Who. Michael Abrams and everyone's best friend Lucifer. When. Late Sunday evening. What. Michael has a chat about his future with The Devil. Where. Michael's apartment. Rating. PG for evil and Lucifer being, well, Lucifer.
There is a distinctive smell in the air that foretells the arrival of a full moon. The shift of energy weighs heavily on the senses, spirits overrun higher than the roof of a crowded room, and pheromones stain even the slightest gusts of wind. Every direction you look, seven of the deadliest sins are clawing behind flesh and bone, salivating at the eventuality of their escape.
Michael Abrams knew this, because Lucifer knew this.
There was something to the night, just four simple days prior to the festivities of the full moon, that required solitude, the rare occurrence of peace. After the events of meeting with the demon professionally known as Alastair in the serpentine form of one Helene Richardson, Michael required time to himself. Yet, there was no such thing as "himself" - not for nearly eighteen years - and soon the sound of his own voice, wrapped in a tongue that was not his own, broke the silence.
'Penny for our thoughts,' Lucifer said calmly, and his mouth met the cool glass of whiskey in his right hand. The liquor poured down his throat, leaving a familiar, yet forgotten, trail that burned on its route down to his stomach. His eyes caught a brief glance around the room; the lights were down low, the mood set for a lover that did not exist. Perhaps the next day.
Michael cleared his throat. His wrist moved at the slightest angle, ushering the steadily melting cubes of ice round and round the liquid until - "Forgive a man's curiosity, but I can't help but notice day by day your friends keep pourin' in all subtle-like."
'Michael,' Lucifer began, eyes of iced blue looking toward the ceiling beneath thick lashes, 'If friends are what you need-'
"You know that ain't what I mean," there was a slight octave of irritation in his tone, "What I mean is - if you've got some kinda plans you ain't tellin' me about..."
A moment of all too unusual silence gripped hold of the conversation.
'Personally, I'm offended, Mike. After all we've been through?' Lucifer clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He stood up from the leather armchair and strolled slowly, one foot lingering just above the carpet before the next came down, to the large sitting room window. His finger hooked around the white threads of the curtain and he tucked it to the side. 'Look at them,' Lucifer insisted, watching a group of distant teenagers smoking obvious joints turn the street corner and on the opposing side, a scantily-clad female with her thumb pointed at passing cars.
A wicked smile reached each earlobe.
'You often think to yourself how lucky you are to have me, but I don't think you realize the extent of what you've been given.'
"Meanin'?"
'Meanin',' Lucifer echoed, 'You're at the eye of the storm, kiddo. You're their leader. You're their king. They're your friends, too, Mike. Strictly by association, of course. But you don't know what it is they'll do for you - the depth of their loyalty.' He pressed his index finger to the window and a streak of crystallized ice began to spread against the glass. 'My plans are your plans. We're in this... together. So, please, don't preach. It isn't really our thing...'
Michael drained the remaining scotch and removed that same finger from the window. "I'm listenin'," he hissed through his teeth.
'You and me? We have work to do. Your brother? His gifts? Parlor tricks compared to what I have in store for you.'
"What do you suggest, then?" Michael's voice gave way to his curiosity.
'Rehearsal's over. The stage is set,' Lucifer brushes a smiley face into the patch of ice with his middle finger, 'It's time you showed the audience your act.'