been going
in Sam’s dreams. Exhausted, but his gaze is still locked on Lucifer’s crotch
when he asks:
“Can I—”
Lucifer shakes his head once. Mutters something Sam doesn’t quite catch through
the thunder, and Sam watches Lucifer through half-lidded eyes as he tugs his
own trousers down. Slips his hand in—the hand still slick with Sam’s come—and
gets himself off like that, nothing on his face except a slight tightening of
the lines around his eyes when he comes. A faint exhalation, and Lucifer stares
out the window the entire time. The angles of his body lit up and defined in
the storm, the rivulets of water cutting across the glass reflected on his
skin.
When he’s done, he looks down again. His eyes drifting over the casual sprawl
of Sam, warm and sated and sleepy, and he goes to the door, tugs it open.
“Where’re you going,” Sam asks, or thinks he asks, but Lucifer doesn’t answer.
Just disappears into the main area of the suite, and Sam doesn’t know what to
do with the odd crushing sensation in his chest. His whole body still humming
and euphoric off the orgasm but Lucifer’s gone, and Sam doesn’t like that his
emotions feel almost tied to the fact. Fluctuating between confusion and hurt
and nonchalance at how quickly Lucifer disappeared. Like not even everything
that just happened between them was enough to make him stay.
I don’t care, Sam thinks, watching the rain sluice down the window. Counting
long seconds between the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder, feeling
his come start to dry cool and tacky on his stomach and his cock. The skin
chilled, goosebumps popping out, and Sam’s just started to deliberate whether
or not he should force himself up on still-shaking legs for another shower, or
if he could get away with crawling into bed like this. All fucked-out and
decadent and smelling of salt and sex; take care of cleaning himself off in the
morning, when Lucifer returns. Carrying a wet cloth from the bathroom, his
trousers zipped back up, and there’s a strange expression in his eyes as he
looks at Sam.
“Thought you left,” Sam says, mouth moving against the plaster of the wall
where he has his lips pressed halfway, and Lucifer reaches down, tugs Sam up.
Holding him by the wrist as he wipes him with the cloth, on his stomach and his
cock—which gives a valiant twitch at the sensation. Sam hums, allows himself to
be turned and walked to bed, lain down on the mattress. The covers pulled over
his naked body, Lucifer setting the cloth aside so he can push Sam’s sweaty
hair off his forehead. The catch and pull of his fingers on Sam’s skin
strangely comforting, but Sam doesn’t say it.
“I’d like if you took dinner with me tomorrow evening,” Lucifer says, after a
long time, just as Sam’s started to slide out of consciousness.
“What, food in exchange for putting out?” Sam mumbles into his pillow, but his
heart gives an odd lurch at the idea of a meal with Lucifer. Just Lucifer, the
two of them sitting across from each other, their feet brushing under the table
every time Sam shifts in his seat.
“Sam,” Lucifer warns, soft, but there’s no real heat behind his voice. His hand
keeps stroking Sam’s forehead, pulling gently across his scalp, and Sam says:
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, Lucifer.”
Lucifer’s hand pauses in his hair and Sam can tell he wasn’t expecting
agreement, but his voice is careful and neutral when he says, “Tomorrow
evening, seven p.m. I’ll be taking you out.”
“Fancy,” Sam murmurs, only half awake. His mind drifting and tumbling over
images of the two of them in a restaurant somewhere in London. Wondering how
Lucifer will act, when he’s away from the brothel.
It occurs to Sam that he’s never seen Lucifer in public. That he never thought
Lucifer would want him to.
He thinks he feels Lucifer’s thumb skate across his eyebrow before he falls
asleep.
~
They go out the following evening dressed as close to normal as either of them
will ever get. Lucifer in a dark frock coat and silk vest over his Egyptian
cotton button-down, cravat tucked carefully into the collar, and striped
trousers. Deep maroon fabrics, sapphire and emerald rings studded across his
fingers. Sam in a dark blue three-piece, complementing Lucifer without
overshadowing him. One of the things Lucifer had bought for him back when
everything was new, and he finds he can’t pretend he doesn’t notice how well
they look together. He and Lucifer balanced and sophisticated when they ride
into London in the steam-powered carriage, Sam only trembling where Lucifer
can’t see, and he looks down at himself as they descend. As Lucifer hands the
driver a twenty-pound note so he’ll wait outside the restaurant, and Sam has a
moment where he hardly recognizes himself.
Four years ago, he was the scrawny violent kid from the orphanage who stole
food for the younger kids but broke the arm of someone two years ahead of him
for trying to steal Sam’s own. Four years ago, he didn’t even have three
farthings weighing his pockets down, and now. Now he’s someone people want to
hold doors open for at restaurants in south London. Now he’s someone who looks
like he could belong in public with Lucifer, who is. Barely recognizable in
this setting. All elegance and refined courtesy, nothing like he is at the
brothel. Or, rather—exactly the way he is, but far more restrained. Little
tense lines around his eyes and mouth as he smiles, inclines his head. Offers
up social niceties Sam didn’t think Lucifer would even be aware of. All that
power still simmering just under the surface, but he’s pulled it back. Only the
way he walks, the way he’s holding himself, gives any indication as to the
person he might be. Nothing else. Not even a hint of how volatile he is,
sometimes. How cold and cruel and unforgiving.
“You’re like a totally different person here,” Sam tells him, without thinking,
once they’re seated. Immediately winces, thinking how they haven’t even been
here ten minutes and already Sam’s fucked up, but Lucifer just snorts,
smoothing a hand over the linen tablecloth.
“Well, we are in public, Sam,” he murmurs. Leaning in a little, so that his
face is lit from underneath by the single candle in the center of their table.
“I can’t exactly bend you over the side of your chair and spread your legs in
front of everyone,” and Sam kind of chokes, glaring at Lucifer, smirking and
amused across from him.
The waiter comes over and takes their drink orders—tea, Sam says, frowning at
his menu, and Lucifer makes a rough amused sound, corrects him: we’ll both have
champagne, thank you—which prompts Sam to ask:
“Did you invite me out here just to get me drunk?”
The edge of one of Lucifer’s rings catches on the table as he taps it there,
looking dangerous and
(beautiful)
sensuous in the dim light. “If I wanted to get you drunk, Sam, I would’ve just
had brandy delivered to our suite.”
It’s the first time either of them has referred to it as their suite, and Sam’s
glad for the gas lamps flickering across his face as he blushes. “Okay,” he
says, “so why are we here, then? I know it’s not just out of the goodness of
your heart—”
“I think we both needed an evening off,” Lucifer says. “And I have some things
I need to discuss with you.”
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Do these things have anything to do with the fact
that it’s been a month and a half and you still haven’t fucked me?”
Lucifer’s fingers still against the tabletop. “I was going to talk to you about
the logistics of our relationship arrangement, yes.”
“Oh, yeah, the logistics that didn’t already get explained on that contract
saying you can do whatever the hell you want to me—” But the sarcasm feels
wrong coming out of his mouth. The way it did last night, when Lucifer had
asked him out to dinner. So that when Lucifer just looks at him, mild annoyance
flitting across his eyes, Sam makes himself shut up. Takes in a deep breath,
hand clenched around his thigh.
“Will you let me speak?” Lucifer asks, after a little bit. With the flame still
flickering between them like the lightning from the night before. Watching Sam
like he doesn’t quite know what to make of him, even after all this time, and
Sam. Sam doesn’t really know what to do with something like that.
So he nods.
Lucifer does too, mouth twisted up a little at one corner. He’s quiet for a
minute as their waiter returns, holding two crystal stem glasses on a tray, a
bottle of champagne set in a tub of ice. Pours the liquid so that it slides
perfect and slick down the sides of the flutes, twisting his wrist to avoid
dripping alcohol on the tablecloth. Walks off once Lucifer’s indicated they
aren’t ready to order their food yet, and Lucifer lifts his glass, tilts it at
Sam’s.
“So that our evening might be tolerable,” he says, and the edge of his glass
catches Sam’s with a soft sound.
“Pretty sure I’m not gonna be the one who’d be making it intolerable,” Sam
mutters at his lap, but he can feel a smile threatening to shove its way onto
his face. Takes a sip of champagne to try and quell it, and then “You had
something to say?” he asks, without looking up.
There’s a thread of something close to amusement in Lucifer’s voice when he
speaks. “You and I have never really gone over how our contract works, have
we.”
Sam shakes his head. “I just assumed it was me giving you sex,” he says. “But
you’re not. You haven’t wanted—you aren’t fucking around with me yet.” Tries to
keep his voice neutral, but when Lucifer takes his next sip of champagne, the
way his eyes glitter in the light glinting off the glass—Sam can tell he knows
how much Sam wants him. Probably knows that one handjob in a dark room hasn’t
done a whole lot to satiate him. Though it did help, and maybe Sam could
convince him they need to go at it again—
“You wouldn’t consider what I did to you last night fucking around?” And that’s
definitely amusement, now. Lucifer tilting his head, reaching across the table
and tucking his forefinger and thumb against the collar of Sam’s dress shirt.
Acting like he’s going to straighten it, but he pulls it back, instead. Just
enough to expose the lower side of Sam’s neck, where Lucifer had his teeth last
night. Where there’s a small dark spot now, dull russet shade and Sam flushes
when Lucifer strokes the pad of his thumb over its surface. Little barely-there
tendrils of pain registering, and Sam glares at him, wishes he could control
whatever emotion is registering on his face now.
Lucifer pulls back, tucks the collar into its usual position. Hand set
carefully on his glass, and he says, “You know, Sam—you intrigue me.”
The non-sequitur kind of throws Sam off balance a little, the way nearly
everything Lucifer says throws him, and he blinks.
“I intrigue you?”
“Yes.” Lucifer nods, taking another sip of champagne. His eyes flicking to
Sam’s, then down to the restaurant menu.
“Is that why you took me to begin with?” Sam asks, and Lucifer breathes out.
“When you were twelve,” he says, “of course, I didn’t know you. But even then—”
He breaks himself off. Eyes cutting to the wall behind Sam’s head, and for the
first time since Sam’s known him, he looks—he’s not entirely—
“Lucifer?” Sam prompts, after a few seconds, and Lucifer shakes his head.
“Even then,” he says, like he’s steeling himself. Like he has to force the
words out. “You reminded me of myself, when I was your age.”
Whatever Sam was expecting Lucifer to say, it wasn’t that. He takes a fast
drink of champagne to hide how startled he is, says, “How—”
“Your stubbornness, mostly,” Lucifer says. No trace of that earlier amusement
left in his face, and Sam swallows, his heart doing odd things in his chest.
“That defiance you carry around like a torch.” He pauses for a moment to give
their order to the waiter—sautéed mushrooms and light soup for an appetizer,
roast chicken cooked in breadcrumbs and sided with baked potatoes as the main
course—and then “The fact that you refused to give in,” he says. “Even when I
tried beating your insolence out of you.”
Some subconscious instinct makes Sam’s hand lift, press to the bruise on his
neck. Remembering
(“I am getting increasingly tired of your childish backtalk,” Lucifer snaps,
his hands gripping Sam’s shoulders too hard behind the stage, another show
done, another night of too much skin exposed and Sam was just sick of it,
lashed out. “You give me one more episode like you did earlier and I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Lucifer? You’ll hit me again? You’ll kick me out?” Sam is
sneering, mocking. “Yeah, I’d love to see that happen—”
The slap, when it comes, isn’t unexpected, but it jars Sam anyway. Feeling his
teeth cut into the inside of his cheek, blood exploding in his mouth and he
tries not to react but he can’t hide his wince.
“They’ll eat you alive if you can’t take this much pain,” Lucifer snarls. His
hand still raised halfway, Sam’s cheek stinging and hot. “When it’s your time
to spread your legs for the clients, they’ll carve you up and spit you out—”
“So you’re hitting me because you want to train me into tolerating pain while I
get fucked?” Sam snaps back, instinctive reaction, and he barely even flinches
when Lucifer strikes him a second time.)
Lucifer’s attempts at discipline, when he was still so young his voice cracked.
When he was still unaware of how Lucifer looked pressed against him in the
half-light, the hot weight of his hand wrapped around Sam’s cock.
“Thought you told me you hated when I was rude,” Sam says, but it feels,
strangely, almost like an apology.
Lucifer says, “I disliked that you were uncontrollable,” and he says, “I
thought you were going to inspire my other children to stop working. My
business can’t run if no one’s making money.”
Sam’s chest tightens with half-hearted anger. Lucifer’s focus on wealth, on
prioritizing the prostitutes as second to the cash they can rake in, has always
incensed him, but. “No,” he says, very quiet. “They wouldn’t have, they hated
me. They still hate me.”
One of Lucifer’s fingers runs a slow line up the side of his glass. “They don’t
hate you, Sam.”
“They’ve always been able to see you making me into your favorite and they
certainly don’t like that.”
“Would you like me to stop?” His head tilted to the side, watching Sam with a
curious, almost cautious expression on his face. Like there’s something vital
hanging onto Sam’s answer, whether it’s yes or no, and Sam can’t tell what the
right thing to say is. Isn’t even sure of what he’s feeling, himself, but he’s
spent years in Lucifer’s unofficial care. Years of not having to bend over or
go on his knees or have his wrists pinned to rickety headboards. Years of
getting to stay in his room during auctions, years of having books to read and
ciphers to write on, nothing to do in his leisure time but stroll through the
house, the grounds.
“No,” Sam says, and Lucifer nods, fleeting satisfied expression crossing his
face before he suffocates it.
Then “So that’s it, then,” Sam asks, and Lucifer lifts his eyebrows. “That’s
the whole reason you’ve kept me all these years, even though I wasn’t fucking
anyone. Because I remind you of yourself.”
Lucifer flinches. Just barely, just along the line of his shoulders. So that if
Sam wasn’t watching him as close as he is, he wouldn’t have noticed at all.
“Because you caught my attention,” he says. “Curious stubborn little thing that
you are—”
“‘m almost six feet, not little,” Sam mumbles, and is rewarded a moment later
by a genuine, surprised laugh from Lucifer. His eyes crinkling at their edges,
lines forming underneath, and Sam is startled at how—human Lucifer looks, when
he’s like this. How normal. Like someone who could be—
“So I caught your attention,” Sam says fast, to derail that particular train of
thought. “I remind you of yourself.” He tilts his glass back to his lips, finds
he has to angle it for longer before the champagne will slide down his throat.
“Is that why you buy me clothes?”
“Everyone needs to be wearing something when they aren’t in the back rooms,”
Lucifer says, his tone suggesting he’s being deliberately obtuse.
“I mean clothes that look like this, Lucifer.” Sam points at his three-piece.
Far more expensive and fine than anything the others own, except maybe Lilith
and Abaddon. “Stuff it takes everyone else years to earn. You never make me
earn anything. You just—give.”
There’s a small frown etched between Lucifer’s eyebrows. “I asked if you’d like
me to stop—”
“I’m not saying I want you to. I just. I’m trying to make sense of it. It’s not
like I’m anyone important. I’ve spent four years with everyone hating me and
you never. You don’t exactly act like you’re just dying to be friends with me,
so—it’s not. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, is all. Why you do all this stuff
for me, when I haven’t done anything for it back.”
Sizzling plates of sautéed mushrooms interrupt their conversation. Small china
bowls of light soup, sterling silver spoons and the scent of onions and garlic
drenching the air around their table, and the waiter refills their glasses
without asking. Sets a basket of bread in the center of their table, presumably
for dipping, and walks off.
Sam lifts his fork, cheeks flushed. Ready to just eat, to forget everything he
just said, but Lucifer’s fingers are closing around his wrist, rendering him
immobile. “Sam,” Lucifer says. Just his name, but it’s a command. Sam
recognizes that when he hears it.
“I don’t exactly think I’m worth any of the stuff you give me,” Sam says, more
to his mushrooms than to Lucifer’s insistent gaze. “Like. Um. The books. That
tome on ancient Egyptian mythology you gave me that one year, remember—with all
the drawings and the descriptions?”
“I remember.”
“Or like when there was that meteor shower, and you left your desk for the
whole evening just to come watch it with me—told me all about what we were
seeing, all the different constellations, like you were just as interested as I
was—”
Lucifer’s thumb is right against the thin skin on the underside of his wrist,
and Sam can feel every movement of Lucifer’s own body. Including the moment
when he twitches, surprised. Jerking like he wants to pull away but can’t make
himself. “I didn’t leave my desk unmanned,” Lucifer says, voice a little bit
dimmed. “Lilith was in charge, that night.”
Sam takes a breath. “I’m the only one in the whole place that gets lotion after
I get hurt. I’m the only one you’ve never allowed anyone to knock around except
you—”
“Well.” Lucifer’s voice is tight. Impatient and strained and Sam knows he’s
imagining the bemused sheen in his eyes. “There’s one thing we can remedy for
you, then.” He drops Sam’s wrist like it’s scalding him, and Sam flinches back
on instinct. Knows he’s said the wrong thing again, wonders if it’ll cost him
everything they’ve started to tentatively build up this evening.
Lucifer makes a quiet sound, his fingers flexing in mid-air, where he had been
holding Sam’s hand just moments before. “Sam,” he says, watching. The way he
always has, as far back as Sam can remember. That introspective contemplating
look Sam’s never seen until tonight set hard in his eyes, and Sam feels his
shoulders starting to relax, but only just.
He’s learned it’s best to stay wary, around Lucifer.
“What, you’re gonna start beating the shit out of me and not give me the
additional protection of something cold and aloe-scented afterwards?” Sam asks,
clenching his free hand hard around the edge of his seat in the hopes that it
will stop his trembling.
“I’m not going to beat you,” Lucifer says.
“I. You. What?” Startled, Sam watches Lucifer lower his hand to his silverware.
Lift the spoon and dip it into his soup, just casual, but he won’t look
directly at Sam when he repeats himself:
“I won’t hit you anymore,” he says, and Sam doesn’t know why but his hand goes
automatically to his neck. Feeling for that bruise, and the pain it sends
sparking all down his ribs. Third time tonight it’s been touched with real
intent, and Lucifer’s eyes travel there too. Setting his spoon down and
allowing his mouth to curve up for an instant at the corners. Eyes sparking
dark and glittering but Sam doesn’t feel threatened. Or endangered. Or any of
the usual emotions he feels when he’s with Lucifer.
He thinks that should scare him more than anything.
“Dare I hope you’ve developed some kind of moral code after all this time?” Sam
asks, and Lucifer snorts.
“I’m just trying to play fair for once,” he says, and Sam tears a hunk of bread
off fast with his teeth so he won’t laugh.
“Yeah?” he says. “What, uh. What else were you planning, if you’re so intent on
playing fair?”
Lucifer sucks his lower lip in, and Sam tries not to stare. Finds it pretty
impossible a second later when Lucifer starts in on his mushrooms, his skin
coming away all shiny. “I’d like you exclusively,” Lucifer tells him. “No one
else in our beds but each other—”
“So we are working into actual sex.” Sam grins at him, and Lucifer nudges his
ankle under the table. Just light, just the smallest movement, but it makes Sam
blush harder than he has all evening.
“Don’t make me regret my decisions, Sam,” Lucifer growls, but it’s as empty a
threat as Sam has ever heard. Lucifer’s foot still resting just barely against
his ankle, like he forgot it there. His hand curled halfway across the table,
almost touching Sam’s champagne glass.
“Oh, well, hell—you’re the one who signed a contract with the rudest kid in the
brothel—”
They’re both smiling, now. All warm and strangely pleasant in the dim lighting
of the restaurant. “I want everything to be consensual,” Lucifer says. “Nothing
you don’t want, Sam.”
“If I remind you so much of yourself, shouldn’t you be able to interpret what I
want already?” Sam asks, and pushes his ankle back against Lucifer’s foot.
Lucifer startles a little, glancing down. Trying a second later to school his
expression into something more refined, but Sam already saw, and he files it
away for later. When he’s alone, and he can dissect all these little tiny hints
at vulnerability, at human, that Lucifer has been giving him since they sat
down.
“And there’s one more thing, Sam—”
“Oh, good, I was starting to think we hadn’t covered all the aspects of our
contract—”
“You belong exclusively to me. That needs to be understood.”
Sam blinks. “You said that one already, Lucifer—”
“It goes for all situations, Sam. Not just who we spread our legs for.” Lucifer
takes a bite of soup-soaked bread, and Sam’s fingers are suddenly itching with
the desire to wipe the trail of broth off his lower lip. Just to see how his
skin would feel there, just on his mouth, that soft little red vulnerable place
Sam has never touched. “You don’t have to go naked by request anymore. Not even
during the dances. Not even in the parlor.”
Sam takes a deep breath. “Lingerie?”
“Not unless you want to,” Lucifer repeats, his eyes steady on Sam’s, and
there’s a low flare of heat building up in Sam’s stomach now. Has been for a
while, sparked off by that new tone in Lucifer’s voice, maybe. Or the quiet
look in his eyes, not quite predatory but just on the border.
Sam pushes his plate to the side, leans in a little. So that his leg brushes
higher up against Lucifer’s under the table, their calves touching. Sam’s
elbows resting on the table but Lucifer doesn’t chastise him about good
manners, too busy staring at Sam’s mouth.
“What if I want to display myself in public like that for you?” Sam asks, his
voice dropping lower than he thought it could, and he watches Lucifer’s irises
darken until they’re nearly black. Feels Lucifer’s leg tremble against his,
just for a second, but he knows right then that Lucifer is hard. That Sam’s the
one who got him there, two nights in a row.
Their waiter comes with the main course five minutes later, finds them still
staring at each other. Sam shaking a little, feeling the solid warm press of
Lucifer’s hand on the inside of his knee. Lucifer biting his lower lip, his
throat working, but his voice is even and steady when he says:
“What do you think, Sam? Of my proposed arrangement?”
The waiter clears their appetizers aside, sets their fresh food down. Sam’s
heart is in his throat, his fingers trembling as he reaches for his champagne
glass.
“It sounds,” Sam starts. Has to clear his throat, hold up his glass for more.
He wonders how much he can drink before he loses control of his own body.
Before he stops having enough common sense to know it would be a bad idea to
launch himself across the table right now and grab the lapels of Lucifer’s
jacket, kiss him all hot and wet and messy right here, in front of everyone.
“I like it,” Sam says, a few sips later, and Lucifer nods.
“So do I,” he murmurs. His hand still twitching idly on Sam’s knee, but it
isn’t until the waiter walks off that he starts edging his fingers up. Gaze
intent on Sam’s, and Sam tries to ignore the slow crawl of Lucifer’s hand but
it’s pretty hard when he’s shifting his seat closer. Sliding his foot more firm
between Sam’s just to gain better purchase under the table, the rough pads of
his fingers scraping against Sam’s inner thigh. Watching him and moving slow,
so slow, his palm spread flat, his breathing all low and intimate near Sam’s
ear as he presses further and further up—Sam’s heartbeat ratcheting crazy fast
in his chest, his mouth gone dry but all his higher brain functions are dead.
He couldn’t reach for the champagne right now, much less remember he has a
glass of it right in front of him—
And then Lucifer pulls back. His eyes hooded, innocuous—though Sam catches a
flash of that dark, unbridled lust just before Lucifer looks down at his plate.
Lifts his knife and fork, cuts his chicken into neat, practical cubes. Like he
wasn’t just teasing Sam out of his goddamn mind. Like his hand wasn’t just
creeping up Sam’s thigh, just centimeters away from his—
“Aren’t you going to eat, Sam?” Lucifer asks, and Sam jerks at the sound of his
voice. “Your food’s going to get cold.”
He’s looking at him from across the table. Just looking, nothing sexual or
suggestive in his gaze, but even so Sam feels pinned under his eyes. So
intense, twin pools of the richest blue Sam’s ever seen. Glaciers floating in
the bottom of the ocean, and the man they belong to is twice as dangerous, but
he’s smiling, right now. Smiling, barely perceptible, with his head tilted to
the right, his jaw moving slow as he chews.
Sam swallows. Makes an embarrassingly incoherent noise that prompts Lucifer to
laugh, low and scuffed up from the back of his throat, and he can’t speak for
the rest of the evening. Still too intent on thinking of what could have been,
on that soft warm almost fond expression in Lucifer’s eyes, and it’s quiet at
their table, but Sam thinks it’s okay.
***** Chapter 4 *****
There’s a shift in their relationship, after that.
They still don’t fuck, but. It’s different, somehow. Sam figures a lot of it
has to do with the fact that they don’t fight anymore. Not really. Not since
Lucifer laid down the terms of the contract, claimed he wasn’t going to hit Sam
anymore. Which he doesn’t, a fact that has surprised Sam about as much as it
hasn’t.
Well, that and the fact that now there are handjobs and blowjobs every other
night to satiate the tension, but. Sam isn’t looking to be too particular.
Or, well, maybe he is. Because their new set-up is pretty great. Starts about
three days after the dinner, when Sam’s dragging himself to bed after a five-
hour shift on the stage. His muscles sore from dancing, and he’s been half-hard
for hours, just from watching Lucifer watch him from the audience. Their eyes
locked nearly the entire time Sam was dancing, Lucifer with his fingers pressed
to his mouth, legs spread careless under the tablecloth. So much heat thrumming
between them that even when the other patrons applauded and catcalled, Sam
couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t see them. Blind and deaf to everything but
Lucifer, smirking all slow and lascivious from under his hand. His expression
somehow managing to be both amused and promising sex, all at once.
So Sam’s aching, turned-on, and exhausted. His mind on the shower, where he can
jerk off all slow and wanting. Thinking of Lucifer, who has barely spoken to
him since their trip to London, always busy with work; tonight was the first
night he was even able to come watch Sam in the dining hall. Sam’s mind always
on him, wondering if Lucifer thinks about him too. Replaying over and over the
feeling of Lucifer’s hand sliding up his thigh. Wondering what might have
happened if Lucifer hadn’t dragged his fingers away.
In their suite, Sam’s just kicked the door shut with the sole of his foot. Is
in the middle of tugging his corset open, not looking up, when he hears
footsteps. Heavy and purposeful, and he barely has time to brace himself before
Lucifer is pressing him back against the wall. Hands gripping his shoulders,
that same hot starved look in his eyes from earlier, and Sam’s exhaustion
washes away in an instant. His lust welling up, threatening to consume him, and
he makes a little choked-off sound, a hoarse gasp that has Lucifer’s grip
tightening around his arms.
“Don’t slam the door,” Lucifer growls in his ear. Fingers moving down, down, to
his waist, slipping his garters off, tucking into the lace sides of his
panties. “Do you have any idea how much it cost me?”
Sam’s already rutting up into his hand, and he hasn’t even taken his underwear
off. “Quit bitching and just fuckin’ do something already, if you’re gonna—”
Lucifer drags the silk down off Sam’s legs in one swift movement. The fabric
ripping a little with the force of Lucifer’s hand, and Sam groans, “Oh, no, you
sure you have enough money to pay for more of those—ah, shit, Lucifer,” because
suddenly Lucifer’s hand is on his cock again, squeezing, moving up and down too
fast too quick too much—
“Lucifer—Lucifer—Christ, I—” Sam’s hands are scrabbling frantically for
purchase. Find themselves gripping Lucifer’s waist, digging into his hips. “Oh,
god,” he groans, staring at the erratic pulse jumping in Lucifer’s neck, hips
jerking forward of their own volition.
“Do you have any idea what you looked like tonight,” Lucifer asks. His voice
pitched low as he moves his hand. Idly grinding his own hips against Sam’s
thigh, and Sam knows he isn’t going to last long at all, not like this. “Up on
the stage, dressed like that—after I haven’t even seen you for three days,
Sam—”
Sam’s breath is hitching. His back hurts where it’s pressed too hard into the
wall and his legs are shaking from having to support him like this and his cock
is over sensitized, too many hours brushing against the soft teasing material
of his outfit on stage now at harsh counterpoint to the rough dry catch and
pull of Lucifer’s palm. He’s sweating and he’s sore and he’s tired and he’s hot
and cold all over, all at once, and he’s never wanted anyone like this. Never.
“Surprise,” Sam says, with what little control over his mouth he has left, and
then, “Oh, fuck,” and he’s coming, shuddering, all over everything. Lucifer
stroking him through it, eyes steady on Sam’s, kinda leaning against the wall a
little. Still rocking his hips up, lazy, and when Sam starts pushing at him,
the sensations getting to be too much, Lucifer reaches inside his pants,
pushing them down, hand fisting around his own cock.
Sam watches the flex and pull of his arm muscles for a moment, dazed and
satiated and shaking, but then. Then he finds his hands moving of their own
accord, batting Lucifer’s away and wrapping inexperienced and uncertain around
him.
He feels different in Sam’s hand than Sam was expecting. Having never jerked
anyone off but himself, Sam wasn’t sure before how to really imagine it but
it’s nothing like what he thought it would be. Lucifer is hot, a startling
counter to the relative cool temperature of his hands and arms and face. Nearly
burning in Sam’s palm, and heavy. Thicker than Sam, flushed, and Sam gives an
experimental pull and is rewarded by the shocked gasp that shoves its way out
of Lucifer’s mouth. The way he pushes up into Sam’s grip, and Sam arranges his
fingers the way he likes around himself and starts stroking. Slow, teasing
pulls that bring up new leaks of precome to the slit every time, and Sam swipes
his thumb through it, uses it to slick up his grip.
“Sam,” Lucifer says, his voice rough. Wrecked. He’s not smirking anymore. “Go
faster—I’m not gonna break if you—”
Sam twists his wrist, sharp, and Lucifer hisses through his teeth.
“Always giving orders,” Sam says, shaking his head, but he moves faster anyway.
Speeding up and gripping tighter, sliding his free hand down Lucifer’s side.
Focused and intent on the movement of his hand. Still clumsy, not anything like
what Lucifer was giving him, but he can tell Lucifer doesn’t mind. Coaxing
little hoarse sounds up from Lucifer’s throat, quiet pained noises that are
almost enough to get Sam going again, and when Lucifer comes he buries the
sound he makes in Sam’s shoulder. Teeth sinking into bare skin and his whole
body shudders as he spills over Sam’s hand.
It’s quiet for a while, after. The only sounds in the room are Lucifer and
Sam’s breathing, and Sam thinks he can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
Can definitely feel Lucifer’s, where it’s moving arrhythmic to his own, sort of
throbbing against Sam’s skin.
Then Lucifer pulls back, clears his throat. “Well,” he says, and Sam can tell
he’s trying very hard to hold himself together.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and, “Good enough to make up for how I almost broke your
door?” and he’s teasing, of course, but he’s surprised at how much he wants
Lucifer’s answer. To know if he was good enough. With his slender fingers, his
shaking wrists.
Lucifer’s hand curves around Sam’s bare hip. Pulls him flush, and Sam would
think they were going to kiss, but that’s not who they are. That’s not who
Lucifer is.
“It’ll do,” Lucifer says, trying for indifference and failing miserably, but
Sam catches the tail-end of his smile as he’s turning away, so he lets him have
it.
And there are blowjobs, too, though Sam’s more daunted by the idea of Lucifer’s
dick in his mouth. Lets Lucifer lead them into it, one afternoon when business
is slow. Goes to his office when he’s called down, and ten minutes later he’s
stretched out against the desk, trousers around his ankles, Lucifer’s hands on
his thighs and the tight wet heat of his mouth stretched around Sam. Sucking
him down, far enough that Sam’s hitting the back of Lucifer’s throat, and when
he comes he almost breaks Lucifer’s nose, but. God.
“Gonna hold your hips down next time,” Lucifer tells him, “make you take it
without being able to move,” and Sam nods, frantic from where he’s laid out
like a sacrificial offering. All disheveled and flushed on the desk, papers
scattered to the side, the crack of his ass hanging off the edge. Sure he looks
ridiculous but Lucifer’s gaze on him is as hard and heated as ever. Like this
is just as new to him as it is to Sam. Like he’s getting just as much out of
this.
The first time Sam tries to suck Lucifer off, it’s kind of disastrous. He takes
too much too quick and starts gagging, has to pull off fast to avoid
embarrassment. Ends up sprawled across Lucifer’s stomach, eyes watering,
ashamed and tracing patterns over Lucifer’s hip to try and distract him from
the fact that neither of them got off. Lucifer’s fingers stay curled in Sam’s
hair and they don’t talk for the rest of the afternoon, not until Lucifer has
to get up and Sam has to get ready for the evening, but. There’s no tension.
Nothing palpable, anyway. You’ll work on it, Lucifer says, I’ll teach you, and
Sam wants to get insulted. Wants to make a big deal about how Lucifer’s being
condescending, but that’s not the case, and anyway he’s more turned on by the
idea than anything.
It’s getting harder and harder, as time goes on, to find excuses to continue to
hate Lucifer.
“Fuck,” Sam says, one evening. His voice still rough from where he had
Lucifer’s dick in his mouth, his legs shaking from his own orgasm. Sprawled out
on the carpet of Lucifer’s office, staring at the ceiling, Lucifer a warm solid
presence beside him. “If I had known it was this good I would’ve asked you to
put me on the floor years ago.”
Lucifer rolls over. Props himself up on one elbow, staring down at Sam. “It
would’ve never been that good,” he says, “not unless you were with me,” and Sam
feels a thrill run tripping up the vertebrae of his spine at the look in
Lucifer’s eyes.
And so it goes.
There are other things, too. Things that weren’t in the contract, or discussed
at the dinner. Lucifer surprising Sam, the way he has for years now. He seems
to be calming down, as the weeks go by. His focus not just on sex, on making
both of them feel good through physical contact, but on other aspects of their
relationship as well. Things that Sam would have never in a million years
expected Lucifer to be aware of, but.
They have a little fight one afternoon. Sam’s not even sure what it’s about,
just that Lucifer is frustrating the hell out of him. You don’t have the full
capacity yet to understand that, he’ll say, about certain emotions Sam’s sure
he’s understood for years now. You’re only sixteen, but then he’ll turn around
and suck Sam off against the wall of his study, and Sam’s honestly pretty sick
of it.
“You can’t treat me like a child in one case and act like you wanna fuck me in
another, Lucifer,” he snaps. His hair still in disarray from where Lucifer was
tugging on it earlier, the front of his trousers wet where he came untouched,
just from the sound Lucifer made when Sam had his dick down his throat. “You
can’t stand there and act like you think I’m not mature enough to listen to
certain conversations but then sit down at dinner and read me a fucking
contract about how you’re going to fucking own me—”
It dissolves from there. Until both of them are hoarse from yelling, and Sam’s
sure the entire brothel can hear their fight. He ends up storming out of their
suite, his legs shaking, smell of sex lingering around him like a cloud. Stays
hot and tense for most of the evening, well into the dance—after he’s changed,
and cleaned off, and ensured that no one will touch him except Lucifer, because
even now that’s all Sam wants—and goes to bed alone and horny and upset.
“Take a walk with me, Sam,” Lucifer says, the following afternoon. The sun
slanting through the windows of their suite, dust motes floating in a burnt
gold shaft. The first time he’s spoken to Sam since Sam slammed the door in his
face, and Sam opens his mouth to apologize but Lucifer shakes his head, tilting
it in increments towards the door. Looking—strangely—almost apologetic himself.
Lucifer’s face and hair are caught in a scrim of light and Sam’s heart twists
and clenches up in his chest at the sight. At the thought that comes, sudden
and unbidden, of Sam pressing himself up against Lucifer. Of taking his jaw in
his hands and kissing him, all slow and deep, and Sam doesn’t have much—or
any—practice with kissing, but he knows enough. Knows Lucifer would walk him
through it, like he has done for everything else, and. It might even—they
might—
“Sure,” Sam says, dislodging the idea fast, and they take up their coats and
shoes and go outside. This hour of the day, there’s hardly anyone in the
gardens except for the groundskeepers, Joshua and Cain, and Lucifer and Sam
walk a ways out on a dirt path. Under arched trees and along vine-covered
trellises, their feet scuffling in the ground, until they get to a secluded
place in the center. A rose bed surrounded by brick inlaid ground, cement
benches on three sides. The quiet sound of the fountain working a few rows off,
and Lucifer walks to the bed, kneels, and clips a flower from the bush. Scrapes
the thorns off with the clippers and returns to Sam with it held between his
thumb and forefinger. His hand coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder as he leans in,
his fingers brushing just against Sam’s temple. Tucking Sam’s hair behind his
ear, hand running slow and rough against Sam’s scalp. Sliding the rose back
behind his ear, and Sam feels its petals brush cool and soft on his skin. The
sweet smell filling his nostrils, and he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that
never again will he be able to smell this scent without thinking of this
afternoon. With the sun all warm on his neck and Lucifer’s thumb on his cheek,
his fingers balancing a rose against Sam’s scalp.
There’s a soft look in Lucifer’s eyes when Sam dares to glance up. One he tries
to shutter off almost immediately, but Sam sees it. Catalogues it for later,
and reaches up for a second to press the tips of his own fingers against the
backs of Lucifer’s knuckles.
Then, looking out over the rose garden:
“You keep these for yourself?”
Lucifer nods. “I’m allowed to have a hobby outside of the business, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, I know.” Sam touches the rose balanced so careful and tender right
on the crest of his ear. “Just didn’t expect you to be a gardener, s’ all.” He
grins at Lucifer over his shoulder, says, “Makes you seem like such an old
man,” and five minutes later finds himself pinned to the ground. Lucifer
working his hands over Sam’s clothes, taking off as little as possible to get
his mouth around Sam right there in the dirt—huffing out show you who’s an old
man, his mouth quirked. Sam staring up at the sheer blue sky, the wisps of
cloud drifting between the branches of trees above his head, his fingers
digging into the warm soil as he arches his hips up. Thrusting shallow into
Lucifer’s mouth, clenching his teeth so he won’t moan too loud.
Later, dried off and walking again on unsteady legs, Sam feels warmth spread
through him that has nothing whatsoever to do with the remembered sensation of
Lucifer’s cheeks hollowed out around his cock. Glances over at him, dazzling
and stunning in the light as it slips further down to the horizon, and it
occurs to Sam that the garden. The garden was special, to Lucifer. Even if he’d
never admit it, it’s obvious to Sam how much he cares about it, and Sam. Sam
feels privileged, knowing he’s been taken there. The rose tucked neatly into
his jacket, covered in little flecks of dirt from earlier when it fell off
Sam’s ear, and long after that day it stays in a glass jar on Sam’s windowsill.
Catching sun and air every day until it wilts and dies, Sam watching the petals
as they fade from crimson to brown-edged pink, and then to pale curling gold,
and then drifting to his floor. Scattered like a wreath around his bed, and he
almost can’t bring himself to pick them up.
But it’s not just the rose garden. It’s everything, or nearly. Lucifer gives
Sam a massive tome on astronomy, full of marked illustrations and long
paragraphs explaining the planets, the stars. One whole chapter devoted to
comets, and Lucifer runs his hands over the pages and tells Sam what he knows
from observation, and Sam’s never seen him so driven by something. So enthused,
night after night, when he slips into Sam’s room not long after Sam comes up
from dancing. Opens his curtains, the raw spill of moonlight cascading onto the
floor, and points at various dots in the sky. Tracing constellations with his
fingers, mapping out dragons and bears and mythical sea creatures. Catching Sam
hard in his devotion to astronomy, and once Sam finds himself pressing his head
on Lucifer’s shoulder so he can see better through the window. His cheek tucked
against the soft cotton, inhaling Lucifer’s scent, familiar and warm.
Atmospheric, in some way Sam can’t explain. Charged up with particles, and
about as dangerous as it is beautiful.
There are discussions, not just about space and flowers but deeper things.
Lucifer’s collection of books in his library—Coleridge and Shelley and Byron;
Shakespeare, Whitman, and Poe. Sam curling up with one or more copies at a time
and Lucifer joining him, looking over his shoulder. What do you think of that
line? he’ll ask, head tilted like he genuinely wants to know, and Sam can’t
figure it out. Why Lucifer wants to spend so much time with him. Like Sam means
anything to him, outside of what the contract obligates; aside from
Bartholomew, Sam has never seen a client treat a consort this way.
“I’ll stop,” Lucifer says, eyebrows raised, when Sam mentions it, but Sam’s
already shaking his head, telling him no. Lucifer smirking at him, his hand
snaking lower down Sam’s stomach, saying he knew that’s what the answer would
be
(“you little slut, just can’t stay away from my cock, can you” but coming from
Lucifer it isn’t an insult)
but there’s something close to relief in his eyes, too. As if Lucifer really
does want to be here, with Sam, talking about books and spiritualism and stars.
His fingers tucked against Sam’s jaw, distracting him while he’s explaining the
physics of Jupiter, and Sam wishes he could just figure out what in the hell
Lucifer is up to, with all this.
Because it isn’t as if they don’t still fight. Sam can’t quite forget that
Lucifer holds a contract with his name on it. That Sam is, essentially,
Lucifer’s property. That any time, Lucifer could get bored with him. Or he
could find someone more attractive, more willing to fuck without all of the
additional snark, and then Sam would just be another
(useless)
typical whore, discarded in favor of prettier things. Someone more cooperative
than Sam, someone who would flirt and tease and fuck and—
“You flirt,” Lucifer says, when Sam brings it up. Confused, like the whole
point has just flown right over his head. Fingers threaded through his hair,
the muscles in his arms taut against his shirt. “You suck me off.”
Sam just frowns down at his feet, and Lucifer lets out an exasperated sigh.
“You cannot believe I would just give you away, Sam. Not after everything—”
“Well, I’m sorry for assuming you’d wanna sleep with someone who actually knew
what the fuck they were doing,” Sam interrupts. Snapping without meaning to,
his cheeks flushed. Thinking of how he’s still a virgin. Of how he doesn’t
really know the dynamics of sex outside of a rudimentary knowledge gained from
years of living at the brothel, walking in on people at the wrong time.
“You’ll learn, Sam—”
“Would you quit talking to me like I’m at school and this is just some lesson
on geometry—”
They end up not speaking for the rest of the afternoon, but later that night,
when Sam’s dance is over, he heads backstage and finds Lucifer there. Holding
another rose, and a red silk scarf that matches its petals.
“You think I’m the type of guy who can just get won over by new clothes and
flowers?” Sam asks, but he’s already taking the rose, tucking it behind his
ear. Curving the scarf around his neck, letting it hang long down his sternum
so that it drapes between his legs, and when he smirks up at Lucifer, all cocky
and self-assured, Lucifer grabs him. Pins him to the wall, tightening the scarf
just slightly against his neck, and they almost don’t make it up to their
suite.
So there’s fighting. But as the weeks go on. As the month-long anniversary of
their dinner approaches—not that Sam’s been keeping track, but—it starts to
decrease. To become less and less of a thing, because Lucifer’s too busy
watching Sam with that amused half-smile on his face. Or they’re walking
through the garden together, Sam always with a flower tucked behind his ear,
Lucifer’s fingers threaded in his hair, or his hand laid flat on the small of
Sam’s back. Or they’re staying up in the common area of their suite until five
in the morning, Sam rambling on about how much he can’t stand certain clients,
Lucifer laughing at certain things he says—although once, Sam thinks he might
accidentally get a client kicked out of the brothel:
“She touches,” he says, and Lucifer’s face goes dark, that possessive hard look
crossing his eyes:
“She touches you?”
“No, I told her I’m bought, but—other kids, she likes to touch other kids—”
Lucifer relaxes once Sam’s confirmed it’s not his skin she’s marring with her
jeweled fingers. But his mouth stays tense, his fingers curved just this side
of too tight against the carpet, and Sam finds himself thinking back to before.
When he still didn’t belong to anyone in particular, and he’d wander the dining
hall in his tight waiters’ outfit. When people like Azazel, or Eve, would
attempt to stroke his hair, tug his underwear down, and Lucifer would just
appear. Steer Sam away, his eyes hard, but he’d ignore when it happened to the
other kids. The one exception being when he’d taken Sam’s clothes off piece by
piece, showing Azazel who it was that held the power, but. Even then, Lucifer
had noticed Sam. Enough to want him—to want to have him all for himself?
Logistically, it shouldn’t make sense. Sam knows there are far more attractive
people here than him, and far more talented, but the idea of Lucifer noticing
him all these years—of wanting him—
So the fighting decreases. Day by day, until they hardly do it at all. Lucifer
seems content to just wander around with Sam. To listen to him talk, and to
hold conversations, and Sam. Sam is far happier with the whole set-up than he
ever thought would be possible.
He still sees Azazel from time to time, especially when he’s dancing, and
though Sam’s not worried anything will happen—especially not in front of
Lucifer—he can’t help the uneasiness that crawls in his stomach every time
Azazel is there. Glaring from him to Lucifer and back, those heated dark-rimmed
eyes full of so much malice and lust and anger. Sam can’t figure out why he
doesn’t just buy another kid to fuck his frustrations onto—his reputation
certainly implies he’s the type—but. There’s nothing Sam can do about Azazel’s
presence.
“He pays, Sam,” Lucifer says, when they’ve gone out for another dinner in
London proper. Sharing goose and caviar and merlot, Lucifer’s hand wandering
just far enough up Sam’s thigh to make him frustrated as all hell. “He fucks
and he pays and he doesn’t touch you, and I have no grounds to keep him out.
I’m sorry.”
Sam swirls his wine around in its glass for a moment, then shrugs. Stares up at
Lucifer, at the clean angular cut of his jaw. Well-defined even at his age, and
he says:
“Doesn’t really matter, Luce, you know you keep me holed up all to yourself
most days anyway.” Blushes a few seconds later, realizing what he said, the
word he let slip after so many weeks of keeping it tucked careful under his
tongue, but Lucifer’s already smiling.
“‘Luce’?” he repeats, voice pitched soft enough to show he isn’t mocking, and
Sam nudges his foot under the table.
“Sight better than ‘Luci’, I think,” he mumbles, chest aching with want and
some other, indefinable emotion, and Lucifer’s still got his mouth curved up at
the corners, all tender and unfamiliar, when the check comes five minutes
later.
~
There’s a place on Lucifer’s grounds Sam loves more than any other. Quiet and
secluded and pushed back from the brothel, far enough to where, if you scrunch
down behind the trees a certain way, you can’t see the building at all. When he
was younger, coming out here was a way for him to escape. To forget where he
lived, what he was intended for. As he’s grown, it’s become less of an escape
and more of something peaceful. Slow and normal, in a way most other things in
his life aren’t, and Sam doesn’t think there will ever come a time when he
won’t love it here.
It’s an orchard, set back behind the gardens and the courtyard and the back
fence. Full of various trees—peach, apple, and oak, among others. The ground
laden with fallen fruit and leaves, the grass cool and a little sharp under
Sam’s hand. He doesn’t go out there very often anymore, now that he has Lucifer
occupying most of his time, but one time there’s a slow day at the brothel. The
air pleasantly warm and it’s making the clients lazy, reluctant to arrive. So
that at seven-thirty, with a barely-occupied dining hall and tired bored groups
of kids, Lucifer gives up. Hands the management over to Lilith for the evening
and he and Sam go outside together, into the slow orange glow of the setting
sun.
Lucifer starts to head automatically for the rose garden, as they’ve been doing
for the past few weeks, but Sam stops him. Not really thinking as he lays his
hand on Lucifer’s arm, his heart in his throat for no apparent reason.
Lapis irises meet his—and Sam’s grown another half inch, so they’re at the same
height now, eyes on the same level—and Lucifer lifts one eyebrow. Curious and
patient, and Sam says:
“I want. Um. I want to show you something. Like you showed me the garden? I
want to share this with you too.”
A smile, there and gone in an instant, and Lucifer nods, pressing his fingers
against Sam’s, all old-world grace and manners. “I would like to see it, Sam,”
he says, and they walk together. Through the pleasure gardens, with their high
stone walls and marble fountains. By the greenhouse, covered in ivy and full of
exotic tropical flowers Lucifer’s had imported from places like South America
and Malaysia. Run solely on heat lamps set into the walls and gas-powered
transpiration machines underground. Past the courtyard, full of iron benches
and stone pathways, and then. Through the back gate, and there’s the orchard.
Empty as usual and covered in a low haze as the sun sinks down to the horizon.
Dust motes carried in shafts of light that shine between the trees as if God
himself were appointing this consecrated ground—amusing thought. The only sound
is that of insects buzzing between the branches, and they stand for a moment on
the threshold, watching.
Lucifer says, “I didn’t know you had found this.” But he sounds pleased.
“You have a lot of land,” Sam says, kind of bracing his shoulder against
Lucifer’s for a moment. “And I’ve lived here for years.”
It’s quiet for a while, after. For enough time that Sam begins to think he’s
said the wrong thing, but then “Show me,” Lucifer says, and Sam can’t quite
stop his exhale. “Show me what this place means to you.”
They walk for a while under the trees. Weaving a path between the arbors, among
the fallen leaves and swollen fruit. There’s a sweet ripe smell growing in the
air, a few gold-winged butterflies dancing past their ears.
They don’t talk. They barely even make any noise treading on the ground. The
air is still enough for Sam to taste the fading sunlight, settling and cooling
all around them, and Sam shivers in a breeze coming up from the west. He
doesn’t think he’s ever felt happier than this.
They get to a peach tree, covered in heavy fruit, ready to fall. The ripe rich
smell as strong as it’s ever been, and Sam reaches up, takes one down. Rubs his
thumb over the fuzzy soft skin, feeling its weight in his hand, the firm
tenderness of its body.
“Have you eaten one before?” Lucifer asks, from just over Sam’s left shoulder.
His voice low, rough. Almost hesitant. “Straight from the tree?”
Sam shakes his head. “Usually when I come out there they’re all already on the
ground.” He lifts it to his nose, inhales. The smell is sharper than that of
the preserves in Inias’ kitchen, no cinnamon to dilute the sweet odor, but the
effect is the same. Sam’s mouth begins to water, his stomach clenching with a
final rally at hunger.
He’s not aware of being made to sit until he feels Lucifer’s fingers curved
around his wrist, his knees bending under him as he sinks to the ground. His
legs pressed up against the prickling grass, his back up against the trunk of
the tree. Lucifer seated next to him, their knees touching.
“Eat,” Lucifer tells him, inclining his head at the peach, but his voice is
oddly soft. As tender as the fruit in Sam’s hand.
He takes a bite, the fuzz rubbing against his mouth. The flesh of the fruit
gives way easy under his teeth, taste exploding in his mouth, and he gasps out
loud, feeling the different textures rub against his teeth and the insides of
his cheeks. Chewing slow, setting the peach down on his thigh. His eyes on
Lucifer’s the entire time, hyperaware of Lucifer’s hand on his knee, of the way
Lucifer tracks his mouth moving.
A line of peach juice slips down his chin, escaping, and Lucifer leans in,
wipes it off with his thumb. Brings his hand to his own mouth and sucks the
juice in, and Sam inhales a second time, for a completely different reason.
They’re so close Sam can count the hairs Lucifer missed while shaving. So close
Sam can see his shirt move as his heart slams in his chest, near perfect echo
of Sam’s own.
“Sam—” Lucifer starts. His voice so quiet, but the orchard is still, and Sam
can hear him as clear as anything. Leaning in a little, his eyes on Sam’s
mouth, and Sam parts his lips, wet and sweet and ready—
“Luci,” comes the voice, from somewhere near the back gate, and Sam flinches,
realizing who it is. Draws back from Lucifer, on instinct, because there’s
still the job, always the job. First, and before anything else, and Sam would
be a fool to believe otherwise.
Lucifer slides his eyes shut for a second. Exhales, bites his lower lip. His
fingers clenching around Sam’s knee.
“Luci,” Azazel calls again, closer this time, and Lucifer stands up fast. The
sudden movement of his leg knocking Sam’s causes the peach to roll off Sam’s
thigh and hit the ground with a muted thud. He watches it, with its single bite
taken out, roll across the ground a few inches and then stop.
“I’m here, Mr. Lehne,” Lucifer says, but his eyes are on Sam’s. Warning him to
stay quiet, to not move, as he shifts just within Azazel’s vision range.
“Lilith didn’t accommodate your needs well enough?”
“Only you really have an understanding of what I prefer,” Azazel murmurs, and
Sam shudders, clenching his teeth.
“Well,” Lucifer says, “let me see if I can help make your evening more
comfortable.”
Azazel shifts closer; Sam can nearly feel his body heat. “Thank you, Luci, that
would be—splendid.”
Lucifer glances one more time at Sam. His eyebrows lifted: are you going to be
okay? and Sam rolls his eyes, gestures out: just go, already. His fingers still
twitching with the remembered cool of Lucifer’s skin. His mouth tingling with
the almost-kiss, chin smeared with peach juice and everything inside him feels
like it’s on fire.
All of it reflected in Lucifer’s eyes, in the second they spend staring, in the
secret dusk of the peach tree after sunset.
Then Sam slips behind the tree, hidden, and Lucifer steps out to greet Azazel
and lead him back to the house.
***** Chapter 5 *****
There’s a function the following week. A gala, formal, and it’s not the first
time Lucifer’s attended one but it is the first time he’s invited Sam. Coming
up to the suite in the middle of the afternoon, when Sam’s curled up in his bed
half-asleep trying to read about Leonardo da Vinci’s inventions. Lucifer’s
fingers curling in his hair to wake him, slow stroking of his scalp for a few
seconds, and Sam hums, his eyes mostly shut, faint smile on his face as he
turns his head into Lucifer’s touch.
“Do you have any clean suits?” Lucifer asks, his voice coming to Sam as if
through water, and Sam mumbles:
“Dunno; you kinda make me come in a lot of them,” and is rewarded a moment
later by Lucifer’s soft laughter.
Sam forces his eyes open. The sun is hot on him, shining through the glass and
onto his thick bedsheets, and it takes a lot of willpower for Sam not to invite
Lucifer to just lie next to him for a minute. For Sam to remember that there’s
still a line drawn, in the end, and Lucifer can’t spend that much time with
someone he owns every single afternoon. Even if Lucifer’s just sitting on the
edge of his bed now, hand drifting down to the line of his jaw. Jeweled fingers
curved down against the warmth of Sam’s skin, and he wants to press into the
touch forever. Never wants to be anywhere but right here.
“Why’re you asking?” Sam asks, with his eyes fixed on Lucifer’s hip.
Lucifer reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulls out a thick
card. Paper the color of daffodils, ink the same shade of emerald as Lucifer’s
rings, and it says: Lucian Milton and companion, cordially invited—
“Lucian?” Sam repeats, one eyebrow raised, and Lucifer glares, taps at the
paper:
“Read, Sam.”
Sam snorts, shakes his head. Reads the rest of the note and props himself up on
one elbow.
“You want me to come to a party with your rich friends?”
Something shadowed and fleeting crosses Lucifer’s face. “They aren’t my
friends, Sam,” he says, “but yes. I’m inviting you. ‘And companion.’ You would
be the companion.”
“Yeah, I kinda got that—” Sam pushes himself up the rest of the way. Allowing
Lucifer’s hand to fall with his body, running down from his jaw to his chest,
and then along the length of his arm. His book fallen to the wayside, and he
stares at the invitation again.
“You really want me to go with?”
Lucifer’s fingers still on top of Sam’s hand. “Who else would I take,” he asks.
“Well, no—but it’s just—” Sam grits his teeth. Gestures at himself: long and
lean and sixteen years old. Lying in bed at two in the afternoon and he’s
wearing a pink satin thong under his casual trousers. “I know we go to dinner
and you like talking to me but. If you want to go with someone like Lilith, or
like Abaddon—”
For the first time in a while, Lucifer looks marginally annoyed. “I invited
you,” he says. “I don’t enjoy these functions and I never have anyone to speak
to at them, but I would if you came. They’re dull and the people are even more
so, but they have food and wine and music, and I know you’ve been dancing every
night for two weeks; you deserve a break.
“Besides,” with his hand on Sam’s cheek again, skating the line of his nose,
over his eyelid, “you have no idea how good you look on my arm, Sam. The way we
look together.”
Sam swallows. Helpless to do anything but press into the touch, and inhale the
scent of cologne on Lucifer’s wrist. “I wanna go,” he admits, quiet.
“Good.” Lucifer moves his hand, allowing Sam to open his eyes again. Doesn’t
even try disguising the gentle happiness in his voice at the prospect of having
Sam come along. “We can pick your suit out together in a few hours.”
He starts to move away. Only stops when Sam’s hand encloses around his wrist.
“Luce.”
“Sam.”
“Will you,” and here Sam has to pause. Staring down at his hands, his cheeks
flushed, and only Lucifer’s fingers brushing his skin give him the courage to
continue: “You’ll stay with me the whole night, yeah? You won’t let me be alone
with those people?”
Lucifer’s fingers tuck under Sam’s jaw, tilt his head up. Sam finds his gaze
stuck on the soft red bow of Lucifer’s mouth again, where he still hasn’t ever
touched. Wonders if it would be as cool as the rest of him, or if their lips
pressed together would be as hot as they feel wrapped around his cock.
“Not for a second,” Lucifer tells him, and Sam laughs, relieved.
~
There’s a certain amount of presenting a façade expected with attending these
galas. Lucifer knows, having been to so many in his lifetime. Practiced at
deceiving people who don’t care enough to look closely, so long as you’re well-
dressed and smiling.
He walks in with Sam on his arm. Their shoulders brushing, Sam’s nose so close
to Lucifer’s neck he can feel him breathing out warm puffs of air. Can feel the
heat radiating off his body as if he were a furnace. The way his eyes scan the
room, glancing at Lucifer out of the corner of his eyes and acting in accord
with him. Smiling when Lucifer smiles, keeping his fingers tucked in the crook
of Lucifer’s arm, and Lucifer knows they look well together. His cobalt suit
and Sam’s dark emerald, both of them wearing rings—Sam’s a rich ochre stone,
borrowed from Lucifer for the evening—and Sam’s eyelids faintly dusted with
light blue eyeshadow. Just enough that Lucifer would not notice from a
distance, but up close—
“You’re looking well tonight, Sam,” Lucifer says, when they’ve pulled their
arms apart after the first ten minutes. Standing side-by-side at the buffet
table, Sam’s ring clinking against his plate.
Sam snorts. Nudges the edge of Lucifer’s hand with his fingers. “You
practically arranged my entire outfit for me,” he says, “isn’t that just you
attempting to get more praise for yourself?”
Lucifer’s mouth twitches. “And so what,” he says. “I buy all your clothes, I
should get some credit.”
“So self-centered,” Sam murmurs, with his fingers pressed against a slice of
melon on a tray. “Like you think I’m gonna just go down on you right here in
front of everyone or something, just because you made me look halfway decent—”
“Halfway?” Teasing, his hand curved around Sam’s shoulder. Not possessive, not
like it used to be. Scraping his thumb against the warm back of Sam’s neck,
feeling the soft hairs there stand up under his touch. Staring at him, those
gentle sad slanted eyes and the soft slope of his nose in profile. The lazy
crush of hair against his nape, and Lucifer shifts his fingers up enough so
that he can touch that, too. Hardly able to believe that Sam is his, after all
these years. That Sam wants to be his.
(don’t forget you are sam’s too)
Shaking that thought off for a later time, when he can dissect it properly,
Lucifer comes back to the conversation in time to hear Sam say, “Okay, okay,
you made me look really good. Like I belong next to you. Jesus Christ, feels
like I’m sucking your dick already—”
Lucifer laughs, and feels the responding vibration come up through Sam’s
throat. “You’re such a sweet talker, Sam,” he says, low. Watches pleased as a
shiver runs up Sam’s spine, into the palm of his hand.
“I learned from the best,” Sam mumbles, his hand leaving the fruit tray so he
can turn a little in Lucifer’s grip.
“You’d rather be on your knees for me right now, wouldn’t you,” Lucifer asks,
mouth against Sam’s ear. “My fingers painful on your scalp while you draw me
down your throat—”
“Ah, Christ, Luce—” Sam hisses, his eyes darting fervent and heated as a low
flush crawls up the sides of his neck. Spilling into his cheeks, his irises
darkening, and Lucifer brings his hand around from Sam’s neck to his jaw, thumb
on his lower lip.
“Or maybe you’d rather be stretched out on your bed back home while I suck
bruises into your thighs.”
Sam’s hand slides down to press against his groin for a moment, his eyes
sliding shut. Lucifer can tell from the near slack expression on his face that
he’s forgotten they’re in public, people milling around beside them all the
time—people who could afford to buy off Sam’s debts a hundred, a thousand times
over, and not even blink.
It’s all right, though. Lucifer’s sort of forgotten where they are, too. No one
matters at all right now except Sam. The central focal point in his life, not
just at the gala but always, and Lucifer thinks maybe it should scare him that
it’s like that now, for them.
“Luce, you—” Sam reaches up, rubs his hand against the back of his neck. “You
can’t just say shit like that, you dick—”
“What if I had you on your back,” Lucifer interrupts, his voice even quieter.
Mouth still on Sam’s ear, his hand cupping Sam’s face. “What if you were spread
out under me, and I was fucking you?”
Sam goes totally, utterly still. His body freezing up like he’s under attack.
Stepping out from Lucifer’s touch, not a lot, just enough so that they’re
looking into each other’s eyes again, and Lucifer cannot tell what Sam is
thinking. What he’s feeling.
It’s quiet for a long, long time. Both of them just standing there staring at
each other. Sam with one hand still on his neck, the other resting faint on the
back of Lucifer’s. Until Lucifer starts to think he said something wrong, that
Sam will be angry with him all evening, and he starts:
“You know, as per our contract, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want
to—”
“You really wanna fuck me?” Sam interrupts. He’s trembling, Lucifer can feel
the soft vibrations through the tips of his fingers, but his eyes are banked
back with barely held-in hope. A shining happiness that Lucifer isn’t used to,
not even from Sam.
Lucifer swallows. Reaches out and pushes Sam’s hair back behind his ear. “I
want to, yes,” he says. “I have for a while now.”
Sam’s whole face lights up. He reaches out to Lucifer’s own face, tucks his
fingers under his jaw. Their food forgotten beside them. The whole world
forgotten under their feet. Civilizations could rise and fall and Lucifer would
not notice.
“Tonight,” Sam tells him. “We could tonight, if you—”
“Yes,” Lucifer says. Immediate response, letting Sam smile and kiss the fruit
juice off his thumb. “I still have a few people to visit with here, but
afterwards we can go home—”
Sam’s nodding, frantic, like he’s afraid Lucifer will change his mind. “I’d
love that,” he says, soft. His whole face flushed but his eyes are bright, his
mouth curved at the corners. So that Lucifer can hardly help running his thumb
over the crescent of it, Sam’s pretty thin rose-colored lips. Wondering what
they’ll feel like on Lucifer’s own mouth, instead of wrapped around his cock.
Wondering if this time will be different than the thousands of other times
Lucifer’s fucked before, just because of who he’ll be with. What Sam means, to
him.
“Well,” Lucifer says, drawing his hands reluctant and slow to his sides,
because he knows if he doesn’t stop touching Sam now, he never will. Takes a
swig of champagne from a free-standing full glass beside his hand, and glances
around the room. Hyperaware of Sam directly beside him the entire time, wearing
that suit Lucifer just wants to tear off his body, watch those buttons pop and
roll across the floor while Lucifer crooks his fingers in Sam’s tight heat and
spreads. “Let’s go finish up our rounds, Sam.”
~
They spend a while wandering. Lucifer talking to people, greeting and shaking
hands and pretending he cares. Sam just off to the side, a sort of inconstant
shadow, hovering and nodding. His fingers tight around a champagne glass, and
Lucifer can feel how tense he is. How very much he still dislikes being around
other people, more specifically around these people. The lavish wealth
glittering in their ears and hanging from their necks and Sam’s smile is as
thin as Lucifer’s. Growing thinner as the evening wears on.
There’s a table covered in little sandwiches. Cubes of cheese impaled with
toothpicks, cherries in a bowl. They stop there and Sam slides his hand down
his face with a groan as a waiter refills his drink.
“Tired?” Lucifer asks, reaching out with his left hand to pick a cherry from
its china bowl.
Sam plucks the fruit from his fingers, slips it into his own mouth. Red
spreading out over his mouth as the juice sprays a little, and he grins, his
teeth stained too. “Not so much,” Sam says. “Just thinking about later,” and
his eyes drop to Lucifer’s mouth. Steady as he reaches over and takes his
champagne back, and Lucifer watches him, the smirk curving his mouth, until he
can’t anymore.
At some point he gets dragged into a conversation with a duchess and an
American born into wealth piled higher than the Appalachians. Tense and annoyed
and glancing at his watch, Lucifer attempts social niceties for a full half
hour—would’ve been ten minutes, except the duchess had a friend who claimed to
be interested in Lucifer’s services—and then “I’m sorry,” he says, “I have to
go.” Turning to the side, losing their interest immediately, and he opens his
mouth to ask Sam if he’s ready but Sam isn’t there.
Lucifer snorts, rolls his eyes. Don’t leave me alone with these people, the kid
had said, but he’s gone and done just that. Probably got bored listening to the
conversation, or maybe irritated with the glib way the duchess’ friend spoke of
Lucifer’s brothel. He snags one of the last remaining cherries from their
pretty little dish, crushes it between his teeth. Eyes scanning the slowly
thinning crowd for dark emerald, or a shock of soft dark hair, but he can’t see
Sam at all.
Which is—odd. Because Sam and Lucifer are two of the tallest people here, and
Sam is certainly the youngest; he shouldn’t be difficult to find. Lucifer
presses through the millionaires milling about, soft tinkling laughter and the
clink of rings on glass, smell of money in the air. A soft hushed feeling in
the room that means the evening is starting to wind down. The moon glowing out
the eastern windows, a cluster of stars hovering over a group of trees.
Sam isn’t standing beside the windows looking out. He isn’t eating the last of
the food scattered across the tables, or leaning against the wall languid and
bored, or waiting for Lucifer beside the entrance. Someone asks, “Where is that
beautiful boy you came here with, Luci?” and then there’s a faint pang in
Lucifer’s chest. A dull sense of anxiety growing louder with each passing
second that his eyes haven’t landed on Sam.
Have you seen Sam? he asks everyone. The guest I brought? Keeping his voice as
neutral as he can, his eyes flat, but he’s shaking, his fingers tapping an
uneven rhythm against the inside of his elbow. Biting his lower lip until the
skin breaks, so he’ll have something else to focus on beside the fact that he’s
looked in every corner of the building and Sam is gone.
Outside, Thaddeus is waiting parked in their steam-powered carriage, cigarette
smoke trailing into the sky in a thin mournful line. Lucifer moves to the
carriage as fast as he can without running, feet stirring up gravel. Wrenches
the back door open, but Sam isn’t in there either. Isn’t waiting for Lucifer
with a careless smirk on his lean face, ready for all the dark promises
Lucifer’s given him, and Lucifer moves to the driver’s seat, glares at
Thaddeus.
“Where is Sam,” he snarls. Aware that Thaddeus hasn’t taken him, but only on
one level. His nerves are frayed, his anxiety shot so high it’s gone
atmospheric. There’s a ringing in his ears, a persistent voice in his head
hissing something’s not right something’s not right.
Thaddeus crushes his cigarette out on the gunmetal exterior of the carriage.
“He isn’t with you?”
Fear blazes up in Lucifer’s chest and right then he knows he’ll never be able
to smell the acrid stench of cigarette smoke again without thinking of this
night. “Of course he isn’t with me,” Lucifer snaps. “Why would I be asking if
he was with me?”
“He came out here a while ago,” Thaddeus says. “Asked me to get the carriage
ready for driving, that he just had to run back in and use the facilities and
get you and—”
“When was this?” Voice sharp, angry. Sweat starting to bead along the edge of
his hairline.
“A while ago, Lucifer, I’m sorry, I don’t—maybe fifteen minutes ago? Twenty?”
But Lucifer’s already tearing back inside. His heart in his throat as he heads
for the restrooms, the one place he forgot to look—
Shoving the swing door open and there’s Sam, lying face-down in the corner, his
head turned away from the door. Not moving when Lucifer calls his name and
Lucifer figures he’s passed out from the amount of champagne he was drinking,
unused to it coming on that strong—
Except there’s blood smeared on the wall.
Except there’s bloodstains gone dark on the seat of his trousers, his clothes
ripped up beyond repair.
Except, as Lucifer edges closer, he begins to smell iron and salt and sex and
there’s semen between Sam’s legs, his ass exposed under artful folds of ruined
pants—
And a note. Pinned to the back of his jacket. Elegant script, faint rust stains
in the corners where it was held, and Lucifer knows that handwriting. Knows it
even as he’s shaking, as he tastes saltwater between his lips. Enough
transactions done in the past with that bastard, never knew when to let things
go, that Sam would never belong to him, no matter what he—no matter how hard he
tried—
Lucifer wipes the tears from his cheeks and reads Azazel’s note on his knees on
the dirty bathroom tile:
Next time you steal something from me, Luci—make sure you keep it locked
tighter than this.
***** Chapter 6 *****
The brothel has a basement. Originally a storage room for dated costumes and
broken equipment, Lucifer had it converted into a hospital of sorts early on in
his career. More useful that way, in case a dancer fell and broke their leg. Or
if an overweight client had a heart attack on top of some unsuspecting consort.
Any number of things that could go wrong, and Lucifer knows that if his
children get sick they have nowhere to go for treatments, so. A basement
hospital it became. A way to gain more money, if nothing else.
He doesn’t think about it very often, mostly because his clients don’t have
heart attacks and his children stay clean, but. He’s thinking about it now.
Running in from the carriage, Sam’s unconscious bleeding body
(did you bleed this much lucian the first time)
carried in his arms. Going through the back door to avoid being seen, and he
ignores Ruby and Meg, standing confused near the entrance of the dining hall,
and nearly breaks the basement door down in his effort to get inside. Down the
cold flight of stairs and into a flickering hall. Sheer white tile on the
floor, plaster walls. There are a few wings that branch off from the main hall
but the one Lucifer wants, the largest and most fully equipped, is at the end.
Overseen by Alastair Heyerdahl, Lucifer’s head doctor almost since he converted
the basement, and his methods are far from conventional, but he knows what he’s
doing. Knows his way around a scalpel and on the operating table and Lucifer
despises him but. There’s nothing else he can do, and Sam. Sam is.
(dying he’s going to die it’s going to be your fault all your fault you didn’t
stop azazel fast enough how could you not have known)
Sam’s body is propped at an awkward angle in Lucifer’s arms, and he can’t knock
without jostling Sam’s neck. All he can do is lift his foot and slam it into
the door, feeling the wood jar and shudder in its hinges every time he kicks.
“Alastair,” he yells, voice echoing through the hospital chambers. “Open this
fucking door right now come on come on where the fuck are you you completely
useless prick—”
The door opens. Revealing Alastair in his white doctor’s coat, sneering the way
he does. His eyes moving from Lucifer to Sam and back, and the smirk grows
wider.
“Don’t tell me,” he starts. “You and your little—hmm, favored slut had a party,
and things got a bit rough—”
“Sam’s been raped,” Lucifer snarls, ignoring the way the words slam into his
chest every time he so much as thinks them. Shifting Sam higher up in his arms,
stroking his cheek. Remembering
(“Drive,” Lucifer says, almost wrenching the door off its hinges as he shoves
his way into the carriage. Sam moaning unconscious and painful as Lucifer
settles them in the backseat. His cheeks sticky with sweat and Lucifer wipes
them with his thumb, smacks Thaddeus on the shoulder when all he does is gape
at them from his seat.
“Drive,” he repeats, pressing Sam’s face into his collar.)
the carriage ride home as he glares at Alastair. As cold and impatient as he
can make his expression right now, considering. Still holding Sam as though
he’s been spun from broken glass, shaking and devastated. Thinking of Sam alone
in that bathroom. Of Sam being approached from behind. Of Sam—
(did azazel knock him out first or did he fuck him before)
(chest clenching as he lifts sam off the bathroom floor sam’s blood smeared on
the tiles sam whimpering and pushing at lucifer’s chest and all lucifer can
hear in his mind are screams)
“Save your assumptions for later,” Lucifer says. “I want him fixed now.”
“Of course, of course.” Alastair mock bows, opens the door wider to let Lucifer
in. There’s an operating table in one corner, two beds for patients to
recuperate on. The training doctors, Casey and Samhain, are talking quietly off
to the side, but the second Lucifer comes in they straighten up. Casey staring
in shock at Sam’s prostrate form, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, as Lucifer lays Sam down on the operating table and
steps back just enough for Alastair to get in. His shoulders are tense and
shaking, his jaw clenched. Staring at his boy, his Sam, lying there on the too-
white sheets. His hair a chestnut halo around his beautiful face, eyes shut,
and Lucifer could pretend he was just sleeping if it wasn’t for the bruises.
The blood and semen streaming down between his legs. The distressed line
between his eyebrows.
There’s a trickle of blood coming from Sam’s hairline, small fractured thing
breaking lightning-shaped patterns down Sam’s skin, and Lucifer reaches out.
Brushes it off with his thumb, smoothing Sam’s hair
(you weren’t there he screamed for you he cried and begged and pleaded and you
were gone)
back from his face. Knowing nothing he does now will ever even begin to make up
for the fact that he abandoned Sam.
Alastair jostles him with his elbow. “Save your sentiments, Luci,” he says.
“Unless you’re keen on, hmm, letting him die?” He pushes himself into the space
where Lucifer was, leaves Lucifer grasping at empty air. His chest tight,
aching worse than it has in years.
Casey and Samhain rush over with tools and the three of them start working,
stitching up and pressing down, as Lucifer stands directly to the side. His
arms folded across his chest, mouth set tight because he’s afraid he might
start crying if he lets go. Alastair has to cut Sam’s pants off, they’re stuck
too tight to his legs from the blood, and Lucifer stares at the opposite wall.
Thinks of all the opportunities he had to get out of that conversation faster.
How Sam was cornered in the bathroom while Lucifer was talking about the cost
of jewels in Glasgow. Sam was being raped while Lucifer was giving price
estimates on his best whores.
Alastair asks, conversational, “So if it wasn’t you, Luci—who stuck their cock
in him? Who—hmm, ripped him open like this?”
Lucifer shuts his eyes for a moment. “You’d do well to remember the advantages
of silence right now, Heyerdahl—”
“Merely curious,” Alastair murmurs. “Of course, we both know there are only a
select few clients of yours that would actually dare to touch Sam—lay their,
hmm—filthy fingers on his skin—” His eyes flick up to Lucifer’s for a moment,
mouth laughing, and then “It was Lehne, wasn’t it,” he says. Contemplative. “He
always did have a—hmm, penchant for your little Sammy here—”
(azazel’s fingers crawling over sam’s skin)
“How much is the price for you to keep your overactive mouth shut, Alastair?”
Lucifer asks, his eyes refusing to let him look at the stitches. At Sam’s
trembling frame.
Alastair laughs, dry whispering hiss. “Azazel always did try to outdo himself,”
he murmurs. “Certainly got your attention, though, didn’t it,” and only the
fact that he’s working on Sam prevents Lucifer from lunging across the
operating room and breaking his neck.
Then Alastair says, “Sam will live.” Steps back, watching Sam for a moment, and
he adds, “Better not fuck him for at least a week—useless for taking it up the
ass, still good for sucking cock though—”
(mouth wasn’t damaged when he stuck it in your ass was it now get on your knees
boy you’re worth more with a throat full of semen)
“Ten thousand pounds,” Lucifer interrupts, reaching into his suit jacket and
pulling out his checkbook. His jaw clenched tight, hands fumbling for something
to do. If only to prevent himself from slamming his fist into Alastair’s face.
To keep himself occupied so he won’t vomit all over the alabaster floor. “You
can keep your filthy mouth shut about all this if you get that much, can’t
you?”
“Of course, Luci.” He’s still sneering, facing Lucifer completely now as Casey
and Samhain clean Sam up and wrap him in a hospital gown. “Wouldn’t want to
damage your—hmm, reputation, now would we,” and Lucifer’s fingers shake as he
scrawls out the check. Rips it out and hands it to Alastair, who slips it into
his own pocket, pats it a few times. Gives Sam a last glance and nods once,
says the stitches are dissolvable and Sam doesn’t need to stay the night, and
that’s it. Loses interest in Lucifer immediately after he becomes ten thousand
pounds richer, turning away, and Lucifer very carefully lifts Sam up
(i’m sorry sam i’m so sorry)
off the operating table.
Casey hands him a salve. “Apply this—or, I guess, let him apply it—goes on
every other day until the wound’s healed—” She’s staring at Sam, biting her
lip. Looking upset and concerned and Lucifer hates that he can only despise her
for being the one to take care of Sam. Hates that he wasn’t able to do much of
anything to protect Sam. That he didn’t prevent this from happening.
(history sure does have a way of repeating itself)
He carries Sam out and up the basement stairs, and his chest aches a little
more with each step.
~
There’s a fever.
For three days, Sam has a fever. Sweating and tossing on the once-cool sheets
of Lucifer’s bed, Lucifer wiping his face down with a wet cloth. Watching Sam’s
cheeks flush as he gasps and moans and all Lucifer can do is open the window,
pat him down with the washrags. Listen to him whimper and cry out and know
there’s still nothing he can do. Nothing at all to make this better.
Knowing if he had just been there five minutes earlier—
Three days of watching Sam thrash around unconscious and hurting. Sweat pooling
in the hollow of his neck and his inability to breathe is caging Lucifer’s own
chest. Instinct makes him reach out to touch, to brush Sam’s hair off his
forehead—and Sam flinches back. Jerks away from Lucifer’s fingers, little upset
sound coming up from his throat and that furrow starts to reappear between his
eyebrows. Still not awake but Lucifer freezes anyway. His whole body going
still and stiff, his hand curling on itself as he watches Sam roll over and
curl up a little in self-defense, and Lucifer’s mouth is dry. His heart cold
and barely working when he lowers his hand, flexes his fingers on the sheets.
~
Sam wakes up slow, in increments. His head feels muzzy, a blur of
dissatisfaction and pain he can’t make his way through. Vague memories
(i want you i have for a long while now)
swirling through his head, clanging around the sore places in his skull and
making him wince, but for the most part. For the most part Sam’s having trouble
remembering anything. His whole body aches, deep vicious pull in his muscles
like he ran ten miles, and there’s a sour taste in the back of his mouth.
He hisses soft through his teeth and forces his eyes open a crack. Sees Lucifer
sitting directly beside his bed—or, on closer inspection, Lucifer’s own bed—and
he’s watching Sam. Just watching, but there’s none of the intensity from when
their relationship was new. None of the barely repressed anger and lust lurking
in the backs of his irises. There’s an emotion there, but Sam can’t define it.
His mind not working at full capacity, and he runs his tongue over his lips,
opens his mouth.
“Hey, Luce,” he says, voice coming out rough and ragged like he’s been
deepthroating for too long. “Time is it?”
Lucifer’s gaze flicks from Sam’s eyes to his chest and back, fast enough that
Sam thinks he might have imagined it. “Sam,” he starts, and then stops. Like
that was the full sentence.
Sam starts to push himself up on one elbow and then stops. Pain ratcheting down
his side, blooming in his skull, and he groans, falling back against the
mattress. “Christ,” he gasps out. “How much champagne did I drink?”
An odd fleeting expression crosses Lucifer’s face, there and gone in an
instant. “Sam, you,” Lucifer starts. Sounding almost hesitant, his hand coming
out like he wants to touch Sam’s and then dropping back immediately to his
side. “You’ve been unconscious for three days.”
That’s bullshit, Sam wants to say, incredulous, but his mind won’t let him. Too
stuck on the logistics of it, and it makes sense. His sore muscles, his cracked
throat. The way he can barely get his eyes to focus on any one thing in the
room for over three seconds. His head hurts like he’s been sleeping off the
hangover of the century, and his tunic is a little damp, sweat or water, Sam
can’t tell. Asks:
“Why was I—” and Lucifer says:
“The champagne made you pass out.” His voice clipped, taut, and he won’t look
directly at Sam. “The next morning you had a fever, and it spiked quick enough
to keep you under for a while.”
“Oh.” Sam frowns a little, his mind searching for the memory, but he’s coming
up blank. Everything still just as dark and hollow as it was five minutes ago,
and he sighs, stares up at the ceiling.
(we could tonight—)
Sam cuts his eyes over to Lucifer and cranks out a half-smile, hoping to break
this weird uneasy tension he can feel building up between them. “Did we fuck,
at least?”
Lucifer’s whole body jerks like Sam’s slapped him. Badly startled, and he
stares up at Sam for a few seconds, his eyes wide, drained. “What?”
“I can’t remember,” Sam explains. “Was there sex before I got this fever?” He
pauses, his fingers clenched under the bed sheets. That odd expression still on
Lucifer’s face, wrecked and unhappy like he hasn’t gotten much sleep either.
“Or was it so bad that I blocked it out of my memory?” Teasing now, gentle, but
Lucifer flinches again. His mouth set, eyes on the wall opposite Sam’s head,
and he says:
“We didn’t have sex, no.” Clears his throat, fingers flexing on the bedrail.
“You passed out first.”
“Oh.” Sam’s chest swells with his disappointment. “Shit, Luce. I’m—”
“Don’t apologize,” Lucifer interrupts. A little sharp, a little tense, and Sam
blinks. “Don’t. It isn’t. It’s not your fault, Sam. I don’t mind.”
Sam swallows. The back of his throat still sore, and he’s tempted to ask
Lucifer if he at least got a blowjob in before he fucking fainted on him but
the expression on Lucifer’s face—
Sam reaches out. Brushes his hand against Lucifer’s cheek, and Lucifer stares
at him, as though Sam touching him is some foreign unfamiliar thing. “We can do
it sometime soon,” Sam says, quiet. Hesitant. “When I’m not still running a
fever.”
Lucifer doesn’t answer. His hand comes out for a second to touch Sam’s, careful
stroke of his fingertips across the backs of Sam’s knuckles, and then. Then
he’s standing, fast. Smoothing his hand down his front, and he says:
“Now that you’re awake, I need to go check on the status of my brothel.
Lilith’s been in charge for the last few days.”
“Oh,” Sam murmurs, “okay.”
Lucifer pauses midway to the door. His shoulders so tense Sam can see the
outline of his muscles through his shirt. “I’ll be back later,” he tells him.
“To check on you.”
“Yeah.” Sam bites his lower lip trying to keep his smile up, but Lucifer won’t
even look at him. “Yeah, okay.”
Then Lucifer’s gone, and Sam lays back on the mattress. Still sore, so much
that he can feel his bones throbbing against the bed, and he wonders what it is
Lucifer isn’t telling him.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Things get strange, after that.
Not all at once, not at first. The afternoon immediately following when Sam
regains consciousness, there’s a massive banquet. The duchess and her friend
have decided to come, and Lucifer, aware of the value of new rich clientele, is
doubling his staff for the evening. Twice the waiters, twice the dancers, twice
the amount of consorts available. Sam’s sitting with him in his office,
watching as he organizes the lists, signs the names on. They’ve been sitting
together since the morning, but they haven’t spoken in hours. Lucifer won’t
even look at Sam, won’t pause in his writing to smirk at him, lascivious and
dark. Won’t reach out and stroke along the inside of his thigh, or flirt, or
tease, or say fuck it and shove all his papers to the side, spread Sam out flat
on the desk.
Which—yeah, okay, Lucifer has a lot to get done, but. That’s never stopped him
before, not when it comes to Sam. Not when it means the two of them sitting
(lying, straddling, kneeling between each other’s legs)
for hours, just them together. Like there’s no one else
(“Don’t you have papers to fill out for those new clients?” Sam asks, his hand
in Lucifer’s hair. The sun warm on their faces as they lay out together,
stretched in the dirt of the rose garden.
“No,” Lucifer mumbles against Sam’s neck. His fingers curled against Sam’s free
hand, where it rests between them. Nudging light against his knuckles, stroking
over his skin.
Sam snorts, lets his eyes slide shut. “That’s no way to run a brothel, Luce,”
he says, sleepy and content. You’re acting like we’re a real couple, he wants
to say, but. He knows better.
“I’m allowed to take a break from my own establishment for an afternoon,”
Lucifer protests, no real heat in his voice as he lifts his hand to stroke his
thumb along Sam’s forehead. “It’s in my contract,” and they laugh, quiet, Sam
shifting so he can tuck his face against Lucifer’s shoulder, soft indefinable
ache in his chest.)
in the whole world. No one else except them.
So it’s a little strange. But Sam’s still feeling kind of bad from his fever,
body sore and aching when he tries to sit properly. Throat hurting and every
joint screams if he moves too fast, so he’s not exactly in a rush to. To push
for things to go back to normal.
But it would be nice if Lucifer would look at him.
“Hey,” Sam says. Chin propped up on his forearms, head tilted the way he’s seen
Lucifer do so many times now. “Lucifer.”
Lucifer’s pen stills for an instant.
“You know,” Sam says, trying to keep his concern from coming through, “I had a
fever. It’s not gonna. You won’t catch anything if you look up.” He slides his
arms out from under his jaw. Moves his hand down, as slow and subtle as he’s
able, until his fingers are crawling against Lucifer’s knee, dancing up the
inside of his thigh—and Lucifer tenses, pulls back. Dragging a hand down his
face, and he says:
“Not right now, Sam,” which—
“Hey, I’m not a child.” Frowning, sitting up straight. You wanted to fuck me a
few nights ago, he almost says. You said you’d wanted it for a long time.
Lucifer’s hand drags through the fine hairs at the top of his head, where
everything is light and soft and smells like roses. “You’re sixteen,” he says,
this odd stricken expression on his face.
“You’ve had Brady on his back for years, Lucifer,” Sam says, “and he’s two
months younger than I am.”
Lucifer’s eyes slide shut for an instant. “Sam—”
“No, I mean, really. You have kids two, three years younger than me spreading
their legs and opening their mouths and you want to talk to me right now about
my age? You can’t sit there and ask me to be a teenager but still know how to
take your cock down my throat—”
“You had the fever,” Lucifer interrupts, voice taut, nearing the end of his
patience. “And I have a massive dinner to prepare for. The world isn’t going to
end if we don’t. If neither of us gets off right now.” He looks down fast, pen
scratching at the paper again, but Sam doesn’t miss that pained line coming
back over his nose. The way his shoulders tense and then slump, like he can’t
decide how he’d rather hold whatever it is that’s making him grieve.
It’s quiet for a while. The mechanized clock ticking soft on the wall. The
sounds of laughter and conversation coming up from the parlor as the first
guests begin to arrive, and Sam takes a deep breath.
“Who’s on your list for extra dancers?” he asks, scanning the paper upside
down. Sarah, he reads. Cassie. Meg. Drew. Brady. Hannah. Ajay. Down the list,
ten, fifteen more names, and—
“Lucifer,” Sam says, the vague annoyance from earlier beginning to resurface.
“How come I’m not on here?” His gaze flicks to wait staff, but. No. Lucifer’s
put Ruby and Casey on but not him, and it doesn’t. It doesn’t make any sense,
Sam isn’t. He’s not.
“This is a huge fucking dinner,” he says. Aware that he’s whining, aware that
Lucifer’s knuckles have gone white around his pen, but—“Listen,” he says fast,
“I know I was sick, I know I’m still sore, but I’m okay for this, it’s just one
night, you got lots of other kids to—”
“No.” Lucifer’s voice is surprisingly quiet, but there’s a cold firmness to it
that Sam hasn’t heard in a long time. “Absolutely not, Sam.”
Sam blinks. “I’m fine, Luce—”
“I’m pulling you off wait staff and dancing,” Lucifer says. Still not looking
up. Reciting the words like they’re meaningless. Like he’s not even listening
to what he’s saying, like he doesn’t care. Like he has no idea of the crushing
weight slamming down onto Sam’s chest. “You’re still too weak for either and my
establishment can’t afford something like a collapsing consort in the middle of
a number—”
“You mean you can’t afford me to be an embarrassment,” Sam snaps. Shoving his
chair back and standing up. Heading for the door and Lucifer’s voice stops him
like he’s yanked him back on a chain:
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back up to our suite,” Sam growls. “Since I have no fucking purpose for the
evening, can’t touch you, can’t touch anyone else—”
Lucifer shoves his chair back and stands too. He’s trembling. Looks furious,
upset and angry and distressed and Sam doesn’t understand. “You’ll stay here
until I can get Ruby to escort you upstairs,” he says, and, “I don’t want you
wandering the halls alone, Sam.”
“What the hell, Lucifer,” Sam says. “What, you’re getting me a fucking
babysitter? Jesus—I mean, you realize I’ve been walking the halls by myself for
years,” and Lucifer’s nostrils flare out.
“Just another change you’ll get used to,” he says. “Don’t act like such a child
about this. Now sit down before I make you,” but he’s not moving, not even when
Sam edges as slow as possible back to his seat, glaring at Lucifer the whole
time. Feeling spiteful and annoyed and upset, because they’ve barely spoken in
the two days since Sam woke and now they’re fighting for the first time in
weeks, but Sam has the feeling that Lucifer would not have touched him even if
he’d left the room.
So things are strange now, between them. Strange and tense in a way they’ve
never been, even before Lucifer bought Sam off, and Sam. Sam doesn’t like it.
He doesn’t think Lucifer was serious about having Ruby go everywhere with him,
but every time he turns around now—Ruby. Her dark hair falling down her bare
shoulders, arms folded, and she never looks any happier than Sam feels.
“What’s he doing,” Sam asks her, miserable, one rainy afternoon when he’s
curled up in Lucifer’s office. Alone, with Ruby right outside the door, and
Lucifer had jarred him awake that morning. Forced him to get dressed and come
downstairs, and then put him in his office for the day. Told Sam he had to stay
there, something about Lucifer not being able to keep an eye on him
(“Well, if you’re going to London, I wanna come,” Sam says, confused. Because
Lucifer never goes to the city without Sam. The two of them wandering the
cobblestone streets together in their matching suits, Lucifer swinging his
walking stick and making Sam laugh at the picture he paints of attempted
normalcy. Both of them taking their time at meals, nudging each other’s feet
under the table. Sam reaching out to brush crumbs off Lucifer’s collar, Lucifer
stealing sips from Sam’s glass—
“Not this time,” Lucifer says. Short, and without looking up, but Sam sees the
way he looks at Ruby once before turning. “You’re still recovering—”
“Sure, except it’s been a week and a half—”
“—and if I can’t be here to watch out for you, you have to stay in my office.
Ruby will look out for you.” Raising his eyebrows at her, daring her to say
anything, and she shrugs, flips her hair over her shoulder.
“I don’t need someone looking after me if you aren’t here, Lucifer, I’m not an
infant—” but Lucifer’s already out the door.)
and Sam’s pretty sick of the bullshit, but. There’s nothing he can do. Not when
Lucifer won’t even breathe in his direction, most days.
Ruby shifts against the wall. “What do you mean?” Her voice carefully
constructed, bitten down at the edges, and Sam’s fingers still where they’re
drumming against the top of Lucifer’s desk.
“I mean what’s he playing at,” Sam asks. “This whole new overprotective thing.
He hasn’t let me be alone in days, Ruby. I don’t like it, it’s annoying as
hell.”
Ruby’s quiet for a long minute. “Maybe he finally realized what an absolute
pain in the ass you are,” she says, “and he’s trying to irritate you into
submission.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam grumbles. Flipping through Lucifer’s papers
now, to see if he can find the answer, but it isn’t there. No hidden agendas.
No ulterior motives Sam can find. Just Lucifer, acting weird. Keeping Sam at
arm’s length about spending time together, the way they used to, but refusing
to let Sam go off by himself anymore. This deep, heavy sadness in his eyes that
he immediately shoves back when he catches Sam looking.
He’s terrible at hiding things when he thinks he’s not being watched. Can’t
keep secrets at all, not with Sam. Wears his emotions like they’ve been cursed
onto his face, always either sad or angry or a mix of both and Sam wants in so
bad, and it hurts even worse that Lucifer won’t let him.
“All that frustration,” Sam says to him, one of the rare moments when they’re
in the same room. “It’s gotta go somewhere, huh?”
“What do you—Sam. What are you talking about.”
Sam unfolds himself from his chair. He hasn’t danced or waited tables in two
and a half weeks but he can still feel his muscles flex and tense under his
skin. Knows he looks good, the way Lucifer’s eyes drift for a moment before
snapping back up to somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.
“We haven’t fucked yet,” Sam explains. A little sarcastic, because he’s not
sure how else he’s supposed to get Lucifer’s attention. “And you. I don’t know.
You won’t touch me anymore, but you never let me be alone, either, so I’m
wondering—where does it go?” He starts forward, hand twitching at his side.
Unsure what he’s intent on, exactly, except that he wants to—to just get his
hands on Lucifer, just for a second—
And Lucifer moves away. Expression shutting down, mouth thinning. “I have
better things to do than argue with you about whether or not we’re having sex,”
he snaps, hand on the doorknob.
Sam snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure. What are you trying to do, Lucifer, get me
to beg you to rewrite that part of the contract where we’re mutually exclusive
to each other? Because guess what, it’s working—” A lie, of course, because
there’s no one else Sam would ever spread his legs for except Lucifer, but the
door’s already slamming shut in his face, and soon only the quiet shuffling
sound of Ruby moving around outside can be heard over the low roar building up
in Sam’s head.
He wonders if it’s finally happened. If Lucifer is, in fact, ready to take on
someone else besides Sam. If that one failed night at the gala, Sam getting so
drunk he passed out
(must’ve thought you were pathetic lying there all sweaty and drunk can’t even
hold your own liquor no wonder he doesn’t want you now)
has really driven Lucifer away this much. If he’s looking for someone more
experienced
(not like you haven’t been telling yourself that would happen anyway right from
the beginning)
and less likely to make a fool of themselves in front of a crowd. If Sam was
just something Lucifer intended on playing with for a few weeks, just something
to take for a simulation run before moving on to the actual game. The whole
idea of Lucifer giving Sam to someone else, passing down Sam with his issues
and his inexperienced body and his debts to another paying client. The notion
hurts far more than it should. Far more than Sam wants to admit, and he’s
annoyed that Lucifer holds that much sway over his emotions even now. After
he’s been treating him like a prisoner in his own home, like. Like Sam’s poison
to look at. To think about. To touch.
But that can’t be right. Not even necessarily because they signed that contract
and they had a few good weeks together, but because. Because Lucifer is still
doing the littlest things for Sam. When he thinks Sam won’t notice, though of
course Sam notices all of it, and resents and craves in equal measure the
attention he’s half-receiving. No longer publicly Lucifer’s favorite—mostly
because Sam’s not allowed out anywhere near any other people—but Lucifer still
has Inias cook Sam’s favorite meals, send them up to the suite. Still has new
books delivered, piles upon piles of them. As though the brothel needs more
academia, more cracked-cover novels about drifting piles of sand through Egypt
and the slow spin of galaxies through the universe. Sam finds them outside his
door almost every morning, boxed up and smelling like parchment. Devours them,
his fingers tripping over new inky secrets, hungry and aching for knowledge the
way he always is, though Sam wishes he could share it with Lucifer. Tries every
day to talk to him, to strike up conversations about the Library of Alexandria
or some confusing Latin conjugation. His fingers drifting across the backs of
seats, trying to close in on Lucifer’s shoulder; drifting slow against
Lucifer’s legs; but Lucifer just keeps walking out of the rooms they occupy.
Looking more and more exhausted as each day passes, and Sam grits his teeth and
tolerates Ruby only because she never speaks to him and wonders how much it
would cost him to just leave.
Because whatever Lucifer is doing. With the clothes, and the food, and the fact
that he still hasn’t sold Sam off—whatever this is all adding up to, it doesn’t
balance out the fact that Sam’s being restricted. First time in his stay here,
Lucifer’s placed a restraint on his movements, and Sam doesn’t like it. It’s
merely annoying, the first few weeks, but when a month has passed and Lucifer’s
still treating Sam like he’s contagious from a fever he barely even
remembers—Sam begins to despise him for it.
***** Chapter 8 *****
(a fist in his hair breath hot on his neck voice whispering “mine mine mine”
over and over hands fumbling at his waist dirty stench of blood in his nose—)
Sam jerks awake. Chest heaving, sweat already gathered in his hair and now
rolling down his temples, stinging salty and unwanted at his eyes. Thick bitter
taste in his mouth and he can’t tell if he wants to swallow or vomit.
(where the hell did that come from)
His teeth are chattering as he sits up, pulling the blanket tighter around his
shoulders and staring into the smudged dark of his room. His wardrobe, opposite
the end of his bed, looms vaguely menacing in the dim blue gleam of moonlight
and he has a strange urge to jump up, tip it over. Fingers clenching around his
knees as he remembers
(fingers in his trousers someone not lucifer licking obscenities against his
skin)
snatches of the dream. When he swallows, his throat is dry. Sore.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, intent on stumbling into the
bathroom for water, and finds Lucifer already opening his bedroom door with a
glass.
“Here,” he says, voice lost in the night. “I heard. I mean. You were moving,
and—”
Sam stands, takes the glass. The most Lucifer has offered him in thirty days.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” Draws down long gulping sips, struggling to wash the
taste away. To sooth the cracked burnt sensation way down deep.
Then: “You have got to be the lightest sleeper, Lucifer, I barely even got out
of bed.”
“It wasn’t just your movements that woke me,” Lucifer says, eyes on the carpet.
“You were crying out.”
(screaming)
“I had a nightmare,” Sam admits. Finishing his water and setting the empty
glass on his nightstand. “It, um. It was pretty fucked up—”
Lucifer’s gaze jerks up fast, pulled on a string. “What do you remember?”
Sam tilts his head at this reaction. “Just—” He hesitates, thinking of a way to
describe—thinking if he tells Lucifer, he’ll think Sam doesn’t want sex
anymore, that he’s not ready—
“Just the feeling that it was fucked up,” he lies. “I have no idea what the
details were.” He walks forward a step, half intent on placing a hand on
Lucifer’s shoulder. “It was just a dream,” he says, and lifts his arm, but his
fingers close on empty space. Lucifer backing up again, and—okay. That’s
enough.
“The fuck is your problem, Lucifer,” Sam snaps. Arms folded, facing off in the
shadows. His breath coming quick and short and sharp and he’s trembling,
residue of the dream still clinging to him. “You ignore me for a month—a
fucking month—except to dump expensive shit in my lap like you think I want it,
and then you come in here, you give me a glass of water—” He draws in a breath,
fists clenched—“Standing there telling me you heard me cry out in my sleep and
you won’t even touch me, Lucifer—”
He shakes as he steps forward. One foot in front of the other, eyes on
Lucifer’s, cold sapphire gleaming neutral light. His mouth still dry and
tasting faintly rotten, but it’s been too long. Lucifer doesn’t stand a chance
when Sam’s this keyed up. “Come on,” he mutters under his breath, getting
Lucifer backed up all the way against the door. His fingers hovering in the air
over Lucifer’s trousers. Kneeling, his heart in his throat, staring up at
Lucifer the whole time as he starts to undo the clasp—
“No,” Lucifer says, and steps back. His jaw tense, eyes pleading, not trying
for once to hide it from Sam, but in this situation Sam wishes he would. He
falls back against his heels, staring at a spot somewhere on Lucifer’s midriff,
feeling his face grow warm with embarrassment. Lucifer’s rejection of Sam’s
obvious attempt at sucking him off the way they used to slamming into his mind
full force, something discordant ringing in his ears and he clambers to his
feet, biting his lower lip so hard he can feel the skin crack.
“I want,” he says. Loud and angry and ready to shove his fists into Lucifer’s
face. “I didn’t stop wanting after the party, Lucifer. Did you—I mean. Have you
been avoiding this because I was sick? I don’t know how many times I have to
tell you I. The fever’s gone, I don’t get it—why don’t you want—why can’t we
just go back to how we were?”
“Because we can’t,” Lucifer says, his expression warning Sam to stop, but his
mouth keeps moving of its own accord, a month of silence built up and spilling
over:
“Bullshit excuse,” Sam snarls, and Lucifer raises his eyebrows. “Either you
still want me or you don’t, but you can’t give me expensive shit and then say
you don’t want my mouth on your cock anymore.” He pauses, arms folded,
watching. Waiting for Lucifer to react, already, but there’s nothing.
Sam takes a breath. “What if I just went in and got rid of that mutually
exclusive part of our contract,” he says. “Then I could just whore myself out
to any man I saw—could give Azazel what he wanted, maybe—”
And there’s the reaction he’s been looking for. Lucifer’s fist slamming into
the wall, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare—” he starts, vicious, barely
controlling the raw fury in his voice. Shaking so bad Sam can see his muscles
rippling. “If you had just whored yourself out when you were younger, like
everyone else here, I wouldn’t have had to buy you now at sixteen, when you’re
too insolent and stubborn to make anyone else a good purchase—”
That bitter taste from Sam’s dream returns. Floods his mouth and his throat and
he has to work at not spilling the contents of his stomach all over Lucifer’s
shoes. “You’re so sick of me,” he says, loud and harsh, fists clenched at his
sides, “why don’t you just fucking cut out my contract entirely? Why don’t you
just sell me to Azazel, that’s what he’s wanted for months now anyway—”
Hand on his face, crack like lightning. Stinging burning bright hot sensation
and the taste of blood exploding in his mouth, sharp cut as his teeth catch on
the inside of his cheek, and it takes Sam a full fifteen seconds to realize
Lucifer’s slapped him. First time in months, and Sam’s hand crawls up to touch
his heated sore cheek, staring shocked, disbelieving, at Lucifer. Lucifer, who
swore he’d never lay a finger on Sam again, not like that. Lucifer, who signed
the contract and has since then spent all his time either teasing or flirting
with or, more recently, ignoring Sam—but never hurting him.
It’s the violence of the gesture that shocks Sam the most, the harsh and abrupt
anger behind the movement. The way Lucifer’s arm swung out so fast Sam didn’t
even see, and for ten, twenty seconds they stand there, staring at each other,
mouths open. Lucifer’s eyes shadowed and upset and Sam cannot believe he hit
him. His chest shattering open and he thinks this is it. It’s over, if
Lucifer’s slapped him again. There’s nothing left to lose.
“What the fuck, Lucifer!” Sam yells, feeling his cheek starting to swell a
little, hard thick painful sensation under his eye, and then they’re both
screaming at each other. Like they haven’t done since Sam can remember, Sam on
eye level with Lucifer now. Feeling like wars are being declared in his chest
as they fight, like the universe is collapsing around them. Until they’re both
backed up against the wall, Lucifer caged in by Sam’s arms. The air sucked out
and overheated, their chests shoved up together. Sam’s leg shoved against
Lucifer’s, his hands clenched hard against the wood beside Lucifer’s head, and
when he takes in a breath, Lucifer does too. Both of them moving in tandem, and
Sam drags one of his hands down the side of Lucifer’s face. Winds it into his
collar, drags him closer.
“Wanna—” he snarls, low and angry and desperate. “Want—god, Lucifer—” his mouth
moving closer, hot and wet and ready, but Lucifer shoves him off. His irises
burning with clarion bright lucidity, gaze stuck on Sam’s cheek. Where Sam can
feel the skin still hot and tender, a little raised and he knows there’s going
to be a bruise by tomorrow morning.
“Lucifer, please—” Sam gasps out, but Lucifer’s fingers are already fumbling at
the doorknob, and then he’s stepping out into the main area of the suite.
“I need to go,” he says, and the door slams shut in Sam’s face.
~
Sam doesn’t sleep again that night. Lies on his mattress instead, staring up at
the ceiling, his cheek aching and eyes stinging with his effort to hold back
tears. Mouth tingling whenever he remembers how close he came to. To kissing
Lucifer, closer than he’s been in a month. His fingers touching the rough
stubble on Lucifer’s skin, counterpoint to the soft part of his neck just above
the stretch of his collar, and Sam could almost taste Lucifer’s mouth in the
seconds before he’d shoved him away.
He reaches up as the sun paints lines across the walls, touches his bruised
face. Wonders why the pull of this wound, low in his stomach, feels the same as
the marks Lucifer used to leave on his neck.
At around eight, after drifting in and out of restless half-dreams for a little
while, Sam gives up. Gets up and gets dressed, his fingers fumbling against the
buttons of his shirt, and he slips out of his room. Checking covertly around
the corners, but Lucifer isn’t in his room, or in the main area of the suite,
and Sam slips out the door and down the stairs, taking care to avoid stepping
too hard near Lilith or Abaddon’s rooms.
In the kitchen, there’s a bowl of fresh fruit and a plate with toast and eggs,
and Sam doesn’t see Inias anywhere but he assumes the food is for him—no one
else is going to be up this early, and Inias doesn’t prepare small meals like
this for anyone except Lucifer and Sam, anyway. He grabs a fork and knife and
sits, legs hooked around the metal sides of the stool. There’s pepper for the
eggs and a little butter for the toast, and Sam eats propped up on one elbow,
exhausted and miserable and trying so hard not to think about anything.
He hears footsteps directly ahead of him, coming from the hall that leads to
the dining area, and his head jerks up, thinking it’s Lucifer, thinking he’s
got some miraculous shot at divine salvation. Whatever went wrong last night,
all the things Sam said—they can fix that. Sam can apologize, and they can
talk. Work things out, smooth things over. Move on.
Except it isn’t Lucifer coming into the kitchen. It’s a man Sam’s seen only
once a month since he’s lived at the brothel, Dr. Heyerdahl from the basement
hospital. Does the monthly checkups on the prostitutes, makes sure they’re
clean—though Sam’s heard rumors, thinks maybe the kids would be better off not
going to him at all—and Sam’s been just for health overviews, but. The man
scares him, creeps him out in ways he can’t even explain. Something dangerous
and unhinged about him, the loose edges of his jaw and the way he hums when he
talks and the near-permanent sneer on his mouth.
“Um,” Sam says, his fingers hovering just over the fruit bowl, getting ready to
pluck out an apple slice.
Alastair pauses at the icebox. Eyes gliding down Sam’s body, looking like he’s
trying to dissect Sam, split him open along the seam of his skin, and Sam
shivers, draws himself in. Mind drifting to
(fingers inside shoving him down)
his nightmare, the closed-off hot helpless feel of it.
“Good morning, Sam,” Alastair says, his voice a susurrus in the early light of
the day, too hissing and harmful for Sam’s tastes. “How are you—hmm, feeling?”
Sam blinks. Sets his apple down and shoves the bowl away, appetite already
mostly gone. “I’m—um. I’m okay. I guess.” He swings his legs over the side of
the stool and stands, edging back. “I don’t—why are you talking to me?” His
heart shoved against his ribs, scared, odd feeling like he’s been here before,
and Alastair smirks, says:
“Shouldn’t you be, hmm—in Lucifer’s company? Oh, won’t he just be furious when
he sees his prize slut’s gone missing again—”
“What the fuck,” Sam says, shaken and confused, and he moves out of the kitchen
with Alastair still chuckling, low dry grass sound echoing in Sam’s ears. Slips
through the parlor, all sad and quiet without the gas lamps lit and the chatter
of consorts and clients, the clink of china cups, the soft swish of lace
against skin. Up the stairs, past the dorms and the suites and he’s nearly at
the top when Ruby comes flying out of Lilith’s suite, her eyes wide, mouth
pinched. She grabs Sam’s wrist, hauls him into one of the rooms, musty and dark
in the daylight. Grips his bones until he can feel them shifting under her
fingers, and she says:
“Where the fuck have you been, Sam! I’ve been looking for you for an hour, if
Lucifer finds out you were wandering alone he’s going to fucking kill me—”
Sam wrenches his arm from her hand. Glaring heated and annoyed and tired, his
bangs falling into his eyes, and he says, “This early, who the hell is even
here, Ruby? Honestly.”
“You realize that doesn’t matter, Lucifer’s still gonna be furious—”
“Why?” Sam asks. Harsh and sick of all of it, that strange distorted feeling
still wavering in his chest. “Why is it so important that I’m not alone, Ruby?”
Wants to ask why even Alastair, of all people, would have pointed it out, but
he has the feeling he’d get a worse punishment if anyone found out he’d been
talking to Alastair by himself.
Ruby clears her throat, staring at the wall behind his head. Doesn’t answer,
her mouth pinched and pale, and Sam doesn’t have time for this. He pushes past
her as he leaves the room, shoves himself up against the wall and goes the rest
of the way to his and Lucifer’s suite. His hands shaking as he shuts the door,
heart still beating just this side of too fast from his earlier encounter with
Alastair.
He glances discreetly into Lucifer’s room, making sure it’s empty before he
slips into the bathroom. Strips out of his clothes and steps in the shower,
turning the hot water on as hard as it will go. Feeling the streams cut and
sluice down his back, across his chest. Scalding and searing his skin, and he
stands under until it’s nearly unbearable and then turns the temperature down
slightly, soaps himself up. Washing off the disgust he can still feel from
Alastair’s crawling gaze, the visceral shudder of dislike in his stomach.
Gradually, his mind turns from Alastair to Lucifer. To last night’s almost-
kiss, the way Lucifer had felt pressed up against him like that, hard shifting
muscles under his clothes, all tense and angry and restrained. The heat of the
water has made him comfortable, and Sam allows his soap-slick hand to slide
lower down his stomach, until it rests between his legs. Hesitating before
curving it around his cock, thumb brushing the head, and there’s an odd moment
where he shudders at the feel of his own hand on himself. Foreign and
unfamiliar and intrusive, distinct sick feeling in his stomach and for a
second, looking down, he sees
(slick heavy fingers moving not his own)
a vision of something
(someone)
else. That same taste filling his mouth from the nightmare, that same heavy
feeling crawling over his shoulders, and Sam bites his lower lip. Flash of
Alastair’s face in his mind, thinking that has to be it, that encounter must be
roiling in his stomach, but even to himself it sounds like a lie.
Sam keeps his hand on his cock, shivering despite the water temperature,
waiting for it to subside—which it does, though the feeling lingers clammy and
persistent just under the surface. He figures he’s just not used to it anymore;
this is the most he’s done in a month—though he’s not sure why. Too stressed
out from fighting with Lucifer all the time, maybe. He strokes down slow, hand
like a weight, struggling to keep his mind focused. Thinking of where it might
have gone if Lucifer hadn’t shoved him off. Remembering the heat and weight of
Lucifer in his hand
(no)
on his tongue—
He can’t get hard. Nothing, not even after five minutes, stroking until the
soap is gone and it starts to hurt, just the friction of skin on skin in the
water. Something trembling and uncertain deep inside, and even when he focuses
on the pain of his cheek—there’s no reaction. Sam can’t jerk off, he can’t
come.
He switches off the water and stands for a moment dripping wet, flaccid cock
hanging between his thighs and a sense of growing dread in his chest. Thinking
of Lucifer finding out. Lucifer, who is already so disgusted by him, whatever
he did—Lucifer who already refuses to touch him, is already bored with him, and
now Sam can’t even—his body betraying him—
Well. He just won’t tell Lucifer. That’s all. Won’t give him a final excuse to
have Sam written off and thrown out. Won’t let Lucifer know that he’s become
somehow
(useless)
unfit for his job.
His legs catch against the side of the tub as he steps out. Has to reach out
for the wall, grasping at slick tile for support, still badly shocked by the
whole incident, though he tells himself not to be. Dries himself off with one
of Lucifer’s towels, avoiding the mirror and whatever expression is on his
face, and he tells himself it’ll be fine. Swallows back a wave of nausea,
wrapping the towel tight around his waist, and he clenches his fist, steps out
of the bathroom.
It’s just a fluke, he thinks, in his own room, forcibly pushing back flashing
hot images trying to crowd their way to the surface. It’s going to fix itself
eventually.
***** Chapter 9 *****
It gets worse, as the weeks go on. Ruby keeps a tighter hold on Sam, her sharp
eyes following his every move even when he knows she’s supposed to be
elsewhere. To the point where he’s tempted to ask Lucifer if Ruby’s costing the
brothel money by watching him, and wouldn’t they all be better off if she
stopped—except that would mean talking to Lucifer about this. Explaining the
situation to him, and Sam isn’t ready to do that yet. Doesn’t know if he’ll
ever be ready to tell Lucifer about any of these latest developments. His
inability to get hard, no matter where his mind wanders. This constant bitter
taste at the back of his throat, ever since the first nightmare, lingering
there no matter how much mouthwash Sam knocks back, or how many times he scrubs
at his teeth with mint leaves from the garden.
The nightmares, more and more frequent, to the point where Sam’s afraid to
close his eyes for fear of seeing
(a man with no face forcing him on his knees tiny cold room hard floors and
smell of disinfectant everywhere masked suddenly by the stench of blood and
semen black and red behind his eyes)
the same images, sharp and vivid and terrifying in their realism. Of hearing
his own voice screaming itself hoarse, begging and pleading for his faceless
stranger to just stop as he’s fucked into, rough and hard and unforgiving.
Sobbing and scraped open and when he wakes he’s drenched in cold sweat,
fighting back nausea so he won’t wake Lucifer. Twisted up and feeling filthy in
his sheets, strong urge to wash them out every day, and the prickling feeling
that he’s gone wrong in some irreparable way has lodged itself deep in his
chest. Where he can’t reach in and pull it out again, can’t even look in far
enough to dissect what it could mean.
He never sees Azazel anymore, either. Not since that evening in the orchard
with Lucifer, and it unnerves him more than it relieves him. Walking restricted
as he is around the brothel, Ruby just on his heels, Sam still occasionally
runs into people he knows. Regular clients, or the consorts that hate him
(“You still don’t do shit, but he gives you the best treatment in the house”)
or his former dancing partners, opening their mouths to ask when he’ll be back
onstage and then running off fast at a glare from Ruby. He sees them all, even
sees Alastair sometimes—still sneering, staring at him in wicked amusement—but
Azazel. Azazel is nowhere to be found, night after night, and Sam wants to ask
where he is, but he can’t talk to Lucifer, and Ruby won’t even look at him, so.
He isn’t stupid. He knows there’s something wrong with him. That whatever
problem he’s having isn’t just going to heal on its own. But with all his
attention focused inward, trying to keep himself from the
(flashbacks)
visions crowding the back of his mind, Sam notices that he finds less and less
opportunity to fight with Lucifer. Avoiding the subject the way he’s doing now,
to keep from having to explain to Lucifer all his issues, Sam’s started
maintaining a certain level of neutral civility with him again. Finds that when
they’re in the same room they mostly just ignore each other, Sam sitting stiff
and unhappy in his chair while Lucifer keeps himself from looking in Sam’s
direction at all. Sam feeling the weight and strength of Lucifer’s presence
near him, aching to reach out and having to curl back in on himself, and he
wipes discreetly at his eyes when Lucifer’s gone and tells himself it’s better
like this. That at least this way, they aren’t at each other’s throats all the
time.
Which is why, when Lucifer invites Sam to a second gala, Sam barely hesitates
before accepting.
It’s similar to the one they’d attended before, the one where Sam passed out
drunk, but it isn’t the same atmosphere. No afternoon of picking out outfits,
just Lucifer telling Sam the dress code and then leaving him alone to choose
his own suit. No gentle teasing in the carriage ride over, Lucifer carding his
fingers through Sam’s hair the way he used to, nipping at his neck and asking
what scent he was wearing—
(“Well, you should know,” Sam says, laughing and pushing ineffectually at
Lucifer’s hands, “you practically drown me in this every time you’ve got me
against a wall.”
“Oh, now you’re stealing my cologne?” and Lucifer’s teeth scrape harder at his
skin, both of them laughing. The carriage rounding a corner as Lucifer’s tongue
sooths over the hurt spot, his rings clinking against the buttons on Sam’s
vest.)
Everything is just stiff, now. Sam pressed against the cool glass window,
staring at the slowly darkening sky. The bitter acrid taste thick and cloying
in his throat, and he hopes there won’t be champagne there. Nothing to enhance
Sam’s abilities to make a fool of himself. To make Lucifer hate him even more.
They pull up to the entrance, Thaddeus letting the engine rumble as first
Lucifer and then Sam descends, and Sam can only see this evening as something
else he needs to get through.
~
Lucifer keeps Sam tucked neatly against his side. Not quite touching, his
fingers hovering in the air around Sam and there’s always a good half-foot of
space between them, but even so, Sam can tell what the overall effect is
supposed to be. The two of them here among the rich elite of London, Lucifer
owning Sam in every sense of the word, possessive and powerful. Sam here only
to make Lucifer look good, Lucifer keeping Sam close out of habit, whatever it
is that’s got him paranoid back home, and about fifteen minutes into the gala
Sam gets sick of this, too.
“Look,” he mutters, low, tucking his mouth near Lucifer’s ear and watching him
tense to keep from backing away. “I’m not your fucking trophy, okay. I don’t
want you dangling me like you’re showing off for all these people. You hate
them, you told me that once, why do you need me here to make you look better?”
Lucifer angles a look at Sam, befuddled and amused in a vague, annoyed sort of
way. “You think I’m using you, Sam?”
“I mean—even if it isn’t conscious, yeah, I guess—” Sam fumbles with his
sentence, watching Lucifer, watching the barely restrained fury in his eyes.
Glad for the distraction of the door opening, burst of wind following whoever’s
entered, and Sam turns away fast, trembling. New footsteps echoing along the
paneled walls of the building and Sam catches a whiff of slick, rich cologne—
He feels a sharp twinge of pain up his spine. A vicious churning sensation
starts up in his stomach and that bitter taste expands in his mouth, crawls
along the sides of his throat. So that he’s afraid he’ll vomit in front of all
these people, all over Lucifer’s suit and his own. His body going hot and cold
all over, in dizzying simultaneity, and something must show in his face because
Lucifer’s eyebrows draw together, and he starts:
“Sam—”
Except then his gaze cuts to just over Sam’s left shoulder. His eyes going dark
and narrow, mouth curling in something more malicious than hatred. Sam turns on
instinct, the crawling disgust in his bones going sour against the savage
revulsion in Lucifer’s expression, and there. There’s Azazel.
His fingers are wrapped around his wine glass, one he must have plucked from
some unsuspecting waiter’s tray, and the shape of his hand curled against the
narrow stem prods at something dark and undisclosed in the back of Sam’s mind.
Makes him back up a few steps, though they are nowhere near each other. That
cologne drifting towards him, curling around
(mouth on his neck hot and wet)
some other hazed-over memory. Trying to pull it to the surface, ignoring Sam’s
attempts at reigning it in.
It’s so quiet, now. All chatter ceased, the three of them seemingly the only
ones in the room, and Azazel’s eyes cut to Sam and Lucifer as if drawn by an
electric current. Something hard and terrifying goes through his gaze,
something wanton and hungry and vicious—and then Lucifer is on him. Moving so
swift Sam doesn’t even register he’s left his side until he’s got Azazel shoved
back against the nearest wall, pinned there, jerking his wrist at a wrong angle
to his body. Chest to chest, Lucifer’s forearm shoved against Azazel’s throat,
his knee digging hard into his groin. Azazel’s wine glass spilled forgotten
from his twisted hand, shattered to the floor, and Lucifer is snarling:
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
Azazel smirks. Shifts up a little under Lucifer’s arm, freeing some of his
throat, and his eyes cut to Sam again.
“Just came to check on my boy,” he says, lilting and deadly and that bitter
taste is so strong now Sam can nearly smell it. “The one you stole from me.”
“He isn’t yours,” Lucifer hisses angrily, shoving his arm in harder at Azazel’s
throat. Mouth declaring possession, and Sam knows neither of them is thinking
of the contract, right now. “He doesn’t belong to you and you have no right—”
“I feel as though, considering my circumstances with young Sam in the past, I
have certain rights that surpass anyone else in this room,” Azazel says, still
smirking. Looking as self-satisfied as if he’s paid off Sam’s debts himself. As
if now he can lay claim to Sam’s skin, to any part of him.
Sam hears the bones in his wrist snap. Lucifer breaking it with a practiced
twist, the other guests murmuring in low rustling noises, starting to move
back. The air charged and crackling between them, Sam kind of edging forward
without being fully aware. His mind focused too hard on
(my circumstances with young sam)
what Azazel said—
And suddenly he remembers. Memories flooding in, triggered by the nightmares
and by Azazel’s presence; by his words and by the way Alastair is always
smirking at him. Lucifer’s sudden bout of overprotectiveness, ever since—ever
since the last—
Sam falls to his knees and vomits, that bitter taste clinging to every molecule
in him. Suddenly realizing what it is
(azazel coming shooting violent down his throat)
and he retches and heaves until there’s nothing left inside. Until he’s
collapsing in his own sick, sound of Lucifer screaming at Azazel coming to him
as if from underwater. Lucifer snarling and threatening and Azazel just lets
out harsh pained laughs in response.
“You can break what you want on me, cut my dick off if you like—that boy
belongs to me, and I don’t let anything go that I’ve laid a mark on.”
Sam’s vision swims, pitches. He hears Azazel’s mocking laughter, hears Lucifer
saying his name as if from a great distance—and that’s the last thing Sam knows
for a long time.
~
When Sam wakes he’s in his own bed, the sun shining through the window in a
soft sort of slanted way, coming in from the west—means he was asleep for a
while, almost a whole day. His head feels muzzy and his mouth tastes like shit,
his body stiff from lack of movement. Pressed hard into the mattress, fingers
curled loose against the duvet.
Sam groans, blinks away sleep. Looks to his right and there’s Lucifer sitting
in a chair by his bed, head dropped forward on his chest as he drifts in and
out of sleep. Sam shifts, trying to be as quiet as possible, but the second he
moves Lucifer wakes. Sits bolt upright and stares, his eyes bloodshot and lined
with burning crimson.
“Sam,” he says, hoarse. Looking right at Sam, like he hasn’t done in. In almost
two months. Not since—
It all comes crashing down on him, then. The events of the second gala. What he
knows now, what his mind’s been trying to protect him from since the first one.
Memory of Azazel from last night, the way he’d looked at Sam, dark heavy lust,
and Sam’s insides constrict. Vomit rising up in his throat, and he barely
scrambles out of the sheets and into the bathroom in time. Falling to his knees
on the tile floor and the taste fills his mouth again, nothing to spit up
anymore except bile but he’s shaking, his arms clamped around the toilet.
Feeling feverish and clammy and he’s still gagging on that rotten bitter flavor
(azazel’s come)
when he hears footsteps behind him. Lucifer’s voice, still just as raw and
hoarse as it was in the bedroom:
“Sam—” and he feels Lucifer’s hand between his shoulder blades. Pressing in,
keeping him balanced, and he tries. Struggles against the visceral physical
revulsion but it’s too much, waves of nausea still overpowering him, and Sam
tenses against Lucifer’s hand. Shrinking back from him, spitting into the
toilet, closing his eyes. Feeling Lucifer withdraw immediately, and part of Sam
wants to ask him to be held. For Lucifer to wipe the sweat off his forehead, to
guide him to his feet so Sam can rinse out his mouth. But it’s too much, right
now. The sensation of fingers crawling pulling touching over Sam’s skin and Sam
feels dirty just thinking about hands on him. Breathing out:
“I’m sorry, Lucifer,” voice ragged and wrenched up from some place deep in his
throat, forcing himself to speak past the constriction in his muscles. Forcing
the words out, though it’s hard and it feels wrong, and he hears Lucifer move.
Shift backwards, and then the sound of footsteps departing, and Sam flushes the
toilet and rests his forehead against the cool porcelain for a long time.
Breathing in and out and wishing he was
(dead)
as far away from here as possible.
When he goes back to his room Lucifer is sitting on his chair again, staring
blank at the wall, his fingers flexing over and over each other in his lap. Sam
sits on the edge of his bed, takes a deep breath. Asks, “How long have you
known?” though he’s already fully aware of what the answer will be.
Lucifer is quiet for a long time and Sam feels his skin going tight, fists
clenching. “How long, Lucifer?” he repeats, a little louder. Wants to hear him
say it, to hear him try and justify the overprotective obsessive behavior, and
Lucifer flinches, mouth thinning.
“Since the night of the first gala,” he says, soft. “When it happened.”
Even knowing that was going to be the response, Sam’s still unsure how to
handle it. Less so when Lucifer continues: “I found you on the bathroom floor—”
(azazel shoving his face against the tile clicking fumbling sound of his belt
being loosened)
“—unconscious—”
(fingers gripping his hair shoving sam’s knees apart with his own)
“—I didn’t know what else to do except carry you out, bring you here.”
(filthy hard voice in his ear whispering claiming possession and then sam is
ripped open)
“—Alastair took care of you in the hospital. You had that fever, and then I. I
just didn’t know—when you woke up and you didn’t remember anything, I—”
(Sam standing at the sink. Splashing cold water on his flushed cheeks, shaking
as he scrubs his hands down his face, trying to breathe even. Just a few more
minutes in here, trying to calm his racing heart, and then. Then he can go find
Lucifer, and they can leave—
The door creaks open behind him, but Sam isn’t looking up. Hears heavy
footsteps come dragging to a halt behind him, and he smiles, starts, “Couldn’t
wait until we got home, could you—”
Azazel’s arms are on his waist before he knows what’s happening. Dragging Sam
away from the sink and down, gripping him so tight, one hand shoved over Sam’s
mouth to muffle his screaming as he wrestles him to the floor. Sam biting at
Azazel’s palm and Azazel hitting him against the back of the head, snarling,
“You fight, I can fight back twice as hard,” and Sam screams and screams until
his throat’s gone raw, but the music playing outside swells, and no one hears
him. No one at all.)
“Since then I’ve been trying to keep you away from Azazel,” Lucifer says, “and
him from you; I’ve been kicking him out every night, Sam, but clearly there’s
no power on earth that can stop him from seeing you.”
Sam casts his eyes to the ceiling. Biting his lower lip, not knowing how to
deal with the fact that it’s been nearly two months and he never remembered.
That all this time, he never figured out what was going on, between Ruby’s
evasive responses and Alastair’s sudden extended presence upstairs. The way
Lucifer’s been avoiding him, keeping him locked up in rooms and away from
people, and Sam must be so naïve, so stupid, not to have figured it out on his
own—
(lucifer refusing to touch him because he’s filthy because he’s ruined because
azazel touched him first)
He isn’t aware that he’s crying until Lucifer’s hand is on his cheek, gentle
slow movements. The first time Sam’s been touched deliberately in almost two
months, and it hurts, the way his body arches in at the same time that he tries
to curl away. Shuddering and gasping and he has no idea how he’s supposed to
react to this. If he’s wrong for wanting Lucifer’s fingers against his skin. If
he’s wrong for not trusting his own instincts in this situation. Remembering
(every second of azazel touching him until he blacked out his head exploding
from the pain the rough angry touch of azazel’s hands on his body “smooth skin
sammy you have such smooth skin”)
the last time, and even though Lucifer’s hands are so much gentler than
Azazel’s were. Even with the cool temperature of Lucifer so familiar to Sam,
long years of Sam knowing Lucifer and the way his skin feels, how careful he
can be. How tender—even then, Sam can’t shake the feeling of dirty bad wrong
crawling up his spine, and he clenches his fists in his lap.
“Sam,” Lucifer starts, very soft.
“I can’t get hard,” Sam blurts, and Lucifer’s hand stills on his cheek.
Surprise warring with a poor attempt at neutrality in his face, and Sam already
knows Lucifer hates him for this, knows he shouldn’t have told him, but
(sam’s hand rough and fast on his cock every night gripping until it hurts
gasping and muffling his sobs into his fist but nothing happens nothing ever
fucking happens)
he can’t stop thinking about it. Not for one second.
“I can’t jerk off,” Sam says, and he’s shaking now. His tears spilling hot and
fresh over Lucifer’s thumb. “Haven’t been able to since—since—” Breaks himself
off, voice catching, throat going tight. Turns away, so that Lucifer’s hand
slides a little down to his jaw, and he knows this is it for him. That he’s
(broken irreparable damaged goods)
useless here, without his cock. That it’s just a matter of time, now. Before
Lucifer stops pretending he wants to be anywhere near Sam, before he discards
Sam for someone
(cleaner)
more whole, more fitting. Someone who hasn’t been torn apart. Someone who can
still give Lucifer everything he wants.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s been speaking out loud, babbling out of his head,
until he hears Lucifer’s sharp inhale:
“Sam, you don’t really think that?” and Sam nods, miserable and defiant.
“‘s why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it,” he asks, trying to keep his voice
neutral—and Lucifer jerks his hand off Sam’s cheek. Gets up and storms out of
the room, mouth set tight, movements jerky, and Sam just. Collapses. Slumps
back against the bed until his whole body is reclined against the mattress, and
he knows this is it. The contract is going to be torn up and Sam will be thrown
from the brothel. Forced to live on the streets, and when Azazel finds out.
Propositions him, offering money and a place to stay in exchange for more of
Sam’s—services—Sam won’t be able to say no. Won’t be able to reject him, and
Sam will become
(“mine boy do you understand you will always belong to me”)
another piece of collateral damage. Just another bit on the market, just
another way for Lucifer to earn his money. Filthy dirty and Azazel won’t care
because he’s the reason Sam’s
(violated and ruined)
like this, now. Staring up at the ceiling, trembling and so tense it hurts.
Waiting for his hell to come and consume him. Ready to submit himself into this
life and when Sam hears the doorknob turn, he flinches, closing his eyes,
waiting—
And he feels Lucifer’s hand in his hair. Stroking along his scalp, slow and
hesitant, barely touching. Feels him sink down beside Sam, slide his hand under
Sam’s shoulders so he can lift him up. Sam curling away from him on automatic
even as his mind screams for him to get closer, and when Lucifer murmurs his
name, Sam whimpers. Bites his lip again, his eyelids fluttering, but he won’t
open them. Won’t look, because he doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want that gentle
tone to be counterpoint to whatever expression must be on Lucifer’s face—
Lucifer’s fingers slide under Sam’s jaw. Right up along his pulse, fit there
like they were made to, and Sam’s whole body shivers once, low curl furling in
his stomach and then vanishing. As though it remembered quite suddenly that
feelings like that don’t belong in Sam anymore.
“Sam,” Lucifer says again. So soft it’s barely a whisper, his voice ghosting
along Sam’s face, and Sam looks, because he can’t help it. Because he’s drawn
to Lucifer instinctively, his body trained and hard-wired to obey Lucifer’s
voice, no matter the circumstances. Because he—
(trusts)
Sam’s eyes open and Lucifer is there, inches from his face. Eyes so close
they’re blurred over, his mouth red and a little open. Hand gentle on Sam’s
face, curled just there. Sam swears he can hear Lucifer’s heartbeat.
“Sam,” Lucifer breathes, pulling Sam in a little closer, and he kisses him.
***** Chapter 10 *****
Lucifer kisses him slow and careful, holding Sam like he’s delicate. Lips
catching on Sam’s, soft, almost tentative. His fingers stroking over Sam’s
pulse, mouth warm where he has it pressed against Sam’s, and he’s trembling,
just a little. His other hand sliding down from Sam’s back to rest on the
mattress, fingers brushing Sam’s knuckles, and Sam. Sam is kissing Lucifer. Sam
is kissing Lucifer. Sitting on his mattress, tears drying on his cheeks,
pressed in close. Gentle and tender like Lucifer’s thought about how to do this
for months, like this is all he’ll ever want again.
Lucifer’s thumb strokes just along the edge of Sam’s jaw. Over the clean smooth
stretch of skin alongside the corner of his mouth, until it’s resting just on
the fold of Sam’s lower lip. Insistent deliberate pull tug crush and Sam
reaches up, touches the back of Lucifer’s wrist
(couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as you)
and, shaking, pulls back. Not much, enough to put maybe half an inch of space
between them. Both breathing fast, Lucifer’s thumb sliding down Sam’s chin.
Leaving a long line of echoing warmth where he’s touched.
Lucifer murmurs his name, kind of staring at Sam’s mouth.
Sam swallows. His eyes half-shut against Lucifer’s proximity, always so close
(breathe remember to breathe)
and his voice is shattered when he says, “You—I don’t. You weren’t—you didn’t—”
Reaches up and presses his hand to his mouth, saltwater stinging in his nose.
Staring helpless at Lucifer, face framed and distorted through his eyelashes
and by the tears clinging there. Throat jerking convulsive and painful when he
swallows.
“I thought you hated me,” Sam whispers, and Lucifer shakes his head, absolute
movement. Tugging him closer so Sam can cry against his neck. Tilting Sam’s
head up with his fingers tucked under his jaw, murmuring quiet reassurances
against his mouth.
~
So now Sam remembers.
He wishes he didn’t.
The nightmares still come every night. No longer just vague flashes of images
but whole retellings. Forcing Sam to relive over and over
(taste of champagne still lingering in his mouth when azazel’s started to fuck
him)
every conscious second of that night. So that he barely sleeps, ends up
exhausted more often than not. Clinging to the very edges of his consciousness
as he wanders through his world half-awake and terrified. Feeling like half of
himself has gone missing, with what Azazel took. With what Sam was foolish
enough to let Azazel take.
Lucifer stops ignoring him. Stops treating him like a piece of the furniture,
stops dumping him on Ruby every morning, but even so, Sam can barely look at
him now. Knows he’s allowed, knows Lucifer was never mad at him or disgusted,
but even so. Even so, Sam can’t forget the way he acted. Like a
(spoiled entitled ungrateful little cunt)
teenager, like someone Lucifer shouldn’t have to put up with. Whining and
complaining and he didn’t even know, shouldn’t have made assumptions.
One afternoon not too long after Sam finds out the truth, he and Lucifer are
sitting in the office together. Lucifer’s filling out paperwork and Sam’s
staring out the window, watching a goldfinch hop from branch to branch. Its
small crowned head tilted as it searches for rest and food, wings spread a
little as it balances itself. Making little tiny chirping noises and Sam aches
to have that kind of freedom back. To feel unrestricted, less like he’s
becoming a prisoner in his own bones.
“Sam,” Lucifer says, and Sam jumps. Lost as always in a myriad of illusions and
half-formed thoughts, always vaguely centered around
(cold clinical tile smell of sex in the air)
Azazel. Distracted and irritating to himself, and Sam breathes out, turns to
Lucifer. Watches him try to fold his expression into something neutral, though
Sam catches the flash of pain there.
“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” Lucifer asks him. Head tilted like that
goldfinch, the gas lamp flickering over his face, and Sam nods, slow. Eyes
jerking down to his lap, where his fingers roll over and over themselves.
Constant motion he’s not even aware of making.
The brothel is starting to warm up for the evening as they walk out. The halls
filling with children and kids Sam’s age, with people like Madison and Ava and
Ruby—unoccupied now and smiling for it—and Lilith and Abaddon. Brady, sneering
at Sam from where he’s tilted against a door, wearing an all-dark ensemble,
black corset and garters and nail polish. Looks like he wants to say something,
the way his eyes drop up and down Sam’s body, but Lucifer won’t leave Sam’s
side long enough, and they move past. Through the parlor, where Hannah’s
lighting the candles and Meg is rearranging the pillows, and then the kitchen,
and then—blessedly—outside.
This early in the afternoon the gardens are mostly quiet. Just wild vines
spilling through uncertain cages, butterflies lighting on flowers and taking
off again just as quick. The sun shining low and warm on the dirt as they walk,
and Lucifer takes Sam to the rose garden for the first time in almost two
months. Ducking under the unclipped trees, brushing past ivy and weeds until
they pass the entrance, and then he and Sam sit on a bench. The roses facing
them, bright and big and open, and Lucifer reaches out, passes his hand over
Sam’s.
“You didn’t look like you were feeling well,” Lucifer tells him after a while.
The fountain bubbling soft in the background, branches rustling overhead, and
Sam isn’t stupid. Knows it’s an opening for him to talk, but he just. He can’t.
Not right now. Not with everything so fresh.
(waste of your time that’s all just a waste of your fucking time)
Sam closes his eyes. “‘m okay,” he says. Still feeling Lucifer’s hand rubbing
over his, and it makes it worse than he has to focus on remembering who it is
that’s touching him. Knows he’s only just started to remember but even so—it’s
been two months. Sam shouldn’t. He needs to learn how to deal. Doesn’t need to
complain to Lucifer about everything.
(lucifer doesn’t need that either does he boy)
He doesn’t realize how tense he’s holding himself until Lucifer’s fingers
vanish. “Sam—” he starts, all concern and caution, and Sam opens his eyes.
Staring blinded for a moment into the wide red array of flowers before him, and
then he turns. Tucks his head under Lucifer’s chin, mouth pressed against his
chest. Listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, and Sam knows Lucifer won’t
point out that he’s crying.
It makes him sick, to think that Lucifer is wasting his time with him. With
someone as defiled as Sam, who doesn’t deserve to be looked after the way
Lucifer is looking after him. Has been looking after him for so long now, and
Sam didn’t even know. Holding Lucifer at arms’ length instead of letting him
in, and now that Sam understands he can’t—it doesn’t—
They didn’t even get to fuck before it happened, and Sam knows he’ll never be
able to forgive himself for that.
He tries not to bother Lucifer at night. During the day Lucifer brings him
wherever he goes
(“Luce, I’m fine here—”
“Sam, you’re trembling. Just come to the library with me. I bought a new
selection of astronomy textbooks recently.”)
unless he has business to take care of in the dining hall. Or with a client.
Most brothel affairs he takes care of fast, or passes them on to Lilith. Keeps
Sam with him the rest of the time, to the point where it starts to feel a
little suffocating, but Sam goes. If only to keep that wounded, distraught look
off Lucifer’s face, as if he thinks it’s his fault, but Sam can’t stop feeling
like a burden. Like Lucifer’s getting increasingly sick of him as the weeks
pass, sick of Sam as a physical reminder of all that Lucifer can’t have, now.
There are violent nightmares. Sam thrashing out in his sleep, waking up with
screams dying on his lips. The sheets all twisted up in his legs and Lucifer’s
already there, every time. His face half-lit in the dark, glass of water in his
hand, and Sam stares up at him and wants to just. Curl his fingers in Lucifer’s
collar and pull him down. Sit next to him on the bed and talk with his mouth
pressed against Lucifer’s shoulder, where his skin is warm and smells of
juniper. Wants to lay all his secrets bare, tell about how dirty he feels, how
he imagines his sins are visible outside his skin. How walking down the halls
here has become something of a chore, wondering if everyone he passes can see
the stains on him, running subcutaneous or perhaps bleeding over
(on his neck where azazel bit down on his hips where azazel grabbed for
purchase)
into every one of his orifices. How he can’t escape it, no matter how many days
pass or how careful Lucifer is with him. Never forcing Sam to do anything, not
even to talk, but Sam can’t. Can’t give into his weakness, not even when he’s
sitting up and trembling on his mattress, drenched in sweat and his stomach
churning, the memories still clinging to him like a second skin. Lucifer’s
hands hovering over Sam, not daring to touch, and Sam hates that the idea of
Lucifer’s fingers on him in the dark makes him shudder with revulsion.
Daylight comes and goes and Sam can initiate little brushes of their hands
together if he hasn’t worked himself into a panic, his chest seizing up and his
breath nearly impossible to catch, but it isn’t the same. And Sam curls into
himself further with each passing day that things don’t return to normal,
thinking that if he severs it first. If he’s the one who makes the clear
withdrawal, it might not hurt as much when Lucifer finally has had enough and
decides to let him go.
~
There’s a massive function one day. Everyone coming to the brothel, a huge
banquet Inias started cooking the previous evening, and Lucifer lets Sam stay
upstairs. The door to their suite locked, Sam curled up in his bed with half a
dozen novels scattered haphazardly around the sheets, and he lays for a while
with his face pressed into the pillow. Barely able to concentrate on his book,
mind shifting between Wordsworth and
(azazel whispering “never have another after me never”)
other things. Feeling of fingers ghosting along the back of his neck and he
shivers and jumps, tears running hot down his cheeks, and realizes he’s been
asleep for a while. The air gone cooler and quieter around him, and Sam slips
out of bed, moves downstairs on weak legs. Dizzy and shaken and hoping Lucifer
won’t see him out, that Sam can just sort of. Take a breath of fresh air by
himself, for a second. Maybe clear his head out and be good for Lucifer when he
comes up to their room later. Give him a smile and some real conversation.
He’s not expecting to hear Lucifer’s voice rounding the corner, thought he was
preoccupied with the guests, and Sam doesn’t have time to think. Runs on
instinct into Lucifer’s office, and then into a small unused closet to the far
left of his bookshelves. Where he and Lucifer went once, just once, when
Lucifer was putting off signing a contract because he hadn’t had his hands on
Sam in four days, and they had to be fast. Hot and frantic and wanting, like
two teenagers, and afterwards Sam had collapsed into Lucifer’s arms in the
cramped space, shivering and ravenous with desire as he sucked a bruise into
Lucifer’s skin.
He curls up now in the small space, ear pressed to the door, and wonders how
the two of them were ever happy enough together to make both their bodies fit.
Lucifer comes into his office a second later, and Sam hears him settling down
in his chair. Speaking in low tones to a new client, explaining the rules of
the brothel. Listing off the names of his best consorts, paper rustling on the
desk, pens scratching out signatures and dates. Sam hears the soft clink of
money and thinks of Lucifer’s false smile growing that much wider as he
realizes he’s just made more profit off some kid’s spread thighs.
The client leaves, Sam watching through a small crack in the closet door, and
Lucifer breathes out. Leans forward for a moment on his elbows, head resting
against his palms. The slump of his shoulders heavy and familiar and Sam’s
chest aches at how exhausted Lucifer looks. All from taking care of Sam, from
having to put up with him for so long now.
(“I don’t hate you, Sam,” Lucifer whispers in the dark, his fingers carded in
Sam’s hair. Mouth barely brushing Sam’s own, and Sam wishes he could believe
him.)
He’s just reaching over to extinguish the gas lamp at the corner of his desk
and leave when there’s another knock. Three steady thumps, and Lucifer groans
quiet and impatient into his hands. “Who is it,” he calls.
The door opens. The room is dark, mostly just grainy shadow lit halfheartedly
by the flickering lamp, and Sam can’t see who it is that’s stepping in, not
right at first. But Lucifer’s whole body goes stiff. His shoulders thrown back
and his spine straight against the chair, and Sam guesses seconds before he
sees the familiar profile. The savage cruel eyes and the thin sneering mouth.
First time he’s seen Azazel since he remembered, and only his tight grip on the
doorframe keeps him from collapsing. His heart beating faster and faster until
it threatens to escape from the confines of his chest. Breath coming sharp and
short and he has to muffle it into his palm, nearly gagging on the scent of
Azazel’s cologne drifting across the room on invisible air currents.
“What the hell are you doing here,” Lucifer snarls.
Azazel walks forward. His hands clasping something at his waist, head tilted as
he watches Lucifer. “I’m making a business transaction,” he says. “Same as
everyone does here, Luci, or have you forgotten that’s the kind of
establishment you run.”
Lucifer’s eyes drop to whatever it is Azazel’s holding, and Sam sees his hand
tighten against the edge of his desk. “Get out,” he snarls, but Azazel pushes
the chair back, sits down. Swift fluid movement and Sam shifts back on
instinct, half expecting to be
(grabbed shoved to the floor manipulated rough into uncompromising positions)
touched, though Azazel’s not even aware of his presence here.
“I said get out—”
“I’d like to purchase Sam from you,” Azazel interrupts, and it’s like the world
collapses under Sam’s feet.
He’s spent weeks now anticipating Lucifer kicking him out. Having to live on
the streets, to go to Azazel because there would be no other choice, but
this—Azazel taking Sam now, before Lucifer’s gotten sick of him—Azazel with his
money and his greed and Sam knows Lucifer can never say no to a pound or two—
“You—what?” Lucifer breathes. Barely even moving his mouth, voice so quiet Sam
has to strain to hear him. His knuckles white against his desk, tremors running
in his arm.
Azazel lifts the little package he’s been carrying, drops it on the desk. A
little bundle that Lucifer unfolds with quick fingers, and money rolls out.
Spills in gold coins and unfolds itself in paper bills, scattered across the
table. Ten, twenty thousand pounds. Maybe more. The glint of cash in the
lamplight hurts Sam’s eyes, makes them sting, and he has to look away.
Azazel says, “Oh, come on, Luci, don’t give me that face,” and he says, “It
would make sense, you know. For me to buy him from you. Take his debt off your
hands. After all—” his chair creaks a little, and Sam forces his eyes back in
time to see Azazel leaning forward, pressed almost completely against the desk.
“You may own his contract, Lucifer,” he says, so soft and silken, “but I’ll
always be the one who had him first.”
Lucifer’s fist leaves the desk. Flies forward and crashes into Azazel’s face,
slams down on his still-bound wrist. The paper and coins between them rattling
and rustling as Lucifer drags Azazel forward, snarling, spitting, his voice
raised louder and louder as he hits him again and again:
“Don’t you dare try to take Sam from me. I’ll kill you before I let that
happen—you get out of here, get out get out GET OUT—”
The door bursts open and someone tall and broad-shouldered comes rushing in.
Grabs Azazel by the arms and drags him out, Azazel laughing wild and wicked the
whole time. One of his bodyguards, probably, letting the door slam shut as they
go, and Sam feels himself dip and weave against the door.
~
Lucifer calls Gadreel in. Calm and even tones as he shoves the money across the
desk, asking him to dispose of it—
(“Yes, I want it all burned in the incinerator. None for my children, I don’t
want this touching anyone in this brothel—”)
Once the money is gone Lucifer sort of collapses back into his chair. Hand
dragged down his face, staring at the wall opposite. Thinking of the stretched
long evening ahead, of having to smile and nod at well-dressed strangers, his
only thoughts on Sam the whole time. Sam, who is currently upstairs in their
room, buried in a book and no idea that Azazel just tried to buy him, that—
There’s a soft clattering from inside the supply closet behind him. Sound of
something breaking, and Lucifer wipes his palms on his trousers and stands,
walking over to the door. Tugging on the handle and it opens immediately, and
he finds himself staring shocked at Sam. His beautiful boy, heard and seen and
been through too much, only sixteen and there are kids here younger than him
but for Lucifer only Sam exists, right now. Curled up against the wall, his
eyes wide and wet and terrified. Shaking all over, shattered glass jar beside
him. Looking like he wants to throw up, his face pale, mouth pinched and tight
at the corners.
“I’m s—I’m sorry,” he gasps out, voice caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean to,
I just. I. I was walking out—needed some—some air, I—” His voice peters out,
hair damp with sweat where it’s plastered to his forehead. Tears glittering in
his eyes, spilling out over his cheeks, and Lucifer kneels. Follows his first
instinct and reaches out with one hand, so slow, aware of the way Sam tracks
his fingers as they near his shoulder. Lucifer’s movements careful and
deliberate as he closes his hand around Sam’s arm, lets it rest there. It’s the
first time in weeks that he’s been able to feel Sam’s skin under his own, warm
and soft and Lucifer wants to wrap himself around Sam. Curl them into each
other and never let him go.
“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, his heart in his throat, and Sam makes this awful
choked sound. Pressing into the touch for an instant before he’s falling
forward, head thunking against Lucifer’s chest. Body wracked with sobs that
Lucifer feels echoing inside himself, his emotions tied to Sam’s intrinsically,
Sam’s throat jerking as he struggles to hide them. He’s shivering like he’s
cold. Soft crunch of broken glass under his feet as he shifts, and Lucifer
pulls them both away from the closet. Into the main area of the office, where
they can sit on the carpet. Sam burying his face into Lucifer’s chest,
whimpering all soft and broken, and Lucifer strokes his hair. Mind on
(i’ll always be the one who had him first)
what Azazel said as he holds Sam against him, and Lucifer thinks, quite
suddenly, of how selfish he’s been, keeping Sam trapped here. Where he could
get hurt any time, where Azazel could show up and take him any day. Just steal
Sam away and drop a bag of money on Lucifer’s desk as compensation, and Lucifer
has to swallow down a violent rush of nausea at the idea of him being the
reason for Sam’s ruin. The idea of his selfishness sending Sam into oblivion,
all because he can’t let Sam out of his sight.
Holding Sam here in the quiet dark of his office, feeling the fragile shift of
bones under skin, Lucifer closes his eyes. Mind on the money burning right now
in the incinerator, fingers rubbing slow patterns up Sam’s spine, and his heart
clenches painful and regretting in his chest when he realizes what he’ll have
to do. What the only option is for Sam’s safety.
It’s clear, Lucifer thinks, with his arms wrapped loose around his boy, lips
pressed feather-light into his hair, that Sam will have to leave.
***** Chapter 11 *****
“Is he okay?” Sam asks Ruby, a week later. When he’s forced to spend the
afternoon with her because Lucifer has something to take care of in London—
(“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Lucifer says. All tense and worried and Sam
reaches out, touches the back of his wrist. Finds that ever since the incident
in Lucifer’s office, he’s been able to stand skin on skin contact more and more
often, if in increments and only for a little while.
“It’s okay, Luce,” he says. Wants to ask if he can go with, but he knows
better. Has known better, for a good while now, than to ask if he can leave the
brothel. “I’m okay.”
Lucifer nods once. There’s a sharp line between his eyebrows, mouth set and
unhappy and Sam aches to smooth it with his thumb. Wishes he could find out the
source of that deep sadness in Lucifer’s eyes—though he supposes it’s just
Lucifer thinking of Azazel, and all he’s done to try and ruin them.
He flips his hand over and for a second their fingers are touching—and then
Lucifer turns, sharp jerk of his head at Thaddeus, and the two of them
disappear out the front door.)
Ruby shrugs. Trying to look nonchalant, though indifference has never suited
her. “Don’t know why you’re asking me—”
Sam raises an eyebrow. Arms folded across his chest, trying for that impatient,
cold look Lucifer gets sometimes, and she lets out an exasperated groan, hand
in her hair.
“Christ, you and him—” Pauses, looks away for a moment, her lower lip sucked in
between her teeth, and then “He’s worried about Azazel,” she says. “He isn’t
letting up on having you; keeps coming in every night, or nearly, no matter how
many times Lucifer gets him kicked out—”
(i think you’ll find i’m persistent when i want to be)
Sam shivers, just a little. “He already had me,” he says, angry and to the
floor. “He doesn’t need to keep trying to get me again.”
But it’s a stupid thing to say, and they both know it. Both know once Azazel—or
any other client here—gets the taste for flesh, he’s not going to let up until
he’s had all of it. Sucked Sam dry, so to speak.
“What’s going to London gonna do for all this, then,” Sam asks, after a little
while.
Ruby shakes her head. “I don’t know,” and then, “I swear, I don’t!” with Sam
glaring at her, annoyed and a little scared, because the last time Ruby said
she didn’t know anything, Sam wound up unearthing repressed memories from a
cold bathroom floor. “Maybe he’s just—trying to find something he can use to
get Azazel banned,” she says, and Sam sighs. Nods, and heads up to his room,
Ruby a reluctant shadow on his heels.
Sam doesn’t want to worry. Knows Lucifer has a lot on his mind, but even so.
Ever since that night in his office, with Azazel, Lucifer’s been
acting—strange. Spending an increasing amount of time either away from the
brothel or so thick in its throes that Sam’s forced to stay away. Feeling—not
quite like Lucifer’s hiding something from him, but definitely like something’s
wrong. There are tight lines around his eyes, nudged into the corners of his
mouth. Something heavy and dark glossing his irises, and whenever Sam is able
to hold Lucifer’s hand, when the panic isn’t coming on too hard—Lucifer twines
their fingers together. Grips him tight—or as tight as he thinks Sam will let
him, anyway—and closes his eyes. Breathing slow and heavy and Sam wants to ask
what’s wrong. Aches because Lucifer is hurting, wants to touch and kiss and
hold, but he knows he isn’t going to get an answer.
Anyway, he can hardly ask Lucifer to talk about whatever it is that’s bothering
him without looking like a hypocrite. He still can’t open up about his
flashbacks, not all the way. Even after dampening Lucifer’s shirt with his
tears. The way he’d clutched at him in the office, shaking in the dark,
Azazel’s words
(i’d like to purchase sam from you)
still echoing fresh in his mind. Both of them kneeling on the carpet until
Lucifer was almost late to the function downstairs, his thumbs gentle when he’d
wiped Sam’s tears from his cheeks and sent him back up to the suite—even after
that, Sam still can’t. His nightmares as frequent and vivid as ever but there’s
no point in bothering Lucifer. No point in letting him know, and all Sam is
able to do is stand under the shower night after night. Scrubbing at his skin,
the water scalding hot, wishing he could wash away the stain he feels curled
between his legs. Wishing he could scrape off this damaged outer shell, and
just start all over.
A few days later, Lucifer goes back to London. It’s a Sunday, not much business
until the late evening, once all the Masses have let out, and Lucifer tells Sam
if he stays in their suite he should be fine. Running his fingers through the
soft crush of Sam’s hair where it rests against the back of his neck, and Sam
can feel his hand vibrating.
“Are you okay?” he asks, mostly against his better judgment, and Lucifer nods,
once. Too fast, his smile looking thin and strained.
“I’ll be back soon,” he tells him. Hesitates for a moment at the door, handle
white knuckled in his fist, and Sam thinks he’s going to say something else—but
he leaves instead, shoulders one long tense line under his coat.
A few hours later, Sam takes one of his astronomy books and goes out to the
section of the courtyard sequestered off for Lucifer alone. Near the rose
garden, where Sam feels safe and protected even without Lucifer physically
present. Doesn’t tell Ruby but he’s sure she won’t care, with the brothel as
quiet as it is this time of day. His mind set mostly on finding a bench he can
curl up on. Legs jackknifed under him, the book resting against his thighs, and
he’s not really watching his surroundings as he picks his way through low-
hanging vines and scattered fallen leaves. Birds fluttering above him in some
distress, disturbed by his movements. Smell of overripe peaches drifting
towards him from the orchard, and he’s distracted, just started to sit when he
hears—
“Sam, it’s been far too long, sweetheart, have you missed me?” Feels a hand
enclose around his wrist, twisting his arm up behind him and his book thuds to
the ground, crashing in among the dead leaves and overlong grass. His whole
chest seizing up, throat closing. Panic slicing its cold frantic way through
his body and he can’t tell if his first instinct is to try and run or if he
wants to kill Azazel, but he’s frozen in place, Azazel’s grip constricting
(“You like being held down, boy?” Azazel hisses, and when Sam shakes his head,
mouth pressed tight so he won’t vomit, Azazel tightens his grip on his hair.
Forcing his head down, and he snarls:
“You will when I’m finished.”)
around his wrist. Holding onto Sam with his good arm, using the other hand to
slide up the front of Sam’s shirt. The sun beating sleepy warm rays down on
them, not especially hot weather but Sam is drenched in sweat. His heartrate
skyrocketing as Azazel’s fingers dig clumsy and painful into his flesh. The
bones still healing over from where Lucifer hurt him but he’s wrenching Sam’s
arm back harder with every attempt at getting away Sam makes. Thumb grazing
over one of his nipples, smirking against the back of his neck when he finds it
hard, and Sam feels vomit rise up the back of his throat. Has to swallow to
keep it down, clenching his teeth and moaning low, his body’s reactions the
worst betrayal.
“You still want me, don’t you,” Azazel whispers, and Sam shudders, bitter taste
in his mouth. Azazel jerks Sam’s wrist a little higher, his mouth hot and wet
against Sam’s neck and Sam doesn’t know what to do. Dizzy with terror, he
whimpers and twists, trying to get enough leverage to kick backwards and run,
but Azazel’s hands are solid weights.
“Yes, that’s right, my good boy,” he murmurs. “Struggle, you know how I love
that.”
From behind them comes the vicious heavy crunch of leaves under someone walking
deliberate and fast, and Sam wrenches his wrist again just as Lucifer shows up.
Slams the barrel of a gun into the back of Azazel’s head and he goes down hard,
and only Lucifer dropping the gun and grabbing Sam’s arm keeps Azazel from
taking him down too.
Lucifer turns him around. Slow, careful, despite the way he’s holding Sam’s
arm, as though he thinks Sam might try to run if he lets go. Panic like bright
fire in his eyes but it bleeds away the longer they stand there. Replaced by a
cautious relief, and his grip on Sam relaxes. Thumb stroking slow over Sam’s
bicep, both of them trembling. Sam breathing hard, his eyes burning as he
hitches his breath, tries not to cry. Lucifer’s mouth working, moving over
Sam’s name like a prayer. Calming him down by just existing near him, his
presence strong and quiet and always good to Sam, always—
But then Lucifer takes a deep breath. Draws himself up, mouth set tight, and
that familiar strange expression crawls back into his eyes. The one that he’s
been wearing for days now, and he says, “Come with me.”
Sam glances down at Azazel’s prostrate form. “Where—”
“I have someone I need you to meet,” Lucifer says. His hand still wrapped loose
around Sam’s arm, sort of guiding him back towards the brothel, but there’s an
odd tone in his voice. Ripped up and unhappy, and Sam lets Lucifer get him as
far as the gate leading into the courtyard and then stops. Uneasy feeling
crawling up his ribs, blossoming out in his heart.
He says, “Who—” and Lucifer says:
“It’s a client, Sam. A buyer from a different company.”
Sam’s sure he’s heard him wrong. “You mean as in—” he starts, and Lucifer’s
mouth goes tight.
“I mean I’m sending you off,” he says. Casual, as if he’s had a lifetime to get
used to the idea of Sam gone, Sam displaced and uprooted all over again. His
words not making any sense as Sam stands there, staring at him in the warm
sunlight. Lucifer, who just saved his life—again—who’s been keeping Sam safe
and protected. Lucifer, shipping Sam off—but it can’t be right.
He says, “‘s not funny, Luce—” but Lucifer isn’t laughing, and Sam feels
something drop off in his chest as if from a very high cliff. Falling and
tumbling and broken down into the pit of his stomach, congealing and
solidifying, all fear and anger coalescing into a single unidentifiable lump.
He hears choked, hysterical laughter, doesn’t realize it’s him until he feels
his throat ripped up. The tears hot on his face and he says, his voice shaking
with false calm:
“So you just. You just decided you were gonna make this decision for me, yeah?
This fucking monumental decision and you just go and sign me off to someone
else without even telling me about it?” Words rising in pitch, carrying across
the gardens. The birds upset and rustling again, but he doesn’t care. All of
his worst fears suddenly slamming into him all at once, Lucifer’s finally sick
of him, sending him off, and Sam thought he could handle it. Thought he was
prepared, but “Without even asking me what the fuck I want!” he screams, his
fists clenched at his sides. “If I would be comfortable with something like
that!”
“It would keep you safe, Sam—”
“You keep me safe!”
“Oh, right, clearly,” Lucifer scoffs, and that’s enough—
“I want to stay here with you,” Sam says. Aware that his voice is cracking,
that he’s whining, but he doesn’t care. Lucifer shipping him off because he
thinks Sam would be safer away—never even considering for a second what Sam
might want, how desperately Sam needs Lucifer. Lucifer, who makes him feel
safe. Keeps him tucked close and away and Sam knows he can’t function without
him. This burning sensation starting up in the center of his chest, acid eating
a hole through his ribs, at the idea of being apart from Lucifer.
(a few months ago you would’ve jumped at this opportunity)
Lucifer’s eyes are steel. “I still own your contract,” he says. “So you’ll do
what I say and you’ll leave—”
“You never wrote anything about fucking abandoning me,” Sam snarls. His whole
body overheated and furious and he’s staring at Lucifer’s mouth, twisted and
angry but Sam doesn’t know how to not want him. He lunges forward, grips
Lucifer’s collar, and there’s a second’s pause before he’s slamming their
mouths together, jarring for a second before he resituates himself. Gripping
Lucifer’s jaw, gasping into his mouth:
“If you fucking pull away, Lucifer, I swear,” and he’s not sure if it’s the raw
need in his voice or the way he’s biting and pulling at Lucifer’s lower lip
that convinces him to grip Sam at the back of his shirt and hold on like he’s
drowning.
They stand there kissing for Sam doesn’t know how long. Hours it feels like, or
years. Sam feeling like he’s dying from the overload of touch, sensations
coming at him from all angles. Rough stubble under his palm scratching his
skin, Lucifer’s hands fisted into his shirt. His touch strangely gentle for
such a savage kiss, tiny little hitched sounds coming from his throat. Sam
echoing him, whimpering and moaning and he’s desperate to feel this, to imprint
it on his mind. Heat stirring low in his groin, first time in weeks and Sam
grips harder, kisses deeper—
Which is right about when he hears someone clearing their throat behind him. He
jerks away from Lucifer, his heart threatening to crawl out of his throat,
fearing for one badly startled moment that Azazel’s woken up. He spins around
and there’s a man standing in the doorway leading out from the kitchen—thick
brown hair and eyes a shade darker than Lucifer’s, and a sad haunted hollow
look on his face.
“Is this him?” he asks, sounding hoarse, run down, and Sam turns back in time
to see Lucifer nodding:
“Thank you for agreeing to take him,” he says. All this painful relief in his
eyes, the lines creasing his face fading out. Tension bleeding from his
shoulders and there’s no apology in his expression, nothing to signify that he
doesn’t want this. “I just. I couldn’t—”
“Don’t,” the stranger says, this man who has agreed to wrench Sam away from
everything he knows.
“So this is what you’ve been going off to London for,” Sam spits. Caustic and
bitter and Lucifer won’t even look at him, mouth trembling, still swollen and
red and spit slick from their kiss.
The stranger’s eyes trip up the path to Sam and Lucifer at the courtyard gate,
and then beyond. Land on Azazel’s unconscious form sprawled out in the lilies,
and he starts, “Is that—”
Lucifer levels a cold look at the stranger, and he falls silent, looks at Sam.
“Are you ready to leave?”
“No,” Sam snaps, speaking to the man but glaring at Lucifer. “No, I wasn’t
informed of this until about five minutes ago—”
“I’ve had Hannah take care of your things,” Lucifer interrupts, voice as cold
as his eyes, though Sam sees that old sorrow attempting to break its way
through to the surface. Wishes he didn’t know its source, after all. “They’re
packed and waiting in the foyer. I want you to—”
“I’m not going anywhere, Lucifer—”
Azazel stirs behind them. Sam had half-forgotten he was there, caught up in the
panic and anguish of Lucifer’s betrayal, and his chest seizes with sharp
terror.
“He will not leave you alone, don’t you understand that?” Lucifer hisses. “You
foolish boy, he will chase you down for the rest of your life unless you leave
me.”
Logically, Sam knows Lucifer is right. But he’s still only sixteen, though he
forgets it most of the time—a teenager, young and broken and he hates
authoritarian tones on principle. Especially when they’re coming from Lucifer,
who doesn’t treat him like this anymore. Hasn’t for months now. Lucifer, who
had his tongue in Sam’s mouth so recently Sam can still taste him in the
crevices of his teeth. He’s furious and he’s scared and hurt and all he hears
is that Lucifer is shoving him away because this is too much for him. Because
Lucifer’s gotten sick of him, finally, and there are newer and younger models
to fuck into out there. Ones that aren’t tainted and rent and
(damaged goods)
useless.
Sam takes a step backwards. His mouth working, hands clenching at his sides.
“Fine,” he spits, won’t look at Lucifer now, either. “Fucking fine, Lucifer,”
and then, to the stranger: “Can we fucking go, if we’re gonna?”
He doesn’t wait for a response before he storms into the house. He’s shaking
and his stomach is roiling, whole world pitched on end but god, he’s not going
to cry. He won’t.
The dark-haired man stays out in the courtyard for a little while, speaking to
Lucifer in low tones. Azazel stirs again, Sam can see him through the glass,
and Lucifer steps backwards, enough so he can put one booted foot on his
windpipe, ready to crush it at the first sign of trouble. After a few minutes
the stranger nods, and turns, and then Lucifer looks at Sam for a moment. Just
looks, with all the desire and want and need in his eyes that Sam can feel
reflected in his own, and then he’s turning away, facing Azazel, ready to take
him on when he’s fully awake.
The dark-haired man comes to Sam. “Are you ready?” he asks again, and Sam wants
to snap something back, something snarky and Lucifer-esque. But his throat is
dry and his eyes are burning, and he knows if he opens his mouth right now
he’ll start crying. Weakness shown in front of this man he doesn’t even know,
terrifying concept, and he just settles on nodding. Back straight, spine steel,
and he allows himself to be led from the brothel.
~
It’s quiet, afterwards.
Lucifer gets Azazel off the premises, still mostly unconscious and muttering to
himself. Stands for a moment in the courtyard after, his hand over his mouth,
tasting bile in his throat. Thinking if he turns around, Sam will be there,
still. Trying to fool himself into thinking that all this is just a dream, that
he didn’t really just send Sam away. That it wasn’t necessary for his survival.
That maybe Sam will forgive him.
When the sun has dipped below the trees, branching out reluctant final light on
the land, Lucifer goes back in. Ignoring Ruby and Meg, he slaps the schedule
for tonight on Lilith’s bed
(“You’re in charge tonight. Don’t fuck it up.”
“What, again, Luci? What’s going on—”
“None of your business,” and he slams her door so she won’t see him falling
apart.)
before heading up to his and Sam’s
(not anymore remember sam’s gone sam’s gone sam’s gone)
suite. Pausing for a second at his own door before heading inside Sam’s room,
instead, and he stands at the foot of the bed, looking down. His hand wrapped
around the post, solid mahogany. Burnished and waxed, and Lucifer spent
thousands of pounds on this bed. Thousands of notes without even blinking,
because he wanted Sam to be comfortable. Everything, always, to ensure Sam’s
comfort—
(Sam curled up under the thick sheets. His hair damp against his forehead and
his skin flushed, faint pleased smile curving the corners of his mouth as he
settles down. Half-asleep and not bothering to pull away when Lucifer’s hand
finds its way onto his forehead. The air still thick with sweat and sex and
Lucifer hadn’t expected Sam’s dick to feel as good as it did against his hand—
Sam with the pillow tucked under his head. His eyes on the stars outside the
window, voice soft and curious in the still night as he asks question after
question—
Sam with his fingers playing over Lucifer’s as they sit together. The taste of
Sam still vivid in Lucifer’s mouth, but all he can focus on is the delicate
arch of Sam’s cheekbones in the gas lamp. The way he stares up shy and half-
smiling, eyes hidden from under his bangs and Lucifer can’t believe the swell
in his chest, even after all this time—
Sam feverish and sprawled out. Wincing and gasping in pain, whimpering when
Lucifer’s fingers graze his skin, twisting away from the cold cloth—
Sam struggling out of the sheets night after night. Screaming and not fully
awake and Lucifer can hardly stand to see that terrified expression in his eyes
when he comes running into Sam’s room, glass of water in his shaking hand
though he knows it won’t do much—
Sam wondering out loud what’s wrong with him, wrapped up in the same sheets
that have cradled his body for months now. Lucifer unable to tell him, shame
and cowardice keeping his eyes on the floor, Sam’s fear and anger radiating off
him—
Sam staring glaze-eyed and desperate out the window. Every inch of remembrance
evident on his face, in his eyes, and all Lucifer can do is sit helpless, his
hands flexing on the sheets—
Sam slowly letting his fingers crawl up Lucifer’s wrist, their first touch in
weeks—
Sam’s shy smile peeking out like the dawn—
Sam laughing, soft, at some stupid thing Lucifer says. Asking if the next time
Lucifer’s in London, Sam can go too—)
He leans his forehead against his arm. Closes his eyes. And lets the tears
come.
***** Chapter 12 *****
They’re ten minutes into the drive—steam-powered carriage, just like the one
Thaddeus drives, and Sam wants to hate it but he can’t bring himself to care
about anything, right now—when the man speaks.
“My name is Michael,” he says, and, “I own a modeling corporation in Leeds.”
Sam snorts, derisive little sound scuffed up under his breath. So Lucifer’s
shipping him off with soft, weak things. People who have no idea what pain
feels like. What it means to be alone in your own skin, to scream and scream
until your throat is raw and bleeding.
“My models service the photographers, occasionally,” Michael says, and Sam’s
chest kind of clenches up. His fingers drumming an automatic nervous rhythm
against his thigh, mouth going dry
(i can’t i’m sorry it’s just not possible i can’t i can’t i can’t—)
as he imagines himself draped in front of some flash camera. The poof going off
in his face, bright and hot and the smoke would screen him from being able to
see the photographer moving forward, unbuttoning his cufflinks—
Sam shudders, and the betrayal slices further. Even deeper cut into his chest,
and his head is buzzing so loud he barely hears Michael still speaking, until
he says, “Your contract is different, you know.”
Sam shakes his head. Hard. Glances over at Michael, his throat working, and has
to tilt his head because he can’t force the word what? from his lips.
“Lucifer set it up with me in London,” Michael explains. Voice soft and almost
apologetic, and Sam flinches at the pity he hears there. Disgusted, mouth
curled into a sneer. Doesn’t need whatever it is Michael thinks he’s offering,
but “You aren’t required to have sex with my clients,” he explains, and Sam
can’t help the collapse of relief in his chest. “Lucifer ensured that no one at
my establishment will ever touch you.”
Did he tell you why? Sam wants to ask. His jaw gritted tight, feels like it’s
been welded shut. His gaze shifting swift from Michael to the front of the
carriage again, afraid of what he might do if he keeps looking over, full of
all this brand new hatred. Did he tell you how I’ve been fucked up, damaged
beyond repair? That he’s transferring me to you because he no longer has any
use for me?
Did he tell you how he lied?
Out loud, Sam says nothing, and Michael sighs. Very quiet and mostly into his
fist, but Sam still hears. Wonders if he should start playing a new game,
seeing how long it takes before Michael gets sick of him, too. His arrogance
and his stubborn attitude that Lucifer probably “forgot” to warn him about, and
Michael will get rid of him, too.
Sam wonders if it’ll take Michael less time, since he won’t be pretending like
he actually cares.
Ten more minutes of silence, stretched out and hard between them, before
Michael says, “Someone you know stays at my corporation.”
Sam narrows his eyes, tilts his head, questioning and suspicious. He only knows
people at Lucifer’s brothel.
Michael draws in a breath. Looks even sadder than he did when he first came
onto the courtyard.
“Your brother, Dean,” he tells him.
Dean—
(howling screaming sam’s name as they’re dragged apart dean all he’s had for
four years taking care of him when john was too drunk but dean’s gone now and
sam has to steel himself off from the rest of the world)
He’s thought about his brother, on and off, since they were separated. Six
years now since he’s seen him, and Sam remembers he loved Dean, once. Remembers
they were close, Dean protecting Sam when they’d lived out in the city, the
three of them all alone—but Sam doesn’t know Dean. Not anymore. And Dean
certainly doesn’t know Sam.
If that’s your big enticement to try and get me to be excited about living at
your place, then you fucked up, Sam thinks. His mind circling around Dean,
around Lucifer. His skin itching, familiar subcutaneous filthy feeling running
permanent through him, incurable poison in his veins, and he doesn’t want Dean
to see him like this. Six years gone and he doesn’t need his brother seeing him
violated, ruined. Doesn’t need Dean—or any of the models—seeing him as the
product of rape and rejection.
Michael’s hands tense against his thighs, mouth going thin the way Lucifer’s
does when he’s impatient, and he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the
ride.
~
It’s a two hour drive from London to Leeds. Two hours for Sam to sit staring
out the window, fighting hard to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks.
Trying not to think of Lucifer
(if he doesn’t want me then hell if i’ll keep thinking about him)
so of course, naturally, Lucifer is all that’s on his mind. The anguish in his
expression when they were looking at each other from across the kitchen. The
tremors running through his muscles when he’d first knocked Azazel out in the
courtyard, taking Sam up in his arms. Holding him like something fragile, like.
As if Lucifer—
The carriage slowing down presses through his train of thought. Sam’s been
staring unfocused out the window, watching trees and long stretches of field
sail by, but now. Now they’re on gravel, passing through iron gates. Cement
columns on either side of the entrance, and Sam snorts again. Thinking of
Lucifer’s lavish excessiveness, the golden gates at his brothel, symbolizing
that each client is entering Heaven. Cement far too cheap for the outside,
where Lucifer has marble pillars to hold his gates up. Michael’s mansion is
large; more so than Lucifer’s, though Sam isn’t especially impressed by its
dull exterior. More graying cement, three floors with long-paneled windows and
massive French doors leading inside.
But Sam has to admit—the grounds here are spectacular. Sprawling in all
directions, dipping and weaving. Soft pale grass waving in a light breeze,
dotted with weeds and heather. A wood behind the brothel, curving around the
land and disappearing around beyond where Sam can see. Trees dotting the field
here and there, birch and pine and oak and
(peach)
other kinds.
Sam’s mind flits to Lucifer’s orchard, and he glares down at his shaking hands
fast so he won’t cry.
Michael glances over at him as the carriage rolls through the gates and starts
up towards the house itself. “You like nature,” he murmurs. Not quite a
question, and Sam twitches one shoulder, shrugging.
“Lucifer told me,” Michael says, casual. As if this one statement is going to
make up for everything. “He said you enjoy the outdoors, and wanted me to
mention that all this land belongs to me—”
Sam snorts. His breath catching hard in his throat and he knows he’s not going
to make it much longer but he’s furious again, feeling a little sick. Doesn’t
know what the hell Lucifer was thinking. Did he assume that fields and trees
would just make Sam forget his home? So Michael has a few acres, and that’s
just gonna magically make it okay that Lucifer isn’t here? That he got rid of
him—like he thinks Sam’s not gonna care—
The tears slip, without his permission. Roll down his cheeks, drip off his jaw,
and honestly Sam’s getting tired of the whole ordeal. Biting his wrist so he
won’t make any noise, staring through blurred eyes at the grass and the
flowers, and Michael sits beside him. Quiet and unobtrusive, and Sam is
grudgingly grateful for that, at least.
Then the carriage comes to a halt outside the doors, and Michael gets out. Pays
his driver and beckons to Sam, who has no choice but to slide out. His cheeks
sticky with saltwater, staring up at the mansion before him, and loathing grips
him tight in the chest and twists him down in its grasp.
“This is your home now, Sam,” Michael tells him, and Sam glares. His eyes hot
and burning and he opens his mouth to tell Michael no, this isn’t his home, his
home is two hours away and it isn’t the brothel—
But then the doors open. Revealing a tall, dark blond man with sharp verdant
eyes. His skin pale and freckled around his bare arms, on his shoulders where
his tunic has slid low enough, face pretty enough to be a whore at Lucifer’s,
and Sam wonders why this one wasn’t snatched up before him—
He stops at the foot of the stairs. His eyes fixed on Sam, mouth open slightly,
and he glances once at Michael, his eyebrows raised. A question on his face
that Sam can’t read, but Michael must give him a satisfactory answer because he
rushes forward. Stops only when he’s nearly reached Sam, his hands twitching at
his sides, and he says:
“Hey, Sammy,” kinda rough low voice. “Long time no see, huh?”
Then his arms are wrapping around Sam, careful enough that Sam thinks he might
know the truth. Squeezing Sam in, resting his chin on his shoulder, and Sam can
feel his heart thudding quick through their shirts.
Dean, he realizes, and slowly, slowly, brings his arms up and around, hugging
his brother back.
~
For the first two weeks that Sam lives at Michael’s he stays in his room. Sits
and stares out the window, feeling absent from himself, something carved out
hollow and dead in his chest. He misses Lucifer, visceral dull ache in the
center of his chest, the feeling immediate and slashed through him no matter
how hard he tries to push it down. Even the damaged parts of himself from
Azazel’s rape are deadened compared to the fierce knife ache he feels when he
thinks of Lucifer’s eyes. The shape of his rough hands. The feel of his mouth
against Sam’s, pliant and willing and so surprisingly soft. Those little wanton
pained noises he made when Sam was kissing him, like he physically could not
get enough.
Sam grabs at his cock in the pitch dark of his new room and jerks it roughly,
until his skin feels hot and flayed open, until he’s in pain from the raw
rubbing and chafing of dry skin on skin, but there’s nothing. All he can see in
his mind is Azazel bending him over the sinks, all he can hear is the harsh
whisper of his voice
(stay down for me sweetheart yes that’s right my little fucktoy oh how i’ve
waited for this)
and Sam grabs his cock and jerks and pulls and squeezes until he’s crying but
he’s just ruined, he’s just another piece of useless meat now, waiting to be
carved up and thrown out.
There’s a dull pain deep inside him where he can’t reach with any salve to
sooth it, something that has felt intrinsically damaged from the moment he
first remembered at the gala. Something Alastair did not fix and would not have
fixed if he had the instruments for it. It’s the part of Sam that feels slick
with blood even when he’s checked for red spots fifty times. The part of him
that feels a phantom ache in his ass, the skin around his hole rubbed raw and
swollen though he hasn’t been fucked since Azazel took him. The part of him
that wants to scream, to wrench the headboard loose from the wall and throw it
into the fire because he’s so helpless now, so broken and there’s nothing he
can do to make it okay.
Night time, sometimes, when Sam can sleep, he dreams in restless shifts of
Lucifer’s cold hands covering him, soothing that sharp ache deep within him.
Replacing it with light and heat and something soothing like rainfall, but the
minute Sam starts to relax, the minute he reaches for Lucifer his face changes,
morphs into Azazel’s, laughing and mocking above him. Those yellow eyes
glinting down from some shapeless dark and never moving from his face as he
pummels into Sam, hard and rough without any prep, no lube to ease the
transition from empty to full.
Sam wakes up sweating and trembling so badly his entire bed is shaking, but he
never screams. He can’t. There’s been something blocking his vocal cords since
he got in the carriage with Michael. Since the moment he felt his jaw seal
itself off, his throat collapsing inward. Grief stitching it shut, sealing it
with wax and mortar. He can swallow just fine
(know if i was fucking your mouth you’d swallow for me wouldn’t you like a good
little slut)
but he hasn’t made one sound since he got here.
It would scare him except that it doesn’t, and honestly, he doesn’t have much
to say to the people here anyway. They leave him alone. Afraid of him, almost,
as if they think what happened to him is some disease they can catch by
lingering around him for too long. The only time Sam sees anyone is when
Michael has food sent up, or when Dean stops by. Standing hesitant in the
doorway, his eyebrows furrowed as he searches for something to say.
“You, uh,” he starts, at some point during the second week. Sam not looking at
him, staring blank out the window. Noticing the sunshine and the bird that’s
lit on his windowsill without really seeing any of it, Dean’s voice coming to
him as if through a long tunnel. “You look good, Sammy.”
Sam’s whole body jerks involuntarily. There’s dirt staining his blood and
poison spread out over his skin and Dean wants him to think he looks ‘good’.
“I mean. You look—older,” Dean tries, lamely.
Sam rolls his eyes. Of course he looks older. It’s been six years. This whole
reunited siblings thing sucks, he wants to say. Opens his mouth to try, and the
words get clogged up. Choking him, so that he starts to cough. Just little weak
things into the crook of his arm, nothing he can’t handle but Dean freaks out
as if Sam’s got pneumonia. Rushes forward
(too fast moving too fast)
and puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders. Solid heavy weight and pressure against
Sam’s body
(pressing into him from behind sam can’t turn around in time can’t move away
too weak too slow)
and he’s saying, “Sam, you okay?” but Sam’s already jumping up. Shoving Dean
out of the way, running across the hall to the private bathroom he has access
to. Gripping the sides of the toilet as he heaves, skin burning with the
remembered touch of Dean’s fingers. Stays in there for hours, his chest and
stomach clenching up, until long after night has fallen, and after that, Dean
doesn’t try to approach him again.
The third week, Sam goes downstairs to the main room, only because he’s hungry
and the room he stays in is starting to make him feel sick, its four identical
beige walls and cream-colored carpet too monotonous for him. For Sam who is
used to the lavish decorations of Lucifer’s brothel, the maroons and burgundies
of the downstairs parlor and the soft pastel colors of the middle rooms, the
bright emeralds and sapphires in his and Lucifer’s suite and the rich violets
and crimsons of Ruby’s and Meg’s. Even Lilith’s sheer white suite, softened
only by a few contrasting tones smeared into the sheets or the carpet such as
soft blue or pale gray, is a blessing in comparison to what Sam has been given
at Michael’s, so—downstairs it is.
Dean’s there, leaning against the icebox, munching on an apple, and he tilts
his whole body up as Sam enters, a fluid leonine graceful movement of muscle
and bone. “Hey,” he says, offering a tentative half-smile. “I was wondering if
you were ever gonna come down.”
Sam shrugs. Tilts his head at the icebox, and Dean shuffles out of the way.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says. “Michael probably doesn’t feed you enough, huh?” His
grin softens at the edges, little crinkles appearing at the corners of his
eyes, and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he looks like when he talks about the
owner of this establishment. “Guess he doesn’t remember what it’s like, feeding
a sixteen year old.”
So Dean was here when he was sixteen. Fourteen when he was taken, and Sam
wonders if he was here the whole time. Something itchy crawls up his spine, a
prickling sensation of doubt and unease, and it must register on his face
because Dean says:
“He took care of me, you know. It wasn’t like. I wasn’t abused, here. I haven’t
ever done anything I didn’t want to. Not for him, not for any of the. Uh. The
patrons.” He swallows, Sam hears the click of his throat. “And I mean. You
won’t have to, either, when you’re ready—” He leans in, puts his hand on Sam’s
shoulder, and Sam jerks away. Plastic tub of carrots he’d grabbed falling from
his hands and spilling across the kitchen floor, bright orange lines slashed
into the linoleum tiles.
He’s not aware of how hard he’s breathing, of how his shaking has started up
again, until Dean takes a step back, staring at him wide-eyed and worried.
“Sam—” he starts, and Sam glares at him, nostrils flared, head lowered, charged
up for a fight. Fuckin’ touch me again, he says with his eyes. I fucking dare
you.
Dean draws in a breath. Exhales slow, looks away. There’s a new tone to his
voice when he says, “I didn’t talk for a month when I first got here, you
know,” kinda soft and resigned, like this is something he doesn’t allow himself
to think about because it’s too painful. Still too raw and fresh inside him,
after all these years.
“I missed you,” Dean says. “Even kinda missed Dad. I didn’t wanna be here,
Sam—I just wanted to know you were okay, and no one would talk about you, so I
shut down. Tried running away a few times—” he pauses, scoffs. “Didn’t get too
far before Michael had me sent back, told me there was way worse out there and
I was—that I was lucky to be here.”
He swallows. Far off distant look in his eyes. “Still wouldn’t talk to anyone
for the longest time, not even Michael, but Sam.” His fingers are digging hard
into the counter at his back, his voice gone desperate under the thin veneer of
calm he’s attempting to slide over it. “Sam, it gets better. I swear to you, it
isn’t gonna be like this forever. You’re gonna learn how to like it here—you’re
gonna forget Lucifer and whatever the hell it is he let happen to you—”
Sam launches himself forward. Slams Dean against the wall to his right, pins
him there with built muscles and tight fingers
(“I told you to put more power behind those hits, Sam. This isn’t going to hurt
me. You can be as tough as you want.”
“You’re just trying to train me into some kinda freakish super soldier
prostitute, aren’t you?” But Sam is smiling, sweating and breathing hard as he
faces Lucifer across the mat, his body taut and thrumming with energy.
Lucifer snorts, dry and amused and Sam knows he’s not going to get hit. Not
this time. “You caught me,” he says, flat sarcastic voice, and Sam laughs.
Reaches out with his hand and Lucifer catches it immediately, presses it behind
his back.
“You’re telegraphing intent,” Lucifer tells him, quiet, so close. Slides his
hand up Sam’s arm, over his bicep. “You need to work on that.” He squeezes
Sam’s muscle, once, and Sam feels a hard shiver wrack his whole body.
“Keep going to the gym,” Lucifer tells him, before stepping away. “It suits
you,” and Sam tells himself he’s flushing because of the exertion, but he’s
still smiling when he lands an uppercut on Lucifer’s jaw.)
and levels his gaze hard on his brother’s. You shut the fuck up, he snarls
without words. Communicating with his teeth bared, animalistic and furious. It
wasn’t him. It wasn’t even close to him. Can tell he’s getting his point across
when Dean starts struggling, wincing under Sam’s grip.
“Okay,” he says, “okay. I’m—I’m sorry, yeah? It’s just.” He sighs, cuts his
eyes away from Sam. “Michael told me—after last week, he told me to give you
space. Because of. Because of what happened to you—before.” His muscles are
tense under Sam’s grip, his mouth thin. “I won’t say anything else, Sam. You
can let go.”
Sam steps away from him, knows his boundaries, but he won’t stop glaring. Not
even when Michael comes in, eyes dropping curiously to the carrots on the
floor:
“Is everything all right?” he asks them, and Sam flips Dean off once before
shoulder-checking Michael on his way out, shaking with how fucking unfair it
all is.
He cries without sound on his bed that night until he falls asleep. Dreams of
strong arms wrapped around his waist and a cool mouth pressed into his hair,
and wakes up aching and desperate and as soft as ever between his legs.
~
(Two hours from Sam, Lucifer jerks awake. His heart slamming in his chest,
sweat gathering in his hairline, and half-awake he staggers out of bed.
Shivering and exhausted and wandering into the bathroom, fumbling for a minute
before he finds what he’s looking for. Fills the glass with water and carries
it to Sam’s room, his eyes stinging with interrupted sleep. Mouth dry and he
knocks soft on Sam’s door, calls:
“Sam—I have water—”
There’s no answer, and the panic that floods Lucifer wakes him all the way.
Shards of reality shot into his mind and he nearly spills the water down his
front as he remembers the truth. That Sam is gone. Sam is not here. He sent Sam
away.
His fingers close around the doorknob, push inward. The door swings open and
Lucifer is faced with a dark empty moonlit space. Sam’s bed neatly made, his
wardrobe empty. His books gone from their shelves, and Lucifer whispers, “Sam
isn’t coming back,” and sinks slow and numb to the floor.)
~
Sam’s been at Michael’s for a while, long enough to learn some names, a few
faces that don’t stare at him like he’s some sort of virus, spreading
infectious and uncontrollable through the building. Michael has a younger
brother, Raphael, who helps out, and there’s all the models: Ion, who bears a
vague resemblance to Inias; Anna, pretty and young and transparently in love
with Dean, who ignores her except to be polite. Rachel, who fucks mostly older
clients; and Alfie, the youngest, younger even than Sam, as much a twink as the
twelve year old
(slaves)
whores back at Lucifer’s, but different somehow. Fresh-faced and innocent in a
way that none of Lucifer’s children will ever be.
They’re all like that at Michael’s, actually. Young. Naïve. New and curious and
bright-eyed like fucking faceless strangers is the highlight of their days. It
should be a breath of fresh air, Michael says, after the horrors you must have
seen at Lucifer’s place. You can learn very quickly here this practice isn’t
all bad.
It just makes Sam’s stomach roil. These kids—and he can’t stop referring to
them as children in his mind, though he’s younger than most of them—don’t know
what it’s like. To be held down against the tile of some bathroom floor face
shoved into the cold plaster as your pants are ripped off brutally. Thick rough
hand on the back of your neck and hard voice whispering in your ear to shut the
fuck up or you’ll die. Legs shoved apart and pain, so brutal and blistering,
nothing Sam would ever wish on anyone but he wishes these kids had to go
through it too, if only so they wouldn’t be so soft. It’s not going to make
life any easier for them later, not when they’re fucking some businessman who
decides he’s more into drawing blood than pursuing pleasure on both ends and
they don’t know how to deal with the repercussions afterwards. He thinks
thoughts like that should shock him, but they don’t. Not anymore. Haven’t now,
he realizes, for a long time.
Sam never realized how hardened he’d become until Lucifer dumped him here with
no explanation on how to survive in a world where everyone isn’t out to put a
price on your cock.
~
“What exactly happened to you?” Dean asks, one afternoon when he and Sam are
sitting outside. Fresh smell of earth in Sam’s nose, and he’s playing a private
game where he sees how long he can go without thinking about Lucifer.
Made it nearly two minutes, this time.
He glances over at Dean. Eyebrows lifted, and Dean sighs, glancing out over at
the woods. “I just meant. Because Michael never elaborated. He just said
something went on at Lucifer’s and I just. I wanted to ask. In case you wanted
to talk about it. Or anything.”
What happened to you? his voice echoes in Sam’s head. Where he spends most of
his time now, no need for any real effort expended towards the outside world if
Sam can no longer communicate with anyone, and he finds his thoughts turning—
(It’s late, and Sam knows he should be asleep, but Lucifer hasn’t left his
room. He’s sitting still and quiet on the edge of Sam’s mattress, his fingers
curled around Sam’s knuckles. Staring down at the floor, face shadowed, and Sam
reaches out with his free hand. Lightly brushes his fingers against Lucifer’s
cheek, and Lucifer turns, startled.
“Hey,” Sam murmurs. Quiet. Hesitant. “You okay?”
Lucifer smiles, nothing amused in it. Shakes his head and stares at the wall,
rueful twist to his mouth. “I should be asking you that,” he says, more to
himself than to Sam, and Sam sits up straighter. Moves in closer, not by a lot,
but enough. Enough to feel Lucifer’s body heat, to smell the cologne he wears.
Soft and earthy and nothing like. Like—
“You just look—sad,” Sam says, derailing his train of thought fast because he’s
enjoying this. Just the two of them sitting on his bed, closer than they have
been in a while. Sam’s not having panic attacks or flashbacks or anything, he
feels safe and warm and sleepy and he doesn’t want it to end.
“I’m just tired, I suppose,” Lucifer says. His fingers playing over Sam’s
knuckles, gentle slow touches, and Sam watches for a while as their hands move
together. The play of skin on skin in the dark, and he wants to kiss the
crescent of Lucifer’s thumb and forefinger, right where they meld into each
other. Wants to press it against his mouth and close his eyes.
Doesn’t realize he’s drifting off until Lucifer gently nudges him away from his
shoulder. Sam blinking fully awake again, yawning and surprised, and Lucifer’s
eyes are soft as he looks at him. Soft and tender and there’s something
restrained in his expression. That sadness creeping in along the edges, though
he’s trying to hold it back, and Sam wants to ask again what’s wrong but he’s
tired, and when Lucifer lays him back. Light touch to his shoulder so that he
goes against the pillow, and Lucifer stands and tucks the sheets around him,
Sam does not object.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam,” Lucifer whispers, his fingers carding light
through Sam’s hair. “I have to leave for London in the morning, but I’ll wake
you before I go.”
“Okay,” Sam mumbles into his pillow, and, “‘night, Luce,” and he’s asleep
before he can hear the way Lucifer’s breath catches.)
“Sam?” Dean says, cautious, and Sam jerks. The sun is warm on his forearms,
where only seconds ago he had cool fingers pressed, head tipped subconscious
into the solid weight of Lucifer’s hand.
He reaches down. Picks up the slate Michael had given him to write on, since he
isn’t talking, and scrawls out a quick sentence for his brother, temporary
satiation of what he knows isn’t just his fevered curiosity but that of the
entire modeling company:
Someone abandoned me, he writes, and he won’t look at him again.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Two months.
They’re all in line to get photographed. Crowded up in the hall leading from
the foyer to the parlor, and Sam’s just trying to edge past, so he can get out
before any of Michael’s clients notice him, when he hears his name being
called. Unfamiliar female voice, and when he turns he sees a blonde girl
beckoning him from a little ways down the line. Her hair in long waves,
cascading down her shoulders and just hiding the cleavage pushed out of her
corset. Wearing lilac eyeshadow and light pink garters and she’s older, maybe
Madison or Ruby’s age. Pretty and smiling and Sam steels himself, walks
forward.
“I heard about where you used to live,” she says, when he’s close enough. Her
voice quiet and confidential, as if it’s some kind of secret that Sam’s new
here.
Yeah? he writes on his tablet. The smell of her perfume overwhelming him and he
has to take a step back, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Surprised you made it out alive,” she says, and a couple of the other girls
around her nod in agreement.
Why? Sam asks. More to be polite than because he actually cares. Mind on his
bed upstairs, the way the soft duvet will crush under his weight. Dull
colorless walls lulling him into a stupor, the sun shining low and green-tinted
through his window, because of the branches that hang just outside—
“Well, you lived at Lucifer’s, right?” she asks, and when Sam nods, fingers
tightening around his pen, ready to defend Lucifer against whatever ridiculous
assumptions these girls have, she says, “Michael’s brother’s place has the
worst reputation.”
For a second the full sentence doesn’t register. Just Sam’s cold amusement at
the way she shudders over the words Lucifer’s place. The fact that it has a bad
reputation to these people, these models who show up of their own free will for
a little extra cash. Who drape themselves over soft cushions and wrap their
bodies in silk curtains. Stand for hours and hours before a camera, or in front
of an artist equipped with brush and paints and easel. Their features
immortalized on canvas or on film, and then they only get fucked a few times a
month by these young attractive men and women who know what they’re doing; know
how to be gentle. Feeling a little superior, thinking of Lilith and Abaddon and
the way they’d systematically tear her down, tear all these so-called
“courtesans” down—
But then. Then his mind flashes back to her words
(Michael’s brother’s place)
and his hand is shaking so hard it cramps a little when he asks, Lucifer is
Michael’s brother?
She glances at her companions. “He was the last time I checked,” she says.
Sounding a little confused, and Sam doesn’t know why this news is upsetting him
so much. Why he should care whether Lucifer and Michael are related at all,
except.
Except this is just one more thing Lucifer’s hidden from him. Just one more
thing Lucifer didn’t tell him, because he was too busy figuring out the easiest
way to get Sam off his hands.
He nods at the girls and ducks fast down the hall. Up the stairs and into his
room, collapsing on his bed, and ticks another mark off the list of things
Lucifer’s lied to him about.
~
Three months.
Michael’s office is situated on the third floor. Same as the sex rooms, and
it’s because of that that Sam finds himself lingering outside Michael’s shut
door one lazy afternoon. The sun shining through the great paneled windows on
either end of the hall, the air getting colder as fall comes on, and Sam is
jackknifed with his back against the wall, knees to his chest. Waiting to see
if Michael comes out of his office before Dean’s done down the hall with the
countess from France, the one that wears furs and likes the models to kiss her
rings before they take her upstairs. Because there’s sort of an unspoken
agreement between Michael and Dean that when Dean’s servicing clients Michael
isn’t really supposed to know about it. As if they’re trying to avoid reality
by pretending Dean can be monogamous in a place like this.
Sam doesn’t understand why Michael doesn’t just buy Dean himself, keep him as
his exclusive whore the way Sam belonged to Lucifer, but. That isn’t the way
it’s run here, and without anything better to do Sam finds himself and his sign
language guide
(surprise gift from dean presented with a hesitant smile at sam’s door one
sunday morning and since then sam’s been teaching himself how to speak all over
again)
sitting in the hall. Trying to concentrate on how to construct basic sentences,
but Michael’s on the phone in his office. Talking loud, almost angry, and Sam’s
working on blocking his voice out when he hears his own name. Sharp vicious
tone, and suddenly Sam finds himself pressed all the way up against the door.
Book forgotten at his feet as he strains to listen:
“Yes—I understand that—but he’s been here three months, and he still won’t
fuck—”
Long pause. Michael breathing kinda hard, like he’s angry, and Sam doesn’t know
what to do with this conversation. Of course he isn’t having sex, didn’t
Lucifer tell Michael—
“—he’s so quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak one word, not since he
got here—spends most of his time outside—I suppose he likes it, yes, but he
isn’t—”
Sam stops listening for a minute, then. Sort of slips backwards, brief loss of
contact with the door and his heart is in his throat, his mind an angry swirl
of panic for the first time in a while. Adrenaline riding hard in his veins and
he has to get out of here, he has to go, because Michael’s going to sell him
too—Michael got sick of him just like Sam predicted he would and now he’s going
to be shipped off somewhere else and forced to fuck someone with thick hands
thick hair punishing grip as he’s pounded into—
“You send me enough money,” Michael says. Loud enough for Sam to hear him even
through his panic. Even though he’s slipped from the door a little ways,
shaking and breathing hard on the hallway floor. “That isn’t the—no, that’s not
why I’m complaining—” He lets out a snarling, frustrated breath. “Next time you
send me one of your whores, Lucifer—make sure he’s able to work, would you?”
And then he slams the phone down. Receiver ringing in its cradle, sound of a
fist hitting wood, but Sam can barely hear any of it. The panic, the
adrenaline—ripped out of his system, all at once. Replaced by a numb cold,
seeping under his skin, into his bones. Digging its way into his heart, and Sam
is vaguely aware of pain lancing in his chest. Of his fingers digging into the
soft carpet under his palm, but just barely. His throat dry, mind spitting out
(useless fucking whore damaged little slut you knew the whole time he wasn’t
going to want you anymore once you were gone)
savage angry words, and Sam doesn’t have the energy to deny any of them.
Because Lucifer’s calling. He’s sending money—and Sam can’t help wondering
what’ll happen when it runs out. When Lucifer gets sick of supporting such a
lost cause, turns his attention to younger and more willing flesh—and Sam can’t
even imagine how he’ll have to repay Michael for the expenses. The amount of
photographs he’ll have to pose for. The number of men he’ll have to spread his
legs for, to make up for all this time he’s spent
(useless)
alone in his room.
Lucifer’s doing all that—but he won’t talk to Sam.
He draws in a shuddery breath, and finds that he’s too hollow to cry.
~
The first night Lucifer tries writing to Sam, he’s drunk. Bottle of whiskey
perched precarious on the desk beside him, the pen trembling in his hand.
Parchment laid out flat and crisp in front of him, and he looks down at it and
finds he can’t think of a single goddamn thing to say.
Sam, I hope this letter finds you well—
Sam, you have to understand, I didn’t have a choice—
Sam, Michael’s was the only place I could think of to—
Sam, I lo—
That last one, scrapped. Viciously scratched out with long angry scratches of
the pen, ink sliding across the page. His hands clenched tight and he drinks
straight from the bottle, feels it burn as it slides down his throat. Sam
doesn’t need to hear that, right now. Sam won’t want to hear that.
He’s shivering and angry at his own weakness, just drunk enough to feel selfish
with wanting Sam back, and he throws the scratched-up paper into the fire and
storms downstairs. Grabs the first whore he finds, long angular face and pretty
dark hair, and fucks into him with the door barely shut. Pressing his face into
a thin pale shoulder and going dizzy when he comes.
He tries again a few more times, after that. Always with a nearly full bottle
of whiskey in his stomach. Sometimes still coming off the high of sex, but more
often than not he’s holed up in his room. Or in his office, the drapes shut,
door locked. Mouth trembling and he pictures Sam over at Michael’s. Sitting in
one of the impersonal upstairs rooms—oh, yes, Lucifer’s been, he knows how drab
it is there; but then, Michael was always a dull choice of proprietor compared
to him—with his forehead pressed to the glass. His eyes shut, and he’s probably
not thinking of Lucifer at all, anymore.
Sam, I’m so sorry—
Sam, I know you won’t believe me, but you’re better off away—
Are they treating you better there, Sam? They don’t put you in danger, like I
did—
Once, he has Thaddeus ready the carriage. Bring it around to the front door and
wait while he buttons his vest and adjusts the lines of his waistcoat. The
train station is only half an hour from the brothel, and if Lucifer buys a
ticket straightaway he might make it to see Sam in time for dinner—
But if he goes, what then? It’s hurt like hell, right from the beginning, to be
separated from Sam, and Lucifer knows the second he sees him he won’t be able
to leave him again. Won’t be able to resist offering Sam the chance to come
home, and he knows Sam will say yes. Sam will want to come back, and Lucifer.
Lucifer can’t let him.
He tells Thaddeus he’s changed his mind. Goes back inside, heads up to Lilith’s
suite. Where there’s wine and white silk and lilies, Lilith waiting for him
laughing, covered in pearls and lace, and Lucifer knows he won’t think about
Sam at all.
~
Six months.
Sam’s thought about running away a few times. Contemplates the notion more
often here than he ever did back home, even when he was twelve and terrified
and always so angry at everyone. Tries to picture himself out free in England.
Buying a train ticket and going to the coastline. Setting sail for America on
one of those metallic steam-powered ships, stowed away careful and hidden in
the boxes and baggage below. Sam, in New York City, staring up at glittering
buildings and the weird people he’s heard of that live there, half-human and
half-robot—
But he can’t. His need for freedom, for escape, completely overridden by fear.
Seeing Azazel, for one, because god knows where he might be now. If he’s
lurking in wait at every port, at every train station. And greater than that,
even—his fear of never seeing Lucifer again.
Because if he left, he wouldn’t. Lucifer wouldn’t know how to get in contact
with him. Wouldn’t know where he was. Just in case. In case.
Sam knows Lucifer’s the one who sent him away. That Lucifer’s the one who cut
ties with Sam and said never again, because Sam needs his safety more than he
needs Lucifer
(bullshit fucking bullshit lucifer is safety should’ve told him should have
made him understand)
but he can’t help hoping. Can’t help thinking maybe one day Lucifer will break
down and come to get him. That this visceral ache in Sam’s chest, something
vital torn out of his center, is the same thing Lucifer feels. That one day the
pain will be too much, and Lucifer will come and see Sam—and when he does, Sam
needs to be here. Ready and waiting and longing for home.
~
Ten months.
He thinks the members of Lucifer’s brothel would be mocking him, if they knew.
If they could see him now, nearly ten months after he arrived at Michael’s,
stretched out on his bed. Staring up at the ceiling and breathing shallow
through his nose as his hand moves carefully and well-slicked up with lube
inside the waistband of his shorts. He’s a little hard right now, eyes screwed
shut so tight it hurts, biting almost clean through his lower lip and trying so
hard to keep his mind steady on one thing
(Lucifer pressed up against him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. His
skin cold as ice but the heat still comes off his body in waves, nearly
drowning Sam in its intensity.
“Hold it like this,” he tells Sam, adjusting his fingers around the trigger of
the gun, fitting his thumb over the safety. “There aren’t any bullets in the
chamber, but if there were you would push on this—”
Sam flips the safety off, spins in Lucifer’s loose grip. So that he’s got the
barrel pressed to Lucifer’s chest, mouth slightly open. Hand shaking, and he
swears he can feel Lucifer’s heartbeat through the gun.
“There’s no bullets in here?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow, and Lucifer shakes
his head, slow. Watching Sam carefully, so carefully, waiting for something Sam
can’t figure out.
Sam pulls the trigger, and—
click.
Lucifer smiles at him, soft and without malice, though it doesn’t reach his
eyes. Takes the gun back, thumbs the safety on again, and tucks it into the
back of his trousers. Never takes his eyes off Sam’s, not even once. So much
heat crackling between them it feels like static lightning in the air.
“Bang,” Lucifer whispers, before turning and walking away.)
but he can’t get the feel of Lucifer’s body pressed against his, the way the
metal of the gun had felt in his hand, how for a moment he’d been the one
holding the power. Not when other memories
(shoved against the ground hands and knees scraped and bleeding ass sore and
ripped open something vital torn out by long claws and merciless fingers)
keep crowding up, pushing Lucifer out.
Ten months since Sam left Lucifer’s brothel. Ten months since he last spoke.
Over a year since Azazel raped him. And Sam still can’t get over it.
Yes, they’d mock him if they knew the truth. How pathetic he is. How small and
insubstantial.
Sam digs his nails into his cock until it goes soft again—doesn’t take much
time, at that, but he scrapes it raw anyway—and pretends he doesn’t feel the
hot slide of tears on his cheeks as he rolls over, stares out the window. At
the moon which is shining bright tonight, raw white light streaming in through
the glass over Sam’s body and he wonders if Lucifer is looking too. If he’s
thinking of Sam, if he still feels the same visceral ache in his chest now, or
if he’s moved on. If he has another boy, one that can actually service him—
Sam pulls his hand out of his shorts and it comes away slick with lube and
spotted crimson with blood. He bites into his fist and cries himself to sleep.
Fucking pathetic.
~
One year.
“Sam,” Michael says, “could you run upstairs and get me my checkbook?”
He’s conducting a business transaction in the foyer. Some artist client,
clothes stained with paint and oil, wants to buy not only the painting but the
subject as well, and they don’t do it like that very often here but the artist
has offered a substantial amount.
(“He’ll sell us off willingly enough when the price is good,” Dean had
explained, low annoyed tone, when they’d all first heard about it, and Sam had
marveled silently at how similar Michael and Lucifer were, at their cores.)
Sam nods once, heads upstairs. Passes the girl of choice on the second floor,
where most of them sleep, and she’s packing with her friends. Laughing, talking
about how much better it’s going to be with Basil, outside this establishment,
and Sam sort of wants to wring her neck. Ask her how stupid could she be, to
believe that she’ll have a better life owned and fucked every night, no choice
in the matter, as opposed to what she has here. To believe that she’s somehow
unlucky here, where she could’ve left months ago, of her own volition.
But he can’t, because he doesn’t speak, and they won’t learn his language in
turn. Still afraid of him, and their naivety disgusts him, too. So he just
walks on, up the next flight of stairs and into Michael’s office. The checkbook
is sitting on his desk, fountain pen crooked beside it, and Sam’s just about to
lift it up when his eyes light on something else. Folded down off-white
parchment, half-tucked under Michael’s transactions ledger, and Sam wouldn’t
touch it at all except that he can see his name. Familiar slanted script,
handwriting he hasn’t laid eyes on in
(a year it’s been a fucking year and he isn’t even writing to you)
so long. Deep emerald ink, because Lucifer’s never been satisfied with just
black, and Sam forgets the checkbook entirely, tugs the letter out. Unfolds its
creases and reads:
Michael—
How is he? It was a year today and I couldn’t stop thinking about him and I
need to know how he’s doing. Sam. Oh, it looks nice to write that. Sam. Sam.
Sam—
Is it still enough money? I can send more if you
—and then the words just. Stop. Trail off the page in a wobbly sort of line,
splotched and thin and unhappy. The handwriting shaky and uncertain, and Sam
knows Lucifer was drunk when he wrote this. That he’s probably drunk right now
as Sam’s reading it.
The creases of the paper are stained, little wet spots that have long dried
over but Sam can tell they were tears, once. Runs his thumb over them, over the
ink. The letters that Lucifer’s hand composed. The one-year anniversary of the
day Lucifer shipped him off to this hellhole and he was thinking of Sam.
Probably with his head propped up on his hand, staring out the window of his
office at the maple that grows on the front lawn. Or maybe he was sitting in
the rose garden when he wrote it, watching the bushes blooming in the slow
coming summer heat—or maybe in the orchard, sitting under a peach tree, ripe
fruit tucked against his cheek as he scrawled—
He’s running before he knows what he’s doing. Back downstairs into his bedroom.
Opens a bag on the floor and he throws the first clothes he sees inside: loose
fitting tunic that might have been Dean’s at some point. Tight leather
trousers, joke gift from Gabriel. Pinstriped tie and soft cotton leggings, and
Sam doesn’t let himself think about the books in his closet. The ones he won’t
have time to pack because he can already hear footsteps coming up the
stairs—Michael wondering where he is with the checkbook, probably. There’s a
small bundle of cash stuffed into the inner lining of the bag, Sam thinks Dean
might have slipped it there and if this was some other more opportune time he
would go thank him but as it is all he can do is slip out his window. Lever
himself down the trellis, swift and quiet on thin fingers and lean arms. He
collapses in the rose bushes and crawls through the dirt, away from the house
until he’s reached the road. Hails the first steam-powered car he sees,
clambers into the backseat:
Take me to the train station, please, he begs, scrawling so hastily his
handwriting is hardly legible, but the driver nods. Wheels turn under Sam’s
feet and the smaller Michael’s mansion gets in the rear window the closer he
comes to crying.
Finally, he’s going home.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Michael’s mansion is only fifteen minutes from the Leeds railway station, but
it feels like hours longer before Sam is able to press some money into the
driver’s hand, get out of the carriage. He’s trembling when he pushes a sheet
of paper over the counter in the sprawling train station: one ticket to London,
thank you, half-expects some kind of dirty look for not speaking but the ticket
lady just punches one out for him, takes his pound note and tells him to have a
good trip.
There’s a wooden green bench off to one side, and Sam sits on it, bouncing his
leg up and down, hands clenched tight in front of him. So that he crinkles the
ticket, dampens it with his sweat. He keeps swallowing convulsively, mind on
the tablet in his bag. He had to leave his sign language book at Michael’s when
he ran and he has no idea how he’s going to talk to people once he gets back to
Lucifer’s—
Oh god, he doesn’t even know if Lucifer is going to want him back—
By the time the train comes Sam has thrown up twice in the men’s room. His legs
feel like rubber, barely supporting him as he hands his drenched ticket to the
conductor. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck and he can’t get enough
air. No way of knowing if Lucifer will be happy to see him or not and his hands
are twitching compulsively in his lap. Never even occurred to him that unless
he can figure out how to make his voice work again he’ll have to write things
down for the rest of his life, no way he can teach without that book—
Sam presses his forehead against the cool warped glass of the train window and
exhales shakily, willing himself not to cry. There’s already been enough of
that for one afternoon, and the last thing he wants is to show up at Lucifer’s
brothel looking as
(broken)
pathetic as he really is.
The train lurches forward and Sam closes his eyes. Breathes out. Mantra running
on constant in his head: it’s going to be fine it’s going to be fine it’s going
to be just fucking fine.
~
By the time they arrive in London it’s later in the evening, and there aren’t
as many people in the station. Stars are coming out as Sam watches, waiting for
a steam-powered carriage to come and get him where he needs to be, soft white
points of light glittering against the velvet blue of the sky.
(“How can you tell which ones are planets and which ones are stars?”
“Planets are stationary.”
“They all look stationary to me, Lucifer.”
“Don’t snark at me,” but he’s smiling, isn’t even trying to hide it, and then
he takes Sam’s hand, drags his finger across the glass until it’s touching a
soft round shape to the west. “See that one?” he asks, and Sam nods. “That’s
Jupiter. It’s bigger than the other dots around it, and it’s. It’s smoother. Do
you see?”
There’s something strangely hopeful in Lucifer’s voice when he talks about
space. Something aching and almost lonely, a desperation for Sam to understand,
to know what he knows, and Sam nods, slow. Studying Jupiter’s form, and yes, it
does look rounder than the others. More purposeful.
The air around it is slightly smudged, too, and when Sam points this out
Lucifer actually smiles, open and unfettered, such a rare occurrence.
“Galileo’s moons,” he explains. “I can tell you their names too, if you like.”
“No one wants to fuck a nerd,” Sam says, but he’s teasing, bumping his elbow
against Lucifer’s, and when Lucifer ignores him, starts:
“Ganymede, the largest,” Sam just curls against him, head on his shoulder, and
listens.)
A taxi pulls up, forcing Sam away from his thoughts. He climbs in, hands over
his money—well, Dean’s money, really—and an address scrawled on a scrap of
paper. Leans back against the seat as the carriage lurches forward, closes his
eyes. Lets the sounds and smells and sights of London close in around him, and
falls asleep with the road expanding familiar and welcoming under his feet.
~
“Sir.”
Sam shifts, head jerking a little.
“Sir.” More insistent, and with reluctance Sam cracks one eye open—and then
both, very fast, because here they are.
The taxi driver looks nervous. “Sir, you don’t want me to. Um. Do I have to
pull in all the way to the gate, or—”
Sam shakes his head, reaching under his seat for his bag and wrenching the door
handle until it opens. He’s shaking badly again, staring at Lucifer’s brothel
for the first time in twelve months. It’s too dark to tell if anything’s
changed but Sam wouldn’t care much if it had.
The driver leaves, gravel crunching under tires, and Sam starts forward,
clutching his bag. Practicing in his mind what he’ll do if Lucifer asks him a
question immediately. Heart in his throat the closer he gets to the doors, and
by the time he’s knocking, his whole body is shivering constantly, attacked
from the inside by some virus.
He’s half-hoping Lucifer himself will answer, but it’s Thaddeus instead.
Looking appropriately surprised to see Sam, blinking in the half-light coming
from the hallway. Door partially shut and just muffling the sounds of laughter
coming from within. Soft tinkling sounds of human interaction, coquettish
giggles from Meg—Sam swears it’s her, and he never thought he’d feel happy to
be near her, but here he is—and a low, intoxicating laugh that can only belong
to Abaddon.
“Come in,” Thaddeus says, after a long, stunned moment, and Sam slips back
inside the mansion. The air seems almost to close in around his shoulders as he
steps over the threshold, welcoming him home, and he exhales softly. Wishes he
could talk, make this tattered mess of his throat work. As it is all he can do
is set his bag down and pull out his tablet and pen, write:
I can’t speak out loud anymore. Will you tell Lucifer I’m here?
Thaddeus goes pale. Drawn, almost, and Sam frowns at him—did everyone go soft
while he was away? What? he asks, raising an eyebrow, and Thaddeus shakes his
head, taking a step back.
“I’m not going to tell him you’re back,” he whispers. “He’ll be so furious;
either he’ll think I’m lying, or worse still, he’ll believe me, and then he’ll
be angry with you for returning—”
Well, I don’t care, Sam snaps. I want to see him.
“Thaddeus,” calls a languid, familiar voice from near the top of the stairs.
“What in the hell are you doing down there, I told you to bring us up some
tea—” and Sam feels a jolt in his chest. First at Lucifer’s voice, the way it
still resonates in him, crawls up his spine—and then at his words. Slammed with
the sudden mental image of Lucifer curled up with whores, of either sex, naked
and lazy and leonine and gorgeous, eating honey off their stomachs, sucking
grapes out of their cunts, or their assholes—
There are footsteps on the stairs, slightly muffled by carpeting, and Lucifer’s
voice gets louder as he descends: “Never mind, Thaddeus, I can—”
He draws up short, of course, when he sees Sam. Not quite as naked as Sam had
been picturing, though he’s close, draped loosely in a towel, pair of barely-
there shorts clinging to his legs underneath. One year hasn’t changed him;
there’s something tight about his face that wasn’t there before, a drawn sort
of quality, and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced, but overall
Lucifer has remained. Well. Stunning. Always startlingly attractive to Sam,
even after everything. His features a little sharper than Sam’s memory was
allowing, and he stares helpless for a moment, drinking him in.
Lucifer’s throat works for several seconds. Eyes flicking between Thaddeus and
Sam, something like an accusation forming there, and Thaddeus says fast:
“My lord, I had no idea he was returning—”
“Shut up,” Lucifer interrupts, and all the fluid laziness is gone from his
tone. Replaced by cold hard anger, dangerous and powerful. Dimming the whole
room by proxy, or perhaps that’s just Sam’s imagination.
Sam takes a step forward. Hands twitching hard at his sides. Mouth working, and
if ever there was a time for his throat to regain consciousness, it would be
now. But he can’t push a single sound past his lips, every word he wants to say
caught up and strangled before it can move into his mouth.
Lucifer says, “Why are you here?” as if his half-composed letter doesn’t exist,
all that desperation for Sam to return without Lucifer having to say anything,
and he says, “I told you to stay away, I told you Azazel will kill you—”
It’s been a year, Sam points out, on his tablet, and Lucifer frowns at that,
eyes flicking from the paper to Sam’s mouth. Settling there for a second,
looking like he wants to ask, and Sam’s hand tightens on the pen, ready—
But then he says, “When I wake up, I want this to have never happened,” and he
says, “Thaddeus, see that Sam has enough money to take a late-night train ride
back to Leeds before his idiocy gets him murdered in my parlor,” and he turns,
and starts back up the stairs.
Sam bangs on the nearest table, hard enough that the voices in the adjacent
room go quiet for a second before resuming. Don’t you fucking say that, he
wants to scream. Don’t you walk away from me again, you fucking coward.
But Lucifer’s shoulders remain a tense, hard line, and he won’t turn, and after
a few seconds his ascent continues. Leaving Sam as cold and abandoned on the
ground floor as he was a year ago.
~
Sam stays awake all night. Refuses to leave despite Thaddeus’ cajoling, his
bribes and his pleas and even, once, when he grabs Sam’s bag and threatens to
throw it outside in the light rain that has started up.
I have my tablet, that’s all I need, Sam tells him, staring at the wall
opposite, no emotion in his face. I can buy other clothes. Do whatever you want
to. I’m not leaving.
Eventually Thaddeus gives up. Drops the bag on Sam’s feet and leaves, shutting
the great glass double-doors that lead into the parlor, and Sam supposes he
should be grateful for that at least. Thaddeus giving him some kind of privacy
from the rest of the house.
Sam curls up on the lush carpet, head pillowed on his bag. Listens to the soft
chatter of guests outside, the light hissing of rain against the windows. It’s
cold in the brothel, but Sam doesn’t dare risk going to find another blanket.
Not alone. Not with Lucifer’s face burned into the back of his mind like a
brand, that cold expression like they don’t share so much between them.
At some point, he must fall asleep, because the next thing he’s aware of is
being tucked under a thick down comforter. Soft real pillow under his head,
hands removing his shoes, and he shifts, opening his eyes. Surprised to see
Lucifer, fingers hovering over his feet, and it takes Sam a few seconds to
realize he’s in his own room. The air a little stale from disuse, but the
sheets are fresh, and Sam’s too tired to figure out the logistics of it all,
right now.
“Sam,” Lucifer murmurs. His eyes on Sam’s now, and Sam had forgotten how it
felt to be pinned under that gaze. Intense and scrutinizing and calculating and
cold, and he draws in a breath.
“I thought I told you to leave,” Lucifer says. His voice quiet, strained.
Sam reaches for his tablet, set on the table beside the bed. Fingers shaking
from over-exhaustion as he writes: The fact that you took the time to set up my
bed after you realized I was here, and then carried me up—kinda negates your
whole point, Lucifer. Shivering at the expression on Lucifer’s face, but he
refuses to be the one who looks away first.
Lucifer’s eyes drop to the hollow of Sam’s throat, and Sam can see the question
hovering just on the tip of his tongue. “Why,” Lucifer starts, and then seems
to remember himself, clearing his throat and shaking his head. Looking away, as
though Sam is too painful a thing to even contemplate right now.
It’s quiet for a little while. Lucifer kneeling beside Sam’s bed, Sam with his
face pressed against the mattress. Inhaling scents he never thought he’d
experience again, eyes flicking around his room. Where not much has been
changed, except that the shelves are empty, and Sam wonders if Lucifer’s been
waiting all this time, too.
“Azazel hasn’t stopped searching for you,” Lucifer tells him, breaking his
thoughts apart. “He will find out you’re here, Sam. He will stop at nothing to
have you, dead or alive, doesn’t matter to him—”
I’m not leaving again, Sam says, tapping at the sentence viciously with the end
of his pen. Underlines the not a few times, eyes hard on Lucifer’s, and after a
few seconds Lucifer sighs. Turns away.
“You barely slept,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Lie here for a few hours. I’ll
have Inias cook you a plate of something for breakfast.”
The idea of food makes Sam’s stomach churn, as it has for a while now. Vague
nausea rising up in his throat, but he just nods at Lucifer. Quirks his mouth
in a half-hearted attempt at a smile that Lucifer doesn’t return, though Sam
swears he sees the lines on Lucifer’s forehead ease up slightly before he shuts
Sam’s bedroom door behind him.
~
The phone rings seven times before anyone picks up: “‘lo,” coming through in a
sleep-rough unfamiliar voice, and Lucifer lets out a soft, impatient sigh.
“I’d like to speak to Michael,” he says, and there’s a second’s pause before
the phone crackles static over the line, sounds of shifting, low whispering of
sheets and people and then Michael is on the line.
“Whoever is calling better have a damn good reason,” he slurs into the
mouthpiece, and Lucifer snaps, wide awake and digging his nails into his thigh:
“You let him go?”
Michael makes an odd sound into the phone, like something trapped and slowly
dying. “Lucifer?” he says, sounding a little scared
(good because i’m going to kill you you irresponsible fuck)
and from off the phone Lucifer hears that same unfamiliar voice again. Raised a
little in pitch, abrasive argumentative tone starting up:
“Is that Lucifer?”
“Dean, don’t start—” With his mouth angled slightly away from the mouthpiece,
though Lucifer can still hear every word. This Dean—Michael’s whore for the
night, probably—sounding increasingly annoyed:
“I can start whatever the fuck I want to, Michael—he calls here at ass o’clock
in the morning, he’s got Sam—which, by the way, whose fault is that exactly?”
Which Lucifer has to agree with. “You let Sam leave your establishment,” he
snarls. “After I specifically told you to keep him there whatever the cost—”
“He ran away, it isn’t exactly my fault—” Michael starts, and then, off the
phone, “For fuck’s sake, Dean, no, I didn’t know he was going to do that! I
sent him up for the—you know that, Dean—”
“Yeah, well—now Lucifer’s got him again,” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even
fucking care—”
Lucifer says, “Tell your slut to shut up, this is none of his business—” but
Dean must have his ear pressed to the phone, because there’s a sudden, loud
shuffling. More static and slippery whispering noises and then Dean’s breathing
directly into Lucifer’s ear, low threatening growl.
“You hurt my brother,” he says. “You fucked him over so bad he can’t even talk
anymore and now he’s run off back to get more shit from you?” Sarcastic sharp
exhale, probably supposed to be a laugh, though it’s far from amused. “Must be
some kinda awesome captor’s psychological bullshit you pulled on him—”
“Sam’s brother,” Lucifer interrupts. Keeping his tone light, though his whole
body is shaking with anger. “So you’re the one Michael took to be his kept boy
for all these years. Tell me, Dean, how does it feel, knowing Sam was only two
hours from you. Knowing all you had to do was ask, and you could have seen him
years ago, but you left him up to the will of the law instead—”
“Oh, yeah.” Dean snorts. “Right. Because I’ve heard so many stories about child
prostitution rings going dick to dick with the law—”
“Dean,” Michael huffs, impatient.
Dean says, “Yeah, yeah, okay, shit, just a sec’—” and then, to Lucifer: “You
let him get raped, you piece of shit. You don’t care about him, you just like
that he can rake in huge shipments of cash for you, but guess what, Lucifer—you
don’t fucking deserve him.”
There’s a scrabbling sound, just then. The phone being transferred once more,
and Michael says, “Lucifer, I’m—”
“You keep your showroom whore in line,” Lucifer interrupts. His whole body
trembling. Hands clenching involuntarily, and he’s seeing red, seething and
furious because Dean. Dean was right. “Or I’ll have him brought out here. See
how long he survives spread out under one of my clients.”
Michael exhales. “What did you want, Lucifer?”
“To remind you that Sam was under your care,” Lucifer snaps. “And that I
specifically asked you to keep a closer watch on him because he’s under threat
of being raped and killed—”
“I have a full establishment to run,” Michael interrupts, cold and clear-
voiced. “Same as you do, Lucifer. I can’t keep my eyes on every single person
all the time. I’m not making money by babysitting a child you send over who
won’t even fuck—”
“Don’t you dare use sex as an excuse for letting Sam out of your sight,”
Lucifer interrupts. Snarling and furious, both at his brother’s carelessness
and at the angry truth of Dean’s words, and he hesitates a second, then slams
the receiver down. Drags one hand down his face, staring at the clean stretch
of early morning sunlight across the floor, and then he goes into the kitchen.
Has Inias fix Sam a massive dish of food—sausage and fruits and eggs and fried
potatoes. Takes the proffered tray when it’s done, heads up to the suite.
Sam is curled up where Lucifer left him, a tousled mess of hair and limbs under
the thick sheets on his bed. He’s breathing deep, soft snores issuing from
where he has his nose scrunched up against the pillow, but when Lucifer walks
in he rolls over, immediately awake. Hazel eyes staring up from the line of the
quilt, gently slanted at the edges and tracking Lucifer’s every movement as he
sets the tray down on a chair by the bed, shuts the door.
“I didn’t know what you’d want for breakfast,” Lucifer tells him. “So I had
Inias make a little bit of everything.”
There’s a soft line of pale light coming through the window. Cutting across
part of Sam’s face, highlighting the sharp green shards of color in his eyes,
the golden lighting in his mostly-dark hair. Casting shadows in the lines
around his nose, across the pink bow of his mouth. Making Lucifer want, in ways
he thinks he should hate himself for, but it’s been a year. It’s been a year,
and he’s drawn forward without boundaries, on instinct. Drinking in every inch
of Sam he’d forgotten, forced himself to forget because remembering was like
driving a knife into his chest. His palms ache with wanting to touch. He hasn’t
felt this much desire for a single person in. Well. Not since the last time Sam
was here.
He wants to ask Sam why he isn’t speaking. Kind of wants to yell at him for
running from Michael’s, wants to ask him if he’s aware that the problems with
Azazel are far from over. Opens his mouth to start and finds himself offering
the tray instead. Sitting on the chair in its place and balancing it carefully
between them. “Are you hungry?” he asks, and Sam shrugs. Studies the food for a
second, then presses a slice of cantaloupe to his mouth. Chews slow, hesitant.
Sitting up as he does so, the blanket falling from his shoulders. Lucifer
watching helpless, hardly able to believe Sam is back. That this isn’t some
hallucination, or one of the desperate aching dreams he’s been having. Where
Sam sits before him until he reaches out, and then vanishes in smoke, the
tendrils curling around Lucifer’s fingers.
Every second Lucifer spends realizing that Sam has really returned feels like
someone slamming his heart in an open door. He can’t get his mind off the
memory of Sam’s mouth from the last time he was here, the last time they
kissed. Same as he can’t forget the terror in Sam’s eyes the morning he woke up
and remembered everything that happened to him with Azazel. There is no
question about whether or not Sam’s in danger now, and Lucifer wishes he had
the willpower to forcibly remove Sam from the premises. Wishes he could turn
and look away while Sam got taken, not just to Michael’s place but to another
part of the country entirely.
The problem, of course, is that Lucifer already let Sam go once. He does not
have the will within him to make such a grandiose mistake twice. Just as
selfish as he’s always been, and he remembers the night he’d nearly gotten in
the carriage with Thaddeus. Driven to Leeds and demanded Sam back from Michael.
Forced himself to stop, knowing that one look at Sam and he’d be lost, frantic
to have his boy back where he belonged.
Sitting here now, with Sam, Lucifer knows he was right.
I know you’re gonna yell at me, Sam writes, after a while. Setting his mostly-
full tray aside in favor of picking up his tablet, and Lucifer wants to ask
when the last time was that he ate, but it’s so quiet in the room. So early and
slow in the morning, and Lucifer just. Doesn’t have the energy.
Instead “You acted rashly, Sam,” he says. Keeping his voice level, hands
twisting over each other. Trying so hard not to lean in, to touch Sam just
there, on the soft clean stretch of skin below his ear. “You left your only
place of security so you could return here, and for what? To bargain away your
own life? To deliberately place yourself in danger, and after I told you he’d
stop at nothing to get his hands on—”
Sam’s scrawling across his tablet. Violent angry slash marks, and abruptly he
jerks it up so Lucifer can see as he writes. His wrists trembling as he holds
the tablet, hand cramped painfully around the pen but the words are clear
enough:
I came back for you, you idiot. I came back because I missed you, and we
haven’t seen each other in a whole year, and I have no idea why you can’t just
be happy to see me now—
Lucifer isn’t aware of moving. Isn’t even aware that he’s breathing at all when
his hands shoot out, grip Sam’s fingers. Tight and fierce between his own, and
Sam’s pen falls, hits the bed, kind of bouncing off the sheet a little. Sam
turning wild-eyed and fierce, his mouth a little slack like words are still
being dredged up from his throat, struggling to surface, and Lucifer pulls him
in. Tangling one hand in Sam’s collar, keeping the other wrapped around Sam’s
wrists and he slots their mouths together as if they’ve been doing it every day
since the courtyard. Little careful presses of his lips to Sam’s, everything
building up until he’s working their mouths together, spit slick and heady with
the rush of breathing Sam in. Licking at Sam’s lower lip, and Sam exhales,
quiet wrecked desperate sound, draws him in further. His chest hitching as they
press up against each other.
When Lucifer pulls away, it’s just enough to rest their foreheads together. To
breathe, “God, Sam, you have no idea how much I’ve—” against his mouth, and his
heart jolts in his chest when he hears Sam huff out, amused. Pulling one hand
free to tuck against Lucifer’s jaw, drawing him back in.
He doesn’t have to say it out loud for Lucifer to understand what he means.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Lucifer has a little trouble grasping the concept of Sam not talking. Tries to
get him to say things, coaxing him with little light nudges of his lips to
Sam’s cheek, or to his ear. Touching the back of his hand and asking him direct
questions that can’t be answered with a nod or a headshake and Sam stares at
him in fond exasperation, reaching for the tablet every time.
Fond at first, but when it’s been a week and he hasn’t stopped, Sam realizes
Lucifer isn’t going to get it just straight out.
Haven’t talked in a year, Luce, he writes, pointedly. Don’t think I’m gonna
start any time soon.
“But it’s a choice,” Lucifer says, sounding confused. “It was your choice,
wasn’t it? To stop speaking when you got to Michael’s? Unless—” His expression
goes dark. “Did something—did Michael force you into anything?” He looks like
he’s about to go downstairs and have Thaddeus start up the carriage, drive all
the way over to Michael’s right now just to scream at him, and Sam has to put a
hand on his arm fast, placating. Shaking his head and kind of stroking his
thumb over Lucifer’s skin, raising his eyebrows: calm down, no, nothing
happened.
Lucifer frowns. “I just,” he says. Lifting his free hand and running his thumb
over Sam’s lower lip, and Sam doesn’t try to hide his shiver. “I thought.”
Sam knows what he thought. That Sam had been violated again at Michael’s. That
Sam’s silence is a product of some new hurt he went through, all because
Lucifer was stupid enough to send him away. It’s both touching and annoying,
that Lucifer thinks he has to be responsible for every little thing Sam goes
through, and Sam touches Lucifer’s wrist before writing:
’s okay, and, I know, I get it. I was scared too, when I couldn’t talk. But
it’s just life now. I need you to be okay with this, Lucifer. I don’t know if
it’s ever going to go away.
He underlines the word ‘need’ a few times, raising his eyebrows, and Lucifer
bites his lower lip until the skin shines pale around his tooth, but he nods.
Pain clear on his face, his thumb slipping a little off Sam’s mouth, and Sam
exhales quietly. Half-closing his eyes, letting the pen drop. Leaning into
Lucifer’s touch, letting him run his hand up Sam’s jaw and into his hair.
Bringing his other hand around to Sam’s mouth so he can kiss his knuckles,
Lucifer’s eyes on him the whole time.
~
After that, Lucifer has Thaddeus go to town and buy another sign language book,
and he and Sam spend a few hours each day pouring over it, Sam teaching Lucifer
how to speak and Lucifer seems complacent enough. Even though Sam is being less
than subtle about using their sessions as an excuse to sit close to Lucifer.
Lightly brushing their arms together on Sam’s mattress, long line of heat from
Sam’s thigh pressing into Lucifer’s. Lucifer not exactly doing much to abate
Sam’s quest in touching him; running his fingers over the curve of Sam’s hands
when he’s shaping words in the air, forming the words back against Sam’s skin.
Sam with his head on Lucifer’s shoulder, mouth pressed against his neck when he
talks, as if he thinks he can siphon his voice back that way.
But it’s still not quite the way it was, before Sam left, the first time.
He’s still dreaming. Still having nightmares, less frequent now than they were,
but they still come, and Sam knows being back at the brothel, within range of
Azazel again, isn’t doing him any favors. Waking up soaked in sweat in the
middle of the night and sometimes Lucifer isn’t there to give him water, to
stroke his hair off his face and hold his hands until his trembling stops.
Sam’s never sure where Lucifer is, still being mostly cut off from the rest of
the brothel
(How exactly do you think he’s going to get his hands on me here with you
watching? Sam asks, half in sign language and half with his tablet, and a
pained expression crosses Lucifer’s face.
“I was at the gala,” he says, “and I failed to see him there. He could get past
me again, Sam. Don’t be foolish enough to think otherwise.”)
but nights when he isn’t around, Sam feels the loneliness worse than when he
was at Michael’s. Deep gaping wound in his chest that none of Alastair’s
sutures could ever close, and it makes him sit that much closer, kiss that much
harder. In the daytime, when both of them are sitting in some sun-dappled part
of the brothel, alone and pouring over Sam’s language, Lucifer staring at Sam
like he still can’t quite believe he’s here.
But he won’t touch Sam. At least, not below the waist. Keeps deflecting Sam’s
attention from anything even remotely sexual, and it’s ridiculous, the way
Lucifer acts like he has to protect Sam, after a year.
Because Sam’s not an idiot. He knows Lucifer wants, too. Can see it in his
eyes, poorly disguised lust and pure, raw hunger, and Sam wonders if Lucifer’s
stomach clenches up like a fist too, when they’re in the same room. Wonders if
Lucifer spent the last year feeling that raw, hollow ache in his chest, and now
that they’re back together it’s hardly been satiated. Limited to little
touches, Sam tasting the inside of Lucifer’s mouth but nothing more, and he
knows they haven’t been properly together since before the gala, but Sam’s
started to recover from that. However slowly, he has, he knows he has, and how
could Lucifer not understand that? How could he not know that Sam still wants
him, always, in every way possible?
I want, Lucifer, Sam tells him, digging his nails into his palms. I swear I’m
not just. This isn’t me just having some kind of weird sexual thing because I
was away for a year and I got horny, this is. This is what I’ve wanted for a
long time now. I thought you knew that. I thought you wanted it too.
Lucifer sucks in a tight breath. “Sam—”
Please, Lucifer— feeling the old argument start up again, swollen and rubbed
irritated in his chest.
“Sam.” Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
Looking tired and worn and Sam starts to reach for him, but pulls back at the
last second. His hands twitching in mid-air, and Lucifer doesn’t even see
through closed eyelids. “You just got home,” he says. “You’re upset and you’re
vulnerable and you don’t know what you want—”
I know I want you! Sam says, stabbing the paper so hard with his pen he breaks
a hole through it, but Lucifer won’t relent. Won’t even let Sam stroke him off,
and Sam sort of. Doesn’t exactly resent him for it, but. He can’t move on if
Lucifer won’t let him. If Lucifer won’t move on with him.
(Later, both of them are in the rose garden together. Sam with his head on
Lucifer’s shoulder, their fingers intertwined. Lucifer asking Sam to describe
the colors he sees, and imitating him with clumsy motions that make Sam smile,
his chest hitching in silent laughter. Sam pressing a kiss to Lucifer’s jaw and
the smell of dirt and flowers is in his nostrils, and he forgets for a few
minutes why he’s mad at Lucifer, right now.)
They’re down in the kitchen one afternoon, about a month after Sam’s return—
(A month during which Sam has barely seen anyone other than Lucifer. The way he
knows they both like it, but when he does see the other kids. When he and
Lucifer are in the gardens or Lucifer’s office and someone comes by—Brady or
Cecily or Sarah, donned in lace and silk and trying to walk and apply makeup in
little compact mirrors at the same time—they always stare at him in shock.
Shock that quickly turns into annoyance, or that weird jealous anger they’ve
always harbored towards him. As if any of them would know what to do with
Lucifer’s attention if they actually received it.
Sometimes they’ll sneer mocking at his tablet, or his sign language book.
Always acting like they want to say something, but Sam is never without
Lucifer, now, and it amuses him that they won’t even open their mouths around
him. They glare, and he levels cold eyes right back, until they turn away,
uncomfortable.
He sees Lilith, too, once, on his way downstairs with Lucifer. She’s standing
in her room getting ready in front of the mirror and when she notices him her
whole face lights up. Malicious happiness that has his muscles going taut with
uncertainty, and only Lucifer’s cool “Watching what doesn’t belong to us, are
we, Lilith?” has her turning away. Fluffing her curls and smirking at her
reflection, and Sam forces back his shiver and follows Lucifer into the
parlor.)
Lucifer is able to speak a little bit of sign language now without the book,
although mostly Sam just resorts to using the tablet. At any rate, it isn’t
like he can’t hear Lucifer speaking out loud. Eating together—salad, Sam’s
bites slow and choppy
(hasn’t been able to eat right since he got to michael’s since he heard lucifer
on the phone with michael and realized he was all alone thought it would go
away when he came back but his stomach still clenches throat still closes up
over food too not just words)
and Lucifer watching him from under half-lidded eyes, not even trying to hide
what he’s doing. There’s a fleck of salad dressing on the corner of Lucifer’s
mouth, and Sam’s fingers twitch at his side, wanting to reach in and just—brush
it off. Or maybe lean in and just mouth gently at the skin, flicking his tongue
out until it was all gone—
“Lucifer?”
It’s Amelia. Her gaze flitting uncertainly between Sam and Lucifer, and Sam
feels something solidify in his chest. Sharp pain coalescing into fear, cold
and stark, at the expression on her face.
Lucifer stares at her as though he doesn’t even know her, bored and
disinterested and a little bit annoyed, the groove between his eyebrows
suggesting he’s more bemused by her presence than anything else. “What,” he
says, kind of flat, and then Amelia mumbles at her feet, so low that Sam has to
strain to hear her:
“Your, um. Your clients are waiting for you, sir.”
Clients.
Sam knew Lucifer had clients. That Lucifer has been fucking other people since
Sam left. The first night he came back, and Lucifer had been upstairs with some
people, entertaining them and demanding food and so decadent and lazy and
careless—Sam shouldn’t be this surprised. This.
Fuck. He isn’t hurt. He’s not a child.
But he can’t keep his gaze from flicking over to Lucifer anyway. The salad
forgotten in front of him as he watches Lucifer’s face, the way he smooths his
expression over, maintaining a sort of cold neutrality in his eyes, a blank
nothing in the tight lines of his mouth. Sam thinks he’s the only person here
who could see the strain in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw.
But none of this before Lucifer had already glanced over at Sam. His expression
torn open and raw, all sorrow and pleading and all Sam can focus on is that
Lucifer’s been having clients since Sam. Since Sam came back.
(so that’s where he was all those nights you woke up alone you dumb slut you
couldn’t have figured that out by now?)
Lucifer won’t touch Sam, but he’ll fuck strangers, he’ll slide into the wet
tight heat of someone he doesn’t even know, all because he thinks Sam doesn’t
want this—
“Tell them I’ll be up in a minute,” Lucifer says to Amelia, clipped tones that
have her backing out in a hurry, and Sam watches his hand curve around the
kitchen counter. White-knuckling the ceramic, his nostrils flared, mouth tense,
and it’s very, very quiet for a long time.
Eventually, Lucifer says, “I have to keep the business running, Sam.” Like
that’s it. Like Sam’s just supposed to accept it, just because of cash flow. As
if he’s still twelve years old and naïve, clueless to the way this world works.
Completely oblivious to the fact that Lucifer still has Sam under contract—
Except that he doesn’t. Except that Sam never got signed back on as Lucifer’s
sole property, and for an instant he tastes the salad at the back of his
throat. Has to work at keeping it down, thick and tacky in his stomach because
he doesn’t belong to Lucifer. He doesn’t belong to anyone.
It’s fine, Sam tells him, without looking him directly in the eyes. One hand
moving in the air, the other writing the words down. I get it. Do what you have
to.
Lucifer swallows. Sam watches the movement of his throat, the flex and pull of
muscle there. “Sam,” he starts, and Sam shakes his head. Gestures out of the
kitchen with his thumb:
I can clean up in here, he says, you go fuck whoever it is before they die of
blue balls, and he thinks he’ll bite straight through his tongue with the force
of words pressing in from his throat, crowding up in his mouth but refusing to
come out, threatening to strangle him.
Sam watches Lucifer leave. Waits until he’s gone before he goes into the
bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Tugs his pants down and grabs his cock,
furious, shaking, chest a mass of tight heat, tears welling up steaming hot in
his eyes as he grips the sink with his free hand and rocks forward. Jerks and
pulls with the tight dry unfamiliar clutch of his fingers, wincing and
gasping—strange, erratic bursts of sound that don’t even match up with what Sam
remembers he used to sound like. His vision filming over with red, shattering
and exploding around him as he digs his nails into the mostly-soft flesh
(come on, come, you fucking useless bastard)
and sinks in, digging until the skin is cut bad enough to sting, until he
bleeds. He jams his hips against the cold porcelain of the sink and ruts, like
an animal, smears blood all over the white tile, but for all the rough raw
scraping of dry skin on skin, he cannot do what he knows Lucifer is getting
upstairs.
Sam sinks to the floor, head buried in the circle of his arms, and lets himself
cry.
~
He avoids Lucifer for a few days, after. Stays holed up in their suite all the
time, refusing to let Lucifer into his room. Not really sure who exactly he’s
trying to punish here, but it’s painful as hell for both of them. He can see it
in Lucifer’s eyes, when he comes up to bring Sam food. Entering the main area
with a tray balanced between his hands, and Sam will turn and walk away,
shaking, feeling like shit. Wondering why he’s damning himself when at night he
still dreams of no one but Lucifer. Leaning over him with that soft smile and
kissing his ear, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Holding Sam and nuzzling
at his neck, twining their fingers together and Sam always wakes up crying.
“Talk to him,” Ruby hisses in Sam’s ear. “All he does is mope and it’s driving
me crazy because then I’m the one who has to deal with his pissed-off
clientele—”
His fucking clientele can suck his dick and make him happy, then, Sam says
viciously, but he doesn’t mean it. Shoulders tense and shaking, and it was hard
enough being away from Lucifer at Michael’s for a full year. When he was two
hours away by train and they had no communication for twelve months.
It’s impossible to avoid Lucifer when they’re both residing under the same
roof.
So he goes to Lucifer, a week later. Ruby escorting him downstairs to avoid any
kind of commotion from either party. Lucifer is talking to Meg, and Sam waits
behind them, digging his fingers into his hipbones. Rocking back on his heels
and pushing his hair out of his eyes until Lucifer turns from Meg and faces
Sam. Surprise plain on his face, and he tries to school it into something more
level, more neutral, but it still shines right out of his irises. A beacon of
something exhausted and sad and marginally hopeful, all at once.
I’m sorry, Sam signs, fist rolling in a circle around the center of his chest.
I’m sorry, Lucifer—
“No,” Lucifer interrupts, taking Sam’s hand, thumb skating across his wrist,
and he must feel Sam’s pulse jump, ratcheting from zero to sixty immediately,
but he doesn’t comment on it. “Don’t apologize, Sam. I. I should have told
you.”
Luce, I’m seventeen. I’m not a child. I reacted bad and I just. I want to see
you while I’m here. Okay?
Lucifer doesn’t answer for a second, and Sam drops the pen he was holding so he
can cradle Lucifer’s jaw with his other hand. Scraping his thumb across the
rough edge lined with stubble, and he feels a shiver, barely repressed, rocket
up Lucifer’s spine. His eyes slide shut, and Sam taps his nose gently so he’ll
look at him again.
You feeling okay, Lucifer? he asks. Acting kinda soft, is your age finally
catching up to you?
Lucifer narrows his eyes. Acting all irritated, though he stays leaning into
Sam’s touch, exhaling quiet against his palm.
“Respect your elders,” Lucifer mutters, but his mouth is twitching, and just
like that, it’s okay again.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Notes
     Proceed with caution. This is either the worst chapter, or the second
     worst, I can't decide yet.
Two months after Sam’s return.
God, Lucifer, I’ll be fine if I come with you! I’ll be with you, for fuck’s
sake. He’s doing what Lucifer likes to call jagged signing, the closest Sam can
come to shouting, now, but Lucifer won’t relent. Just keeps shaking his head,
mouth thin, impatience growing on his face the longer Sam goes on.
“Sam,” he says. “I already told you. No. You aren’t leaving this house.” His
hand twitches at his side like he wants to touch Sam, just kinda rest his palm
on his shoulder, but he seems to think better of it at the last minute. Lets it
stay where it is, curled near his hip. “It’s just for one day,” he says, in
what Sam thinks is supposed to be a gentle tone.
“And it’s only a gala,” he adds after a minute, “you’d be bored out of your
mind.”
Which makes Sam flinch. Because the last time they were at a gala
(bathroom tile pressed to his cheek cool smooth at counterpoint with the rough
wet heat slamming into him from behind harsh chemical smell in his nose mixed
with blood and he knows he’s dying)
the worst thing that could’ve happened, happened to Sam. His life, his
integrity torn from him in such a short amount of time, and Sam was far from
bored, then. Far from anything for a long time after.
He knows why Lucifer won’t let him go to this gala. He’s sure Azazel will be
there, sure that two months of silence is far too long and Azazel has to be
lurking, waiting to strike. That he’ll have heard of Sam’s return by now, and
that he’ll know where Lucifer is heading today. Probably would see some kind of
poetic irony in attacking at a third gala, and after a whole year of never
seeing Sam at all.
So Lucifer is going alone—or, rather, he’s going with Abaddon, but Sam’s still
having serious problems wrapping his head around that one. Imagining the two of
them showing up, glittering and dark and savagely gorgeous, the way it should
be with Sam and Lucifer. Just Sam and Lucifer, no one else, and he wishes he
could tell Lucifer to stop fucking other people. To not fuck Abaddon tonight,
but he knows Lucifer isn’t going to listen, that he’ll probably get drunk and
slide into her tight wet cunt in the deserted courtyard behind the gala hall.
Gripping her hips and pretending she’s Sam, all because he thinks he’s doing
Sam a favor. Thinks he’s protecting him by not giving him what he wants, what
they both want, and Sam can’t stand it—
“Sam.” Lucifer’s voice is sharp, louder than normal. Brings Sam up out of his
reverie pretty fast, and when he looks up Lucifer is watching him. Mild
irritation crossing his features, all because Sam wants to go out with him.
Just this one time, to get out of the brothel. To be seen on Lucifer’s arm
again, complementing each other in their suits, everyone staring and awed and
knowing exactly who they belong to—
You have fun at the fucking gala, Sam says, angry and hurt and remembering
(you have no idea how good you look on my arm, sam)
what Lucifer told him, at the first gala. I’ll just be here when you get back.
Like I always am. Just holed up in my room staring at the ceiling ‘cause I
don’t have anything better to do, won’t even let me dance or serve or touch you
like—
Lucifer grabs Sam’s wrist. Hard. Twists just a little, rough pads of his
fingers flexing hard over bone, and Sam winces, mouth pinching in on itself,
but he refuses to jerk away. Refuses to let Lucifer see on his face how much it
hurts.
“That’s enough, Sam,” Lucifer growls, low. Voice shooting lightning-hot cracks
of lust down Sam’s spine. “You’re doing nothing towards convincing me you’re
old enough to handle anything like what you claim you want—”
Yeah, Sam signs, one-handed, because you put so much emphasis on people being
old enough to handle sex— and he thinks for a minute that Lucifer is going to
slap him.
There’s part of him that wants it, wants Lucifer’s hand colliding with his
face. Wants that iron salt taste of blood filling his mouth as his teeth
clatter against the inside of his cheek. Wants to feel the stunned pain for
hours after, see a bruise forming under his eye as the sun sinks lower into the
sky. A physical reminder of Lucifer’s hands on him, even though Lucifer won’t
be here. Sick part of him tied to when he was younger, and Lucifer would hit
him for his insolence. His sarcasm, before it turned into flirting. Before
Lucifer’s hands started caressing Sam so slow and soft he barely even knew how
to handle it.
But Lucifer just drops Sam’s wrist. Turns to the door, his teeth gritted, and
“There’s chicken in the icebox,” he says. “For your lunch.”
Nice to know you’re taking care of part of me, Sam mutters, but Lucifer doesn’t
see him.
~
The morning goes by slow. Sam lays in bed for a while, not really doing much.
Rubbing one hand idly over his trousers, no real intent in mind, nothing going
on anyway. Even when he digs his bruised wrist against the rough edge of his
waistband, feeling the pain spark lightning-hot up his arm. He tries flipping
through an astronomy text Lucifer left him but with the sun shining through his
window he finds himself slipping off into sleep, unable to concentrate for more
than a few seconds at a time.
His stomach feels hollow by noon, but Sam won’t eat. Almost relishes the tight
discomfort in the pit of his stomach, the faint pain rising up in his throat.
If Lucifer isn’t here Sam doesn’t need to force food down in himself anyway,
doesn’t need to pretend like it feels normal, having it go all clogged up on
his tongue when he puts even the smallest bite into his mouth. Like his throat
really is shut, and the food has no way of getting down.
Instead, he goes out to the orchard. Sprawled out, wild, and as lovely as Sam
remembered. The air soft and cool on his skin, no noise from the brothel
reaching him at all, and Sam closes his eyes for a second. Remembering the way
Lucifer had looked back here, that first time. All hesitance and uncertainty,
but he’d wanted it, then. Clear in his eyes, in the soft way he’d looked at
Sam, and Sam wonders if maybe. If he could just get Lucifer to come back here
with him—do it right this time—
He lowers himself down under a peach blossom tree, flowers thick and rich and
soft lavender. Kicks his long legs out in front of him and stares, arms folded,
across the orchard. Sighs. Settles back against the pale trunk. Closes his
eyes, ignoring the low rumbling of his stomach, and tries not to focus on
anything. If he can just sleep through the rest of today—
The problem with being out in the orchard in the early summer is that there are
no dead leaves on the soft grass to sound off intruders. No fallen fruits gone
rotten in the ground to squash under careless feet. Sam’s eyes are closed and
he doesn’t see the shadows shifting, falling over his lap; he’s half-asleep,
his mind dipping and weaving through half-formed dreamscapes, and he doesn’t
hear the soft, sinuous breathing until it’s right by his ear, and by then, of
course, it’s too late.
~
Sam’s life becomes narrowed down into flashes of reality. Between periods of
time where he blacks out
—heavy hard breathing in his ear—
he becomes aware on a hypersensitive level of what’s going on around him. To
him. Within
—sharp steel blade tracing the corner of his mouth running down his throat
“feel your pulse beating for me sammy must be as excited as i am”—
him. He can only feel parts of things
—edge of the knife digging into his skin not quite enough to break but “i’ll
slit your throat if you don’t open up” thumb on his lower lip dragging tugging
pulling and sam opens up no choice no choice—
like his nerve endings have been severed from his body
—“c’mon you stupid slut you stupid fucking whore you’ll take what i give you
and you’ll fucking like it”—
and dumped onto the ground
—thick heavy hot weight sliding across his tongue cock bumping the back of his
throat only lucifer’s allowed only lucifer slick dirty filthy inside again
sorry sorry so sorry lucifer no choice—
at his feet. There’s cold air
—rough hard hand scraping down his cheek nails on his skin—
on his bare ass, and
—“what’s a’matter, sammy boy, cat got your tongue? can’t even talk? can’t even
say hello to me? ain’t seen you in a year, sweetheart, didn’t you miss me? i
sure missed you”—
something burning, something hard getting shoved into Sam’s most intimate
places, but it’s detached. Like it’s happening
—“fucking scream, you little bitch! good whores do what they’re told, why don’t
you fucking talk?”—
to someone else. Making him wish he was someone else. Less careless. Smarter.
The kind of person who
—deep thrusting, raw painful dry skin shoved hot inside scalding sam’s ass
dragging hard against him pulling off skin and blood like paint peeling from
the inside—
would know how to shove Azazel off, this second time. The kind of person who
wouldn’t have let something like this happen again, not for this long
—“gonna come, gonna come, sam, why the fuck aren’t you coming, you dumb fucking
slut, should be painting my hand—oh—fuck—with your come, jesus, sure i’m the
best lay you’ve had all year”—
and certainly would’ve been able to find his voice by now. To start screaming.
To bring someone from the house, someone who
—“just us sammy boy, just you an’ me”—
could help.
—“ol’ luci ain’t here, i know, i know” stinging slap across his cheek “don’t
cry you little bitch, i didn’t tell you to cry—i stalked him for months, i
found out his schedule” nails digging into sam’s chest, thin skin right over
his heart “just pure dumb luck you’re here now, just been waiting for this for
so long, you have no idea” dragging the cold metal of the knife down sam’s
cheek digging in sharp pain exploding violent in his face cock thick with blood
against sam’s thigh rutting into the groove of his hip and the knife oh god the
knife too slipping curious frozen into sam’s ass skin so loose it goes easy but
it tears oh god it tears something inside him and sam’s shaking so hard his
stomach cramps throws up and gets slapped for it “you got it all over my hair,
you stupid whore” sam’s hair tugged up body knocked over onto his stomach right
in the sick feeling it slop warm and sticky over his chest but it’s not really
him this isn’t happening to him as azazel knocks his knees apart digs his
fingers into sam’s hips “i’ll fuck you into submission, first go-round wasn’t
enough”—
And then there’s a gunshot.
It rings out loud in the orchard, echoing through the empty trees, between the
branches. Sam feels—thinks he feels—a deadweight fall on top of him, but he can
hardly concentrate with the noise ringing in his ears. Piercing shrieking
wailing combined with the echo of the gunshots
(multiple shots sam feels the vibrations running through his body would be
afraid that he’d get shot too except he’s not real, he’s not real he’s not here
right now and none of this is happening)
and then the deadweight is being peeled off him. Azazel’s body dumped to the
side, Lucifer dropping the gun in the grass. Hands on Sam’s arms and Sam
flinches away so violently it jars his head, makes him throw up again.
“Sam,” Lucifer is saying, over and over, a mantra, hands everywhere above Sam’s
shoulders, trying to pull him in, trying to carry him. Sam can barely hear him
over the buzzing in his mind, the blackness swallowing up his vision—
Sam is screaming.
***** Chapter 17 *****
“Well,” Lilith says, “at least now you know his vocal cords aren’t damaged,”
and Lucifer slams his fist into the side of her face. Cold rage surging through
him as he snaps her head to the side with the force of his blow, his knuckles
digging so hard into her flesh he can feel the grooves of her teeth against his
bones.
She laughs, bloody messy sound. Turns to the side and spits out a mouthful of
copper-tinged saliva, carefully tucking the long blonde curls that cascade down
her back out of reach. “Calm down, sweetheart,” she says, tapping one long
manicured fingernail against Lucifer’s hand. “Your Sammy is going to be just
fine.”
Lucifer jerks his hand away. He’s standing with his back to the wall, facing
Lilith head-on. Can’t get his mind off
(blood so much blood sam screaming his back arching off the gurney and
lucifer’s spent months wishing sam’s voice would return but now he would get on
his knees and beg to make it go away again)
the way Sam had looked, when they were rushing him in. The blood smeared all
over the back of his pants, running in crimson rivulets down his legs, dried up
in places and still shining in others. Coagulated and messiest around the torn
ruined hole of his ass, scraped up and down his chest, over his face, smeared
into his hair. Black eyes and his cheek sliced open and his mouth stained in
red and white.
Sam had been sobbing between screams, his face sluiced with wet, and Lucifer
had wanted to run in with him, hold his hand the whole time, but Alastair
shoved him back. Intent on his job for once in his goddamn life, and the last
thing Lucifer had seen was Casey and Samhain bending over Sam’s prostrate body,
Alastair advancing with a scalpel, wicked cruel twist to his mouth.
So forgive him for being on edge about this.
Thinking about his Sam. His gentle, sloe-eyed Sam. With the soft smile curved
on his mouth reserved solely for Lucifer. The slow way he moves on the hottest
days in the summer. The sprawl of his fingers when he’s speaking to Lucifer,
his hands getting tangled up in each other from excitement. The quiet, pleased
expression on his face when Lucifer had started becoming fluent enough in sign
language that he could read it without the tablet.
Sam curled over a book, head pressed against his palm, eyes scanning each word
so careful. Sam staring out the window late at night, forehead on the glass,
staring up at the sky, reaching out for the stars, distant burning suns that
would never know Sam’s own brilliance.
The gentle curve of Sam’s neck. The crush of his hair where it falls just so
against his nape. The softest, lightest touches of his mouth against Lucifer’s,
against his knuckles, his palm. The tuck of his head against Lucifer’s neck,
the warm heavy weight of him when he’s fallen asleep on Lucifer’s shoulder.
Sam, who asked him—begged him, really—to take him to that gala. Sam, who stayed
holed up for two full months in his room after he came back. Sam, who hasn’t
spoken a word since his return, but who has taken the time to try and ease
Lucifer into his new silent world.
Sam, who wouldn’t be in that adjacent room right now if Lucifer had just let
him come along.
He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until Lilith starts laughing at him, the bruise
on her face forming prettily against her pale skin. “Oh, god, you have gone
soft for him, haven’t you—” she starts, eyes taunting. Daring Lucifer to make
the next move, and he lunges at her. Hands stretched out, ready to close around
the perfect column of her throat, to crush her trachea for even speaking right
now—
But then the door opens.
Lucifer stumbles back from Lilith, nails tearing a little against her skin
where he’d just started to catch his fingers around her neck. Spins to face
Casey, standing there with blood stained across the white of her doctors’ robe,
mouth set in a grim line.
“I need to see him,” Lucifer tells her. Hard, flat voice, as cold as the
adrenaline shooting through his veins. Usually brooks no argument, gets him in
anywhere, but she’s shaking her head, shutting the door and leaning back
against the wall. As though she thinks that she could keep Lucifer out of any
room Sam is in.
“He’s very heavily sedated right now,” she says. “He won’t be coming out of his
unconscious state for several hours at least, and we all think it might be in
Sam’s best interests if—”
“If what,” Lucifer interrupts, snarling. “If he sees someone he recognizes when
he wakes up? Someone he knows? If he has familiarity around in this fucking
situation—”
“You’ll have to forgive Luci, here,” Lilith says, her voice a little strained.
“This sort of thing is a—kind of sore subject for him—”
He isn’t even aware of turning back to Lilith until he’s got her pinned up
against the wall, his hands around her neck all the way, now, thumbs digging
into the hollow of her throat. Knee shoved hard against her crotch, teeth
gritted, bared in a vicious snarl.
He says, “You say one more word and you’ll be dead before the last syllable
leaves your mouth, do you hear me,” and she chokes on a laugh, grating hoarse
sound, twisting her neck in a futile attempt at getting it out of Lucifer’s
tight grasp. Mocking him with her eyes but she doesn’t try speaking, her heart
racing rabbit quick under his skin.
He knows he should kill her for saying what she did. If this was any other
circumstance, she’d already be dead, just as broken and shattered on the floor
as Azazel is outside in the orchard. But he’s having a hard time focusing on
anything that isn’t Sam. Anything that isn’t the echo of Sam’s screams echoing
in his head, loud and clanging. Anything that isn’t remembering
(“Oh Jesus, Sam,” babbling half out of his mind, knowing full well Sam can’t
even hear him but god he needs to keep talking, feels like if he stays quiet
too long his head will explode, “oh, god, fuck—Sam—I’m so sorry—”)
the events of today. Strewn out like diseased entrails, coating everything with
blood and gore. So that even when they’ve scrubbed and scrubbed they’ll never
be able to make it clean.
Sam will wear this for the rest of his life. Lucifer knows how he’ll see
himself, now. Knows no matter what he says or does, Sam will loathe himself.
The last year he spent away from Lucifer’s falling to pieces as if it never
happened, all that recovery dashed useless against stone.
Lucifer can blame himself all he wants for this, but Sam’s never going to hear
him.
Casey says, quiet, “In the state Sam was brought in, we’re just not sure if
he’d recognize you,” and Lucifer says, with his eyes still fixed on Lilith’s,
daring her to say another word:
“Fine. Let me in now, then. Before he wakes up.”
~
They clear out for Lucifer. Samhain and Casey staying silent about the whole
ordeal, but Alastair smirks and sneers and clears his throat so much that
Lucifer finally snaps, whirling on him.
“What the fuck do you want,” he snarls. Glaring half at Alastair, half at the
gauzy white sheet separating him from being able to see Sam. Every second he
can’t have his eyes on his boy himself is another second wasted. Another second
Sam could be awake and wondering where Lucifer is—whether to draw comfort from
him or to beat the shit out of him for leaving, Lucifer wouldn’t care, just so
long as Sam was alive.
“Hmm,” Alastair hums absently, dropping his tools into one of the automaton’s
waiting arms, to be sterilized and put away. “Nothing, Luci, of course—”
Lucifer wants so badly to wrap his hands around Alastair’s neck he can feel the
stubble already scraping at his palms. “What—” he starts again, growling, and
Alastair laughs. Unpracticed off-key sound, and Lucifer has to grit his teeth
against the shiver railing down his spine.
“I’m just, hmm—I’m not sure Sam will recover properly from another rape.”
There’s something sharp-edged and cruel in his eyes, uneven and toxic.
“Especially not one orchestrated by the same man who did it the first time—”
“Get out, Alastair—”
“Are you sure Sam will understand that your—hmm, remarkably coincidental
absence during both of these times is only coincidence?” Alastair asks, and
Lucifer’s hands twitch immediately for one of his carving knives before he
realizes the automaton has already taken them all away.
“Fifty thousand pounds to keep your loose mouth shut while you clean up what’s
left of Azazel from the orchard,” Lucifer says. “See Thaddeus about it before
you leave.”
“I just find it so funny that both of you have such an obsession with this boy,
yet—hmm, only one of you has ever managed to fuck him—” and by the time
Lucifer’s hands have closed around the scissors, ready to impale them in his
neck, Alastair’s already gone. That laugh echoing down the corridor as he
disappears.
Lucifer takes a few breaths. Exhales shaky, slow. His whole body tense and
thrumming like a live wire, so furious he can barely see, and only by clenching
and relaxing his fists rhythmically is he able to get his heart rate down.
Chest tight, he walks to the curtain surrounding Sam’s bed. Hesitates with his
fingers curved just around the edge, trembling like he hasn’t seen worse than
this. Done worse than this—
(lived through this)
Lucifer swallows back a sudden rush of nausea and tugs the curtain away from
Sam’s bed.
He’s covered mostly in a sheet. Only his head and part of his shoulders
sticking out, but there are tubes running in under the blankets. Wires to help
him breathe around what Lucifer knows are bruised ribs, a metal canister
pumping fluids into his veins. Keeping his electrolytes balanced.
His face is bruised, worse than it was when Lucifer carried him in. Throat
covered in fingermarks Lucifer hadn’t even noticed before, slashes all down his
skin—some deep enough to scar. Blood drying in clots where Alastair either
forgot or didn’t feel like bothering to wipe it away, and Lucifer’s hand is
already moving towards a spare washcloth nearby before he has time to think
about it. Dipping it in a bowl of water beside Sam’s head and wiping the blood
off his cheeks, his neck. Feeling Sam’s pulse sluggish and unsteady under his
fingers, and his own heart jumps in his chest. Tight with worry, and Lucifer
bites his lower lip until he tastes blood springing up in his mouth.
Sam asleep is quiet. Peaceful. His
(ruined)
mouth slightly open because of the breathing tubes, long eyelashes casting
shadows across his cheeks. That soft crush of hair hanging low over his
forehead, and Lucifer reaches out, pushes it back. Rubs his thumb absently over
a cut on Sam’s eyebrow, pulling back immediately when Sam flinches in his
sleep, feeling like his hand is burning. Burning off with his sin, with the sin
of abandoning Sam to that animal. The sins of carelessness and forgetfulness,
deliberately living in denial because it had just been so good, having Sam
back. Purposefully letting his guard down because he didn’t want Sam in trouble
at the gala, and in his stupidity he forgot that Sam was in as much trouble at
home as he would have been anywhere else. That Azazel would always, always be
one step ahead, no matter how much precaution Lucifer tried to take.
Lucifer watches a splash of water hit Sam’s bed and absently registers that
he’s crying, but he doesn’t care. Reaches under Sam’s blanket, feeling around
until he finds his hand. It’s covered in tubes and bandages but Lucifer holds
on anyway, stroking the inside of Sam’s wrist with his thumb. Shivering,
watching Sam breathe, the regular inhale-exhale of the machine going in time
with him.
He doesn’t even know the full extent of Sam’s injuries yet. He saw Sam on the
gurney, he saw the blood staining Casey’s clothes—there’s blood on his clothes,
too, if he looked down, but that would mean looking away, and Lucifer can’t.
Not right now.
Sam whimpers and shifts in his sleep, and Lucifer strokes his wrist, watching.
“It’s okay, Sam,” he whispers, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” and in his sleep, Sam
sighs.
~
The first thing Sam’s aware of is pain. Slow coming and right at the beginning
it’s barely there, just hinting on the edge. Crawling into his bones, between
his muscles, in his veins. Looking for a place to settle down.
“His vitals are picking up,” Sam hears, from somewhere to his left, muzzy
blurred voice coming into his ear through something like water, and he twists
his body away on instinct. Feels soft silk underneath and something warm and
heavy on top and
(“how d’you like it boy you like it from behind on top how about i just drape
myself on you hold you down you know you want it”)
he makes a soft choked sound, throat sore and unused to this much wear. Trying
to get away from all this smothering suffocating—
“He’s waking up,” the voice says, and Sam’s trying so hard to keep it down but
he’s more conscious now than he meant to be and the pain shatters across
whatever barrier was holding it back. Floods his system and shoots down his
spine. Across his arms, his neck. Into his face and his shoulders and his ass
and he’s not even aware that he’s started screaming until someone slams a hand
down on his mouth:
“Shut up, will you, Sam, Jesus—god, someone get me the drip, fuck—”
There’s a hand on his mouth. Rough and calloused and unfamiliar and Sam bites,
vicious, still screaming, his body twisting and thrashing now, oh, god, the
pain—the pain snaking through him. His ass feels on fire, thighs burning, like
the skin’s been seared off. He arches his back off the bed as the hand is torn
from his face—
“Fuckin’ uncontrollable—” and then something sharp jammed into his arm. Violent
sudden movement and Sam moans, twists from the pain. More pain. A lifetime of
it. Fuckfuckfuck—
He forces his eyes open. Dizzying too-bright white lights overhead, everything
stark and buzzing and faces swimming in and out of focus as his brain starts to
melt back into oblivion—
“Be quiet, kid, you don’t want the boss raining hell on us,” he hears, and
someone shoves something into the space between his legs, something cold and
unforgiving
(another knife oh please god not another knife)
and at least this time Sam’s brain is kind enough to let him pass out before he
has to go through it all again.
~
“Is he awake?”
Casey shuffles her feet uncomfortably. “Um. He was—”
Lucifer pauses. Eyebrows lifted. Mouth set in what he’s trying to maintain as a
neutral frown, though he can tell from the way Casey backs up, it’s anything
but. “What do you mean, he was?”
Her eyes drop from his to the floor and he reaches under her chin, jerks her
head back up. “Look at me,” he says, quiet. Controlled. “What do you mean, Sam
was awake?”
It’s been nine hours since Sam was brought in. Six hours since he forced
himself to leave Sam’s bedside, knowing that all the gentle soft words in the
world weren’t going to wake Sam up before his body was ready. Six hours of
Lucifer drinking and fucking senselessly into every available warm body—Lilith
included, ramming her against a wall, shoving into her from behind. Gripping
her hair in his hand and digging his nails into her skin hard enough to leave
blood trails as he pounded her slick wet cunt, snarling filth and degradation
into her ear and she just laughed, took it, good whore—
An hour since Tessa came and found Lucifer. Brought him back to the hospital
wing with her mouth pinched, eyebrows drawn in. It’s Sam, she said, her voice
trembling, and Lucifer felt something tight clench up in his chest. Had to stop
briefly in his office so he could get his gun out, knowing that if something
had happened to Sam. If Alastair had allowed Sam to die on his table while
Lucifer was rutting his way across the brothel. None of them would walk out of
that room, Lucifer included. None of them would survive if Sam did not. Lucifer
would not allow himself to survive if his stupidity had brought about the end
of the only person who meant anything to him. Who had ever meant anything to
him at all.
Casey says, “He woke up, started screaming—I think he was confused about where
he was, and who he was with, so we had to. Um.” She’s staring at the wall
behind Lucifer’s head and he doesn’t have the patience to deal with this. Jerks
her jaw over, ignoring her sudden, sharp inhale of pain.
“What did you do to Sam?” he growls, feeling so on edge, a wire ready to snap.
“We sedated him,” she says, fast. “Alastair just sedated him. He slipped back
into a comatose state. For the time being. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Lucifer smiles at her, predatory. He’s not even aware of tightening his
grip on her jaw until he feels the bones starting to grind under his fingers.
“Is that all.” Backs her up, closer to the wall. Free hand on his gun, where it
rests in the back of his trousers, snug inside the waistline. “Instead of
calling for me, you decided to knock Sam out again. I see.” Furious with her,
on principle, but more with himself. Because if they had called for him—what
would he have done? Come stumbling downstairs drunk and reeking of sex and
sweat? The latest whore still hanging off his arm and his pants only half
pulled up as he tried to calm Sam down—
(dangerous lucifer you’re so dangerous to him and you’re too selfish to admit
you can’t be near him you knew he wasn’t safe here why did you let him stay)
Casey swallows. “Um.” And then, daring: “I mean, it’s not like he’s dead—”
Arm on her throat. Just inches from crushing her trachea, and he’s barely
moved, is barely even breathing, but he can feel her pulse racing under his
skin. A rabbit caught in a snare, his victim, the first one that will pay if
Sam dies tonight.
“You will ensure that continues to be the case,” Lucifer says. So soft.
Bringing the gun out and sliding it up her sternum, until it rests on her chin.
Right next to his arm, and he hears her gasp, feels her chest hitch where he
has their bodies pressed together. “Because if Sam dies—if Sam’s death is
caused by your continuing to sedate him, when his body is trying to heal
itself—I will not have mercy. I will not stop until every single person
responsible for his care in this hospital is dead.”
The gun is trembling, his grip slick with sweat, but she doesn’t comment.
A thought crosses his mind, fleeting and barely there but it burns like fire.
“Where were you?” he asks. “Where the fuck were you—any of you—when Sam was
taken?” Because he knows where he was. That goddamn gala. Abaddon on his right
arm, where Sam should have been, and a champagne glass at his fingertips. False
smiles and tight nods at everyone for half an hour, mind always on Sam. Head
always half-turned to shoot out some sarcastic comment in Sam’s ear before he
remembered who was really there with him, and he hadn’t even tried to disguise
how little he cared for his current company.
Thirty minutes of this before his boredom, his need to see Sam, overrode his
social need to appear, and he came home. And found— “Where were you when Sam
was being raped in the orchard? Why didn’t you come when you—how did Azazel get
past the guards?”
Casey’s eyes are wide. She looks helpless and terrified and “I—I don’t—” she
stammers, fraying Lucifer’s nerves down into nothing.
“Who the fuck let him in?” he snarls. Blaming her, blaming the entire brothel
because it’s easier than hating himself like he wants. “Was it Alastair?
Lilith? Someone must have allowed him past security. Someone let that bastard
into the fucking orchard and now Sam is bleeding to death in that room because
of your carelessness—Sam has been violated because you could not protect him
and if he dies, it is on all of your hands. All of you.”
She keeps her mouth shut. But Lucifer can read it in her face
(your fault)
what she’s thinking. Her accusations, quiet and stark and he can’t stop
thinking about it but he wants to kill her anyway. For even daring to think—
From behind the door comes a sound. Tiny, broken thing Lucifer would not have
heard under normal circumstances. But this is. These are not.
He tears away from Casey, from his vague idea of ripping her throat out for the
insolence he can read in her features. Shoves his gun back into his trousers,
then thinks better of it and sets it on the floor. Skids it off with his foot
so that it clatters metallic across the shining tiles. Goes to the door and
leans, listening. His heart in his throat when he hears the cry a second time,
a conscious moaning, fevered and upset and Lucifer’s fingers clench on
themselves.
(just go in you coward you weakling just go in and take whatever he gives you
let him kill you if he wants it’s all you deserve)
He pushes open the door. Doesn’t wait for Casey to say he can, not like he’s
ever needed her permission—hers or anyone else’s—when it comes to Sam. The bed
curtains are still pushed back, and Sam is lying there. Eyes shut, but Lucifer
can tell he’s awake. Chest hitching as he breathes, electrolyte regulator
beeping soft, and Lucifer takes one step forward, and then stops. His entire
body on lockdown, and all he can do is whisper:
“Sam.”
~
Someone is standing at his door.
Sam can feel his presence, can hear him breathing. Sharp short huffs of air
coming from nostrils breathing right into his ear panting in time with his
thrusts—
“Sam,” kinda quiet hesitant voice. Controlled and shaking and Sam moans. Twists
away—or he tries to. Feels the hard resistant weight of something leather and
firm wrapped around his wrists instead. Something nylon and tight and Sam is.
Sam is—
(restrained he’d like that he wanted that he)
(you want me to tie you down don’t you boy you want to be held down you’d like
that if i tied you up how about if i)
Words floating into his mind from somewhere in his memory and Sam’s stomach
roils. Feels like a thousand hands are brushing against him, fingers curving
around his arms and legs and he can’t fucking breathe—
He hears his name again, a little more forceful, a little closer, but he’s
already drifting off, fading into nonexistence. Because if he’s not really
here—how can anyone else hurt him?
***** Chapter 18 *****
Everything goes disjointed for a while, after. Sam’s world narrowed into uneven
brackets of time where he can only focus for a few seconds before he’s sucked
back under:
Flash.
Lucifer at his bedside, tense and worried. “I’m right here, Sam, I’m not going
anywhere,” he says, words coming and going in Sam’s mind, fading in and out.
His fingers
(scraping tugging carving sam out)
wavering on the point of reaching out and Sam pulls back, helpless—
Flash.
Alastair changing his bandages, smirking as he hums to himself, muttering low,
“You know, it’s really quite odd that the day Luci left you here alone is the
same day Azazel showed up,” and Sam whimpers, jerks away—
Flash.
Sam with a cold press on his neck, face throbbing—
Flash.
Lucifer not touching, never touching anymore as he sits. His eyes flicking over
Sam’s face, something desperate and hopeless twisting his mouth. Features
sliding into someone
(older more square-shaped jaw cruel malicious eyes unnatural color that smile
those teeth)
else’s, Sam’s screams blocked in his throat but he strains his neck anyway,
trying—
Flash.
~
He leaves the hospital wing three days after
(his second violation worse than the first so much worse ruined him forever
tainted him can’t get it out now can’t wipe it clean visible marks this time)
the incident in the orchard. Stands shaking on legs that haven’t felt right
since he woke up, gripping the side of the bed until his knuckles turn white.
There’s a dull throb in the back of his head that won’t go away, a burning ache
in his throat where Azazel scratched him. His cheek stitched together and he
can feel the skin there cooler than the rest of him, a little numb with salve.
His right wrist is still yellow with fading bruises from where Lucifer gripped
him the morning before he left, and he touches them absently, remembered pain
floating up through his arm. From when pain was still something Sam knew.
Something he could handle, within his control.
“You take it easy, Sam, okay?” Casey says. Her hand hovering over his shoulder
like she wants to touch, but can’t quite make herself. Which is fine, Sam’s not
sure what he’d do if she touched him right now anyway. Already she’s too close,
all of them are too close just standing there, just existing near him breathing
the air he’s breathing waiting for him to make a move to have a breakdown to—
“Sam.” Lucifer’s voice, from the doorway. Where he’s leaning, languid and
casual stance but there’s something hard and cold in his eyes, and Sam is too
tired to distinguish whether it’s meant for him or not. Rationally supposes it
isn’t, but then again Lucifer hasn’t touched him since he woke up. “Come with
me,” he says, holding out his hand, but Sam
(can’t)
won’t take it. Limps forward instead, until he’s standing beside Lucifer,
feeling his shoulders hunch inward so his back won’t take much weight. All
scraped up and sore from where Azazel
(landed right on top of his spine when he got shot his body thudding down sick
wet sound as his blood splattered into sam’s hair)
fell. Rubbing his thumb over his wrist, wincing at the pull of sore skin where
the cuffs were attached. Shifting his legs and feeling the burn and tug between
them, hot and omnipresent. A reminder that Sam is no longer whole. No longer
human. Torn apart once, put back together so fragile—no wonder Azazel was able
to rip him open a second time. Sam’s damaged goods now, just cheap secondhand
ruined material no one will want—
Alastair hums at him, reaching out, “You remember to watch yourself, Sammy,
hmm—never know who might betray you here,” and Sam goes stiff. Body jerking
away instinctively, and he crashes backwards into Lucifer, still unsteady on
his feet. Off-balance. Shaking when he feels Lucifer’s hands on his arms,
steadying him. Like it’s instinctive, can’t help it—but Sam flinches from him
too. Gasping, chest seizing up, the warmth of Lucifer’s skin too much too soon,
the rough touch of it unfamiliar and Sam is surrounded, closed-in on all sides—
(“how d’you like to be covered up like this sam isn’t this fun boy all these
months without you missed your scent not even eighteen yet so supple—”)
He backs up, breathing hard, trembling all over. Don’t touch me, he says, his
first words in days. Hands sore, fingers clumsy with disuse, but only Lucifer
understands. Only Lucifer knows, and Sam sees a flash of—something—in his eyes
before he steels it over, careful blank nothingness on his face as he moves
away. Giving him a good five-inch berth, and Sam wants so badly to be grateful
to him, but he can’t focus on anything right now except the tight hot feeling
of his skin. The desperate urge he has to claw it all off with his nails, and
he hasn’t felt like this in months—
Sam says, I need to go, and inches towards the stairs, legs still shaking so
bad he can barely stay upright. Watching all of them, shivering, refusing to
put his back to anyone until he can’t see them anymore.
He hears Alastair say, all sarcasm and annoyance, “I wasted three days with
that ungrateful slut and he doesn’t even thank me—” interrupted by a violent
sound, gunshot loud, that can only be Lucifer hitting him, and Sam turns, and
he runs. Makes it into the parlor before he’s stopped by Abaddon, standing
flanked by Meg. For once Meg isn’t smirking at Sam, just watching him, her eyes
serious, mouth pulled down at the corners. She’s wearing black lingerie under
her usual maroon leather jacket and Sam shudders with revulsion at the sight of
bruises sucked into her flat toned stomach.
I don’t need your pity, Sam tells them. Furious at the blank expressions on
their faces, at their inability to communicate with him.
Abaddon, in all-black leather and carrying a riding crop coiled tight at her
side
(“wish i could’ve stopped in one of the little whores’ rooms on the way out
here could’ve gotten something real interesting for us some kinda toy i’m not
blind sammy boy i see the bruises i remember last time i know you like pain”)
is staring at Sam, soft red hair curling over her shoulders.
“You know he made us leave early for you,” she says, and Sam’s throat jerks
hard as he swallows. There’s no tablet, nothing to write with, so all he can do
is shake his head. Something rattling around painful in his skull but Abaddon
doesn’t see the way he winces, just snorts. Obviously disgusted by and
irritated at Sam, as young and inexperienced as he must seem to her—
(not inexperienced anymore)
“I mean, yeah, he was bored. But it was because you weren’t there.” She’s
sneering. Disbelief evident in her eyes. “I told him you were okay here,” she
says. “But apparently Lucifer has a penchant for you, even now, all these years
later—even though you spent all that time refusing to comply with the orders
and just fuck like everyone else—”
“Don’t,” Meg tells her, sharp and a little scared. “God, you want him shooting
us too?”
Abaddon rolls her eyes. Smacks the crop against the flat of her free hand,
still staring at Sam. “He insisted on coming back way before the gala was over
just so he could—and I quote—‘check up on you’. He brought his gun with him.
Just in case. So, y’know—” She pauses, nostrils flared out in annoyance. “He
saved your life. Wouldn’t have done it for any of us because we don’t matter,
but he did it for you.”
Sam feels his eyebrows furrowing together over the bridge of his nose. Wants to
ask Abaddon and Meg if it’s possible. If Lucifer could have known—
But he’s exhausted. Legs giving out from under him, every part of him aching
and sore, and all he can do is nod at Abaddon and shove past them both, up the
stairs. Never seemed so high as they do now, Sam struggling against gravity,
and it feels like years before he reaches their suite, and then his own room,
cloying stale smell of being shut up for several days. Sheets still unmade from
the last time he was in here, and Sam bites clean through his lower lip
thinking of how, just three days ago, he lay here with his hand spread over his
crotch. Trying for something he knows has long since been broken, something
he’s never going to have again. Not with Lucifer. Not now.
He sinks down onto the floor, back to the wall. Stares at his ruined arms,
bruised and covered in slow-healing scars. There’s a bandage wound around the
worst one, on his left arm, Sam can’t even remember where it came from
(yet)
but he tugs the wrappings off. Stares at the wound. It’s long and jagged and
deep, stitched up and oozing a thin clear liquid, and Sam doesn’t have to think
about what he’s doing. Whether he should be doing it or not as he hooks a
fingernail under the stitches and tugs up. Doesn’t think as he tears into the
skin, busting it open, blood gushing out, spilling over his fingers and onto
his lap. Soaking into him, into the carpet, and Sam scratches and tugs until
his whole arm is throbbing, and even then he can’t mute the pain between his
legs. It’s a phantom ache and he thinks in some dislodged back corner of his
mind that he should know that but there’s nothing connecting his brain to his
body right now, Sam free-floating in mid-air as he has been ever since—ever
since. Cannot get the sensation of Azazel’s thick cock shoved into him out of
his head. Cannot let go the feeling of being ripped apart from the inside out.
Flayed open. Left for dead—
His hands are claws on his face, ripping through cuts and bruises, scraping
down his neck and his fingers vibrate as he screams, only sound he can make.
Blood flowing everywhere, sticky and staining his skin, hot smelling like
copper like sickness like
(“mm that’s right bleed for me”)
that afternoon. Vision spotting in front of his eyes and Sam thinks he knows
why his wrists were strapped down as he falls to the side, covered in his own
blood, stained as much now outside as he is within.
He feels momentarily light-headed, that distinct snapping again as he floats
away from himself, and then Sam is gone.
~
(Through a haze, minutes or perhaps days later:
“Open the door, Sam. Open the fucking—Sam. Sam! God. Ruby—push on this with
me—don’t you dare give me that look would you just—Sam! Fuck! Oh, Jesus,
Sam—what the fuck did you do, foolish boy—Ruby, get Casey—no, not Alastair, get
Casey and get towels. Now.”
Fingers in his hair, barely-there brushing along his scalp, and he wants to
flinch away but he can’t make his body move right—
“Hang in there, Sam—god, don’t you know I—you’re so stupid, why would you—”
M’not stupid, Sam thinks, in a hazy, detached sort of way, and then he passes
out again.)
~
The next time Sam opens his eyes, it’s dark outside. Moonlight shining through
the half-shut curtains on his bedroom window, streaking raw and pale across his
covers. The room is totally dark otherwise and Sam would think he was alone
except he can feel Lucifer in there with him, sitting somewhere not quite close
enough to his bed to touch. Just. Existing nearby.
His arms are a mess, pinned where they are against his sides, under sheets
wrapped so tight Sam’s sure he must look like one of the mummies in that
ancient Egyptian book Lucifer gave him for his fourteenth birthday
(“What’s the catch?” Sam asks, suspicious, squinting through too-long bangs at
the cover.
Lucifer is glaring at him, arms folded across his chest. “There is no catch.
I’m giving this to you. It is your birthday, isn’t it?”
Sam grunts, doesn’t answer. His finger riding a slow path down the ridged
outline of the god Anubis on the cover, and only when Lucifer clamps a hand
down on the book’s edge does he look up again. Heart pounding at the sudden
movement. At the black look in Lucifer’s eyes.
“Didn’t they teach you manners at that orphanage?” he asks. Quiet. Calm, except
for the tense line in his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. “Don’t you know how
to say thank you?”
“If saying ‘thank you’ is so polite,” Sam says right back, snarking and angry,
“how come you don’t thank the prostitutes here for spreading their legs and
giving up their dignity when you walk through the door—”
The hit sends him reeling backwards, spine colliding with the wall, cheek
throbbing. He tastes blood, feels it trickle out the corner of his mouth, and
doesn’t hesitate before he spits it all on the floor. Glaring at Lucifer the
whole time, heated and hardly able to believe he’s just turned fourteen.
Lucifer staring right back, his mouth thin, the skin white and taut. Sam can
see him clenching his fists in an effort to maintain some semblance of control.
“You’re going to clean that up, insolent whore,” Lucifer snarls at him. “Don’t
forget, it’s only because I say so that you’re not in there spreading your
pretty thighs with the rest of them.” He storms out, slamming the door so hard
it rattles Sam’s body, and only when Sam hears his footsteps descending the
stairs outside does he sink to the floor, face aching, and let the book fall
open to the first page before him.)
the one that Sam scoured cover-to-cover for months, until he could recite it
backwards and forwards from memory. Until it became his second-favorite
acquired interest next to astronomy.
All because of Lucifer.
Sam shifts on his mattress, pain shooting daggers up his back, and Lucifer
lights a candle, evidently was waiting for Sam to move. In the moonlit dark his
face is lit eerily up from underneath, orange red hellish fire glow under his
eyes, making the lines and angles of his face stand out sharp and hollow. Sam
can’t tell if Lucifer has lost weight or if it’s just the flames that make him
look so on the verge of death.
It’s very quiet for a long time. Sam doesn’t say anything—of course—and Lucifer
just. Sits there. Watching him. His fingers twitching absent on his thigh but
he isn’t moving any closer, nostrils a little flared. Sam watching him too,
exhausted and confused and wanting to touch. Hating himself for it.
“You do something like that again and I will not be responsible for my
actions,” Lucifer says, finally.
Sam tugs his right arm—the one that isn’t quite as hurt—out from the sheets, so
he can talk. Eyes steady and focused solely on Lucifer as he says, Like what?
Like get raped?
Lucifer physically flinches. He looks impossibly furious. “You know that isn’t
what I meant, Sam.”
Oh, right. So what did you mean, then? You meant don’t hurt myself? ‘Cause you
think there’s some better way I should be handling this? Because you’ve been
doing so much to help me these past few days—
“Do not start with me right now, Sam.” Voice tight, angry as he gets up and
crosses the room so he can flick on the gas lamp instead. The one beside Sam’s
bed, and Sam thinks he’s going to stay there, that close, but he moves away
immediately after. Back to the far wall, but in the fresh full light Sam can
see the dark circles under his eyes. The overgrowth of stubble on his cheeks.
“You’ve been unconscious. You have no idea what I’ve done for you.”
Thinking of the way he woke up, with Lucifer not even in the room. The feverish
moments of lucidity, when the drugs were still gripping him, and Lucifer’s
hands had been pressed back as far from Sam as possible. Thinking of all that,
Sam dares to say, Yeah, or if you’ve done anything.
Lucifer’s hand moves at his side, fingers clenching up until it looks like his
palm is going to cramp. Like he wants to reach for Sam, but refuses to allow
himself, and it hurts, knowing that Lucifer isn’t touching Sam on purpose.
Hurts as much as it relieves. Because even though Sam wants
(loathing himself for it he shouldn’t crave lucifer’s touch really is a whore
born and bred no wonder azazel set his eye on you)
as much as he thinks Lucifer does. Even though he aches for some semblance of
comfort, the idea of Lucifer’s hands on him is sort of—terrifying. The idea of
letting him close enough to touch; having to watch him in here now, as far away
as he is. Moving and breathing and existing and Sam knows that at any second he
could snap and be across the room. Pinning Sam down against the mattress palm
over his mouth holding him down by his neck choking him as he thrust in—
“Sam.” Firm voice dragging him up out of his thoughts and Sam physically
shudders, full-body thing that has the covers coming undone around him. Until
he can sit up, arms wrapped around his legs. Everything so sore, muscles and
skin and bones and. Everything.
“You’re angry with me,” Lucifer says, after a long while. It isn’t a question.
Sam runs his thumb over the fresh bandage on his left arm. Faint smears of
blood under the white gauze, and as his hand passes the scar he can feel it
tingling, faint pain that makes him want more. Has him trembling as he scrapes
just the very edge of his nail along the line of his wound because god if he
doesn’t want to sink into it again, damage himself so bad he can’t be repaired.
As if that hasn’t happened already.
He squeezes in a little, the pain growing in increments, and doesn’t answer.
Out of the corner of his eye he can see Lucifer nodding, more to himself than
to Sam.
“Because I left?” Lucifer asks, after a while, and Sam grits his teeth.
Yes, he mumbles, barely moving his hands. At least at first. Yeah, you dumbass.
Because you fucking left me here defenseless and that shit Azazel came and. And
he. And you weren’t fucking here and I asked you to take me and you said no and
now look at where I am.
When he looks up Lucifer is watching him, raw pained expression in his eyes,
guilt so intense it hurts to look at. “I,” he starts, and Sam shakes his head.
I don’t want your excuses, Lucifer, I want to know.
“What, Sam?”
I. You need to tell me. He takes in a deep breath, looks down. Abaddon and
Alastair’s words clanging around in his head. Digs his hand into his scar for a
moment, the heat of his skin breaking around him. Drawing strength from it, and
he says, Why did Azazel show up the day you left me alone?
It’s so quiet, after. So quiet for so long that Sam thinks Lucifer has left. Or
that he will just turn and leave. But every time he glances over, Lucifer is
still standing there. Staring at him, indiscernible mix of emotions in his
eyes, and Sam is too tired and too sore and too drained to figure them all out.
“You think I set you up?” Lucifer asks, and oh, there’s the topmost emotion.
Shivering and cold and tight in Lucifer’s voice, something that hasn’t been
directed at Sam in over a year. So that he’d forgotten how it feels, or nearly,
to be on that tone’s receiving end, and Sam has never been afraid of Lucifer
before but it’s a close call right now. Sitting here in near-darkness with his
sheets around his ankles and his body bleeding out in invisible line. Lucifer
glaring at him in slow-smoldering disgust in the grainy moonlight and
flickering flames. “You think I would do that to you?”
Sam moves his hand to his hip, where there’s a bigger, darker bruise to worry
his fingers over. Doesn’t answer, and after a few seconds Lucifer nods again,
mouth pinched at the corners. Shoves away from the wall and moves towards the
bed, so that Sam flinches back on instinct.
“I’m the one who sent you away to keep you safe,” he snarls. “I spent time and
money on keeping you as far away from here as I possibly could and what did you
do but come crawling back to me—” His fists clenched hard at his sides, this
hard pain dancing just out of reach on his face. Though he makes obvious
attempts at shoving it back when Sam looks at him. “I told you why I sent you
away. Keeping you out of the line of fire, keeping you away from Azazel—that’s
all I wanted. I told you he would do anything to get his fucking hands on you
and you deliberately come back to the one place you knew he’d be.” He scoffs,
scratching at the back of his neck. Staring at the ceiling. “You can’t sit
there and complain that he found you when you’re the one who put yourself in
danger after I busted my own ass trying to get you out of it—”
Oh, Sam says, right. I forgot. So it’s all about you now. You making yourself
feel better, less responsible for the fact that I got fucked in the ass with a
fucking knife, shoving all of it on me so you don’t look like the bad guy—
Lucifer says, “You honestly believe I’d call Azazel in here—after everything—”
and Sam says:
You love getting fast fucks for value, Lucifer.
It’s quiet for a moment, after. Both of them just staring at each other, Sam’s
fingers clenched tight around his thighs. Feeling sick and dizzy and rubbing at
his scar with his thumb. Starts to raise one hand, to apologize, but then. Then
Lucifer laughs, cold and dry and mirthless. Nothing in his expression as he
turns off the gas lamp and steps back, outlined again in candlelight and the
moon.
“You think I’d waste my energy on fucking you when you’re this useless,” he
says. “Honestly, Sam.” Snorts, moves to the door. “You think I’d waste my
energy on setting you up with Azazel when all he ever did was complain that you
were too much of a tease for his taste. That he’d rather break you than fuck
you willingly.” Hand on the knob, crack of light from the main area shining in,
and Lucifer blows out the candle. “No one wants damaged goods, darling,” he
says, and then he’s gone.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Lucifer collapses against the wall just outside Sam’s room. Head slamming back
so hard against the plaster it rockets stars behind his eyes, makes his vision
gray out for a second. Which, honestly, is so much less than what he deserves.
For saying that to his boy, to his Sam, the most. The most important person in
his. The only one who.
It’s better this way, Lucifer tells himself, digging his nails into a bare
patch of skin just below his elbow, almost exactly the same place as where
Sam’s ruptured scar lies on his arm. It’s better this way because Sam. Sam
hates him anyway. Must have noticed the way Lucifer’s been avoiding touching
him; Sam isn’t stupid, but then neither is Lucifer. He knows what getting close
to Sam could do to him, right now. What it already has, judging from Sam’s
reaction in the hospital. When Lucifer had tried reaching for his boy, wanted
to hold him in his arms. Reassure himself that Sam was alive, and reassure Sam
that Lucifer was there, but Sam had. The expression on his face—
(like he didn’t recognize him like he thought lucifer was azazel)
So he hasn’t touched Sam since. Terrified of what he could do to Sam, however
accidental. Of breaking their relationship completely, and Lucifer knows it’s
better to keep his distance. To avoid putting Sam through any more physical
pain, even at the cost of Sam loathing him for it.
And Lucifer knows he does. He had seen it in his eyes, seen it
(“Why did Azazel show up the day you left me alone?”)
in Sam’s hands, as he spoke. So quiet, so tightly wound with barely repressed
fury
(and who the fuck taught him how to repress everything)
all of it aimed solely at Lucifer. In a way it had never been before, not even
when Sam was twelve and had an excuse to hate Lucifer with every fiber of his
being. His whole life uprooted so many times, too many, for a child that young.
Not even over the last few months, since Sam’s been home from Michael’s and
getting more and more vocally irritated every time Lucifer told him no, said
you aren’t ready yet.
(“Are you sure Sam will understand that your—hmm, remarkably coincidental
absence during both of these times is only coincidence?”)
All these years. All this time spent here, Sam’s only been looking for an
excuse to despise Lucifer again. Even after everything Lucifer has done for
him. The books and the clothes and the reprieve from sex, all the years he
allowed Sam to continue only waiting tables, dancing. Long after most of the
other children in his age class were hosting politicians and kings in their
rooms—
It doesn’t matter. Sam thinks Lucifer planned his rape out with Azazel. Sam
will never forgive Lucifer for this, and Lucifer will never forgive himself,
and it will be fine. Sam can thrive on his anger at and hatred of Lucifer now,
can replay his words
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
over and over in his head until they’re stuck, until they bleed through every
second of Sam’s days
(and god you’d know how that feels wouldn’t you)
and Sam leaves again of his own accord, goes back to Michael’s. Where he’ll be
pampered and fall into a life of debasing luxury, but at least he’ll be safe
from people like Lucifer. No one over there will want to hurt Sam. No one will
care enough to try.
Lucifer hears a low, broken moan from inside Sam’s room, the sound hitching,
cracking along its edges, but he forces himself to ignore it. To turn and shove
off the wall, head down the stairs. Down into the parlor, where there’s alcohol
and music and hookers waiting to be fucked. Lilith with her long sharp nails
and Abaddon with her devil’s smile and countless others, dirty filthy whores,
all that Lucifer deserves.
It’s better this way.
~
Sam doesn’t cry himself to sleep.
He lets there be tears for five minutes. Times himself on the clock hanging
from his wall, ticking so loud tonight, every movement of the second hand
jerking and echoing in his mind. Staring blankly at the wall with the tears
pouring down his face in total silence. Can’t even think about what Lucifer
said
(damaged goods)
right now, because if he does
(no one wants damaged goods)
he thinks he’ll go crazy. Thinks he’ll do something
(darling)
irrational, something he can’t afford
(waste my energy on fucking you)
right now. Even if Lucifer was telling the truth, saying
(when you’re this useless)
what Sam himself has been thinking now for a long, long time. Over a year,
actually, ever since
(he’d rather break you than fuck you willingly)
the first time Azazel raped him, so long ago now Sam half feels like it
happened
(no one wants damaged goods darling)
to someone else.
He isn’t stupid. He knows how far gone he is. How ruined. Wrecked for anyone,
even
(especially)
Lucifer. Useless. Waste of space.
Sam presses in on his arm wound, digging and squeezing and pinching the flesh
until it burns. Until it’s seared into him, part of him, almost as sharp as the
space between his legs. The pain blisters into his brain, firing off synapses,
clearing his vision. His whole body juddering with it, and suddenly he can see,
astonishingly calm, exactly what it is he has to do.
He reaches up and wipes at his eyes the second the five-minute mark is up. Lays
back against his sheets, rubbing over the sore spot on his bleeding skin.
Feeling a raw, phantom ache on his face, in his chest. Can’t tell if it’s his
ribs or something within, but soon enough it won’t matter.
Sam closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath. Doesn’t sleep for the whole night,
but it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
It’ll be better, this way.
~
In the morning, Sam heads down to the kitchen when he knows the brothel will
still be relatively empty. Only the customers who stayed the whole night are
still there at this hour. Fucked raw and passed out in the rooms of prostitutes
that get paid enough to put up with it, so that Sam’s able to slip past closed
doors easy enough. Ignoring the reek of sex, the dank musky feel to the air.
Ruby is asleep in the parlor, draped over one of the couches with her leg
propped up at an awkward angle, her hair drifting soft over one bare shoulder.
She’s almost five years older than Sam but she looks strangely vulnerable like
that, breathing deep, slow, little marks sucked into her neck and scattered
across her collarbones, and Sam walks over. Lifts the crushed velvet comforter
from where it’s been cast to the floor and drapes it over Ruby’s body, hoping
that she didn’t fuck her client on the couch—the fabric is a bitch to
clean—before he heads to his intended destination.
The kitchen is deserted. Spotless, because Inias takes pride in maintaining a
clean environment, but it’s totally empty, and Sam doesn’t hesitate before
moving to the chopping block. Where they keep the meat cleavers. The steak
knives. Big shiny things that Sam couldn’t even lift when he was twelve, but
he’s had years of muscle building from dancing and it’s effortless for him to
take one out now. To just draw it forth from the block and let it lay flat and
cool and unfamiliar in his hand for a moment. Testing the weight, the heft of
its handle, its blade. Silver glinting in the early morning light coming
through the window, edge so sharp Sam winces when he looks at it directly.
He curves his fingers around the handle, scarred and worn from years of use,
and he allows a very small smile to grace his features as his whole hand
encompasses its width.
This one will do just fine.
By the time he sees Lucifer, the knife is hidden, shoved into a place he’s
positive Lucifer won’t look. Not now that he’s disgusted by Sam, repulsed by
his very presence. Not now that Sam means nothing to Lucifer, the last five
years—well, technically, four and a half, considering Sam’s missing year at
Michael’s—erased and gone in one
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
sentence.
Not now that Lucifer isn’t going to give a shit about Sam at all, in any
respects, for the rest of his goddamn life.
“Sam,” Lucifer says, drawing up short in the hall. His whole body tense and
flushed, eyes wide. Features drawn, something white smeared against the corner
of his mouth, red marks all along the line of his jaw, and Sam closes his eyes.
Deep breath. Thinks, it doesn’t matter.
Hi, Lucifer, he says, throat jerking reflexively at the stench of sex coming
off Lucifer’s skin, but
(who was he with last night who was he buried in who did he use to forget you
this time)
it doesn’t. Fucking. Matter.
“Sam,” Lucifer says again, sounding a little bit like that might be the only
word he knows anymore. “About last night. I—”
Don’t, Sam interrupts, waving his hand. It’s okay. I’m not mad.
Lucifer frowns with his whole face, head tilted. “What?”
Sam forces a smile to twitch the corners of his mouth. It’s not like I haven’t
been thinking the same exact thing about myself for months now, anyway, he
says, and, Everyone says dumb shit sometimes, Lucifer. It’s okay. Really. Can’t
really decide if he wants Lucifer to buy it or not, but Lucifer just nods,
shoulders slumping forward. There’s no relief on his face, something stark and
raw instead that Sam can’t read, but all he says is:
“Well. I am sorry, anyway, Sam.”
I know you are, Sam tells him, running one finger down his ripped-up scar, and
then, Think I’m gonna go back to bed.
There’s a pause. Something low and simmering crackling in the air between them,
and the intensity of it makes Sam back up a step. His legs shaking again,
unused to all this activity.
“I was just coming down for breakfast, if you wanted—” Lucifer starts.
It isn’t even necessarily the thought of eating with Lucifer that makes Sam’s
stomach jerk. It’s the thought of eating, period, the idea of cramming food
into the same throat that took
(“you like the taste of my cock boy yeah of course you do so good at eating
dick aren’t you can feel the back of your throat sam fuck—”)
so much damage, only three days ago. Of having it sit on his stomach where it
doesn’t belong. Where nothing belongs, with Sam as toxic as he is.
He says, I just ate, actually, and when Lucifer just looks at him—and isn’t
that the absolute fucking funniest thing, Lucifer catching onto that lie, but
not—Sam sighs. Rolls his eyes for effect.
I woke up hungry, he says. I had an apple and some pancakes and I cleaned up so
Inias wouldn’t have to later. I swear, Luce.
“Okay,” Lucifer says, after a long, long minute. Rubbing at the back of his
neck, and then he breathes out. Turns away from Sam.
“Goodnight,” he tells him, even though they can both hear the birds chirping
through the window, and Sam slips back upstairs on trembling legs.
~
Week one.
The stitches come off Sam’s arm and his cheek, where the damage was
worst—outwardly, anyway. Inside everything still burns, his chest aches if he
breathes in too deep and his ass hurts if he sits a certain way—or even if he
doesn’t sit at all—but Sam doesn’t complain. Sits quiet as Alastair picks the
stitches out with his little metallic tools, breathing fast through his
nostrils when Alastair leans in too close to his face. Tries not to throw up
all over everything, his stomach heaving at the proximity of that face so close
to his those hands touching his jaw thumb skating down the line of his scar as
hot breath wafts over his ear talking in lisping syllables about Sam’s injuries
healing themselves—
“That’s enough, Alastair. I’m sure Sam understands just fine how to take care
of himself,” Lucifer says from the doorway, where he’s been standing for
however long since Sam zoned out. He’s focused on a specific point on the wall
rather than looking directly at Sam, and Sam can’t decide if he wants to be
grateful for the interruption or terrified of the tone in Lucifer’s voice.
Resentful, underneath everything, of the way he’s ignoring him, even now.
Alastair straightens up, adjusts his lapels. He’s kind of smirking. “I’m sure
he does,” he says. “And if he forgets I have no doubts you’ll remind him—”
“I’d like to remind you,” Lucifer interrupts, smooth as anything, “that you
work here. I pay you to live here with the rest of my whores and you take care
of what needs to be taken care of, and you keep your mouth shut. I’d like to
remind you how easily I could let you go, and ensure you would never find
another job as a doctor, in this city or anywhere else—”
Alastair backs up, hands raised, amused expression flashing in his eyes as Sam
scrambles out of the chair, his heart racing. Noticing as he moves that
Lucifer’s gaze cuts over to him. Involuntary sharp movement, though once their
eyes make contact Lucifer seems unable to look away.
“Of course,” Alastair says. Laughing. “My apologies.”
But Lucifer’s eyes are only on Sam, strained. Barely concealed longing shining
obvious through a thin veneer of forced neutrality, and Sam has to fight hard
not to react.
“Let’s go,” Lucifer says. As if they came down here together, as if Sam hasn’t
spent the past seven days avoiding Lucifer as much as he can, and Sam nods
once. Brushes past Lucifer, his arm and face tingling, and his thoughts are
only on that knife upstairs.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Week two.
Sam doesn’t sleep anymore.
At least, not in the regular way that most people would consider sleeping. He
lies in his bed, staring at the ceiling for six hours, watching the shadows of
the moon shift over the walls. Finally drifts off into a fitful half-sleep
brought on mostly by his burning eyelids and worn brain, and is immediately
torn apart by images
(bent apart legs spread broken into yellow teeth sinking into flesh rusting
serrated laughter echoing in his ears)
crowding his brain, violating every inch of him. So that every few seconds he
shoots straight up in bed, gasping, covered in sweat, nauseous down into the
core of himself. Shuddering and grinding his teeth, hand pressed down between
his legs like he thinks he can protect himself now, after everything.
(The first few times it happens he hears Lucifer knocking on the door. Standing
right outside and calling Sam’s name, but Sam won’t let him in. Can’t let him
in, shaking so violently on his mattress. Bitter taste always at the back of
his throat, the way it was before, and Sam can’t get the words ‘damaged goods’
to stop banging around in his head. Not even when he’s so shaken up he’s
crying, vision washed over and the sheets soaked in tears and sweat, and after
a while, Lucifer stops coming.)
He slides his whole body off the bed when sleep becomes an option that is
evidently no longer available—usually around hour nine—and slips his hand
between his bed frame and the wall that joins his room to Lucifer’s. Where the
knife is hidden, propped up against the baseboards, glinting soft and familiar.
Almost comforting. Hello, Sam, it says, when Sam takes it out and holds it in
his lap in the murky pre-dawn light. I’m waiting for you. I’m right here.
And he practices, too. When he isn’t sleeping. There’s nothing else to do
anyway, no one comes anywhere near the suite, and Sam likes to slip into the
bathroom with his skin still warm from the covers. Where he can easily wash
away smells and stains and avoid any sort of suspicion. Practicing what he’ll
need for later, just running small lines down where no one else will see. Wants
to split open the scar on his arm, but that would be too obvious, and anyway
there’s plenty of time for it later. For now, he sticks just to his stomach,
his inner thighs. Careful to keep within the confines of what he remembers as
the waiter’s outfits, the dancing costumes. In case he does start servicing at
meals again, in either respect. Knowing their outfits are too tight, too long
in the torso, to reveal something like this.
Lucifer is watching him. Sam can feel his eyes on him every time they’re in a
room together. Knows how odd it must look, that he told Lucifer he wasn’t angry
but refuses to speak to him now, but he can only muster up enough energy to
care about one thing at a time, these days. Feels like he’s being dragged
through thick water by the ends of his hair, smell of blood always in his
nostrils, even after he’s washed it all off in the shower. Bits of it dripping
down his thighs when he stands up.
He wishes his knife would slip and just. Chop away the offending parts of
himself, so close to his thighs, but there’s nothing that will unsteady his
hand. Nothing that will convince his knife to betray him before he tells it to.
Lucifer watches, and Sam ignores. Slips through the brothel feeling
increasingly like he’s living in a dream world, like none of this is tangible.
Wandering around the halls with no real destination in mind, and now that
Azazel’s dead Lucifer’s stopped caring whether Sam’s alone in the building or
not. So he walks around during the day, only slipping back upstairs in the
evenings when the clients start showing up. Gets his knife out and cuts, dry-
eyed, and he waits.
If there’s one thing Lucifer’s taught him here, it’s patience. He supposes he
sort of has Azazel to thank for that.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Week three.
“You should eat something, Sam.”
Sam startles. He’s curled up on the couch in the parlor, soft duvet from
upstairs flung haphazard over his shoulders. Some dog-eared book open in his
lap, pages gone yellow with age, and he’s been reading the same sentence for
the past ten minutes. His focus drifting in and out, stomach a little sore with
how hungry he is but he’s so used to it now he barely notices.
Lucifer’s come up out of nowhere—although in retrospect Sam supposes he
could’ve been standing in the doorway of the parlor for ten minutes and Sam
wouldn’t have noticed. He’s kind of hovering, maybe a foot from Sam’s legs.
Just on the borderline of too close, and part of Sam wants to make him leave,
but another, more insistent part of him wants to set the book down and tell him
fuck you, come closer.
I ate lunch an hour ago, Sam tells him, absent. Distracted. Lying about food is
something he’s been doing for a while now, so he’s not even looking up. Doesn’t
see the quiet, tense expression pass over Lucifer’s face. The way his mouth
goes thin, crimped and white at the edges.
“Did Inias cook for you?” Lucifer asks, after a long minute.
No, because Sam’s not stupid. No, I made something. He does look up, then, and
Lucifer’s face is blank. Closed-off. As neutral as Sam’s ever seen it.
“I wish you would wait for me sometimes,” Lucifer says, kind of quiet. “I
haven’t eaten with you in a long time, Sam.”
I know, Sam says. I’m sorry. I’ve just been busy.
“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you.” Bitter little twist to his mouth, and
Sam feels a flare of irritation in his chest at that. Wonders what right
Lucifer thinks he has to be upset if Sam’s mad at him, but:
No! Sam says, maybe too fast, except he doesn’t have the energy to care.
Exhausted from
(nightmares blood dripping from ripped apart cocks come filling his mouth
bitter and strong and tasting like so much sin and death)
lack of sleep recently, and the fact that he hasn’t eaten since sometimes two
days ago, when he managed to force down half an apple before he felt so sick he
had to go lie down. The cold blade of the knife pressed against the flat of his
stomach, fingers clenched around the handle. Gripping so tight it hurt his
knuckles, struggling to ground himself with the only thing he’s certain of
anymore.
Lucifer sighs, very soft. “Sam,” he starts, and Sam can see it in his eyes. His
want to talk about what happened, what he said
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
that night. As if it hasn’t been clanging around in Sam’s mind every waking
second for the past three weeks. Wants to discuss it, because they haven’t yet,
and Sam. Sam can’t handle that. Not now. Not when he knows. Not when.
So he shakes his head. Stands up, the duvet crumpling to the floor around him,
his book falling to the wayside with a soft muffled thump, and he’s trying so
hard to keep his hand from shaking. Desperate for Lucifer not to see what
little control he has left over his own body as he reaches up to. To pat
Lucifer on the arm. To touch him, to have his skin on someone else’s for the
first time since. Sends revulsion rocketing up his spine burning shocking shame
splintering along his forearm
(shouldn’t be touching not after what you did to him had another man’s cock in
your mouth you little whore)
and he forces his hand to stay still for a second against the soft skin of
Lucifer’s arm. Forces his nausea back staring at his fingers curled around the
pale skin lightly dusted with hair—
“Sam?” Lucifer murmurs, more of a question now, and Sam jerks back, burned.
Shivering. Can’t meet Lucifer’s eyes, because he’s sure what he’ll see there
will be disgust. And unhappiness. And as much revulsion as Sam is feeling right
now curdling in his stomach.
I’m fine, Sam says again, and, I’m kinda tired, though. Think I’m just gonna go
take a nap. Okay?
Doesn’t wait for what he knows will be an acquiescing nod before he goes,
leaving his blanket and his book behind. Straight up to his room where there’s
nothing but closed-in air, and he doesn’t wait before he’s grabbing for the
knife. Rushing into the bathroom, locking the door. Down to his knees on the
tile and he’s wrenching up his shirt, pulling the blade across the thin strip
of skin between his bellybutton and his cock, nothing deep, just a scratch.
Barely even draws blood, but the pain arcs around his hips anyway, and he
shivers with it. Thinks he feels a faint twinge in his dick as he wipes the
knife down, straightens his shirt. Goes back into his room and puts the knife
away, his wound warm and tingling under the fabric of his clothes.
~
(Lucifer stands for long minutes afterwards in the parlor. His arm tingling hot
from Sam’s touch, every nerve ending on fire. Shivering and loathing himself
for how much he wanted to just. Grab Sam, pull him in. Kiss him without
thinking, without caring about the consequences. Lay his claim on Sam again,
prove to both of them that Sam is still his, his and not Azazel’s, and it was
only that thread of possession that stayed Lucifer’s hand. The idea that he
might be just as bad as Azazel, and he’d stood stiff, shocked and abhorrent of
his own thoughts. Furious with his body for even attempting to betray him, to
betray them both, which is why he didn’t notice how hard Sam was keeping
himself from trembling. How thin he’s gotten, since he was raped, and the heavy
dark circles growing under his sad eyes.)
***** Chapter 22 *****
Week four.
He’s lost enough weight by now that people are noticing. Ruby corners him one
day, when they happen to pass each other in the hall. Drags him aside, her dark
eyes flashing, and she says:
“Hey. What the fuck is going on with you, Sam? You’re so thin Lucifer’s blaming
Inias. Keeps saying he’s gonna fire him for not feeding you enough. Or. Y’know.
Whatever.”
Sam glares at her. Annoyed because he still has to use the tablet with her,
with everyone here who isn’t Lucifer. Not that it really matters, since Sam
doesn’t exactly make a habit of conversing with these people, but it’s still a
pain in the ass. Especially recently, with his hands cramping up faster, joints
getting achy and tired.
He writes, You could always just fuck off and mind your own business, you know.
“Oh, whoa,” Ruby says, sarcastic, rolling her eyes. “Excuse me. Wouldn’t want
to offend the kid who can’t even fucking talk—”
“That’s enough, Ruby.”
It’s Lucifer. It’s always Lucifer. Coming in the room from the other side, so
that Sam will be aware of him the whole time, and Sam drops his tablet and his
pen and digs his fingers into his hip. Where there are three brand-new slashes
from this morning, clawed in over a massive dark bruise he gave himself
sometime last week when he accidentally banged into a doorway.
Sam’s bruising a lot easier, these days.
Ruby goes stiff. Blushes, stepping back. “Sorry, sir,” she mumbles.
He wraps an arm, briefly, around her waist. All possession and power and only
Sam can see the indifference in his eyes. How little he cares about her. About
any of this.
“Why don’t you go fix some drinks for yourself and your client,” Lucifer
murmurs into the silken soft crush of her hair, and Ruby nods. Smile pasted on
as she edges past Sam and around the corner.
Lucifer says, “Sam, I need to talk to you,” and Sam shakes his head, fast
enough to make spots appear behind his eyes. He can feel an itch starting up in
his stomach, along the insides of his thighs.
I don’t have time right now—
“You’ve been deliberately avoiding me for the past four weeks.” Lucifer’s eyes
are hard on Sam’s, nostrils flared slightly. No indication that he’s going to
let up, and Sam exhales.
You’re really getting good at sign language, he tries, stiff. Lucifer smirks,
no amusement in his eyes. The edges of his face tight, tense with barely
repressed anger. With frustration at the annoying kid standing before him, the
broken child Lucifer had the misfortune to take on—
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
“I’ve been studying alone,” Lucifer tells him. Flash of something pained in his
eyes, and Sam has to look away. “No Sam to teach me.” His hand twitches, like
he wants to touch, and Sam takes a reflexive step backwards. Even if he knows
good and damn well Lucifer isn’t interested in touching him right now, when
he’s
(damaged goods)
still recovering.
A shadow darkens Lucifer’s eyes, there and gone again in an instant. “Why are
you avoiding me?” he asks, voice taut. Gaze steady on Sam’s, and he knows
Lucifer isn’t referring to the fact that Sam won’t allow them to touch.
Especially since it’s been Lucifer’s idea from the beginning.
Sam drags his hand up his hip, feeling pain spiking low under the rough pads of
his fingers. I’ve been busy, he says. Rote line, so overused it hurts Sam’s
fingers to spell it out. I said I was sorry. Jesus Christ. You told me I could
take all the time I needed after Azazel—
Which is really only half true, because Lucifer only told him that the first
time, and that was over a year ago, but Sam knows pulling the Azazel card will
break the conversation in half. Better at playing up Lucifer’s guilt than he
thinks he should be, and sure enough. Lucifer stops, takes a step back.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispers, after a long time. The words sound loaded,
weighted down with more than just an apology for Sam’s second rape, but Sam is
tired and hungry and he can’t focus on dissecting Lucifer’s voice right now, so
he just says:
Yeah. I know. I am too.
And then, Can I have dinner with you tonight? After the guests are occupied?
Something relieved flickers across Lucifer’s face. “Sure, Sam,” he says.
“Whatever you want.”
Sam forces a smile on his face. Makes it stay there until Lucifer has turned
and left, and doesn’t mention, even to himself, how he plans on getting through
something like a massive meal with someone who’s going to watch his eating like
a hawk.
***** Chapter 23 *****
Week six.
Sam’s body is running on empty. So to speak. Nothing quite functioning the way
it should be, his skin feeling like it’s going to slide off his bones if he
touches it. His cock hanging limp and useless between his scarred thighs, lungs
drawing in each breath as slow and ragged as possible. He can feel his heart
lurch every time he has to move. Brain not really firing on all synapses
properly, and sometimes Sam sits in his room. Stares out the window and thinks
how it won’t be long now. Won’t be long at all.
The worst part is Lucifer. Sam avoids him. Ignores him. Keeps himself locked up
in his room all day so he won’t have to see him. Only in the first couple of
weeks did Lucifer make some semblance of an effort to try and communicate with
Sam, and they had dinner together that one time—though Sam didn’t let it have
any real lasting effects on his body—but other than that. Other than that,
Lucifer is ignoring Sam, too. Almost as if he really meant
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
what he said, that night. As if he can’t stand the sight of Sam. As if he’s
trying to. Trying to sell Sam back to Michael.
(itdoesn’tfuckingmatter)
Sam can feel his insides collapsing on themselves. Knows he can’t go on much
longer in this state, with no food and no sleep and so much blood lost every
day. Thinks he can feel his body growing lighter, swears he can see his weight
dropping, sees blood crusted under his fingernails even when he’s scrubbed and
scrubbed until his skin’s gone raw with scouring.
Sam doesn’t sleep anymore, but one night he dreams.
(Lucifer standing over Sam in an arena. Whole crowd of people watching, leaning
forward in their seats. Eyes hungry and wanting, low primal roar escaping their
throats as they wait to be satiated. Wait for what they paid to watch.
Sam naked, bound to a wooden plank, his arms and legs tied together with thick,
unforgiving rope. Thrashing around but it’s just for show, his eyes are only on
the whip Lucifer’s holding in his hand. The burn in his ass starting up but
it’s from the wood below his bare skin.
“Let me go,” he snarls, glaring up at Lucifer. Who flicks his gaze to someone
Sam can’t see, and a second later Sam is being blindfolded. So that all his
senses redirect themselves to his cock. His hands. His nose.
Lucifer’s body is a furnace-hot presence above Sam. Every molecule in both
their bodies straining for each other. Sam can feel Lucifer leaning over him
long before he drops down, the full heavy length of him pressed up against
Sam’s, his body strong and tense and he grinds down, and Sam gasps.
“You don’t give the orders here,” Lucifer whispers, and he stands up. Sam
whining at the loss, making the crowd laugh. Poor puppy. Poor stupid child.
Sam feels something graze his shaking chest. Something cold and hard and his
mind remembers the whip a second before it comes sailing out of the air,
landing with a sharp blow on his stomach.
Pow, the whip hisses, and Sam screams, writhing. The audience screams too, raw
and hungry. Sam can taste the musk coming off their cocks, their cunts. Can
feel the salt and the heat in the air, and he twists away but the whip hits him
again. Smacks right in the center of his chest, and Sam can feel a livid bruise
starting up, blood streaming warm and hot down his clavicle, but he also feels.
He feels.
The blindfold comes off and it’s Azazel leering down at him, hissing, “Oh,
Sammy boy, isn’t this fun,” and Sam—)
—wakes up. Gasping and soaked in sweat, his stomach churning, so that he barely
makes it to the bathroom before he’s puking, the scorching taste of stomach
acid ripping up his throat because there’s nothing in his stomach to get rid
of.
After, he collapses on the bathroom floor. Crying, though he’s hardly aware of
that, one hand loosely cupping his cock. The other gripping his hip in an
effort to stay upright. There’s a fresh bruise on his skin, violet and dark,
and Sam squeezes it experimentally. Flashes of
(the whip sailing the sting on his flesh)
the dream come to him, piece by piece, and Sam is shocked when a vague, warm
feeling begins to stir low in his gut. Sam’s memory focused on that dream, on
Lucifer’s face and the bitter sour taste in his mouth when he’d turned into
Azazel. Sam remembering
(“i know you like pain boy i know you do you can’t fuck lucifer and not want to
get hurt ‘till you’re almost dead”)
bits and pieces of the orchard, and his cock is. Certainly not hard, or even
halfway, but more interested than it has been in months. Despite his horror at
what he’s getting there over, remembering in fast succession both what Azazel
did to him and the way Lucifer used to hurt him, before everything changed
between them.
He moans. Sinks back against the tub, is almost sick again. Can’t stop the
memories from coming now
(Sam at twelve, his face struck by Lucifer’s fist for talking back; Sam at
thirteen, head knocked back against the wall, neck choked by Lucifer’s hands;
Sam at fourteen, lube shoved into his palm by smirking eyes, Sam gasping at the
rough grab at his crotch seconds later, the whispered admission: ‘wish I could
stick around and watch you use this’)
and he knows, he’s always known, he has a thing for pain. It’s been like this
for years, Lucifer’s fault in the way that everything is Lucifer’s fault, and
Sam bites his palm until he draws blood. Thinking about how that, too, was
sacred for them. How Azazel just—took it, as if he thought it was his to claim.
He leans forward, pressing his forehead against his arm, his shoulders shaking,
and wishes he could forget all of this.
~
(Outside the bathroom door, Lucifer stands hesitant. His knuckles brushing the
wood, wanting to knock. To go in and comfort Sam, feeling his sobs as if they
were Lucifer’s own. His chest clenching up and he grips the door handle until
his knuckles turn white, gritting his teeth. ‘Sam,’ he thinks. ‘Sam, I’m so.
Oh, please—’
But it’s been weeks since Sam would even look him in the eye, and Lucifer knows
Sam’s curled up on the bathroom floor right now because of his blind stupidity.
Knows Sam would kill him soon as speak to him, right now, and after a few
minutes he manages to relax his fingers. Steps away from the door, and doesn’t
look back when he walks away.)
***** Chapter 24 *****
Week eight.
There’s a party being thrown at the brothel, a celebration of fifty years
running or something, and Sam wants to stay holed up in his room all night.
Just—let the evening waste away, as all his evenings have done for a long time
now, but. This is sort of the perfect opportunity to. To do what he needs to.
So he decides to suck it up and go. The lesser of two evils.
The whole thing kinda shakes him up a little, the idea of having to be near
(all the food)
that many people, all of them pressed in and closing around him, bodies hot and
sweaty and confining and too much god this is too much get off get off GET OFF—
But he knows he has to go. Knows if he doesn’t Lucifer will just get worried—as
if he has the right to act like he cares, now, after all this time—and Sam
doesn’t have the energy to make up excuses as to why he’s so tired all the
time. Doesn’t have the energy to. To do anything except this one last thing.
One last time.
The night before, Lucifer comes up to their suite, finds Sam curled up on the
sofa in the main area. Soft sounds of music and laughter drifting up the stairs
as he leans in the half-open doorway, his head tilted a little to the right,
and Lucifer says, “You don’t have to come. If you don’t want to.”
Sam shakes his head from where it’s pressed against the back of the cushions.
I’m gonna go, he says, and shivers a little. He’s cold almost all the time,
these days. Not like when Lucifer would touch him, before, the chill of his
hands comforting. Just—cold. His bones ache a lot. It hurts to walk, sometimes.
It doesn’t fucking matter, Sam thinks, the way he has been for eight weeks now.
“Are you sure?”
Lucifer’s watching him so careful, so cautious. Sam’s scared that he knows,
mind flicking automatically to the knife, but:
I’m positive, he says, and smiles. It feels like his face is being stretched
beyond its capacity, but Lucifer just nods once, kinda sharp. Turns away. He
hasn’t come close to Sam, close enough to touch, since that day Sam had a hand
on his arm.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he says.
~
In the morning, Sam dresses alone. Fingers folding over each other as he ties
his tie, snaps up the buttons on his shirt. Combs his hand through his hair in
an effort to smooth out the tangles, and winces a little at how tight he has to
tug his belt in order to get his pants to stay on his hips. The edges of his
waistband cutting into the scars scattered along his stomach, and he presses in
a little with his thumb, smiling at the sensation.
His knife is perched and waiting when he goes to it, snapping open the bottom
buttons on his shirt as he moves to the bathroom. Slashing a line clean down
from his sternum to his quivering stomach, kinda whimpering at the feel of the
cold blade in his hot skin, the blood dripping down his skin. It doesn’t really
matter—won’t matter, after tonight, where his scars lie, because after tonight.
Well. After tonight, Sam will have taken care of a lot of things.
Then he cleans his knife as usual, sets it under his covers. I’ll be waiting
for you tonight, it whispers to him, like a lover, and Sam feels a pleasant
shiver run down his spine at the idea of finally fully consummating their
relationship. Like all these weeks of cuts and scrapes have just been foreplay
and now there’s going to be real fucking. The best sex Sam will ever have.
By the time Lucifer comes upstairs, Sam has cleaned himself off and is sitting
on the edge of his bed, staring at his feet. Trembling and cramping up from
hunger but when Lucifer calls his name from the doorway Sam just stands, goes
to him without flinching. Mind clear. Expression as blank as Lucifer’s.
It’s amazing, Sam thinks, what he can make himself go through once he has a
final destination in mind.
~
He gets drunk. First time touching alcohol in a long time, and with the
emptiness of three days of no food sitting heavy on his stomach, it just goes
straight through him. So that Sam starts drinking with everyone at five, is
completely drunk by six. Holding the champagne glass precariously balanced
between his thumb and forefinger by its stem, and he’s not even aware that he’s
leaning against a table for balance until it wobbles underneath him, a leg
slightly off-kilter.
Lucifer has been standing beside him all afternoon. Deflecting unwanted clients
from touching Sam
(You realize I’m not even under contract with you anymore, they can do what
they want, Sam says to him at one point. Already well on his way to being
drunk, and he regrets it as soon as it’s signed but Lucifer just turns away.
The lines around his mouth going tight, eyes shutting for a moment, and he
says:
“Don’t make this evening more unpleasant than it has to be, Sam.”)
especially the newer ones. The ones who don’t know that Sam’s always only ever
been Lucifer’s. The ones stupid enough to try and get their hands on him
(“Well, ain’t you a fine piece.” Fat, pudgy hand reaching outstretched to touch
Sam’s skin, and when he flinches back, there’s a frown.
“Whores do what they’re told—” words echoing in another voice in the back of
Sam’s head, but Lucifer is already stepping half in front of him, staring the
man down with such cold hatred in his eyes. Sam can feel it viscerally,
snapping through him like ice.
“You won’t touch what belongs to me,” Lucifer snarls, “do you understand?” and
the man skitters off, sweat gleaming on his bald head.)
reminding him that here, he’s just another decorative piece. That here, none of
them know that he’s torn up and irreparably broken on the inside.
Damaged goods. As per the course.
So Sam’s been drinking, but when he nearly knocks the plateful of shrimp
appetizers off its stand, Lucifer reaches out and tugs the champagne glass from
his shaking hand.
“Okay, Sam, I think that’s enough—”
No. Gimme.
Sam discovers that he signs sloppy when he’s drunk, his hands having trouble
coordinating themselves with the words in his brain, and he kind of stumbles
forward. Until those same hands are clutching Lucifer’s arms, the feeling
shocking straight through him, and he forgets for a second why it’s a Very Bad
Idea to touch Lucifer. Like. Ever.
A few people are watching them. Sam can feel their eyes burning into his skin,
setting fire to his clothes. His hands fly off Lucifer’s arms. Move
automatically to his stomach, pressing in, feeling the ridges of scar tissue
under the thin material of his shirt. His vision’s gone double from the drink.
He can barely even focus on whatever it was he had originally planned for—
Lucifer is close. Not as close as he used to get, and the whole illusion is
ruined by the warning bells starting up in the small part of Sam’s brain that
isn’t intoxicated. But even as his legs are trying to propel him backwards Sam
finds himself moving forward, stumbling again. Lucifer catching him by his
elbow, and Sam just stares at him for a second. Drinking in his features, first
time in weeks he’s been close enough to actually look, and he’s too drunk to
even really see him.
Then Lucifer says, “Come with me, Sam,” sounding drained, a little bit worn
thin at the edges, and he half-leads Sam out of the parlor. Up the stairs and
into Sam’s room, and once Sam is stretched out on his own bed, Lucifer turns to
go.
Sam has to slam the flat of his hand against the wall to get his attention. His
world swirling around him, but he makes himself focus long enough to stare at
Lucifer, hovering in the doorway.
Don’t leave, Sam signs at him. Don’t leave again. Please.
“Sam.” Lucifer exhales. “You can’t ask me to stay.”
Oh. Sam snorts, harsh kind of caustic exhale through his nose. His hands
shaking, stumbling over the words. ‘course not. Y’ don’t even know what that
means do you—
“Sam.” Voice sharper than Sam’s heard it in a while, flirting with anger. Or at
least annoyance. Something. It’s kind of hard to differentiate between human
emotions when you’re drunk and starving. “You aren’t going to talk to me like
that.”
Yeah? Sam pulls his exhausted mouth up into a grin, taunting and cruel and
hard-edged, because what the hell. What does he have to lose. All of this
barreling towards the final destination, and Sam can hardly believe how well
his plan has worked out. You g’na do something about it, Luce? ‘cause you don’t
really do. Y’ don’t— pauses, frowning. Don’t do stuff anymore. Haven’t for a
long time now. Kinda pathetic, actually—
The door slams shut, knocking Sam’s balance off for a long minute. So that it
takes effort to focus and realize that Lucifer didn’t shut Sam out, he’s shut
himself in. Standing just at the foot of Sam’s bed, fists clenched at his
sides, and Sam’s stomach pitches and roils at the sight of someone so close but
god, god—
“I’m just trying,” Lucifer starts, low and strained, and Sam shakes his head,
dizzying effect, mocking Lucifer with his eyes. Doesn’t want to hear about
whatever the hell Lucifer thinks he’s trying to do, and he says as much, and
then:
‘cause whatever the fuck it is, Lucifer— ‘s not working.
In the shadows of moonlight that stretch low-tinted and pale across the room,
Lucifer looks dangerous. Uneven slashes of light cutting across his face, so
that Sam can only half-see his expressions. “Sam,” Lucifer warns, soft, but Sam
is well past the point of caring. Well past the point of nearly anything.
Why’nt you jus’ take what you want, goddammit, Sam says, clumsily shoving the
sheets aside between words and standing on shaking legs. His eyes burning and
stinging but there are no tears, none to be had from his dehydrated body. Why
don’t you just. I don’t mean anything, right, just. Jus’ punish me, okay, just
do whatever the fuck you want—
Lucifer takes a step closer. Almost doesn’t seem conscious of his actions, jaw
clenched tight. His eyes keep dropping to Sam’s mouth and Sam sneers at him,
smirking: Yeah. Yeah, Luce. Tol’ you to take care of me. Don’t let me talk back
t’you like that.
“Sam, listen,” Lucifer’s hand reaching out to set on his shoulder, and even
like this Sam can’t stop himself from jerking backwards, pained furrow flashing
between Lucifer’s eyebrows so quickly Sam hardly sees, and forgets it in the
next few seconds anyway. “Whatever’s wrong,” Lucifer says. “Whatever you’re
going through right now, we can fix it—”
His body is one long tense line of tight, barely restrained want, and Sam
watches him. Just watches, in the dark, his chest heaving to get enough air.
Lucifer close enough for Sam to feel the warmth coming off his body, to smell
(sharp acrid cloying scent of cigarette smoke badly covered by familiar cologne
underlined with the hint of blood and peach blossoms as they fall around their
bodies)
Lucifer’s scent, strong and familiar and Sam’s stomach gives a violent lurch,
rotten wine taste filling his mouth, crowding up inside his closed-off throat,
so that he has to swallow several times before it will go back down.
You said you wouldn’t fuck me when I was useless, Sam reminds him. His hands
tripping and trembling and he can barely get the words out: ’m not useless now.
Forces his hand to shoot out, to grab at Lucifer’s wrist. To tug him forward
and shove his hand against Sam’s chest. Right over the fresh scar, Sam staring
defiant and drunk as Lucifer’s fingers dig in instinctively, and Sam gasps, the
pain jolting up his spine. His heart slamming against his ribs, pushing into
Lucifer’s palm.
“What do you want, Sam?” Lucifer asks. Demands, really, and Sam grips Lucifer’s
wrist tighter, frustration welling up in his chest.
Y’ aren’t even listening, he says. I said. I. Lucifer— Reaches up and touches
his mouth, pulling on his lower lip. ‘Fuck me,’ he mouths, pleading, and
Lucifer jerks back like Sam’s slapped him.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” Lucifer tells him. Staring at his hand like he
barely recognizes it there, set flat against Sam’s shirt. “I won’t. I wouldn’t
do that to you, Sam—”
Come on just do it come on Lucifer please— Sam dragging Lucifer’s hand down his
chest, staring at him unwavering and drunk and pleading. The insides of his
thighs aching, burning with want for his knife, but no, not yet, not yet—
I want you, Sam says, I want you to jus’— He jerks himself forward, shoves his
hips up against Lucifer’s thigh. Nausea rises in his chest, instant, Lucifer’s
whole body solid and thick and right there no escape no getting away from his
heat his scent the feel of him pressed right along Sam’s side but Sam
(it doesn’t fucking matter)
just drags himself against Lucifer. Not hard, not even close, cuts raw and
burning at the tug-pull-catch of the fabrics against his skin, and Sam’s breath
hitches in his throat. Please, he says, still with Lucifer’s hand caught under
his against the torn-up line down his chest. Hand shaking so bad it hurts to
sign, and he mouths it again: ‘Please,’ desperate and almost crying. Feels like
he’s drowning, can’t get enough air, but it’s good. It’s better this way.
“Sam,” Lucifer starts, his voice raw and ripped open and wrecked, and Sam
wrenches his hand off Lucifer’s wrist. Onto his own arm, over the most jagged
scar, the one he flayed apart so many weeks ago. Digs his nails down hard, too
much pressure but it’s the only way he can feel anything anymore, and he says:
Lucifer please god you have to—
Except then his stomach catches on Lucifer’s belt loop.
Except then Lucifer registers the flaccid pathetic line of his cock barely even
noticeable against the inseam of his trousers.
Except then Sam’s scars from earlier burst, soaking hot and salty under his
shirt, and there’s no mistaking the feeling of blood under their hands when
both of them are already so familiar with it.
Lucifer stumbles back like Sam’s scalded him. Looking disgusted, looking like
(no one wants damaged goods, darling)
he’s just realized where he is. Who he’s with.
He says, “Sam, what the fuck are you doing?” and there’s nothing uncertain in
his voice anymore. Nothing but pure cold rage slamming into Sam in massive
shards all at once. Crowding out any space he had left to breathe or think or
feel anything but the blistering pain ratcheting up from his stomach.
They both stare for a second at the crimson spread under Sam’s shirt
(“Try on the blue. Brings out the green in your eyes.”
“When are you ever gonna let my eye color go, Luce? Just accept it’s one of
life’s little mysteries and move on,” and Sam’s still laughing, soft and
teasing, when Lucifer sticks his head through the dressing room curtain just to
glare at him.)
and then Lucifer is. Lunging forward. Wrenching Sam’s shirt (rich blue, Sam’s
second favorite, barely even fits him anymore) off his shoulders. Buttons
popping off, scattering bright little glittering jewels across the floor as
they roll and tumble away. Both of them staring at Sam’s chest, his stomach.
Sticky and bright red with blood, the cut ripped apart, and Sam so thin he
thinks he can see the beat of his heart underneath.
Lucifer’s hands on his belt loops
(no no no NO NO NO don’t you dare touch me there don’t you fucking DARE put
your hands on me oh god oh god OH GOD LUCIFER HELP)
jerking his trousers off in one swift movement. The tight catch and pull on his
skin tearing more scar tissue off, and Sam hisses in discomfort and relief at
the sharp spike of pain.
Long ladder of scars running down his lower stomach, down his inner thighs. Sam
naked and trembling before another man for the first time in eight weeks and
Lucifer stares and he stares and he stares as the blood falls down Sam’s chest
tripping over his ribs down the line of his cock—
“Sam,” Lucifer breathes. Shock in his eyes, clear indication he didn’t know,
hadn’t even guessed, and Sam swallows down another surge of nausea.
‘s all I have, he says, and then there. There’s that flash of anger across
Lucifer’s face. There’s all Sam’s been waiting for when Lucifer reaches out.
Grabs Sam by the shoulders, shoves him back until his spine thuds against the
wall, plaster cracking underneath his bones.
“You foolish child!” Lucifer roars into his ears, face contorted with fury,
teeth gritted so tight Sam thinks he can hear them grinding. “You—all these
weeks—destroying yourself, as if you believe I would allow that?”
Sam’s wrists are caught between them, like this, so that he has to drag one
hand out. Covered in his own blood, and he nearly slams it into Lucifer’s face
when he says:
Like you even noticed, Lucifer. Eyebrows lifted, still taunting even though he
feels so light-headed. So very close to the edge. One eye on Lucifer’s face,
the other on the handle of his knife, sticking out from under his mattress.
Last chance at salvation.
“Don’t test me, Sam,” Lucifer snarls. “Don’t you fucking dare.” With his
fingers still flexing on Sam’s shoulders, his hips just barely avoiding being
pressed into Sam’s.
So do something about it, Sam snaps right back, and when Lucifer flips them,
turning Sam towards the bed, his eyes dark in the moonlight and promising
everything Sam can never give him again, Sam is ready. Yanks himself out of
Lucifer’s grasp enough to grab the knife, tugging it out from between the
mattress and the bed itself. Weeks and weeks of practice and his knife is as
familiar in his hands as his cock was once, and Sam can feel it understanding
what he wants. What he needs, now.
It’s time, sweetheart, Sam tells it, in his mind, and his knife is cool and
smooth and free of error when he slashes up, diagonal across Lucifer’s side.
“Sam...?” Lucifer gasps, before he stumbles back. Clutching at the thin scrawl
of blood on his skin, watching it slip between his fingers in numb shock.
The thing is, Sam didn’t cut him deep. He’s not exactly an idiot, even now,
standing here with his knife in his shaking hand, blood dripping from his chest
and the edge of Lucifer’s ribs as they stand facing each other in the pitch-
dark room, moon gone behind a cloud. Not even with no food in his system and
nothing in his mind but black, hard static crawling across his brainwaves.
Nothing but a thin red film over his vision to indicate he’s still alive, just
the pain in his legs and his stomach and his ass. Just
(no one wants damaged goods)
all of Sam’s nothingness, piled up all at once into a massive coagulation of
destruction and desperation and this very last attempt at feeling anything.
Anything at all, before he. Before.
You like this, right? Sam asks. Casual, though his hands are shaking. Calm even
through the pounding echo of his heart in his ears. You like when it hurts,
right?
“Sam... ah... fuck, give me that.” Lucifer’s fingers crooked towards him,
splattered with blood, his mouth set tight. Eyes screwed halfway shut from the
pain, and Sam snorts at that:
Amateur.
He lifts his left arm. Makes sure Lucifer’s eyes are on him, focused and intent
and terrified, and then—
Slash. Wide arcing stroke down his arm, through the already-damaged tissue, his
knife embracing the warm hold in the way he’d always known it would, oh thank
you sam thank you for giving me this thank you—
Sam watching Lucifer fall to his knees, holding his wound. Face gone pale,
ashen, viciously highlighting the dark rings around his eyes. Eyes that are
fixated on Sam’s arm in horror, mouth opening and shutting. “Sam.” Voice
hoarse. Small. So small. It breaks something in Sam’s chest, tears him wide
open, leaves no room for him to be put back together whole. Or at all.
He sinks to his knees too. Holds his knife out to Lucifer, arm vibrating with
the effort of holding it up. Blood dripping freely onto the carpet, and it’s
with a great effort that he manages to sign with his other hand:
Kill me. Please.
“No.” The whisper shocked, as if Lucifer wasn’t expecting Sam to ask it, as if
Lucifer could not have foreseen it, after all of what’s already happened.
You have to. Sam is crying, first time in a while. The sensation of tears on
his cheeks strange, almost painful when the salt drips past his chin and onto
his ruined body. Mouth trembling as he makes himself move his lips in a silent
plea: ‘Luce. I need you to.’
Lucifer shakes his head. One hand still on his chest, the other reaching out to
grasp at Sam’s arm, and Sam jerks it back, the knife’s edge catching on
Lucifer’s wrist, slicing another gash through his skin as it goes. He’s trained
it so well...
Lucifer gasps, drawing his hand back, gripping at his already-soaked wrist with
unsteady fingers. But his eyes are firm on Sam’s when he says again:
“No.”
Why. Sam has to pause mid-sentence for a moment, his hand faltering, vision
going gray and dim for a second, but then—
Damaged goods, he signs. Angry, blistering with it. Pointing at himself,
covered in blood, shaking. So thin and off-balance, scars raking up his body.
Jus’ damaged goods. Gesturing at his crotch, and Lucifer flinches. Pained line
between his eyebrows going heavier, and Sam would smirk if he had the energy.
“I don’t think that,” Lucifer says, quiet. “Sam. I never thought that. I just.”
He takes in a deep breath, readjusting the grip on his wrist, trying to block
the blood flow from his side with his arm, and then “I was wrong to tell you
that,” he says. “I shouldn’t have tried to push you away.”
But Sam is too tired, too done to try and dissect that sentence. He narrows his
eyes at Lucifer, mouths, ‘Damaged,’ with his upper lip curled, and then he
flips the knife over in his hand. So that it lands blade to his wrist, handle
resting familiar and heavy in his palm.
“Sam—”
You coward, Sam tells him. I’ll just do it myself. Eyes skating over the cuts
scattered like dark constellations along his legs, his hips. One slashed
through the curve of his waist, and Sam briefly considers replicating it before
his gaze falls.
Directly.
Down.
(“lovely pretty long cock oh sammy gonna have this down my throat every night
now”)
He grips his knife tighter. Looks up at Lucifer, who is listing to the side,
eyes faltering, mouth working faint and staggered: ‘Sam, no, god, Sam, please,’
and Sam’s hand is shaking, bad, but his knife is steady when he brings it
wailing downwards.
Bright burst of stark pain exploding through his body, behind his eyelids.
Surging hot through his veins and his legs, shooting down his arms. Vicious and
wet splatter between his thighs and Sam is screaming again, sounds torn up from
his throat as he falls backwards. Blood smeared across his hands, across
everything.
He hears Lucifer’s choked moan: “Sam,” and then the sparks flood his eyes, and
then—
Nothing.
***** Chapter 25 *****
—soft knocking on the door—
“Boss...?” Ruby. Whispering through the crack. “Sir, are you in there?”
—no answer—
—more knocking—
“Sir, the guests are leaving. Some of them want to set up appointments—”
—low moan from inside—
“...Sir? ...Lucifer?”
—no answer—
“Sam...?”
—silence—
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna open the door now, I’m—oh. Oh my god. Oh my god! Meg!
Casey! Someone help me oh my GOD—”
~
(Four weeks ago:
They meet up for dinner in the later part of the evening. Set up in Lucifer’s
office, all his papers temporarily removed from his desk to make room for the
wine glasses, the plates. Massive set-up of food from Inias: chicken and soup
and sausage and baked beans, and Sam sits perched right on the edge of his
chair. Staring at the food with this odd, hollow look in his eyes. Mouth set
tight, and he’s shivering. Just barely, just enough for Lucifer to catch it,
and he asks, “Sam, are you all right?” and Sam nods fast. Trying to force a
smile on his face, forehead creasing like he’s in pain.
‘m fine, he says. This looks great. But he isn’t touching his silverware,
hasn’t even reached for his wine glass yet, and after a few moments Lucifer
exhales. Soft and kind of sad, and he takes up a roll from the basket at the
center of the desk. Tears out a chunk and starts chewing, Sam staring at the
wall, his jaw gritted.
Lucifer says, “How have you been, Sam?” pretending it isn’t his fault he
doesn’t know. Watching Sam’s hands tremble as he reaches for his fork, scoops
up a single serving of beans and nudges it past his lips.
He shrugs, staring down at his lap. Okay, he says, and then, Can I ask you
something?
“Of course, Sam. Anything.”
Are you. Are you going to be arrested, or anything?
Lucifer blinks, startled. “What?”
Sam huffs out a breath, something that might have been faintly amused on a
better day. For Azazel, I mean, he says. His shoulders a little hunched in,
almost cringing from something Lucifer can’t see. Because, I mean—you did shoot
him, right? In the orchard?
Lucifer closes his eyes for a moment. Remembering the sleek cold feel of the
pistol in his hand as he’d gone straight through the house. Sam nowhere to be
seen and he’d heard one of the little sluts mention she’d seen Sam outside
through her window as she was dressing for the evening, heading into the
backyard. Lucifer storming out immediately, feeling of sick dread rising in his
throat as he realized where Sam would’ve gone—where Azazel would’ve found him—
He says, “I did,” and Sam nods. Cutting his chicken into small strips, pushing
chunks of it around on his plate.
So are you gonna be in trouble for that? Sam asks, and Lucifer shakes his head.
“He’s been on London’s Most Wanted list for years,” he says, dry. “No one was
able to catch him because he kept paying people to keep silent, but the police
aren’t exactly drowning in grief now that he’s gone.” He smirks, glances up.
Sam is just watching him, faint glassy sheen over his eyes, and Lucifer clears
his throat.
“It pays to have money and high connections, Sam,” he says, quiet. “Azazel was
never anyone’s favorite, so no. They’re not going to come looking for me now
he’s dead.”
Oh, Sam says. Okay. Nods, trying again to smile, but it falls flat, and
Lucifer’s chest aches with the expression on his face. Tense and unhappy and
Lucifer wants to ask what’s wrong, but he knows he won’t get very far.
They’re both quiet for a long time after. Lucifer eating, Sam—cutting his food
into the smallest bits possible and occasionally shoving some into his mouth.
Chewing slow before he swallows, and he never stops shaking the whole time.
Eyes flitting from one corner of the room to the other, never quite able to
land directly on Lucifer, and after half an hour Lucifer can’t stand it
anymore. Reaches across the table, not really thinking. His hand aimed for
Sam’s wrist, just to take hold of it. Just for a second, but Sam’s jerking back
before he can. His chair making a horrible scraping sound across the floor as
he stands, breathing hard. Fork clattering to the floor, some of his soup
sloshing over the side of its bowl. Shaking, backing up, his eyes wide and
mouth moving soundlessly.
I, he says, but his fingers are fumbling over each other so badly Lucifer can
barely understand him. I’m sorry, I. I have to— and then he turns and runs.
Leaving Lucifer sitting at his desk, his hand still outstretched. Pain
stretched out in his chest, grief coagulating and dropping heavy into his
stomach, and he shoves his plate aside, appetite gone.
‘You knew you were going to hurt him, you idiot,’ a voice snarls in his head,
and Lucifer drops his head into his hands.)
~
The very first thing Lucifer is aware of is the beeping.
Insistent and annoying sound to his left, and he’s automatically reaching out
with his arm to shut it the fuck off when the first waves of pain hit. Sharp
and tight cascading lines running tripping down his ribs. Up his arm and into
his left wrist, dancing along the edges of his brand-new bright scars. All the
visible damage Sam did to him.
Sam.
Comes back to him sudden, like being dumped in ice water, like being struck by
lightning. Images searing themselves into the forefront of his mind: Sam knelt
before him, the knife in his trembling bloodstained hand. Sam with slashes
across his legs, his chest, his hips. Sam soaked in blood and tears, begging
Lucifer to. To.
(kill me. you have to. i need you to)
Sam digging into his own flesh. Sam’s mouth moving over words he’ll probably
never speak out loud again. Sam staring desperate and worn and exhausted and
manic at Lucifer and he can hardly believe he didn’t notice, all these weeks
and he never saw—
He’s retching so hard he can’t breathe, and only Casey running in, turning him
on his side, saves him from the death he’s suddenly aching for. Blood-streaked
vomit dribbles out of his mouth into a pan at the side of the bed and she holds
him through it, her fingers—long, freshly painted, faint smell of sex still
lingering on the tips—carding through his hair. Low voice murmuring, “It’s all
right, Lucifer. It’s all right.”
He’s dizzy when he finishes, gasping for air as she wipes his mouth with a
dishtowel and eases him back onto the bed. “Casey,” he starts. Finds his voice
hoarse, ruined. “Case—Casey.”
Her eyes flick over to him. “Sir?”
Lucifer coughs. Ragged ugly sound heaved up, tearing at the stitches dug into
his side, barely patched up and feeling like it’s going to crack apart at any
second.
(so much blood everywhere drenching sam’s thighs his hands his stomach)
“Where’s Sam?” Lucifer asks. Very quiet. “Is he. Did. Sam’s. He’s all right?”
Casey drops her gaze to the floor. Where some of Lucifer’s vomit has spattered
against the discolored tiles, near the pristine white slip-ons she only wears
as a real doctor. Doesn’t answer for a second, and a clench starts up in
Lucifer’s chest, well past the line of battered scar tissue marring his skin.
So that he has to force himself onto his side again, lifting his arm until the
muscles are pulling and tearing so hard it won’t go any farther.
He touches her elbow, the closest he can get to grabbing her shoulder like he
wants. “Hey. Hey.” He’s shaking, voice rough. Cut through with wire and poison.
“Answer my fucking question, you slut. Is Sam alive?”
She closes her eyes for a second. Swallows hard, and Lucifer can’t tell if
she’s upset by the question or by what he called her. Not that it should
matter, not to her. When she gets paid by the hour to be called that every
night, and she never says no. The men that choose her have never violated her,
sent her spiraling down the edge—
“He’s alive,” she says, finally. Still staring at her shoes, mouth working, and
Lucifer collapses back against his bed with a soft, relieved groan.
“But Lucifer,” and her voice is quiet, so that he has to strain to hear her.
“Sir—we just.”
“We what?” he pushes, when she doesn’t say anything else, and she draws in a
deep breath.
“We don’t know for how much longer.”
~
In the end, it’s only the feeling of Lucifer’s stitches ripping themselves
apart that saves Casey’s life. The fact that he has to reluctantly fall back
against the mattress, breathing hard, palm aching and ribs splintering. Casey
standing with her back to the wall as far from him as she can get, shaking and
terrified, and when Alastair wanders in a few minutes later he finds them like
that. Casey crying and Lucifer still half-straining to get at her, to tear her
lungs out through her throat for even daring to suggest. To even hint that Sam
might not.
“And I see that our patient has found out the, hmm—bad news,” Alastair drawls,
chuckling all low and raspy at the back of his throat as he presses none-too-
gently on the bruised skin surrounding Lucifer’s wound. Rough fingers prodding
until a vicious pain tears through Lucifer and he cries out before he can stop
himself, sound wrenched up through his throat.
“Fuck you,” Lucifer spits, when he can get his voice to work right. “You have
to save him.”
“Hmm,” Alastair says. “I’m not sure we can.”
Lucifer stares up at him. Completely shaken, and where he is, the fact that
he’s lying down should give Alastair a power boost over Lucifer. Should make
him the one who holds all the cards here
(he does though and you know it that’s the only reason you’re not ripping his
heart from his chest right now)
but even that doesn’t stop Lucifer from shutting his expression down, into the
practiced domineering look he’s used for so many years now to get precisely
what he wants. Until there’s nothing but cold fury and hatred in his eyes, in
the tight lines around his mouth. His nostrils flared as he breathes, clenching
his fist. Feeling pain lance through the scar on his wrist.
“You will, you son of a bitch, or so help me god—”
“No need to get nasty,” Alastair hums, and laughs again. Pushing his fingers
against Lucifer’s side one more time before he stands, and “You, you’re
definitely going to live,” he says. “However, hmm—unfortunate that might be for
the people who work here.
“But Sam. Dear, darling Sam.” He shakes his head, starts pacing. Tapping his
stylus against the tablet he’s carrying, and Lucifer’s muscles are straining
and sore with the effort it takes not to launch himself up and strangle
Alastair to death right here. “Sam has been starving himself for—hmm, what did
we approximate, Casey?”
“Fully for eight weeks, partially for over a year,” Casey whispers to the
floor.
Over a year?
“Yes,” Alastair hisses. “Exactly. And he’s been cutting for—?”
“Eight weeks,” Casey whispers again.
(sam has been starving himself for over a year)
“Not to mention the—oh, hmm, terrible lacerations caused by both rape
incidents—and the effects of exhaustion due to a severe lack of sleep—” It’s
clear Alastair is enjoying himself, for some sick reason, and Lucifer feels
physically repulsed. Thinking of
(blood splattered across the floor sam laying unconscious before him knife
clattering to the floor)
the night everything fell apart, and he interrupts, soft snarling voice:
“Can you fix him or not?”
The corner of Alastair’s mouth is pinched, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Not
sure we have the necessary equipment—”
“Take whatever the fuck you need out of the account, buy the tools, and make
sure Sam stays alive,” Lucifer growls. Should’ve known Alastair would be
angling for money, that’s all he ever wants, but Lucifer is past the point of
caring. Past the point of being able to focus on anything that isn’t Sam
(starving himself for over a year)
holed up and alone in some other part of the brothel—
“Where is he?” Lucifer asks, the thought slicing through his mind, and Casey
pushes off the wall and takes a few tentative steps forward.
“I can take you to see him,” she says. “If you feel like you can be moved right
now—”
Lucifer’s fingers are already digging into the sheets. Curled hard against the
mattress, ignoring the throbbing in his bones as he tries to sit up. “Get me to
Sam,” he snaps, flushed all over as Casey eases him off the bed and into a
wheelchair. Tugging the steel-chambered floating heart monitor over to hover
beside Lucifer’s head, and she rolls him out. Both of them ignoring Alastair,
and his soft chuckling, Lucifer tense against the chills that keep running up
his spine.
“We’re not sure if it was really a full year that Sam was—” Casey starts, and
Lucifer holds up his good hand. Eyes closed, head tilted back.
“Shut up,” he breathes, and Casey pushes him on in silence.
~
There’s a hospital wing separate from the main one. Mostly for the extreme
cases, like the youngest prostitutes getting fucked too hard and hemorrhaging,
or if a client begins to have health problems but can pay the same amount for
health coverage as he or she would have for services. Things like that, things
that Lucifer doesn’t want Alastair overseeing directly because of how he is,
and Sam is here. Taken care of by Jacob Gaines, who is. Less unconventional
than Alastair, which. Lucifer can deal with that.
Casey rolls Lucifer into the wing and backs out quietly, her mouth tight at the
corners. It’s empty of everyone except Sam, and Lucifer pushes himself forward.
Ignoring the sharp pain blistering up his tendons from his grip on the wheel as
he goes, and then he’s beside Sam’s bed, and he.
He can’t breathe.
Sam is lying there, breathing slow and even. Deep scratches down his face, his
throat, from when Azazel attacked him. Pale and drawn against the sheets, his
arms emaciated, the left one covered in a thick white bandage, the right one
attached to a machine like Lucifer’s, gas-powered and carved out of steel. The
sheet covering him has slipped a little, and Lucifer can see the edges of his
chest scar peeking out from under his hospital gown, stitched up tight. The
skin around it red and bruised and ugly, stretched too much like the gauze
around his arm, and it takes Lucifer a few minutes to realize the grating
gasping sound is him. He’s crying, shaking with it. Clutching the rail around
Sam’s bed, staring at him through blurred eyes, watching Sam’s breathing on the
machine, and he whispers:
“Sam, I’m sorry. Sam, I’m so fucking sorry.” Reaches under the blanket, feeling
around for Sam’s hand. His thumb grazing Sam’s wrist, the skin paper thin and
cold, and Lucifer rolls his thumb gently across Sam’s veins.
“I shouldn’t have tried to push you away,” Lucifer whispers to him. “I
should’ve been there when. When you needed me. I should have never told you
you’re worthless—I can never forgive myself for this happening, Sam. Never.”
His throat closes up, choking off his voice. So that all Lucifer can do is sit
there, tears silently running down his cheeks, stroking Sam’s wrist. Staring at
him. At his boy, the most important thing in Lucifer’s life, so far from
damaged goods, so far from
(kill me please i need you to)
worthless. Perhaps the only person alive that Lucifer loves. Or even likes.
He touches his forehead to Sam’s bedside for a moment. Unable to bear the
thought of Sam dying. Of Sam passing on to the next world thinking Lucifer
hates him. Or that he was repulsed by him
(damaged goods jus’ damaged goods)
in any way.
Sam has to know. He has to understand that he’s Lucifer’s whole world. That
Lucifer’s mistake came from trying too hard to protect Sam from being hurt even
by Lucifer himself, without remembering that pain isn’t just physical.
“You have to live,” Lucifer whispers to him. “You have to make it through this,
Sam. Even if you wake up hating me. Even if you try to stab me with a knife
again, at least I won’t have to worry about you being buried before I am. Sam.
Sam.” He squeezes Sam’s hand once. “Sam, please,” he whispers, voice getting
caught in his throat. Thumb just barely picking up the staggered pulse in Sam’s
wrist.
He strokes Sam’s hair back off his forehead with his free hand. Loosens his
grip on Sam’s wrist, just slightly, and he waits.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Five days.
Five days of Sam unconscious. Sam lying on his hospital bed and letting a
machine breathe for him. Sam’s bandages changed day in and day out.
Electrolytes supplied through a clear plastic canister set up by his heart
monitor. The scars wiped down and cleaned and the stitches pulled after four
days. Sam slowly being rebuilt and yet Lucifer has never seen him look so
broken.
Lucifer, who never leaves Sam’s bedside. Not once, not even when they tell him
his own wounds have healed enough that he can walk again, provided he doesn’t
go very far. Lucifer, trembling and shaken down to his core. Thinking in
terrified silence of everything he’s put Sam through. All because he was too
selfish, too eager to try and protect Sam, to think about what it would do to
him, in the end.
He holds Sam’s hand under the sheets, strokes his wrist. Talks to him, soft and
gentle. Still practicing sign language, for when you wake up, he’ll say, and
then, after a pause: If you’ll want to talk to me, that is.
Ruby misses you. They all do.
Still pushing Sam’s hair back from his forehead: You don’t have to forgive me,
Sam. It’s okay. I don’t deserve that. I don’t expect you to.
And then. Five days after Sam tried to kill himself. Five days after the worst
night of Lucifer’s life—
He’s dozing beside Sam’s bed, his head drifting down, chin thunking against his
chest. Keeps dreaming in swathes of red and black. Smell of iron everywhere,
things dripping from the ceiling. Sam’s voice echoing painful and broken and
lost in his ears
(kill me i need you to)
so that every time Lucifer jerks awake, he’s bathed in sweat. His eyes cutting
each time to Sam’s form, waiting to see if by some miracle he’s woken up, but
every time—just Sam, unconscious. His eyelashes brushing his cheeks, the
machine beeping steady as he breathes, and Lucifer finds himself dropping off
yet again—
~
Sam finds himself slammed into the waking world with startling and unwelcome
clarity. Aware only of pain. Darkness. The feeling like something vital has
been ripped from his chest. His whole body aches in violent and unforgiving
pulses, even with the steady drip of the opiates he can feel sliding into his
veins. He can feel the long cut down his sternum even without touching, feels
the burn of the scars scattered along his stomach and his hips.
He can’t feel anything between his legs, where the scarring was the worst, but
that’s okay. Sam always knew he’d pay good money never to feel anything there
again. Not as long as he lived.
It takes him a long time to open his eyes. To adjust from the red-spotted black
of his mind to the hospital room, whitewashed walls and sharp halogen lights
overhead. He feels off-balanced, unsteady. Aware that he’s lying down but
afraid that at any second, he’s going to roll right off the bed.
There’s a nutrition pump sending slow waves of electrolytes into his veins
every hour. A heart monitor perched just beside it, humming soft with electric
currents. His breathing regulated by tubes pressed up against his chest,
contracting and expanding with each push and pull of his bruised battered ribs.
Dull pain starting up in his left arm, scarred and healed over and scarred
again
(just like you sam lacerated ripped open so many times who knows if you can be
repaired for good)
and he lifts it with an effort. Reaching out to grab at the machines, sore
fingers grasping blindly so he can turn them off. Switch off that ridiculous
beeping, because Sam isn’t interested in any machine that is going to save his
life, not when he went through so much trouble already to try and end it—
Except then hands close around his wrists. Tight and just this side of too
hard, grasping and pulling him back, and Sam’s eyes shut immediately. Gasping
and tensing and pulling but he’s weak he’s so weak there’s nothing he can do
now—
“Sam, Sam!” Familiar rough broken voice
(lucifer)
all caught and torn up in his throat and Sam’s whimpering, still half-trying to
pull away but it hurts, it hurts so much. His mind all muddled up with the
machines’ noises and the confused buzzing in his brain and Lucifer, sitting so
close, holding his hands like he has the right—
Sam wrenches his eyes open, spins around to stare. At Lucifer who is sitting
perched right at the edge of his bed, staring at him desperate and terrified
and he’s crying, tears spilling down his cheeks as he grips Sam’s fingers,
whispers no don’t over and over.
“Sam,” Lucifer breathes out, ragged and wrecked and ruined. Trembling against
Sam’s skin, and Sam jerks his hand, but it’s hardly an effort and instead of
getting farther away he finds himself falling in closer. Crying now too, little
gasping sobs and his chest hitching mind racing over everything no let me turn
the machines off Lucifer let me end this please please I don’t want to be here
I don’t—
“I won’t leave you,” Lucifer says. His grip relaxing on Sam’s wrists in slow
increments, their bodies always at least half a foot apart—though Sam can feel
the heat radiating off Lucifer’s skin, and it feels so much closer than
that—and Sam could get away now. Could knock into the nutrition pump, flip the
switch on the heart monitor. But he’s crying too hard to even think, his whole
body shuddering, hurting worse because of how tense he’s holding himself, and
Lucifer just sits there. Barely stroking the back of Sam’s hand, his voice
still choked up. Still crying, too, as he whispers, “I swear it, Sam. I swear.”
***** Chapter 27 *****
The next couple of days feel stretched. Worn thin, warped. Sam doesn’t know
what to do with himself if he’s not actively trying to die. Doesn’t know how to
fill his time with anything outside of all the energy he burned when focusing
on his suicide.
He’s gained back a few pounds since he’s been unconscious, the electrolytes
pumping steady into his system, and he doesn’t like looking at his arms now.
Soft flesh reforming over knobs of bone and lean, whipcord muscle, and Sam
knows if he stays lying down much longer he’s going to get fat.
Can you get them to take me off this damn thing, at least, he asks Lucifer one
afternoon, his hands shaking because Dr. Gaines is trying to wean him off the
opiates, dose by dose, and it feels like Sam’s being carefully torn apart from
the inside. Not all at once, but in small fleeting increments. Little rips here
and there, satiated by tomorrow’s injection for a few hours, and then pulled
right back to the surface. I could eat real food, I don’t have to get pumped
like a fucking animal led to slaughter—
“Your stomach would revolt,” Lucifer says, short. Sharp, without looking up
from the book he’s reading, in between watching Sam speak. “It’s been nine
weeks since you last ate more than half an apple every three days—over a year
since you last ate a full, balanced meal.” His eyes are trained on the pages,
but there’s a vague angry current running through his voice. Threaded harsh
around his words, and Sam wants to be annoyed with him. To ask why Lucifer is
once again forcing all the blame of the situation on Sam, except that’s not.
That isn’t quite what it feels like. For once.
Sam reaches out. Lightly nudges Lucifer’s knuckles with the tips of his
fingers, waits for him to look up from his book before he says, I know. I just
don’t want. I wanna stay in shape. That’s all.
Lucifer’s mouth goes tense for a moment. When he speaks, it’s careful.
Deliberate choosing of his words. “You’ll be recovering for weeks, Sam. Even
after you leave the hospital. No one’s going to expect you to start working
anytime soon.” His fists are clenched on the sheets. Like he has to forcibly
restrain himself from reaching out to touch, and Sam’s body rails from the
thought.
Then Lucifer’s words register, and Sam says fast, You mean work like—
“Waiting tables. Dancing, if you want. If you want.” Lucifer watches Sam
carefully. So fucking carefully. Something bright and hurt flashes across his
face and is gone in an instant. “Just like you used to, before—Sam.” His
fingers twitch again, hard. “You didn’t think I. Sam, you. You can’t think
that.”
(won’t fuck you when you’re this useless)
Sam shakes his head, but he can’t look up. His eyes are burning, throat closing
up. He knows, logically, that Lucifer isn’t going to make him fuck the clients
ever again. Not unless Sam would want to, which. That’s never going to happen,
and he knows Lucifer isn’t going to force him, but. Sam knows he spent all his
time after being raped—both times—doing nothing. Nothing except sitting around,
shaking and hurting and failing at recovery, and he’d assumed it wasn’t
bothering Lucifer because the first time, it had been Lucifer’s doing, and the
second time—
But if Lucifer’s sick of Sam staying here with nothing to do. If he’s tired of
Sam not dancing, or waiting tables, then Sam has become expendable. Useless.
And if Sam is useless—if Lucifer has no purpose for him here—
“Sam,” Lucifer says. Very soft. His voice wrenched up from some deep wrecked
place, and Sam can feel his head turning against his will. Just to look,
automatic physical reaction to Lucifer when he sounds like that. Just Sam
wanting to patch Lucifer up, no sense in both of them being rent apart at once,
but before he can. Before Sam can look at Lucifer, the door opens.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Alastair says, sneering at both of them. “Am I,
hmm—interrupting anything?”
Lucifer sets his book down. The line of his arm tense and shaking as he glares
at Alastair, face cold, expressionless. “What the hell are you doing here,
Alastair,” he asks. “This isn’t your wing—”
“But this is my patient.” Alastair smiles at Sam, nowhere near reaching his
eyes, and Sam shivers so hard his heart monitor gives a little warning beep. “I
just wanted to check up on my little Sammy.”
(sammy boy)
Sam turns away too fast, gets a cramp in his neck. He can feel Alastair getting
closer to the bed and he shifts, closing his eyes. Breathing out, trying to
remind himself of where he is
(peach blossoms falling onto bloodstained grass)
and who he’s with. That Lucifer would never let anything happen to Sam. Even if
he hasn’t been there in months, Sam knows that. Or he thinks he does—
Lucifer snarls, “You’ll stop moving, or I’ll have your heart carved out of your
chest and served up for dinner this evening in the banquet hall.”
Alastair chuckles, sound like a snake slithering out of old skin on dry fields.
“Always with the temper,” he says. But Sam can tell he’s not walking forward
anymore, either.
Lucifer says, “Sam isn’t your patient, he’s one of Jacob’s—”
“Oh, no,” Alastair interrupts. “I believe I remember you specifically—hmm,
telling me you wanted Sam fixed at any cost? And that I could take my share of
wealth from the bank to help your darling little boy heal?”
“Sam has been under Gaines’ care since—”
“Oh, mm, Lucifer, don’t make me laugh so hard, I’ll pull something.” Sam cannot
look at him, but he hears a vague dangerous tone underneath the usual lisping
malice of Alastair’s voice. “Gaines has been very—generous with allowing me to
assist him in Sam’s recovery. And what a—hmm, wonderful recovery it’s been.”
His eyes are on Sam, he can feel them settled somewhere on his chest, and Sam
has to work at not vomiting all over the machines to his right.
“A miraculous recovery indeed,” Lucifer says, voice curled through with hatred,
a curious sort of sarcasm thinly veiled under all his masked neutrality,
“considering I have never once seen Jacob Gaines asking Casey to change the
bandages on Sam’s legs—”
“Perhaps you just haven’t been as—hmm, observant as you’re pretending to be.”
Alastair’s smirking, Sam can hear it in his voice. “Believe me, Luci—the
bandages have been changed every single day. Not even your precious Sam can go
without that treatment.”
“Fine.” Lucifer is furious. Violence and anger stirring just underneath an icy
surface, and Sam shivers again, knowing what all that power is capable of. What
Lucifer could do to Alastair right now, if he were so inclined.
(what he could’ve done to you a week ago when you tried to kill him even if you
weren’t aiming for his heart it sure as hell looked like that he could have
killed you should have killed you worthless useless whore)
“Fine,” Alastair spits right back.
Sam hears Lucifer shift in his chair. “You’ve seen Sam,” he says. Quiet.
Controlled—but just barely. “And he’s doing just fine. So if you’re done
sucking your own dick now, we’d appreciate it if you left.”
“What an interesting choice of words,” Alastair hums, without moving.
“Considering the circumstances—”
“Get out,” Lucifer growls, the vibrations of his voice carrying down deep into
Sam’s bones, sliding through his bloodstream.
Alastair shuffles backwards. He’s nearly at the door before he speaks again:
“If you aren’t fully aware of the extent of Sam’s injuries, I’d suggest you
become acquainted with them very quickly. They can be, hmm—quite shocking,” and
then he’s gone, laughing as he walks down the hall until they can’t hear him
anymore.
What’s he talking about, Luce? Sam asks, the tension finally uncoiling from his
spine. So that he’s able to turn back. To face Lucifer, who is. Less of a
threat than other people. Most of the time.
Lucifer shrugs, shakes his head. “We know everything that’s. That hurts you.”
His eyes flick momentarily to Sam’s cheek, the deep scarred-over gash Azazel
left running from his eye to his mouth. Down to his arm, the worst cut because
of how many times Sam tore it open again, still stitched up and covered in
bandages. The loose-fitting hospital gown that doesn’t do a lot to cover Sam’s
chest wound, or the scars scattered across his stomach and hips.
Maybe he meant my. Um. The scarring. Sam can feel his cheeks flushing, which is
so stupid, it isn’t as if Lucifer doesn’t already know, but Lucifer doesn’t
comment. Just nods, then sighs. Pushes his chair back, mouth thin, pained
expression in his eyes.
“I have to go, Sam,” he says. Voice soft and apologetic, the way it always gets
at this time of day. “Just for a few hours. I’ll be back before you’re asleep
tonight.”
The way it’s been for two days now, since Sam woke up. Lucifer staying all day
at his bedside, then leaving in the evenings to entertain upstairs, to manage
his business. Usually he comes back around midnight, and Sam pretends to be
asleep so that Lucifer won’t try talking to him, though he’s sure Lucifer
knows. His footsteps quiet, slow, as he sits beside Sam’s bed once more.
Exhaling shakily, fingers stroking slow through Sam’s hair, just at the very
tips, so that Sam can barely feel anything, and then he stays the night, and
the cycle starts up all over again when the sun breaks through the windows to
the east.
It’s fine, Sam tells him. Half-smiling, or trying to, though he must fail
because Lucifer’s expression doesn’t change. Really, Sam says. It’s not like I
can try killing myself down here or anything.
He sort of regrets it immediately after, the way Lucifer’s whole face shutters
off. The shadow that casts itself over his features, but then Lucifer is
smiling. Tense and nowhere near meeting his eyes, but when he stands, turns to
go, he murmurs, “See you in a few hours, Sam,” and something in Sam’s chest
unclenches itself.
He’s sort of running his hands over his scars an hour later, the bumpy ones on
his hips, when his fingers brush up against numb skin. Not just tingling, but
numb. Set right between his legs, Sam can’t even tell he’s touching himself
there, and he knows he should be able to feel the scrape of his nails, at
least. The strange, almost burning sensation there always kind of lingering in
the back of Sam’s mind, but he’s only been awake for two days. The opiates Dr.
Gaines is trying to wean him off still clinging pretty tight to his mind, and
he’s been trying to avoid thinking of the pain he’ll be in once the drugs are
gone completely.
But this place. Hateful as it is, ruined as it is—Sam should be feeling
something when he presses in. He knows it was numb like this two days ago but
it should be healing, now. Alastair may be a complete fucking dick but he’s
still a talented surgeon.
Sam pushes his hospital gown up. Tugs his blankets down.
And screams.
~
By the time Lucifer comes rushing down the stairs, Casey has already sedated
Sam. Shoved him under the influence of the usual plethora of blackout drugs and
opiates, and it’s all Lucifer can do not to shove her into the wall and crush
her trachea for putting Sam right back into the arms of addiction. To remind
himself that Casey’s the rational one in the hospital, that he needs her
around, if only so that Sam will have someone reliable while he’s down here.
She’s saying, “Lucifer, sir, okay, don’t get mad—” but he’s shoving past her,
staring at Sam lying unconscious and soaked in sweat on his hospital bed. Arms
wrapped in thick black restraints, legs lashed down under his thin blanket. His
hair is sticking to his forehead in clumps and Lucifer brushes it aside without
thinking, smoothing his thumb over Sam’s hot skin.
“An hour ago, he was fine,” Lucifer says, cold, without looking at Casey. “He
was talking to me, and then I had to leave.” He slips his fingers off Sam,
clenches them tight around the bed railings. “What the hell happened while I
was gone?”
Her throat works as she swallows. “Um. Well. I—”
“Told you to check his injuries,” interrupts a familiar serpentine drawl, and
Lucifer jerks his head up from where he’s been watching Sam to where Alastair
is standing in the doorway. Leaned against the wooden frame with his arms
folded and a self-righteous, amused smirk on his lips, and Lucifer is storming
over without thinking. Until he’s pressed nearly flush against Alastair, his
chest heaving as he breathes. One hand coming up and slamming Alastair back
against the door by his shoulder, and he holds him there, snarling:
“What in the hell did you do to Sam?”
Alastair raises an eyebrow. Drops his eyes to Lucifer’s mouth, that amused
expression still on his face, and Lucifer shudders once, violently, but refuses
to back down.
“Oh, Luci, you flatter me, really,” he says, “but I don’t like you in—”
Lucifer’s fingers tighten around Alastair’s shoulder. Sliding up until his
thumb is pressed against Alastair’s windpipe, squeezing in so hard he can feel
the bones shifting under his grip. Furious at how out of control he feels, how
incapable he is of taking care of the one person he. Of taking care of Sam.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” he murmurs. “What in the hell did you do to Sam?”
“It isn’t—mm,” shifting up a little so his throat is cleared enough that he can
talk— “specifically about what I did to Sam as what—hmm, he did to himself. I
only—sped the process along.” He starts to chuckle, soft and dry, and Lucifer
tightens his grip further. So that Alastair’s skin shines white under Lucifer’s
fingers.
“What—”
“Young Sam did what he did with a very unsterilized knife,” Alastair murmurs.
Almost like he’s contemplating the situation. “You should be thanking me for
making sure he didn’t develop an infection.”
Lucifer shoves him harder against the wall, and Alastair lets out a kind of
breathless laugh. “Relax,” he hisses, all sibilant syllables, lisping and
humming between every breath. “Sam isn’t going to die.”
“Alastair—” Lucifer starts, for what feels like the thousandth time, and
Alastair says:
“Plenty of men can live, hmm—normal lives when they’ve been castrated.”
It doesn’t make sense. Not right away. Not to Lucifer’s ringing ears. The word
castrated kind of floating around aimlessly in his mind as he stares, blank and
shocked, at Alastair. Only half aware of his hand falling away from Alastair’s
neck and shoulder. Of backing up, his eyes gone wide, mouth open slightly.
“Oh, Luci, don’t act like you didn’t know,” Alastair says. “It just puts you in
denial if you claim you forgot what happened that night.”
(Sam sprawled out. Knife in hand. Blood gushing everywhere, downward arc of his
arm as he slashed violent and decisive between his legs—)
“You’re lying,” Lucifer snarls. Hoping to god his voice isn’t shaking as bad as
he thinks. Glances over at Sam, lying pale and vulnerable on the bed, and then
“Sam passed out,” he says. “He couldn’t have. I. I was watching him the whole
time—”
“By the time Sam was brought to me,” Alastair interrupts smoothly, “he had
already cut off most of his cock and part of his left testicle. I had to sever
the rest from his bleeding crotch or risk him developing gangrene, and quite
frankly, Luci—I think your little pet slut’s already, mm—damaged enough without
that addition, don’t you?”
Lucifer’s stomach lurches. Red film falling over his eyes as saliva surges into
his mouth, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to be sick or to kill. “I gave
you money to fix him,” Lucifer starts, so angry he can barely stand up
straight, and Alastair leans in a little. Still smirking, mouth twisted up, and
he says:
“Sam’s injuries were non-reversible. I gave him precisely what you asked for,
and now he can’t fuck anyone. I’m assuming that was, hmm—part of a package deal
for you two anyway? So it shouldn’t be a problem.” He pushes himself off the
door, steps out into the hallway. Never taking his eyes off Lucifer’s, but
Lucifer doesn’t feel intimidated. Or scared. Just furious, cold rage boiling in
his chest as he stares at Alastair, hating him because he can hold this over
Lucifer’s head, now. Can use it for the rest of his life.
“You shouldn’t care this much, Luci, it’s unbecoming,” Alastair says. “He’s
just another one of your whores, after all,” and he slips out before Lucifer
can kill him for saying that. He stands shaking for long seconds, his fists
clenching. Thinking of Sam, only of Sam, and the way he’s going to react when
he wakes up and remembers. What he’s going to think of himself, now. Even more
so than he already has been.
By the time Lucifer turns back to face the bed, Casey is already moving
forward. “The blackout drug should wear off in a few hours,” she says fast. “It
was mostly just to get him unconscious, I—Lucifer, he was so scared—”
“Get out,” Lucifer snaps, and Casey nods once, ducking out of the room, her
long dark hair flowing behind her as she shuts the door.
Then it’s just Lucifer and Sam, and Lucifer doesn’t know what to do with
himself. Doesn’t know what to do with the fact that Sam. Sam is mutilated, now,
and maybe he wouldn’t be if Lucifer had just. Had maybe tried harder. Spoken to
him. Not ignored him for eight weeks. Not pushed him away the way he did, and
Lucifer’s standing here now in this hospital room staring down at his kid,
stretched out all pale and thin and weak on the bed because of the drugs being
pumped through his system.
He can’t remember why he ever thought cutting Sam off would be a good idea.
Lucifer sinks down onto the chair by Sam’s bed. His knees are sore from how
tense he’s been holding himself, legs feel like that soft jelly served
sometimes as dessert to the clients. His face is soaked and he has no idea how
long he’s been crying, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore,
except Sam. He’s all that’s ever mattered, right from the beginning, and
Lucifer can’t believe he let himself forget.
He reaches out, takes Sam’s hand in his. Strokes his thumb over the bones and
veins in his wrist, and suddenly he can’t bear the idea of Sam thinking he’s
anything less just because of what’s happened to him. Just because his
genitalia are gone, Lucifer isn’t going to let Sam call himself damaged. Or
ruined. Or anything
(that you already called him)
else degrading like that.
“We will get through this,” Lucifer whispers to Sam. Holding his hand so tight
his fingers hurt. “We will. I swear, Sam.”
Then he touches his forehead to Sam’s knuckles, and lets himself cry.
~
Several hours later, not long after the clock upstairs strikes one in the
morning, Sam wakes. His body stirring in slow increments, eyelids fluttering as
they open, and Lucifer watches as he takes in his surroundings. Tenses for a
moment at Lucifer’s proximity; slips more into wakefulness and sighs, relaxes
slightly. Sam kinda stretches, yawns—
Lucifer sees the second it registers on his face, the memories of what
happened. Why Sam had been unconscious in the first place, and his eyes go
unfocused and shiny almost immediately. Tears swelling up and over, down his
cheeks, down the little path between the corner of his eye and his ear. He
doesn’t make any noise when he cries, but he’s chewing on his lower lip, hard
enough to break the skin, and Lucifer’s hands ache with the need to touch. To
tug his lip out, smooth over it with his thumb. To stroke Sam’s hair back and
whisper that he’s going to be okay. That they both are.
Sam shifts up on the bed. So that he’s sitting, partially, one elbow resting
against the softness of his pillow. He’s staring right at Lucifer, so much raw
desperate need in his face, and he says, Well, at least now I have an excuse
not to fuck anyone. Mouth twisted up all ironic and bitter, but Lucifer just
watches him, waiting, and a few seconds later his face crumples. Breath
catching in his throat, choking him, and Lucifer is right there to catch Sam
when he falls forward and to the side, shoulders shaking as his body is wracked
with silent sobs.
“Okay,” Lucifer murmurs into Sam’s hair. Stroking his shoulder and letting Sam
call all the shots, letting him choose how hard he wants to rest his body
against Lucifer’s. How much he wants to clench his fingers into Lucifer’s
shirt. How long he wants to stay there. Anything Sam wants. Anything at all,
for the rest of his life. “It’s okay, Sam.”
***** Chapter 28 *****
Sam gets out of the hospital a week later, in the middle of the day. When
hardly anyone will be around to see him. To stare and make commentary on his
appearance: disheveled hair, greasy and lank from so many months without taking
care of it. The scars scattered across his face, his neck, his arm. The odd way
he has to walk, now, getting used to the lack of—well, anything between his
legs, all the skin numb as if it’s been burnt, the nerve endings fried off. The
dull cast to his eyes, the bruised skin underneath. The sallow tint to his
skin. The way his bones are visible, even in places where the electrolytes were
helping him regain body mass.
There’s a strict regimen Sam apparently has to stick to while he’s regaining
his strength. A slow reintroduction into food, small muscle exercises. He can
wait tables again in two and a half months. Can start practicing to dance again
once his muscles are able to hold him up properly.
Lucifer watches him read over the paper Casey handed to him before he left.
Watches him so carefully, the way he has been ever since they found out the
truth about what happened. His expression waging wars with itself about how
much emotion to show, though the line of his shoulders is tense and unhappy,
and Sam is nauseated by his desire to reach out and touch. To push his fingers
through Lucifer’s hair and ask if he’s okay.
I’ll be sitting around doing nothing, Sam says instead, facing Lucifer off in
the back hallway of the brothel. For twelve weeks.
“Sam, that doesn’t bother me.”
I won’t have any purpose, Luce, he says, and Lucifer cuts his eyes away for a
second. Mouth thin, pinched at the corners.
“Sam, it isn’t exactly as if you’ve been dancing since—” pause, tight
inhalation— “since before you left for Michael’s. You don’t have to worry about
this, it’s only if you want to—”
I want to, Sam says, though he isn’t sure. Kind of tired of feeling
(useless)
like he’s not getting anything accomplished, but mostly he’s just. Scared.
Scared that Lucifer is going to get sick of him, of the way he’s just sitting
around. Doing nothing, just wasting space, and a slut not on his knees is a
slut this brothel doesn’t have any room for—
He’ll take both jobs back if it means securing
(lucifer)
this roof over his head.
Some of his thoughts must bleed over into his expression without his permission
because Lucifer exhales. Tired and sad, and he says:
“I’m not going to kick you out,” all quiet.
Sam thinks for a moment of
(i’m giving you to a different company)
the time Lucifer sent him to Michael’s, trying so hard to keep him from Azazel.
Feels a vague surge of disbelief, because Lucifer isn’t exactly good at keeping
his promises, but all he says is:
Yeah, I know, and offers Lucifer a half-smile, shaky and uncertain and painful,
his heart clenching in his chest.
~
It doesn’t get better, not right away.
But for the first time since Sam was raped in the orchard—really, since he came
home from Michael’s—it starts to get easier.
He switches rooms; moves from his own to Lucifer’s two nights after he gets out
of the hospital. There’s a bed already ordered from London
(You planned this ahead of time? Sam asks him, eyebrows raised, and Lucifer
just exhales. Drags his palms down his face, and he looks so old. So tired, and
Sam has to work at not walking over and resting his hands against Lucifer’s
wrists.
“I don’t want you back in there,” is what Lucifer tells him, biting on the
corner of his mouth, and Sam doesn’t bother arguing.)
and when the movers arrive with it Lucifer pays them extra to shift his room
around, too. Dragging his bed up closer to the wall on the far left and setting
Sam’s next to the door. So that he has fast and easy access to get out, just in
case—just in case.
He and Lucifer move his books and clothes over later. His sheets stay in the
old room, crumpled up and bound for the incinerator. Some of his clothes, too,
and honestly Sam is glad. Because there’s a massive blood stain still spread
across the carpet. A pervasive iron smell in the air, and Sam swears every time
he looks at his headboard he sees a glint of silver. The knife, come back,
ready for him to use again. Tempting him, making his skin itch and ache with
the need to carve into himself, and he can’t handle that on top of everything
else.
The first few nights, Sam sleeps in his new bed. Or, well, “sleeps”—it’s not
coming naturally, there’s a pill Casey’s prescribed and Sam catches four, five
hours a night. Always wakes from brutal vivid nightmares, twisted up in his
sheets. Breathing hard and gasping into the thin scarred skin on his forearm,
soaked in sweat and unable to shake the feeling of his skin crawling off. Smell
of peaches in his nose, bile rising up in his throat, and Lucifer wakes up too,
every time. Turns on the gas lamp by his bed and squints at Sam in the dim
light, always looking a little like he can’t quite believe Sam is here. With
him. Always gets up to get Sam a glass of water, and Sam doesn’t know how to
explain that isn’t quite what he wants. Never really sure what he does want
from Lucifer, except that the vague undefinable ache in his chest won’t go
away. Even when Lucifer sits up with him, in a chair a few feet from his bed.
Waiting until he’s finished drinking and then asking, soft uncertain voice that
seems so much closer in the dark:
“Do you want to talk, Sam?”
And Sam tries. He opens his mouth, waits to see if the words will come unglued
from his throat. Cracks his knuckles and tries to form sentences with his hands
but it just. It isn’t happening. No matter what Sam dreams about
(slices down his arms sam able to speak again vocally holding his bloody
scarred self before lucifer screaming in his face “you did this to me you left
me alone you drove me to this”)
he can’t make himself tell Lucifer about it. Even if Lucifer deserves to hear
Sam yelling at him. Because Sam can’t forget what he did to Lucifer, that night
in his old room. Can’t forget that he’s the reason behind the raised, ugly scar
on Lucifer’s wrist. The heavy darkness in his eyes when he looks at Sam, so
despairing and sad.
So he sleeps in his new bed, but one night he dreams about
(hands clutching at him hot breath on his neck sam screaming and screaming and
it won’t stop why won’t it stop)
Azazel, and he wakes gasping. Grabbing at the empty space between his legs, and
he’s hurtling off his bed before Lucifer can say anything. Rushing into the
bathroom and shuddering as he leans over the toilet, sweat plastering his hair
to his forehead. Lucifer’s hand on his back almost immediately after, but he’s
too numb to feel it. To really register Lucifer’s presence until he’s collapsed
back against the sink, pale and shaking.
Sorry, he says, staring at Lucifer through his bangs, and Lucifer shakes his
head:
“Don’t apologize, Sam. Don’t—”
They go back to their room not long after. Sam still shivering, his whole body
feeling like it’s been shoved down with a leaden weight. The scars itching
where the skin is trying to heal itself, stretched out pale and thin over
bones. Lucifer’s hand comes out for a second, sort of hovering in mid-air like
he wants to touch but isn’t letting himself, and after a few seconds he says:
“Goodnight, Sam.” So quiet, turning from Sam to his own bed, and it takes Sam
all of three seconds to move forward, too. Resting his hand on Lucifer’s
shoulder for an instant, the contact burning all the way through him, and
Lucifer turns. Startled, though he tries to neutralize his expression
immediately after.
“Sam?”
Can I, Sam starts, and then gestures at the bed. Helpless, a little
embarrassed. His mouth working, eyes downcast, but Lucifer just nods. Holds the
sheets back for Sam, starts moving towards Sam’s own bed, and Sam grips his
sleeve.
With you, he emphasizes. Tapping at the back of Lucifer’s hand, and Lucifer
blinks.
“Are you sure—?” he starts, and Sam nods. Firm, a little emphatic, and Lucifer
exhales. His eyes sliding shut for a moment, odd expression crossing his face,
and then he’s sinking down beside Sam onto the mattress. Laying back closer to
the wall and Sam curls up beside him. Not quite touching, but the heat off
Lucifer’s body twines around him anyway. Slipping under his skin, into his
bones, and Sam sleeps harder that night than he has in months. Wakes with the
sun shining on his face, Lucifer sitting in a chair beside the bed, flipping
through the astronomy text he gave Sam at the beginning of everything. Back
when their relationship was still fresh and new and uncertain, when Sam wasn’t
afraid to fall asleep or go outside alone.
Good morning, Sam says, watching Lucifer through sleepy half-shut eyes, and
Lucifer signs it back, careful movement of his hands against the book. Looking
strangely relieved, as if he was afraid Sam might not speak to him upon waking.
As if it wasn’t Sam’s decision to crawl into his bed last night.
“Was it,” Lucifer starts, hesitant. Clears his throat and drums his fingers
against a grainy photograph of Jupiter. “Did you sleep well last night?” Though
the tone of his voice suggests what he’s actually asking: were you comfortable
enough last night to want to continue? and Sam feels the sudden urge to smile.
First time in months he’s wanted to, and it’s startling, how fast he has to
bite it back.
Yes, he tells Lucifer, and afterwards, he almost never sleeps in his own bed.
Preferring to crawl into Lucifer’s, into the warmth and softness of his sheets.
Surrounded by his familiar scent, roses and jasmine and some spice Sam can’t
name, and Lucifer. Lucifer never protests, not once. Never touches, either, not
in that closed dark intimacy, and Sam closes his eyes and starts to relearn how
it feels to be safe.
There are visits to the rose garden, too. Lucifer giving Lilith the management
on busy days, taking Sam outside. Where the air’s gone fresh and scented, birds
singing, the sun shining slanted and soft in the trees. Everything sort of
quiet, a feeling like the world’s been suspended for them. They wander in one
afternoon about a week after Sam was released from the hospital. Sam’s balance
starting to get better, despite the lack of anything between his legs. Feeling
a little restless cooped up inside the brothel and he’s delighted at Lucifer’s
suggestion. Both of them walking in silence down the familiar path to the
garden, Sam running his fingers along the trellis, rustling the branches.
They sit on one of the cement benches just inside, looking at the roses. All
twisted up over each other, growing wild and reckless in Lucifer’s absence.
It’s beautiful, Luce, Sam says, and, I forgot how much I loved it out here.
Lucifer is watching him, head tilted a little to the right. Small sad smile on
his face, eyes on Sam’s hands. “We can come out here more often, if you like,”
he says, and Sam nods. Can’t quite make himself reach out to touch, but he
moves closer. Until he can feel Lucifer’s body heat, even out here, and they
sit like that for a long time. Until the sun’s started to dip behind the
horizon, and the clients arrive for the evening.
Lucifer takes Sam places. The courtyard and the rose garden, but also out. Gets
Thaddeus to drive them in the steam-powered carriage until they’ve reached the
moors, wild overgrown plains covered in heather and swaying grass. Airships
rolling over from time to time, all lumbering and slow, and both of them sit
out in the dirt, or lay on their backs, watching the sky. Brilliant shade of
blue, almost the same color as Lucifer’s eyes, and it’s always so quiet, there.
Nothing said between them, though sometimes Sam can feel his chest going tense
with words he wants to say but can’t quite grasp, and it’s pleasant. Peaceful.
Sometimes Lucifer brings a book of poetry out, Keats or Byron or Rimbaud, and
he reads to Sam in the still of the afternoon. Sam resting his head near
Lucifer’s free hand, eyes half-shut. Drifting in and out of sleep as Lucifer’s
voice cascades over him, familiar and low, and Sam forgets, for long stretches
of time, that he’s
(damaged)
still got a long way to go, in recovery. That this is only the beginning, and
Lucifer’s sticking around now. When things are fresh and raw in his memory, but
Sam knows. He just knows that once it gets difficult. Once Sam’s muscles have
started developing properly again, and his twelve-week hiatus from waiting
tables is up—Lucifer will avoid him again. It’s just what Lucifer does, and Sam
supposes he shouldn’t begrudge him of it. Not when he doesn’t think Lucifer’s
doing it on purpose.
He doesn’t want to enjoy Lucifer’s company, knowing that he’ll just leave him
again. But he can’t help it. Drawn in like a moth to a flame, magnetic eternal
connection between them, the way it’s always been, and Sam can’t resist his own
feelings. Vague resentment and that strange unchecked wish to just scream at
Lucifer for everything he put Sam through stifled by Sam’s relief at Lucifer
not ignoring him. Lucifer’s constant presence a balm, soothing over his fevered
skin. A little smothering, at times, the way Lucifer rarely leaves Sam’s side
now, but. It’s better than what they had before. Better than it’s been since
Sam came back from Michael’s, so many months ago now.
He trains, too. Little exercises to help his muscles, the ones Casey showed him
on the paper. Nowhere near ready to dance but he finds himself walking
steadier. Growing less and less dizzy as he moves from one part of the brothel
to the other—though he tires more easily than he used to. Finds himself able to
hold down larger portions of food, as well—though he still hates to eat for
very long, the food sitting heavy and thick on his tongue, clogging up in his
throat.
There’s something odd happening to his body, without his permission. Coming on
in slow increments; Sam first noticing in the mirror how his cheeks are
thinning out, different than when he was starving himself. His muscle tone
coming back more sinew than thick, his features growing slighter, more
delicate. Sam doesn’t want to focus on it right now, but it’s getting in the
way of his recovery. His exhaustion during exercise sessions. Sudden flashes of
heat and cold sweat in the middle of the night, so that Sam kicks off the
blankets, his clothes drenched. Waking Lucifer, who puts his hand on Sam’s
forehead
(“Nightmare?” his voice gentle and quiet in the dark, and Sam shakes his head.
Considers telling Lucifer what woke him, but he wouldn’t know how to explain
it, so he keeps his hands still against his thighs.)
feeling for a fever. His expression going tense and worried when he doesn’t
find Sam’s skin any warmer than usual, and Sam wants to tell him not to worry,
but he knows Lucifer will anyway.
His hair is growing back lighter too, not on his head but on the rest of his
body; coming in finer and paler than before, and it makes his scars stand out
more as a result, all thick and red and angry against his skin. So that it gets
harder for him to hide them no matter what he wears, and when Lucifer notices,
he schedules an earlier appointment for Sam with Alastair than their usual
weekly check-in. Sits with him in the hospital, mouth tightening at the amused
expression on Alastair’s face when he reveals Sam’s body is going through “hmm,
severe hormonal imbalances, due to the castration.”
“It won’t stop?” Lucifer asks, and Alastair just snorts, shakes his head.
Leaves both of them sitting there, Lucifer furious and Sam marginally worried:
I’ll end up looking, he starts, and then stops, his hands shaking badly. Has to
wait for a second before he can finish, Lucifer watching him the whole time,
concerned upset look on his face. I’ll end up looking like a freak, Sam says,
and Lucifer shakes his head immediately. His own hands coming out and then
jarring to a halt in mid-air, like he wanted to touch Sam but had forgotten
some rule he has with himself. Though Sam wishes he would forget, if only for a
second.
“You won’t,” Lucifer assures him. “You won’t look bad, Sam.” You’ll look as
beautiful as you do now, he says, very hesitantly, with his hands, and Sam
doesn’t try this time to hold his smile back.
So he recovers, slow. Lucifer always right by his side, quiet and watchful, and
Sam catches himself staring at Lucifer’s scars, sometimes. Remembering the
weight of the knife in his hand, the shocked horrified look in Lucifer’s eyes
the night Sam tried to kill them both, and he wonders why Lucifer has chosen to
forgive him.
Wonders too, in vague half-formed terms, if he can ever forgive Lucifer for
leaving him.
***** Chapter 29 *****
“You look gorgeous, Sam,” Ruby says, and Sam tries to smile at her, but it
comes off shaky. As nervous and nauseous as he feels inside, and she sighs,
folds her arms.
“You know Lucifer isn’t going to make you do this if you don’t want to,” she
says, and Sam shrugs.
I know, he says, writing the words for her on his tablet, and then Lucifer
shows up. Leaning against the wall behind Ruby, and there’s carefully nothing
in his eyes as he looks at Sam. As though he thinks he’ll send Sam into spasms
of flashbacks by showing any hint of desire.
“Sam?” Lucifer says, upward tilt of his chin, and Sam nods, and brushes past
Ruby on his way out of his room.
The scars on his hips are aching against the flex and pull of tight silk
wrapped around his torso. He has no idea why he agreed to do this.
~
There was a shortage of dancers, which is how Lucifer came about asking Sam to
come back to them in the first place.
He’s been waiting tables for two months already. Coming out of his room only
for a few hours, early in the evenings when the first clients show up: the
richer ones, more discreet. The ones that ask for specific kids and don’t make
a whole lot of fuss about anything except whether they want red or white wine
with their dinner. Sam doesn’t feel comfortable around anyone right now—except
Lucifer, of course, and Ruby—but these clients are. Easier to deal with. Less
of a hassle to Sam, who still has to learn how to walk with nothing between his
legs. The scar on his cheek shining plain and obvious no matter how dim the
lights are, or how good Ava is with makeup.
He’s a freak. In spite of what Lucifer told him back at the hospital, he knows
he looks—wrong. Thin and more feminine than he used to—and Sam’s never exactly
been the most masculine-appearing person he knows. Sweating and tired most of
the time, just a dumb kid who still can’t stomach the smells of food wafting
off the plates he serves. Who gets antsy in large crowds of people. Loud noises
make him flinch, make his skin itch in violent angry waves for the knife, for
just one more chance to carve into himself.
He can just barely hold himself together, all shivery and trembling and wanting
so much to reach out to Lucifer but knowing he doesn’t deserve to. Not after
everything he did to Lucifer. Everything he put him through. The fact that he
almost killed him weighing heavy on Sam’s chest, the guilt of it crushing back
anything he wishes he could say.
But there’s a shortage of dancers. Some pox breaking out in the younger kids’
wards, one boy rumored to have a disease on his crotch of some type, and Sam’s
the only one young enough and experienced enough with this to step in at the
last minute.
You can say no, Lucifer had told him, when he first asked. Leaning stiff
against Sam’s doorway, mouth thin, uncomfortable. If you’re not ready, Sam. You
don’t have to do anything.
Sam had shifted on the bed. Ran his hand down the scar scrunching up the pale
inner side of his left forearm. Where he has to press down extra hard now if he
wants to feel anything at all. I’ll do it, he said, fingers flexing uncertain
in the air. But just dancing. Luce. I’m only gonna dance.
Whatever you want, Sam, Lucifer had said immediately, like he would sign Sam’s
release forms right then and set him out into the real world if Sam asked, and
Sam had to work hard at not crying.
~
They head downstairs together. Past Abaddon’s suite, where she’s setting up for
her night—tugging the zipper shut up the side of her leather stilettos, tucking
a switchblade knife into the heel. Flipping her hair over her shoulder and
offering a salacious smirk to Lucifer, who ignores her, though he knows what it
feels like to be at the edge of that blade. To have his fingers tucked into the
wet heat of her while she scratches him raw down his shoulders.
Ignores her and glances sideways at Sam instead, gauging his reactions.
Watching a dim flush rise up over his neck and his cheeks, blossoming from
under the smooth silk outfit covering most of his chest and all of his groin.
(Lucifer isn’t stupid enough to think that Sam’s castration wouldn’t sell—there
are men out there that won’t fuck anyone unless it’s a fully castrated boy. Men
that will stick their dicks between the pale thighs of some underdeveloped
child and rut and fuck until they spend themselves dry. Sam in his new state
could rake in twenty-five thousand, easy. One hundred thousand, if Lucifer
could find some excessively lecherous older rich gentleman too curious and
depraved to pass up the offer.
Lucifer also knows he would slit his own throat with Sam’s knife before he even
considered that as an option.)
“You don’t have to—” Lucifer starts, for the tenth time that night, and Sam
bites his lower lip. Tucking it under his teeth and then releasing, the skin
all wet with saliva.
I’m okay, Sam says, but he’s shaking as he and Lucifer continue their descent.
Past Lilith’s suite, where she’s already entertaining one of the favored
clients of the brothel, her door half-open. Through the parlor downstairs,
where the other children in Sam’s age group are already catching hold of
clients, Meg and Hannah overseeing the transactions and exchanges of money
before allowing them to go off for the evening.
In the kitchen, the space between the parlor and the dining hall. Where hardly
anyone stops or walks through, except Inias. In that place, Lucifer stops Sam.
Brief touch of his fingers to Sam’s arm, and Sam’s whole body shivers. His eyes
closing for a second, and Lucifer doesn’t know how he must be feeling. The
first time he’s had real human contact aside from their occasional accidental
brushes in almost four months, and he probably doesn’t even—Lucifer shouldn’t
have—
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Lucifer hears himself say, drawing his hand back in a fist at
his side, so he won’t be able to reach out again. “I just. I need to make
sure—”
Sam has stopped directly in front of Lucifer. The bow of his neck a lovely
little clean stretch of skin, smooth and soft-looking under the crush of dark
hair. He’s holding himself so tense it makes Lucifer wince to look at him, at
the hunched-in line of his shoulders, the grit to his jaw. He’s not looking at
Lucifer, or at anything really, his fingers clenching against the kitchen
counter as he stares at the wall in front of them, but he’s also not moving.
Yeah? Sam says finally, after a long time. Turning halfway, so that Lucifer can
see both of his hands as he speaks, and that low flush has returned to his
face. What, Lucifer?
Lucifer clears his throat. Realizes he never finished his sentence, too caught
up in Sam, here and alive and with him. Something Lucifer never thought he’d
have, not after that night. “Just that you’re okay with this,” Lucifer says,
and Sam rolls his eyes.
For the thirty-five billionth time, Luce, yeah, I’m fine, he says, and, Can we
just go already, I don’t wanna be in there when they start getting drunk.
He’s all sarcasm and blunted hand gestures. Little snarky expressions coming
from his eyes, first time Lucifer’s seen any of it in—longer than he can
remember, if he’s being honest—but he’s smiling. Just barely visible curve of
his mouth at the corners, smiling as he turns from Lucifer and heads into the
hall that leads into the dining room, with its old-world elegant chandeliers,
crimson-cloth covered tables, and stone pillars supporting the balcony that
surrounds the stage.
Lucifer feels that barely-there hint of a smile wash over him like a rush of
cool water, and follows Sam in.
~
They find success in Sam dancing. In a way they couldn’t find success in
anything else, they discover a new side to themselves in this. Sam slowly
begins to come down more and more, a few times a week, moves onstage with
Cassie and Sarah and Drew and slides his legs and his arms under lines of silk
and lace. His muscle tone building back up—though he’s still smaller than he
used to be. Lean and corded muscle but in a more subtle fashion, and he tries
not to let it bother him as much as it did because he’s doing well. He’s
dancing and he doesn’t have to fuck anyone and he doesn’t have panic attacks
while he’s on stage performing and.
And Lucifer’s started looking at him again. Not that Lucifer hasn’t already
been paying attention to him, ever since he got out of the hospital, but. This
is different. More—
More the way he used to look at Sam, before. When everything was simple and
good and Lucifer raising his eyebrow at Sam from across a room meant Sam was
going to get a blowjob in five minutes.
Sam knows Lucifer doesn’t realize he notices. He won’t do it outside of the
dining hall, which. Sam thinks he should be hurt by that, except he’s still
trying to work out whether or not he’s ready to stop being angry with Lucifer.
Anger that’s been half-buried under his thankfulness for the attention, for
everything Lucifer’s done for him
(all the shit you never deserved you worthless whore tried to kill him tried to
destroy him you don’t deserve him you never will)
and the mixture confuses him, makes it worse. Makes him angry as he runs his
hands over the scars stretched over his hips, down his thighs. Angry as he
feels his heart beating under the long jagged scar creasing his rib cage in
half. Angry all the time, like this new fiery emotion has come in to take the
place of all the darkness and depression that had overpowered him for so long
before.
But he can’t show it, can’t talk about it with anyone. Not Casey, who has
become something of a friend since Sam has to go to checkups with her so often.
Not Ruby, or Brady, or any of the kids in Sam’s age group.
Lucifer, Sam will start, about half a dozen times a day, his fingers trembling
over the word, but when Lucifer tilts his head, ready to listen, Sam finds
himself unable to continue.
He keeps having dreams where he’s screaming at Lucifer. Lashing out at him and
yelling until his throat hurts, until the ache wakes him—tears stained across
his cheeks—but awake. Awake, all Sam can do is channel his energy into the
dance. Into eating according to the portion sizes Casey’s recommended. Into
carefully concentrating in his and Lucifer’s room, when he’s alone, on
speaking—though he hasn’t had any success, and he’s starting to think he should
ask Casey to look at his vocal cords for signs of permanent damage.
He’s scared that Lucifer isn’t ever going to come to him voluntarily again.
That the last kiss they ever shared
(gentle and slow two nights before sam was left alone for the day and went
foolish and unthinking into the orchard alone)
is going to be the last. That Lucifer won’t ever curve his fingers around Sam’s
wrist again. Or brush his hand across the nape of Sam’s neck when he’s tired.
Or push his hair out of his eyes. Or. Or any of the million little things
Lucifer used to do for Sam, back before Sam became
(damaged goods)
a faulty piece of equipment only good for Azazel to use when it was convenient
for him.
Worse still, Sam thinks he isn’t allowed to want Lucifer like that anymore.
Logically he supposes it’s ridiculous to assume he isn’t allowed to want
anything, especially considering the fact that they’ve been sharing a bed every
night for four months, but. It feels like he’s betraying himself. The way he
aches for Lucifer’s hand on his arm. Curved around his fingers. On his cheek.
(Never knowing how late at night Lucifer strokes his hair back from his
forehead as he dreams. Whimpering and shifting in his sleep and Lucifer wakes
up the second Sam starts to move. Pushes the sheets down a little to give him
some air and strokes his fingertips along Sam’s cheek, along the scar. Gentle
slow soothing movement, quietly whispering Sam’s name, murmuring that he’s
safe, that he’s going to be all right. Always dropping his hand the minute Sam
stirs. Laying back on his side of the mattress, his eyes closed, and he aches,
too; wishes it could be reciprocated but knowing he can never ask that of Sam.
Knowing it’ll always be too much, and he loves Sam enough to give him that
space. Will always love him enough to give him whatever he needs to survive
this.)
So the knife is gone, but Sam is still very badly damaged. Mute and touch-
starved and fueled by anger, and once that’s run out, Sam knows he won’t have
anything left.
He’s been dancing for almost a month when the annual auction comes up. The one
that changed Sam’s life, changed everything about his relationship with Lucifer
so long ago—and Sam’s been requested to dance at it.
Not by any of the clients. There are certain rules the brothel abides by, and
even the newest members know better than to suggest anything to do with Sam
Winchester. But the other kids want Sam onstage—Ruby in particular, claiming
he’s talented enough, after a month. Their best asset.
“He’ll rake in so much—” Ruby starts, when she’s trying to convince Lucifer to
say yes, and then stops at the look on his face.
“He’s worth half a hundred thousand right now, easily,” Lucifer tells her, eyes
flicking over Sam for a second, almost bored tone in his voice. “But I’ll slice
those pretty pink lips off your cunt if I find out you’ve exploited him without
his permission. Or mine.”
Then he glances at Sam again, and Sam doesn’t know why it makes him seethe, the
way Lucifer is treating him right now. Knows Lucifer is trying to give him the
space to make his own choice about this, but it has been five months since
Lucifer held Sam in the hospital. Over half a year since Sam was raped and
mutilated and ripped apart forever. Sam can’t close his eyes without seeing
Azazel’s face. Can’t take a step without feeling his thighs chafe together,
smoother every day. Can’t take a breath without remembering that his throat
can’t produce sounds that aren’t screams of terror.
Every second Sam spends alive is just another reminder that he’s a freak of
nature, and Lucifer should know that, but he’s standing there acting as though
he can’t even look at Sam. As though Sam has already fallen apart into
disrepair, after all the nights and afternoons he’s spent coddling Sam. Too
hypocritical, too much of an abrupt shift—if Sam can sleep in Lucifer’s bed and
wait tables and sit out in the rose garden for hours with him, he can dance at
one auction—which is why Sam tells Ruby, angry as always, forcing Lucifer to
translate for him, out loud:
I’ll do it. I’ll dance at the auction. I won’t fuck. But I’ll walk the tables.
“Oh, Sam, thank you—”
“Sam, what in the hell are you doing—”
You cannot keep treating me like I’m going to fucking fall apart if you blink
in my direction, Lucifer! Jesus Christ. Sam glares at him, nostrils flared.
Heated and furious and there’s so much he has to say, so many things to get off
his chest, but right now all he has time for is: I already feel fragile enough
on a regular basis without this shit from you, too. Could you just. Could I
just do this? It’s not like I haven’t been dancing every night for a month
anyway—
Which isn’t quite true, but Sam knows it’ll work anyway. Watches the fight just
slide out of Lucifer’s shoulders. The exasperated, upset expression that sends
a line shooting between his eyebrows. Pinches the corners of his mouth, his
eyes.
“I’ll be watching all night,” Lucifer says, flicking his gaze at Ruby once in
warning, and she nods. Her whole face lit up like she’s going to the circus,
but as she drags Sam off, beckoning him with her hand instead of touching, he
finds himself unable to stop looking over his shoulder.
~
They get through the first two days of the auction. It’s sort of a respite for
the older prostitutes, the ones that are already owned—like Sam and Brady—or
have their own suites, like Lilith and Abaddon. They lounge back and watch in
vague amusement as the children try so hard to impress the clients. Lucifer
walking each gentleman and lady through his parlor. His children’s suite. The
pleasure gardens, where boys with eternally youthful faces like Dorian Gray
drape themselves over the fountain, in between the rose bushes. Thaddeus
following, writing down sums, estimates, and adding up figures in neat columns.
Sam stays in his and Lucifer’s room for the two days. Curled up on his bed and
shivering because the automatons who regulate the brothel’s inner workings are
required to keep the temperature of the building ten degrees cooler when this
many guests are present. Reading books without comprehending them and trying
not to think about what’s going on downstairs. Have they sold off Anna Maria
yet? Twelve, with her little pigtails and the shock of freckles on the bridge
of her nose. The last time Sam saw her she was wearing high-heeled stilettos
and trying so obviously to imitate Abaddon that Abaddon had actually taken pity
on her and given her lipstick and a miniature whip to crack. Or Siobhan?
Fourteen, same age as Sam when Lucifer started treating him like an adult, but
she hasn’t had his education. She sings on Thursdays after Sam dances, and then
an older man, mid-forties, takes her upstairs.
Sam would be sick to his stomach, except he can’t feel anything. He’s just
numb. Has been for years.
On the third day, closer to the evening, there’s a soft knock at the door, and
he knocks twice on the wall, his code for ‘come in’. Half-expecting Ruby to
come in with some lacy getup for him to try on, or Ava with her pounds of
makeup, but he isn’t expecting—
Luce. Hey. He offers up a shaky smile, setting his book down by his hip and
standing. Dressed in soft loose clothes that hide all his scars, except the one
on his cheek, and he’s never felt more self-conscious.
Lucifer stops just inside the door. “I brought your. I have your costume for
tonight.” Holds out a thin box, covered in rich black velvet, and Sam has to
walk forward to take it. Slips the lid off and pulls out his usual getup—red
silk corset with lace tie-ins and lace draped strategically over his panties to
hide his lack of, well—anything below the belt. Satin g-strings and stockings
that run almost over his knees and a pair of stilettos that Sam’s sure belonged
to Abaddon when she was about eighteen. He holds it to his torso and smirks at
Lucifer:
Oh, wow, what a change, he says, rolling his eyes, and Lucifer laughs, soft and
amused rough sound Sam hasn’t heard in a long time.
Then “Get dressed and meet me backstage in the dining hall,” Lucifer says.
“You’re dancing for half an hour and waiting tables for the other half, and
then you’re done for the night. Understand me?”
Yeah, yeah. Sam waves his hand, absent—and then freezes.
Because Lucifer’s caught Sam’s hand in his. Their fingers tangled up in mid-air
and Lucifer doesn’t even seem aware of the heat bleeding between them. The
static electricity pumping so fast through Sam’s veins he thinks he’s going to
have a heart attack.
“Sam, I mean it,” Lucifer says, all quiet and low like nothing life-changing is
happening. “I will be there all evening. If you need me—if you need to leave
for any reason—”
Luce. Sam squeezes Lucifer’s hand, kinda gentle, and Lucifer startles, staring
down at their hands like he really hadn’t noticed before. I’m okay. It’s just
an hour.
He knows he’s supposed to be angry with Lucifer right now. But it’s really hard
when Lucifer is staring at him like that, cautious and kinda confused and
really soft—
And then Ruby’s voice floats up to them from downstairs: “Get a move on,
assholes, it’s curtains in five minutes,” and Lucifer jerks his hand back like
he’s been burned. Looking stricken, as though he’s been doing something wrong,
something Sam doesn’t want as much as Lucifer, and just like that Sam’s anger
and annoyance flares right back up.
He takes a step back. Holds his clothes out again. I gotta get dressed, he
says. See you downstairs, and he jerks his chin at the door.
Lucifer ducks out immediately, shutting it behind him with a quiet little
click. Sam strips, stares at himself in his mirror. The perfect image of
someone broken repeatedly, until he can no longer fully hide where the cracks
run. The faintest hint of stretch marks starting to form around the scars
scattered across his hips and stomach. The scars where his genitals used to be
all twisted up and red as always. His chest and arm and face all messes, sliced
through and forever broken, and Sam’s skin itches badly as he slips his costume
on, shakes out his hair.
He doesn’t have to worry about anyone seeing his scars tonight, or the dark
circles under his eyes. These people are always looking, but all they want is a
little hint of sex.
~
The suites, the parlor, all empty. Disconcertingly silent as Sam walks his
practiced walk through the kitchen and into the backstage area of the dining
hall. Where Ruby is waiting for him, along with the other dancers. Sarah, in
pale green lingerie. Cassie, in dusky orange leathers. Drew, wearing a dark
fitted thong and steel-toed boots.
“You’re the best-looking of the bunch,” Ruby whispers in Sam’s ear, before
walking out to announce them. Embellishing their attributes the way only a
prospective madam can: highlighting Cassie’s soft curls and cinnamon skin,
Sarah’s full mouth and wide innocent eyes. The cruel sharp angles of Drew’s
face and Sam’s long, long legs. So that by the time the four of them walk out
into the overcrowded dining hall Sam is sure they’re going to be a
disappointment.
He’s wrong. He’s so, so wrong.
The auction-goers who bought children are exhausted from forty-eight straight
hours of fucking and rutting, their purchases half-asleep on their laps, but
the auction-goers who came away dissatisfied are well on their way to being
drunk. Rowdy and full and excited and only Gadreel and Abner, the stone-faced
security guards, are keeping them from mounting the stage and taking what they
want.
(hands grabbing sam’s ankles pulling him down slamming him into the earth)
“Sam,” Ruby hisses from offstage, and Sam stumbles mid-dance-step, manages to
cover it as a pirouette. Glares at her, mouthing what all impatient, and she
rolls her eyes, gestures at him.
“You okay?” she whispers, eyebrows raised, but she isn’t looking at Sam, not
directly. She’s staring over his shoulder, and when he spins again, there’s
Lucifer.
Lucifer, standing directly at the foot of the stage. His arms folded across his
chest as he watches the four of them slide their hands up their bodies and spin
and twirl. Cassie on the pole, Sarah’s fingers sliding up and down the lace
between her legs, Drew crotch-thrusting in the face of some desperate
twentysomething businessman. But Lucifer is only staring at Sam. His eyes
heated and narrowed and wanton and worried, all at once, and Sam’s heart jerks.
Feels drawn to him, that magnetic pull as powerful as it always has been, and
he takes one step forward, then another—
Someone grabs Sam’s ankles, yanks him down, and it takes Sam a moment too long
to realize this isn’t a flashback. Meaty fat fingers wrapped around his foot,
yanking the stiletto off, running a path up the back of his leg.
“They shave you here, boy?” the guy who grabbed him hisses, and Sam—pinned
between the bottom of a table and the floor, his chest catching hard as he
tries to breathe, cold sweat breaking out over his flushed skin—can’t make a
sound. Whimpers softly, staring up at an unfamiliar round face, and he knows
good and damn well that clattering noise is Lucifer trying to get through the
crush and slick of bodies to reach Sam, but the man’s hand is already reaching
between Sam’s legs, pressing in—
“What the hell, y’ain’t got no cock?” the man spits, his expression darkening,
something between lust and disgust, squeezing in rubbing touching dragging oh
god oh god oh god—
Sam’s foot lashes out instinctively. Catches the man in the face, sends him
stumbling back long enough for Sam to scramble to his knees. The back of his
head is throbbing where he landed when he fell from the stage, but he has
enough presence of mind to grab a knife off the table he was just under. So
that when the man comes forward again, clutching his bleeding nose
(“I’ll get you you little whore you fucking slut how dare you hit me—”)
Sam is ready for him. All the anger he’s been feeling in constant low thrums of
heat coalescing, temporarily driving his sanity away. All his inhibitions gone,
and all Sam wants right now is to survive. To get out of here untarnished by
yet another man, and as he lunges forward all he can see are yellow-tinted
eyes, smell of cologne and peaches so strong in his nose he nearly gags—
The knife sinks in. Right into the fleshy soft part between the man’s fourth
and fifth ribs. Sam twists his wrist, sinks it deeper. Teeth gritted as he
shoves past the resistance of muscle and bone and flesh—
Right until Sam feels the blade sink into the man’s staggering heart.
***** Chapter 30 *****
Blood everywhere. Sam’s knife buried to the hilt in a man’s chest. Someone
whose name he doesn’t even know, greasy-haired and insignificant. People
screaming, courtesans blinking awake in their buyers’ laps and then promptly
throwing up at the sight of the massive tacky crimson spread around Sam’s
knees, smeared between them where he fell forward. Collapsing against Sam
(gunshots echoing sam barely conscious but he feels azazel’s body slam into his
soaked in blood so heavy crushing him can’t breathe can’t see can’t think)
and his head knocks against Sam’s shoulder, last breath exhaled in a surprised
whump!
Sam kneels there, frozen. Too shocked even to start trembling, though he can
feel the build-up of it in his muscles, the way it’s edging along already
cracked fault lines. His skin thrumming hot and slick with sweat from the crush
of bodies, the push and pull of the frantic crowd Ruby is trying to settle. His
anger still very much alive within him, built over weeks and weeks of
desperation and loneliness and an ache so profound it has been a separate wound
entirely from the visible scars already marring Sam’s flesh. Now manifesting
itself in the murder of a fat patron, Sam’s arm working against him, and even
if the man deserved it
(fat sweaty fingers closed around his ankle sick corrupt asshole sam’s already
had more than his fair share)
that doesn’t mean. Sam shouldn’t have.
He’s clutching the man’s dead weight in his arms when Lucifer approaches,
finally, shoving through the crowd until he can get to Sam. Hands on Sam’s
shoulders, gripping and tugging, and “We need to go,” he’s saying, rough-edged
and bordering on panic in Sam’s ear. “We need to leave, Sam.”
Shock is nudging its way in through the broken edges, but Sam allows himself to
be pulled up. To have the man removed from his front, Lucifer tugging them
apart and jerking the knife out of his ribs before letting him fall to the
floor again. A look of disgust twisting his mouth as he holds the blood-soaked
knife away from his body, teeth gritted until Gadreel comes and takes it away.
Then Lucifer herds Sam out. Most people have gravitated towards the front of
the hall, now, away from the stage area—Ruby directing them, with one eye on
Sam and Lucifer—and they’re able to slip out undetected. Lucifer’s arm around
Sam’s shoulders, firm hot weight soaking into Sam’s bare skin. Lucifer seems to
have temporarily forgotten his rule because even when they aren’t in the dining
hall anymore he doesn’t stop touching. Doesn’t take his hand off Sam as he
leads him upstairs. Past the empty suites and into their bathroom.
“Shower,” Lucifer says, voice tight. As close to a command as he’s given Sam in
years. “I need to take care—”
“Lucifer.”
Sam’s voice comes out hoarse. Uncertain and shaky and rough after well over a
year of disuse, ripped up from his throat like it was still trying to cling
onto some last desperate hope that Sam would never speak again. It hurts, some
place inside rubbing sore with the flex of muscles, but Sam barely notices. Is
barely even aware of anything except Lucifer, standing there, staring. Mouth
open. Shocked. Shaking, just a little, the same way Sam is now. His heart
slamming into his ribs, and he parts his lips, wets them a little.
“Luce,” he says, quiet and careful, all ragged and broken, and Lucifer
whispers:
“Oh, Sam,” and when Sam stumbles forward, dizzy and exhausted, all that anger
overwhelming him with its crushing intensity, Lucifer is already right there to
catch him.
~
“He stabbed him in front of almost four hundred people,” Ruby says, with this
small frown on her face, like she’s thinking. “Everyone saw what happened—”
“Everyone saw a whore dancer not giving what he was asked for,” Lucifer
interrupts. Vicious and snapping, and in his sleep, curled against Lucifer’s
side with a fleece blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, Sam winces. The
space between his eyebrows furrowing, and Lucifer immediately reaches out,
smooths at it with his thumb.
The three of them are sitting in the parlor on the sofa. Everyone from the
auctions finally having cleared out, and it’s quiet in the brothel for the
first time in three days. Sam’s clutching loose at Lucifer’s shirt under the
blanket, his fingers trailing against a bare patch of skin at Lucifer’s waist,
and Lucifer doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle this. Knowing Sam probably
hates him but having Sam pressed so hard to his side, refusing to let go—
(“Sam,” Lucifer says, very soft. His fingers tucked under Sam’s chin, tilting
his face up. Sam’s mouth working, moving over words he hasn’t spoken out loud
in over a year, but the only one that comes out is Lucifer’s name. Quiet and
awed and almost reverent, and Lucifer knows he doesn’t deserve it.
“You should take a shower,” Lucifer tells him. “Go to bed. I. I didn’t expect
the evening to go like this—”
“Makes two of us,” Sam mumbles, all rusty and hoarse, but he’s smiling. They
both are. Lucifer’s mouth stretched and curved uncontrollably, unable to
believe what he’s hearing. His boy, his Sam. Talking again. That voice, rough
and rich and Lucifer never thought he’d have it again.)
“So the fact that the guy was touching Sam—” Ruby starts, her eyebrows lifted.
Because there are rules here, at this brothel. No one touches the dancers
unless they’ve paid well over the usual price, and far in advance. No one
touches the newest kids until they’ve been broken in.
No one touches Sam. Period.
Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose. “What people saw was a lot of blood and
a faceless prostitute kid who wouldn’t spread his legs, Ruby. That’s all.” His
jaw is set, mouth tense, and Ruby backs off, her hands held out. Placating, but
Lucifer’s already turned his attention back to Sam. Stroking his hair, trying
not to stare at the quiet lines of his face. To listen to the slow rhythm of
his breathing. Sam, here. Alive and present and warm and.
(“‘m too tired to take a shower,” Sam says, voice kinda creaky. “‘m pretty used
to feeling dirty, anyway—”
“Sam—”
“C’n I—” Pause. Yawn, deep and exhausted, and Lucifer is suddenly reminded of
how young Sam really is. How much he’s been through, in such a short amount of
time.
“Can you what, Sam,” Lucifer prompts, after a while.
Sam blinks at him. The soft sweep of his eyelashes is getting a little more
pronounced against his cheekbones. His mouth has a full red quality to it that
it didn’t have before—before, and Lucifer tries not to stare. “Jus’ wanna—wanna
be with you,” Sam says to him, sleepy, and Lucifer has run a children’s brothel
for twenty years. Has pimped out thirteen year olds to sixty year old
businessmen, has fucked seven whores in one day on a bet, has watched fifteen
year old girls running naked across his lawn—but he’s never felt more sinful,
more achingly raw, than when he whispers:
“Okay, Sam,” and leads him into their room.)
“Do you at least know who Sam killed?” Ruby asks, and Lucifer shakes his head.
Didn’t really get a good look at the guy’s face, to be honest, was mostly
focused on getting Sam the hell out of there, but. It doesn’t matter who it
was. A man tried to touch Sam, and now he’s dead, and Lucifer doesn’t give a
shit.
There’s a soft knock on the parlor door and Sam makes a quiet little sound in
his sleep, burrowing his face further against Lucifer’s chest. His fingers
flexing in the weighted unconscious way of sleep-induced movement and Lucifer
cannot believe those hands were stained with someone else’s blood half an hour
ago. That Sam murdered someone tonight, and now he’s curled up against Lucifer,
sleeping so hard his face has creases from Lucifer’s shirt.
“Come in,” Lucifer calls, ready to rain hell on whoever it is that’s disturbing
his Sam from sleeping.
The door opens a crack and Casey sticks her head through. “Alastair wants to
see you,” she whispers. Cutting her eyes to Sam for a moment, and then she
adds, “Alone.”
Lucifer glances at Ruby, his eyebrows raised. She shrugs, and Lucifer tells
Casey, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Then, gently squeezing Sam’s hand: “Sam,” he murmurs, and Sam startles awake.
Blinks heavy eyelids at both of them, his fingers tripping an exhausted
sentence across Lucifer’s stomach:
What is it? I was sleeping.
“I know, Sam.” Lucifer exhales, quiet. “But I have something to take care of,
and you need to go to bed for now.”
(Lucifer has extra clothes in their room for Sam. A pair of fuzzy slippers
draped over toes that curl tanned and tiny into the carpet. Long flannel
pajamas Lucifer normally wears every night to bed, long and draped loose over
Sam’s wrists, pooling around his ankles. Soft fabrics tucked around Sam’s
trembling frame.
Lucifer walks into another room while Sam dresses. Only comes back when he
knocks on the wall, the old way, and finds Sam swaying where he stands,
yawning. His hands stuffed into the pockets of the pajama trousers.
“You want to stay here?” Lucifer asks him. “Sleep?” Gesturing at their bed,
fresh sheets and soft cushions, but Sam shakes his head.
Wanna go with you, he signs, and there must be some strange expression on
Lucifer’s face because he hastens to touch his throat, adds: It hurts to talk
too much. I’m gonna have to ease into it.
Lucifer nods. Walks forward and puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder, stroking his
thumb along the line of skin showing under his pajamas. Sliding his hand up and
against Sam’s jaw, and Sam reacts immediately, his skin jolting like Lucifer’s
electrocuted him. Odd expression on his face as he leans into the touch,
exhaling shakily. His eyes longing and hungry, and Lucifer finds himself
consciously staring at Sam’s mouth for the first time in months. Wishing he
could cover it with his own.
Instead, he says, “If you fall asleep downstairs, I will carry you back to this
room,” and Sam just snorts, shaking his head.
Bring it on, old man, he says, soft little smile on his face, and holds his
hand out for Lucifer to take.)
Sam nods, all slow and sleepy. Stretches his arms a little, pushing up from the
couch enough to reveal the lazy slope of his back as the blanket falls from his
shoulders. The collar of Lucifer’s pajama shirt all tugged down around him,
indecent amount of skin showing, and Lucifer has to look away. Only looks back
when Sam nudges his knee, seeking his attention.
You still want me in our bed? Sam asks, gazing up at him through half-lidded
eyes. Making innocence seductive, the little faint smirk at the corner of his
mouth suggesting he’s doing it deliberately, and Lucifer almost chokes.
“I—of course, Sam. Of course I do,” he says, fast, a little flustered, and
then, to Ruby:
“Make sure the kids are secure for the night and you can go to bed.”
Once they’re both gone, he heads out. Through the kitchen and down the stairs,
to the hospital wing where Casey and Alastair are both waiting—along with, to
Lucifer’s surprise, Lilith. Casey’s face is pinched, her eyebrows drawn, and
Lucifer feels a low curl of dread stir itself up in the pit of his stomach. The
last time she looked like that, Sam was dying.
“Ah, Luci,” Alastair hums. “So nice of you to take time out of your—hmm, busy
schedule for me.” He’s sneering as usual, his face twisted. Lilith just looks
amused.
“What the hell is all this about, Alastair?” Lucifer asks. Tired. Scraping a
hand down his face. He feels like he’s been awake for days. Auctions leave him
drained, every year. Having to watch his best children get sold to greasy-
fingered fat fucks who will probably die in a year from eating one too many
pies anyway. Doesn’t matter how much money he rakes in from the whole thing,
less prostitutes here means less business for the brothel until the newest
batches of kids come in, and Lucifer hates having to double everyone’s work
shifts. Every year, such a hassle.
All he wants is to fall on his bed and sleep. To listen to the soft shifting
sounds of Sam curled up beside him, knowing he’s safe for another night. Not
standing down here, Alastair less than a foot from him, sardonic amused
expression on his face as he says:
“That man your little favored slut killed—he was, how shall I put this,
hmm—somebody important.”
“Someone famous?” It’s rare, but not unheard of, for the more well-known
politicians and celebrities to visit Lucifer’s brothel. Most of them prefer
going to brothels in the city, full of grown women who can cater to their needs
without it seeming unnatural, but there are a few. Occasionally. Ones that know
how to evade being found out. Or who have the money to keep their visits out of
the newspapers.
Alastair nods.
Lucifer just stares at him. “So pay his men to keep it quiet,” he snaps. “Why
are you wasting my time with this?”
“Because, Luci,” Alastair’s hand clamping down around Lucifer’s shoulder, so
that he has to tense up his muscles to prevent himself from flinching, “there’s
probably going to be a police investigation. I’m not used to having to cover
for whores that kill their clients—”
“Get used to it,” Lucifer interrupts. Voice a soft snarl as he wrenches his arm
from Alastair’s grip, backs up. “Call whoever you have to. Sam will not suffer
because of what he did tonight. I won’t allow my business to suffer because you
have someone with a recognizable face in your morgue.”
Lilith steps forward. “We have an ultimatum for you, Luci,” she says, and he
raises his eyebrows at her:
“You don’t give any kinds of ultimatums, you whore. I tell you what your job is
and you spread your legs and keep your fucking mouth shut unless they ask for
it open—”
“Alastair and I are asking for ownership of the brothel,” she interrupts, and
for a moment Lucifer is startled into silence. Blinking at her audacity; she
may have been one of the first he recruited, his number one in ranks and
certainly the most capable of running this place in Lucifer’s absence, but
she’s still just a prostitute, in the end—
“Well,” she amends, “I’d want to be the one in charge. But Alastair stays with
me. Abaddon, too. That little slut you used to fuck before your precious Sam
came on, what’s her name, Ruby?—”
“Is there a point to all of this, Lilith,” Lucifer says, dragging his fingers
down his face. Feeling his hand shaking with barely suppressed fury at the idea
of losing his brothel, his livelihood, his main source of income—
She says, “You give me the brothel, leave with Sam, and Alastair and I will
ensure his anonymity in this murder remains intact. If you refuse—”
“If you refuse,” Alastair cuts in, still smirking, “I’m afraid my silence will
become—hmm, less valuable to me than the reward I’ll be offered for turning
poor young Sammy over to the authorities.”
“I’ve fucked a lot of policemen in my time here,” Lilith says. With her fingers
twirling around in her lace slip, red mouth curved and highlighting the flat
cruelty simmering in her eyes. “They’d be all too happy to turn their monthly
visits into investigations if I asked them—”
“What the hell is wrong with you,” Lucifer snarls. His nails digging into the
meat of his palm as he stands there and stares at both of them, Casey still
looking sick and stricken in the back. “You think you have the right to bargain
for Sam’s life like this—”
“Oh, please, Luci,” Lilith says. “As if you haven’t been giving me the run of
the place most nights anyway.” She steps forward, enough so that he can smell
her perfume, barely masking the thick salty odor of sex. “You know I’m good
enough,” she murmurs. Her hand coming forward like she wants to touch, and he
takes a step back, his nostrils flared. “And really—after everything you’ve
already put him through—” she glances over at Alastair, blink-and-miss-it move
that rails something suspicious up Lucifer’s spine, something itching at the
back of his mind that he can’t quite put his finger on—“can you imagine little
Sammy in prison?”
“I’m guessing he wouldn’t fare a week there,” Alastair says, “not after the way
he reacted so—hmm, unfavorably with Azazel,” and it clicks for Lucifer, right
then, what they did.
(let azazel in waited until lucifer was already gone and helped him sneak in
probably told him exactly where sam was probably watched him leave out the back
door)
He lunges forward. Wraps his hands around Lilith’s throat, ready to choke her
to death, to strangle her with her pearls, with her own hair. His muscles
braced and tense, fingers sunk in against her rapid pulse. The adrenaline in
his veins is thrumming hard and hot and he’s sure she can feel his rage—
Except then there’s something cold pressing against the back of his neck.
Nudging into his hairline, sleek frozen iron, and “Luci,” Alastair says. Soft
shifting metallic sound that Lucifer knows is him thumbing off the safety. “You
may want to—hmm, rethink this.” With the gun shoved against Lucifer’s skin,
Alastair’s breath hot and quick in his ear.
Lilith says, hoarse and ragged, “If you kill us, there’s no one else who’s
gonna be able to cover for what Sam did. No one is going to—ah—care enough.”
He breathes in. Thinks of Sam upstairs, waiting for him. Quiet and warm and
terrified after everything that’s happened this evening, and his grip relaxes,
allowing Lilith to stumble backwards. Alastair dropping the gun from Lucifer’s
neck instantly, the safety clicking back on. Lucifer furious and humiliated
because he should kill them. Both of them. He could do it right now, could grab
the gun from Alastair and shoot them both and no one would miss either of them—
But Sam needs him. Sam needs him alive.
Alastair says, “We can see this is a—hmm, very difficult decision for you,
very—mm, emotional—we respect that.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You
have until tomorrow, Luci,” and Lucifer turns immediately away. Heads back up
the stairs without looking at either of them again.
Sam is in their room, scrunched down under the covers on their bed. Soft tufts
of hair sticking out, splayed over the pillow. His fingers digging into his
sheets as he sleeps, and Lucifer pauses in his doorway, watching. Moonlight
plays across the mattress, the floor, stripes of it from the blinds on the
window. There are books scattered across one side of the carpet from days Sam
spends up here reading—his sign language guide, battered copies of Shelley and
Coleridge, his favored ancient Egyptian facts tome—and clothes draped over
furniture and Sam is a teenager.
It hits Lucifer like that, just sudden, built up over the whole evening but it
rattles him. Thinking about Sam, only seventeen and raped twice and attempted
suicide, Sam who is suffering so much, and Lucifer hasn’t even been able to
talk to him about it yet. Sam, brave and lovely and sad and worn thin at the
edges, and Lucifer knows, right then, that Sam cannot go through something else
like that. He can’t.
Sam will die. And Lucifer is no longer capable of pushing him away to make it
hurt less.
Sam shifts under his sheets, asleep but stirring, and Lucifer backs out of the
doorway. Into the main area of the suite, teeth gritted, and he sinks down onto
the sofa, hand in his hair, thinking.
By the time the dawn breaks over the horizon, all soft oranges and pinks and
lilacs, Lucifer has made up his mind.
***** Chapter 31 *****
Something is going on at the brothel.
Sam’s not an idiot. He can tell things are different, ever since he killed that
man at the auction
(fat awkward fingers groping between his legs no one touches him there no one)
and he gets it, he does. He committed homicide in a brothel, after all, and in
front of people, too, there are bound to be consequences
(like lucifer kicking you out lucifer rejecting you because you’re too much now
sam he’ll have to clean up your mess and you aren’t worth the repercussions)
but it’s more than that. It’s not just the wary glances the other kids send
him, the ones in his age group and younger, it’s the way the older prostitutes
look at him, now. The ones like Ruby, or Meg, the ones that are on a more
advanced level in the overall hierarchy. Uncertain and a little sad, and it’s
driving him insane. Because they know he killed that guy, but they also know
what happened with Azazel, and Sam didn’t think they’d have any problem
understanding why.
“Ruby,” he tries once, during rehearsals. His voice rough and strained,
struggling to work, and she spins around in the middle of explaining a move to
Cassie, glares at him.
“What?” she snaps, harried and impatient with him like she never is, and he
backs off, hands up:
“Nothing,” but he’s hurt. Confused. A little miffed, when she brushes him off
again after the dance that night. The other kids backstage gathered around in
tight little circles, glancing Sam’s way every so often. Whispering, low
undertones that make his chest tight, and he feels shimmers of anger
threatening to break out again. Because they’ve talked about him for years but
it’s different now, with this odd new tense atmosphere, and he can’t just brush
it off like he’s been doing. Can’t ignore it, and it annoys him, this new
unknown interruption to his normal routine.
Even more so when Lucifer does it, too.
Sam sees him as he’s coming out of the dining hall, struggling out of his
heels, hair in disarray, hanging in sweaty strands falling out of the haphazard
ponytail he’s got pulled up in the back. Lucifer’s coming up from the
basement—again—and they almost run into each other. One of Sam’s hands coming
out instinctively to break his fall and he smashes his palm against Lucifer’s
chest, feels the contact ricochet up his arm, blistering heat and static
lightning even though Lucifer’s skin is cool even through his shirt. Shivering,
trying so hard not to look at Lucifer’s face. Afraid of the exasperation he
might see there, the flat neutrality that means Lucifer has given up.
Hey, Sam says fast, signing because it’s still easier on his throat, and
Lucifer doesn’t mind. For now, anyway. Sorry. Didn’t see you.
Lucifer shakes his head. “It’s fine, Sam,” he says, but he’s distracted, Sam
can tell by the way his eyes are shifting over his shoulder. Resting on some
invisible point on the wall behind Sam’s head, and Sam pulls his hand back.
Hands set awkwardly on his thighs, because his outfit doesn’t have pockets, and
he starts:
What, Lucifer, what is it—
“Sam,” Lucifer says, and he reaches out to tangle their fingers together so Sam
will stop talking. Kind of pulling him in, tugging him closer until they’re
sort of pressed up against each other in the middle of the hallway. Their hands
crushed between them, and Sam’s head comes forward to rest against Lucifer’s
collarbone on instinct, but he can’t help rolling his eyes. Because even with
Lucifer’s palms pressed flat against his, even with their fingers slotted at
the seams. Even with Lucifer right there, Sam’s mouth almost resting on a clean
smooth stretch of skin, it doesn’t make up for the fact that Lucifer’s doing
it. Same thing that everyone else has been doing—brushing him off. Like he’s
twelve years old again, disposable and
(useless)
unimportant.
“Lucifer,” Sam says, his mouth going thin, pinched at the corners. “You’re
not—not telling me something. What—” he coughs, shifts his fingers in Lucifer’s
grip. “Why are you doing this again?”
Because they both know what the results are, every time, of Lucifer hiding
things from Sam. Trying to keep Sam in the dark about things that concern him
because he thinks it’s for Sam’s “own good”, and Sam always ends up hurt worse
than before. Every goddamn time, and he’s sick of it.
But Lucifer shakes his head, the movement brushing his chin against the top of
Sam’s head. “Later, Sam,” he says, and, “I promise.”
The problem is that Sam’s heard Lucifer’s promises before. Knows about how much
they’re worth, and even though things have been better recently, there’s still
no guarantee they’ll stay that way. Sam knows he took a risk with killing that
man last week, but if Lucifer decides he can’t have that much of a liability
here—
(you aren’t worth the repercussions)
Lucifer’s disentangled their fingers between them, but Sam’s hand shoots out,
grabs his shirt to get his attention. Scared that he’s going to pull away
entirely, suddenly desperate to know the truth. Biting his lower lip, annoyance
reassembled again into fear, and Lucifer tucks his fingers under Sam’s jaw,
tilts his head up. Raises his eyebrows, and Sam says, I. This. You know I
didn’t want to kill that man, right, Lucifer? You have to know that.
“I know, Sam.”
“So don’t—” he hesitates, swallows around the soreness. Don’t kick me out.
Please. God, Lucifer, I swear—I’ll be quiet, I won’t do anything you don’t ask,
I swear—
“Sam,” Lucifer murmurs. His voice gentle as he strokes Sam’s skin, but there’s
a thread of harried tension there, too, and Sam’s heart won’t stop pounding.
“I’m not going to kick you out.” His fingers slide through Sam’s hair for a
moment, then withdraw, and he steps back a pace. “I just. I have things to take
care of. We’ll talk soon.” He turns, walks away. Leaving Sam standing there,
badly confused for long seconds. Body still tingling from Lucifer’s warmth,
from his closeness. Wondering what Lucifer isn’t saying. What he could possibly
have in mind, if he doesn’t want to send Sam away but refuses to talk to him.
He heads upstairs. Ignores the reek of perfume coming from Lilith’s suite, the
cries of pain from Abaddon’s. He strips his clothes off in their suite
bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror.
(freak)
His body is still changing. More and more rapidly each day, he thinks. He’s
lost so much muscle tone in the past month that Lucifer’s had to ask Inias to
fix him extra servings of food in the kitchen to make up for it. Not that Sam
really cares, because most of what Inias cooks him is lean meats or vegetables,
easy for him to choke down and digest, but. Still. His scars are showing up
worse, vivid and stark against his pale skin, and his hands are—delicate, for
lack of a better word. Delicate and thin like the rest of him.
He stares at his scarred, angular face, all sharp feminine angles and dusky
tilted eyebrows in the half-light, and wonders if he’ll ever stop hating
himself.
~
A few days later, Sam’s draped over a bench outside in the late warmth of the
afternoon sun. Staring at the orchard in the distance, remembering
(ripped up grass peach blossoms everywhere lucifer oh god where the fuck are
you)
that day in fleeting increments. Wondering when it’ll get easier, when it’ll
leave him alone. If those memories will follow him forever, constant violent
reminders of just how broken he is, and then he hears Lucifer’s voice. Drifting
quiet and familiar over the lawn, coming from a window near the back storage
room, and Sam slides off his bench, slips silently along the pathway until he
can hear Lucifer more clearly.
“...to protect Sam, Michael,” Lucifer is saying, sounding pissed, and Sam tucks
himself up under the eaves of the brothel, knees curled to his chest, head
ducked down low.
“He killed... I don’t know who, it was someone famous, Heyerdahl didn’t tell
me...” Pause, soft rough sound, Lucifer scratching the back of his neck, and
then “Yeah,” he says. “People are gonna come after him, yeah. All of us. And I
can’t... I can’t do that to him. Michael, you have—you have to help me out
here. I don’t know where else Sam can go.”
Another pause, but Sam’s barely listening anymore. His fingers clutching at the
brick siding of the brothel, hard enough that he’s scraping up his skin, tiny
little rivulets of blood running down but he doesn’t feel it. Can’t feel
anything. Or hear. Or see. Or think. Or fucking breathe, because Lucifer.
Lucifer is sending him away. He’s shipping Sam off again. Back to Michael’s.
For good this time, probably, because of course now that Sam’s committed
homicide he’s too much to handle. Too much of a liability for the brothel, just
like Sam predicted. Lucifer will send him away and never speak to him again and
then Sam will be just another ruined whore, just another bit of collateral
damage, exactly the way he’s always known he’d turn out.
“Tuesday. Fine,” Lucifer says, before hanging up the receiver, and Sam rolls
away from the open window and vomits into the rose bushes.
He doesn’t go back inside for a long time. Not until the sun’s started to slip
below the horizon, the air cooling around him, and even then Sam postpones it
until the sweat on his clothing dries. Sticking to him, stiff and
uncomfortable, and he rises, slow, and heads for the door that leads back in
through the kitchen. His legs shaking in their effort to support him and he has
to hold onto the furniture as he goes but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Not
if Lucifer’s sending him away.
Abaddon is in the parlor when he passes through. “Sam—” she says, frowning like
she wants to chastise him, but there must be some expression on his face,
something that shows what he’s feeling, because she stops. She stops, and then
he knows it’s bad.
“Where,” Sam starts, has to stop for a minute to cough and rub his throat,
swallowing roughly. His vocal cords feel like they’ve been damaged all over
again, like his throat might swell shut, weighted down with his grief, his
anger. “Where is Lucifer?”
“He’s in the library,” Abaddon says, “but Sam—”
He doesn’t wait to hear the rest of her sentence. Just goes. Taking the steps
two at a time, slow-burning anger fueling his trembling limbs. So that by the
time he gets to the library he’s flushed, bright red with fury and he can
barely see, can barely focus on anything except Lucifer, and his betrayal.
Lucifer, who is standing in the middle of the room talking to Alastair, looking
like nothing’s wrong, acting like he’s not about to just dump Sam into someone
else’s lap, like he doesn’t remember every single thing that happened to Sam
after the first time he pushed him away—
Sam’s not aware of moving until he sees his hands gripping a china angel. Shape
of a child with wings, wearing oddly sensual robes and holding a harp, and Sam
throws it. Intends to hit Lucifer in the head, but it smashes to the ground
instead, spraying white everywhere. Soft tinkling sound of broken expensive
things as it scatters across the floor, and Lucifer and Alastair both turn at
the same time. Lucifer looks immediately pained, familiar line creasing between
his eyebrows. Alastair just looks annoyed.
“We were talking,” he says, “or is it your eyesight that’s been damaged now—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sam snarls at him, all serrated edges and blistering frigid
intent as he starts forward. Glaring at Lucifer, feeling the china crush
further under his feet. Grinding it into the carpet until he’s a foot from
Lucifer, less than that, even, and he says, “Why are you abandoning me?”
“Hmm,” Alastair hums, sounding delighted, looking even more so. “Trouble in
paradise?”
Lucifer flicks his eyes over once. Looking tired, shipwrecked and defeated, but
he still has enough command in his gaze to get Alastair out of the room.
Mocking bows and serpentine smiles as he backs out, and then the door is shut,
and Sam and Lucifer are alone. Surrounded by ceiling-high shelves of books, not
just sexual in nature but historical. Geographical. Scientific. Sam knows there
are cookbooks in here somewhere, but. That doesn’t matter. Not right now.
“Sam,” Lucifer says, very quiet.
“No, no,” Sam snaps at him. “No, you don’t—” He breaks off, throat twisting,
aching, and he rubs at what feel like swollen glands for a second before
continuing, voice escalating the longer he goes on:
“You don’t get to fucking try and placate me. Or whatever the hell you were
gonna do. I heard you, Lucifer. I heard you on the phone with Michael. You’re
gonna fucking give me back to him. After you. After you swore to me you weren’t
going to. You’re selling me out again because I got to be too much trouble for
your fucking company, isn’t that right?”
“Sam—”
I thought you wanted me again, Lucifer! he signs, his throat feeling wrenched.
Dragged through with rusted iron, serrated along the edges. This is the most
he’s spoken out loud since. Since before, and he’s crying already, chest
hitching with sobs. His hands can barely move, he’s shaking so bad. “You kept
acting like you wanted to be around me again,” he says, vicious and hoarse and
so, so devastated. “I thought. I thought you were gonna keep me here, or
whatever, but I guess that was wrong—”
“Sam, would you just—”
“God, the last time you shipped me off I got raped. Or did you forget that? I
lost my voice and I got slit open and I almost fucking killed myself and I
don’t have a cock now but I guess—” he coughs, his throat rallying against him.
Lifts one shaking hand and keeps going: —I guess none of that even matters
because your precious fucking brothel has to keep churning out expenses—
“Sam!” Lucifer’s hands are on his. Gripping his wrists so tight, so close to
the way he used to grab Sam. Digging bruises into his flesh, both of them
breathing hard. Sam crying, the tears running down his ruined cheeks, and
Lucifer not too far behind.
“You left me,” Sam whispers. Chokes on the words, his fingers twitching in
Lucifer’s grasp, but he forces himself to continue. Because it’s been months,
and Lucifer needs to hear this. “I needed you, Lucifer. And you were gone.”
“Sam,” Lucifer whispers back. His eyes falling shut, deep grooves appearing in
his face. “I know, Sam. I know I did.” His fingers slowly loosening their grip
on Sam’s wrists, falling down between them, but Sam doesn’t pull away. He’s
shaking so bad he’s afraid that losing the support would mean falling over.
“Don’t you fucking send me away again, then,” Sam tells him, low and fierce.
“Don’t you ship me off to Michael’s.”
“I’m not going to,” Lucifer tells him, and that—
That’s not what Sam was expecting to hear. At all.
He hesitates. Stares hard into Lucifer’s eyes, deep blue and rich and more
familiar to Sam than anything, and he says, “What—”
“You killed some dignitary,” Lucifer says. Releasing Sam’s wrist to wave a
hand, and Sam watches the careful flex of his bones and muscles moving under
his skin. “They’ll be looking for him, and I. I can’t have you here, in danger
of getting arrested. You. I can’t put you through an ordeal like that again,
Sam. I won’t. I refuse to watch you suffer a fourth time because I was too slow
to react.” His face is so close, tears shining in his eyes.
“I will not push you away again, Sam,” he says. All shaky and hoarse and
ruined, and Sam’s chest is constricting, too small for his heart all of a
sudden. “I am sending you away to Michael’s, but the difference is that this
time, I’ll be coming, too.”
Oh, Sam signs, very small, with his free hand. His heart still racing from
before, throat aching and dry but he’s relieved. Feels like a weight has been
lifted off his chest, all the things he’s waited so long to say, the words that
have been shoving their way up his throat, sticking to his ribs. Everything out
there now, and his anger feels washed-out for the first time in weeks.
Secondary to his shock at Lucifer’s words; to the drained, exhausted, wrung-out
portion of his body. Like he’s been fighting a battle upstream for weeks, and
now the current has finally let him go. Released him, and Lucifer is still
there. Still wanting Sam, after all this. Still wanting to be with Sam, and
that’s the most miraculous thing he’s heard in months.
He asks, “You’re leaving the brothel?” and Lucifer smiles, all wry and bitter
twisted up at the ground.
“Lilith and Alastair will be keeping their mouths shut about what you did so
long as I leave it in their hands—”
“Lucifer, you—”
“It was a question of your safety or my ownership of this establishment,”
Lucifer says. “You cannot doubt which one I’d choose, Sam.” His fingertips
smooth along the back of Sam’s hand, shifting his grip up a little, and Sam
exhales, shaky. Turning his hand so he can twine their fingers together,
bringing Lucifer’s hand up to lay flat against the side of his face, and he
leans into the touch, his eyes sliding shut. Curling his body forward a little,
and Lucifer takes the hint, and folds Sam into his arms.
***** Chapter 32 *****
Chapter Notes
     So, this is it. The end of an era. (Well, for now. There might be
     another part coming later. We shall see.) Thank you all who left
     reviews, kudos, or bookmarks. I know I lost a few readers somewhere
     in there because of content, or because of the chapter lengths, but
     that's okay. To those who have stayed to the end, thank you. And to
     my wonderful, wonderful beta Hil, I must again give a huge shoutout
     for all the work she did. This fic would be nothing without her.
     I hope y'all have enjoyed, and I look forward to writing more soon <3
Epilogue - (part I)
Tuesday.
Lucifer’s standing on the train platform. Watching the dirt-encrusted old clock
above him, slow ride of its hands as it counts out the seconds to two-fifteen.
One suitcase still resting on the ground beside him, the others all already
packed away by Thaddeus in the train, and he can’t quite make himself lean over
to pick it up.
He knows he’s doing the right thing. Knows that it’s either the brothel or Sam,
and there really is no competition there, but.
But.
He’s losing the brothel to Lilith. Lilith and Alastair, leaving it wrapped up
in their greasy greedy little quick hands. They’ll destroy it, his empire that
he’s worked so hard to build, and he can’t stop his anger at that. Cannot
believe that he’s been blackmailed by a common fucking whore—
The compartment where he and Sam will be sitting is facing the platform.
Lucifer’s eyes cut down to it as he’s thinking, just instinctive little
searching movement, and he sees Sam sliding in through the velvet-cushioned
door. Carrying one of his bags over his shoulder, setting it in the rack above
the window, and then. Then he looks at Lucifer through the warped glass.
Presses his palm to the window, the skin stretching white. His hair falling
into his eyes as he looks out, head tilted, the red line of his mouth curved up
a little at the corners. Looking tired, the way he always does, but happy, too.
Content, for the first time since Lucifer can remember, and he feels something
inside his chest collapse, the bitter anger and the thoughts of Lilith and
Alastair giving way to something a lot softer, more pliable. Warmth spreading
all through him, and he picks up his suitcase, goes inside.
He’s fucked up. A lot. He knows that, and the idea that Sam could very well be
dead right now because of him scares him shitless. Thinking of the last time
they rode anywhere together—prior to Sam’s four-month recovery—the last time he
and Sam were in a tight cramped space like this heading frantic and terrified
for home
(sam curled up and whimpering in lucifer’s lap lucifer stroking his hair blood
tacky on his hands so much blood whispering over and over “it’s okay sam it’s
going to be okay” barely able to hear himself over the white noise buzzing in
his mind)
and now. Now Sam’s standing in the compartment when Lucifer pushes the door
open. Lounging tall and lean and gorgeous against the seats, his arms folded
across his chest. Those dimples flashing as he smiles at Lucifer in greeting,
and suddenly Lucifer’s having a very hard time remembering why he regretted
having to leave the brothel behind at all. Not when it gives him this. Sam, his
Sam, present and safe and alive and Lucifer sets his suitcase down, walks
forward. Tilts their foreheads together for a moment, and Sam breathes out. His
fingers coming up to curl in Lucifer’s shirt, and he thinks of how he very much
does not deserve this. Sam’s forgiveness, his trust—any of it. Not after
everything he did to Sam. The isolation, the way he ignored him, telling
himself it was to keep Sam safe. Lying to himself, nearly getting Sam killed in
the process—
“You’re thinking too hard,” Sam murmurs. His eyes open, Lucifer can just barely
see the multicolored blur of them from where he’s standing, so close he can
feel Sam’s eyelashes brushing against his cheeks.
Lucifer’s mouth twitches of its own accord. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet,
shaking his head. Feeling Sam take his hand, gently tugging them both down onto
the seat. Curling up against him, his knees pressing into Lucifer’s thigh.
Tucking his head farther down, nearly under Lucifer’s jaw. Both of them alone,
really alone, now, and Lucifer’s mind drifts for just a moment longer back to
the brothel. Where Lilith and Alastair will be setting things up for
themselves. Ruby and Ava and Hannah preparing the kids for this new life,
clients coming in and paying to fuck and Lucifer will never get to go back
again—
But he has Sam, now. He has Sam, safe—really safe, for the first time since
he’s been under Lucifer’s care—and he doesn’t care about anything else.
The train lurches forward. Low rumble under their feet, vibrations as it moves
out over the tracks. Lucifer feels Sam’s hand twitch in his, and he closes his
eyes for a moment, and he smiles.
~
At some point, Sam falls asleep. His head resting in the crook of Lucifer’s
shoulder, forehead pressed to the side of his neck. Breathing out little warm
puffs of air against Lucifer’s collar, his fingers twitching vaguely against
Lucifer’s thigh, and he’s so relaxed Lucifer has to keep an arm around his
waist to keep him from slipping off the edge of the seat. Staring out the
window at the passing fields, feeling the steady beat of Sam’s heart against
his side, and Lucifer finds that he feels calm. Comfortable. All that warmth
still blossoming in his chest, and he stopped regretting having to leave the
minute he got into the car. Knowing that Sam is going to be with him. A fact
that isn’t going to change, not ever again—
It helps a lot, knowing that Sam doesn’t want it to, either.
He shifts in his sleep, making soft little snuffling noises, and Lucifer finds
his eyes drawn immediately down. Reaches up and brushes those loose hairs off
Sam’s skin, watching the play of sunlight across his features. A scrim of gold
caught on his temple, limning the scar that slashes diagonal and violent over
his cheek. Reminder that Sam is alive. That he’s fought through so much just to
be here, and it makes Lucifer’s breath catch in his chest. Staring down at his
kid, lightly stroking his thumb across the backs of Sam’s knuckles where they
rest on his thigh, and Sam mumbles something against his collarbone. Slanted
soft chameleon eyes opening, blinking for a second in confusion, stuck
somewhere on Lucifer’s jaw, and then he says:
“Hey,” all sleepy and slow, voice thick, still a little hoarse. Flips his hand
over and catches Lucifer’s fingers between his own. The two of them sitting
together in their little train compartment, cut off from the rest of the world,
the way they always have been. Even before either of them realized how deep
their relationship would run, how they’d catch each other subcutaneously,
burrow in deep, and never let go. Sam fishhooked into Lucifer’s life, just a
vital part of him, and Lucifer twined so tight around Sam’s soul he can’t tell
where they’re supposed to be separated.
If they are at all.
“Hey,” Lucifer says.
Sam’s eyes flick to the sun, dipping down through the trees as they fly past
the countryside. “Was I—” clears his throat. “Did I sleep for a long time?”
Lucifer shakes his head. Murmurs no, feeling Sam’s hand still wrapped loose in
his. Skating his thumb across the soft inside of Sam’s wrist. So that his
radial pulse jumps up a little, his cheeks flushing, but he doesn’t look away.
“Luce,” Sam whispers, the pink bow of his mouth so close, and Lucifer leans in
on instinct, drawn forward, thinking finally, thinking at last—
There’s an apologetic knock on the train compartment door, barely audible but
Lucifer still jerks back so fast his neck twinges. Eyes shooting up, glaring,
and it’s Thaddeus. Sheepish and a little flushed as he calls, “The train’s
almost docked,” through the glass, before hurrying off.
“Christ,” Lucifer mutters, watching Thaddeus walk down the aisle again. Feeling
Sam still pressed so warm against him, fit just under his arm where he belongs,
and he wonders if he could—if there’s still time—
But then the train stops, all smooth finesse and metalwork, gears and oil and
chains, and Lucifer has to detach himself from Sam to get their bags. To go and
make sure the carriage is here, ready and waiting to take them up to Michael’s.
His eyes meet Sam’s as they’re walking off the train, separated by a few
people, and Sam lifts his free hand, says, Later. Smiles, kinda shy and
cautious, and Lucifer feels it swell in his chest until it breaks over,
crashing and rolling and ruining him for anyone else for the rest of his life.
~
Michael’s is still just as plain as Sam remembered. Just as cold and forbidding
on the outside, all cement and gravel and barely any life to the structure at
all. It’s overcast when they arrive, Sam and Lucifer climbing out the backseat,
leaving Thaddeus to take care of paying the driver and collecting their bags,
and Sam shivers, though it isn’t especially cold. Staring at all of it,
Michael’s expansive grounds and his dull mansion, and he wonders how Lucifer
could’ve given up what he had before. Just for Sam, to come live like this.
Giving up his money and his establishment and Sam turns to Lucifer as they’re
walking to the front door together, says:
“Luce—I. You. I’m sorry you had to leave everything—” His heart racing in his
throat when Lucifer takes his wrist, makes him pause mid-step. So that they’re
standing there, watching each other in the road, and Sam says, hesitant: You
had so much back home; you gave it all up for me, I’m. I can’t believe—
“Sam.” Lucifer reaches out, pushes Sam’s hair off his forehead. His eyes keep
dropping to Sam’s mouth, pained expression on his face, like he’s trying so
hard to think of the right words. “You don’t need to apologize. It was you, and
your safety, or the brothel. Nothing—nothing—in all this world means more to me
than you do, Sam.” He swipes his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone, and Sam
swallows. Leans into the touch.
“I wish,” Lucifer starts, after a second, and then stops. His head ducked down,
and Sam reaches up, too. He’s taller than Lucifer, now, hadn’t really noticed
with everything else going on but he’s grown a good half inch, and it’s all too
easy to tilt Lucifer’s face back up to his. To whisper:
“What, Luce?” all quiet in the still of the yard, and Lucifer sighs.
“Wish I’d done this much sooner than now,” he murmurs, and Sam ducks his head
fast against Lucifer’s shoulder so he won’t see him cry.
When they get to the front door, it’s Michael and Dean who greet them. Stepping
out onto the porch, and Michael shakes Lucifer’s hand while Dean wraps Sam up
into a hug.
“Damn, it’s good to see you,” he says. All firm and fierce, laughing a little
when he notices how tall Sam’s gotten. Clapping him on the shoulder, his eyes
only going for a second to Sam’s facial scar, and Sam finds he barely has to
flinch away. Only a little tense at Dean’s loudness, at his proximity, and he
says:
“Hey, Dean,” and grins at the expression on his brother’s face when he hears
his voice.
Then Dean steps back from Sam, glares at Lucifer. “So,” he says, and Lucifer
turns partially from where he was speaking to Michael. One eyebrow raised, half
a question on his face as he flicks his gaze momentarily to Sam—
(You all right? he asks, fingers moving against his hip, and Sam bites his
lower lip, trying not to smile:
I’m fine, he says, and, You play nice, Luce. He’s my brother.)
“Yes?” Lucifer says, then, and Sam can hear the threaded current of barely
repressed violence in his voice.
Dean takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna say it again, Lucifer. You really do not
fucking deserve my brother—”
“Dean,” Michael warns, soft, as Lucifer glares at him.
“—but you brought him here. You’re keeping him safe. So just. Keep doing that,
and I won’t kill you in your sleep.”
He isn’t kidding, but Lucifer snorts anyway, shaking his head. “I’ll do my
best,” he says, looking back at Sam as he does so. His eyes soft, warm. Belying
so much more than the sardonic tone he’s giving Dean, and Sam does smile, then.
Reaches out and curls their fingers together, and Michael says:
“Let me show you to your room.”
~
It’s past nightfall, the stars dazzling and scattered across the sky, before
the knock comes. Quiet and hesitant, as if the knocker doesn’t know he’s
welcome, and Sam sets his book down. Turns the gas lamp on his side of the bed
up a little, and he calls, “Come in,” swinging his legs over the side of the
mattress. Hands clamped hard on his thighs but he’s still shaking when Lucifer
opens the door and walks inside.
His eyes flick over the room. High ceilings, beige carpeting. Just like Sam
remembered, and he still hates it. Still can hardly believe Lucifer left his
place for this, but. They’re here, now. Lucifer acting as the brightest point
in any room, the central sun, and Sam thinks he can probably adjust.
“Well,” Lucifer says, and Sam gets to his feet. “I, um.” Sam crosses the room,
his throat working. Eyes burning with how badly he wants to cry, how stunned he
is that he finally gets to do this. “You’re okay, Sam—” Lucifer whispers,
hoarse, and Sam reaches him and fists his hands in the hem of his shirt. Tugs
him forward, heart slamming against his ribs, and he kisses him. Slow at first,
hesitant. One hand coming up to catch Lucifer’s jaw, to tilt his head a little.
His tongue flicking out at Lucifer’s lower lip, both of them trembling.
Lucifer lifts his own hands, adjusts Sam against him. Until they’re both
basically on an equal level, and Lucifer can deepen the kiss. Inch by inch,
increment and soft but it’s never felt hotter, like they’re both burning up
from the inside. Sam clutching at Lucifer’s arms, at his waist. Gasping as
their tongues slide together, tasting Lucifer, and he makes an incoherent noise
into Lucifer’s mouth. Whimpering when Lucifer presses little tiny kisses to his
lips, to his jaw.
“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, over and over, against Sam’s mouth. As they stand
there kissing in the center of their brand-new room, gripping each other so
tight it almost hurts but Sam doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, he has Lucifer, he
doesn’t need anything else. Nothing else for the rest of his life.
He feels warm wet against his cheek. Reaches up to stroke his thumb under
Lucifer’s eye, and it takes him a second to realize they’re both crying.
Wonders whose tears are on his face. Decides it doesn’t matter. They’re
together, for fuck’s sake. They can share everything.
~
(Lilith and Alastair a week later, facing the police in their parlor. Lilith
twirling her hair around her pinky finger, smiling salacious and false at the
young deputy standing in front of her. Reaching out to adjust the lapels of his
coat, and her smile turns into a smirk at how fast he blushes. Innocence is
darling.
“You haven’t seen this young man?” his companion presses, holding up a grainy
old photograph of Sam. From before his castration, evidently, and Alastair
shakes his head, smooth neutral expression on his face.
“Not in—mm, a long, long time,” he hums, as Lilith runs her fingers down her
favored officer’s arm. “Good little slut, but he’s gone. Very sad, wasn’t it,
Lilith. Very, very sad.”
She nods, absent. “Not even sure which one that was, honestly,” she murmurs,
flicking her eyes over to the picture. “But he’s disappeared, now. Sorry,
honey.” Barely glancing at Alastair as she speaks, both of them amused and
impatient for later. Champagne spilling onto each other’s bodies, caressing
stacks of money. Sam and Lucifer both gone forever, and they’ll lie as long as
they need to, so long as they can keep getting richer and richer.)
~
(part II)
They’re lying together under a birch tree in the middle of Michael’s fields
behind his mansion. Alone, and Sam’s shirtless. His head tucked careless
against Lucifer’s chest, breathing slow, half-asleep in the afternoon sun.
Beautiful and scarred, curved there in the grass like an offering Lucifer never
knew he was allowed. Like a wild thing.
It’s been okay, living at Michael’s. Well, really Lucifer’s, now—Michael was
all too happy to hand over the management of his place to his brother after
their arrival, and Lucifer has since then changed it. Made it far less
suffocating than it was, relaxed and refined and elegant in that old-world
fashion only Lucifer can pull off. Food served daily, round the clock. Artists
and photographers traveling to Leeds from miles off so they can spend an
afternoon with one of Michael’s models. The ones that are still there
voluntarily, although most of them have been replaced, now. The old ones
leaving once they heard who was going to be in charge, a fact that amused
Lucifer more than it insulted him.
Sam looks far different than he ever has. Not quite fully female, not exactly
male. His hair tied back most days, the slanted fox look of his eyes gone even
sharper, sort of cold when he’s looking at anyone who isn’t Lucifer. His arms
and legs taut with muscle, but delicate. A dancer’s body, and Sam’s trying so
hard to be okay with it. To stop wincing when he glances in the mirror, because
this is. This is just who he is, now. Far from the worst he could look, even
with all his scars scattered across his body like violent and irregular
constellations. Slow gain back of confidence, one step at a time, and Sam
thinks maybe someday in the future he could apply at university. Attend small
lectures at Oxford—an idea Lucifer approves of, and they spend some time each
day going over Sam’s old texts. The ancient Egyptian tome. The astronomy book,
worn and creased now but Sam loves it so much, all it means to him. To both of
them.
Their nights end in different ways. Sometimes with Sam stretched out on the
mattress. Lucifer’s mouth pressed against the scar on his chest, or the ones
lined along his hips. Sam crying at how tender Lucifer feels, just there. How
careful he is, his fingers dancing on Sam’s skin, instrumental orchestrations
conducted against Sam’s inner thighs as he mouths words into his flesh.
Worshiping Sam until Sam drags him up and kisses him, hooks his legs around
Lucifer’s waist and slots them together, slow tide drag and pull of their
bodies. Sam shocked that he still wants, but he’s thrilled that he’s allowed.
That he can have Lucifer, any way he can get him.
Most times with Sam curled against Lucifer. His head tucked against his chest,
their fingers tangled together as they talk. Or read. Lucifer singing to Sam,
his chest vibrating with the music, voice surprising and sweet and rough, all
at once. Sam detailing something new he’s learned in his astronomy textbook. Or
from ancient Egyptian mythology, and allowing Lucifer time to comment on it.
Both of them falling into a long conversation, lasting until the sun’s peeked
its way over the horizon. Until Sam is half-asleep on Lucifer’s chest,
Lucifer’s fingers twined in his hair. Sam feeling protected and safe. Warm. So
in love, as Lucifer drops a soft kiss on his forehead before lowering both of
them to the mattress. Letting Sam curl around him, all long limbs and tangled
sheets, and they fall asleep like that, with the birds singing, the grass wet
with dew.
I’m so sorry, Sam, Lucifer tells him, at least once a day. I hope you can
forgive me, and Sam touches their foreheads together and wishes Lucifer would
believe him when he tells him he already has.
Michael’s grounds are beautiful. Perfect for Sam and Lucifer to get lost in, to
forget there’s a world around them. Like now, when they’re huddled together
against the trunk of this tree, Sam’s fingers twined through Lucifer’s as he
drifts in and out of consciousness. More trusting than he ever thought he could
be again.
And there are still nights where Sam can’t sleep. Still times when Lucifer’s
touch is too much, and he lashes out without meaning to, falls in on himself
and comes out of his flashbacks shaking and screaming, tears rolling down his
face and Lucifer’s there with a bloody nose, gripping Sam’s wrists, begging him
to come back, telling him it’s okay, he’s okay.
(you’re okay sam i’m here i’m right here i’ve got you)
And sometimes Sam has trouble speaking, and food still sits too heavy on his
tongue, and he doesn’t like looking at his own reflection
(Sam in the bathroom one morning, rinsing his face off. Staring at the soft
long curve of his eyelashes, the swoop of them across his cheek. The thin
careful line of his mouth and suddenly he can’t stand it. Wants to wrap his
hand up in the dishtowel, slam his fist through the mirror. Has to stagger out
and down the stairs before he can, shaking. A little nauseous, when he reaches
the first floor and smells breakfast cooking.
He stumbles into the kitchen and finds Lucifer sitting at the table, reading
the newspaper. Wearing soft flannel pajamas and sipping tea from a cracked
china glass, and Sam sinks down beside him. Buries his face against Lucifer’s
shoulder for a moment, inhaling his scent, and Lucifer reaches out. Touches his
cheek.
“Good morning, Sam,” he murmurs. And then, when Sam doesn’t reply: “You all
right, Sam?”
Sam pulls back. Enough so that Lucifer can see his face, and he knows he’s
crying but he can’t help it. I, he starts, too upset to speak out loud.
Gesturing at his whole body, watching concerned lines crease around Lucifer’s
eyes. I saw—in the mirror—
Lucifer folds his newspaper down. Shoves it to the side, along with his tea and
his plate of toast, and he tugs Sam forward. So that Sam is nearly curled up in
his lap, and he brushes his thumb along the slope of his forehead. Across his
bottom lip, down his neck. Kisses him, soft and gentle, on his nose. His cheek,
right over that twisted raised scar. The edge of his mouth. Strokes his other
thumb across the backs of Sam’s knuckles.
“Beautiful,” Lucifer whispers to him, kissing him proper, with his hand tucked
under his jaw, and Sam’s chest hitches again, but it’s for a different reason,
now.)
but for the first time, Sam thinks he’ll make it through. Thinks he’ll survive
everything that’s been thrown at him. Wakes up in the mornings and sees Lucifer
sleeping beside him and he thinks, I’m lucky, and he means it.
In the fields, under the tree, Sam signs I love you against Lucifer’s chest,
and Lucifer catches his hand and mouths it back against his palm.
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