Chapter Text
On death number twelve, Adam makes the executive decision and decides he's going to kill that bitch Lucifer.
Not in that vague, distant way he's been wanting to since fucking bow chika powwow, or when his goat of a daughter went gallivanting around heavens own fucking doorstep. No. He wants to kill Lucifer.
Properly.
He wants to wring his neck, dig his nails into his eyes and make him bleed. Slit his throat, maybe. Or stab him over and over and over again, watch him fade out and beg for Adam to spare his waste of an existence. They can't die properly, not here in hell and not without the Angels spears, but Adam thinks that he can get pissed off enough it'll rewrite the way this fucking world works, if it has to. Adam is going to kill Lucifer, because that motherfucker doesn’t even recognize him.
It happens in a long list of even longer grievances, wherein Adams new body is too fucking weak and brittle and soft and small to get shit done, and sinners keep trying to stick their dicks into his eye sockets and stab him and kill him or overall get his body as mangled as possible, and that’s from the people who don’t recognize who he is. He doesn't look much like a demon, thank fuck, but what he does have isn't much better either. His left eye is a mass of scar tissue in crude, eternally bleeding X. In some sort of cosmic irony, dark, glossy horns spiral inches from his temples, and they're such a bitch to carry he wonders if that isn't his eternal punishment—to be always masked, even when he isn't. He looks like himself but he doesn't, and he's a mess of guts and bone on the steps of a house that looks really fancy, woozy and swimming in milk.
The pentagram is a garish red, some unholy (hah.) he can't even begin to comprehend. What are probably his intestines are spilling out from where he's clutching his side, and everything fades in and out in faint, distant wisps. He wonders what Lute is doing. He wonders what it'll take him to actually fucking die.
The door clicks, and it takes Adam a moment to realize who exactly is pushing him to the side because too much of his brain power is going to pulling him organs back into himself. But that bitch. That. Fucking. Bitch.
"Always overdosing on my doorstep," a voice says, and the leather toe of a shoe is pushing him gently to the side. Adam gurgles out some vague sound and tries to get the world to sit straight. "I don't do handouts, guys. No handouts! Sorry."
His eye flutters. The fuck? He knows that voice. If he could get his shit together, he’d be able to place it.
He opens his mouth and the worst thing to have ever happened in the history of ever happens—Adam begs.
“Wai’—! Wai’ ah-little. Fo’ me.” Blood spills out of the corner of his mouth and God, he must look hideous. “ Peas’e. ”
The demon ducks down, and his face swims in and out of recognition. Adam paws clumsily for a halo of blonde and a hand carefully wraps around his wrist, setting it down again. He grunts.
“You must be new,” The voice says. It’s soft and— pitying. People pity him now. “Listen, man, if you’ve made it this far, then you should know. I can't—I can't help.” A beat. “You’ll get used to it.”
Oh fuck no he won’t.
Maybe later. Maybe in two weeks, or three, or five. Maybe next year. But in that fucking second Adam is bleeding out, and he’s going to fucking die again, and—
And holy shit on earth, its’s Lucifer.
“‘Ifer?” He says. His mouth is full of cotton and sand, but his eyes aren’t. That’s Lucifer. That is Lucifer. “L’ifer. Lu’fer! Lu—fuk’n, fuk . Ith’ you.”
“Uh,” Lucifer smiles, strained. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say.” He gets up again, and Adam wants so so desperately to follow him upwards and rip into his flesh. All he manages is a feeble twitch.
“Good luck.” Lucifer says. His boots are pristine, marblesque against the grime of the rest of the street. Small little apples are sown near the heel. His smile drops into something crooked, sloping. He gives what will probably soon be Adams corpse a small disinterested wave. “Wish you the best.”
So.
Naturally, Adam breaks into his house, and hides in his closet. Naturally.
It isn’t his fault, though, that the assholes house is dead empty all the fucking time. In the three weeks Adam spent staking out the estate—and, by the way, what bullshit . He commits sins against god and gets a colonial style triple decker mansion, yet the worlds populace squirts itself from his nutsack and all Adam gets for his troubles is a dingy new demon body and an embarrassing lack of powers. The radio can be a sick demon, but he can’t? Bull—-anyways, in the three weeks Adam spent staking out the estate, only a handful of people have actually gone in and out of the house, baring the perp himself, but Adam isn’t stupid . He knows that, very realistically, Lucifer isn’t going to stay dead. No one does, not in this shit show, but certainly not Lucifer.
But still. The knife in his hand is top grade, creme de’ la creme. If he gets one hit, one nick, he’ll call it a win. There’s a reason he’s the first–fucking–man, even if all the pricks here seem to have forgotten. He’s got grit. Grit that makes his spine stiffen when the door to the office opens, and Lucifer actually steps in.
Away from the bravado of a fight and in the clarity of all of Adam’s brain cells, Lucifer is incredibly, outstandingly small. He’s fucking tiny. He sways a little, as he walks, a weird two step line he falls into before crashing into his office chair. He runs his hands through his hair and keeps it there, digging into the roots. Adams jaw ticks.
There's an abhorrent amount of humanity in the Lucifer that he’s seeing right now, the one with the rolled up sleeves and the tired eyes and the small twitches in his leg and oh, oh shit. Lucifers hair is on fire.
Not all of it, but the ends are most definitely sizzling, floating somewhere above his shoulders like—like snakes. His face is buried in his hands, but even with the admittedly limited view Adam has the low glow of eyes are unmistakable. The temperature kicks up just a bit, and sweat drips down Adam forehead, hands slickening on his knife. Okay, so, maybe Lucifers pissed. So what? It’s impossible that he knows Adam’s here. Unless he needs, like, a pencil, he should never know Adam’s here.
More sweat beads down his forehead. Why hadn’t he considered that the fucker might want a pencil?
“Fuck,” Lucifer says. His voice is low, low, dark like he’s trying to hold himself back from something. Then, louder. “Fuck. ”
He kicks the desk back and it splinters against the wall, and Adam wishes more and more desperately that he held this off a different day or, better yet, never did it at all. He can claw his way back up the ladder if he has to, it’s what he’s born to do; remerging after being split into into seventeen-quintillion pieces is, by comparison, much harder.
He swallows, thick. Lucifers eyes are indistinguishable from the darkness is not for the bright yellow slit of his pupils, and it takes him half a beat too long to realize where the hell his hands went.
His crotch, that is, that’s where it went. Adam is sweating his balls off in a storage closet, and this bitch is about to jerk it.
Lucifer fumbles with something, hissing under his breath. There's the distinct sound of something tearing and Adam bites all but bites through his tongue, a searing flush of horror nearly crippling him. The bastard. The absolute fucking devil. He needs to look away. This is—this is sinful. It's debauchery. He needs to look away, now. He's here to kill the fucking devil, now watching him fumble with the head of his cock.
Lucifer makes a low sound, somewhere in the back of his throat, and Adam swallows, thick. His heart is stammering faster than he can comprehend.
"Every year," He grunts. He doubles over, sighing through his teeth. It's hitches into something sharp. "Everyyy fucking year."
Adams view is—well, it's limited. The closet he's in is made of beautifully, beautifully carved wood, intricate with small little etching of apples and snakes. His claws etch into them and he does not know what's happening. He doesn't know where to go with this.
His palms are slick with sweat, and he tighens his grip around the knife before he can do something stupid, like let go.
Like be afraid.
A moan, a real one, this time, and his back stiffens, stifling a sharp curse. Lucifer moans like a bitch in heat, and it takes him a moment for the words he's whispering to finally slip into something tangible.
"Lillith."
He jerks back like he's been burned.
His elbow connects with the back of the closet with a sharp clunk and the knife fumbles free from his grip and out the double doors, skidding across the floor. The panel of wood swings open with a faint creak.
Lucifers eyes snap between the inch of space and into his fucking soul, and Adams blood runs cold. Awh, shit.
The closet explodes.
He just barely manages to avoid by throwing himself out of the doors and onto the ground, fingers skimming the edge of the handle before Lucifer slams down onto him, his skull cracking against the marble.
He kicks upwards, teeth bared. “For fucks sake, asshole, can’t you just die ?”
Lucifer grabs his ankle, yanking him upwards, and Adam yelps as he slips onto his forearms, twisting out of grasp. Lucifers face is blank, the whites of his eyes impossibly dark. Adam swallows, breath coming out heavy. Shit. Shit.
"You though I didn't notice," Lucifer hums, breathing hard. His smile is something distantly crazed. "You thought I didn't fucking notice. Me. The king of hell. I didn't think you had the balls for it, Adam." He spits his name like it's something ugly. "I went easy on you because of—" Something in his eyes shutter, and the grip on Adams ankle flames.
"I went easy on you for Charlie. Don't mistake my generosity for weakness."
Adam does not tremble. His claws are scratching sharply rendered white lines into the marble, screeching. He's a weak little bitch now but he levels Lucifer with the best glare he can afford.
"How about you suck my dick, bitch."
"I'll carve out your insides," Lucifer says. Adam notices, somewhat crazed, that his pants are still unbuttoned. The hand not around Adams leg is wet with blood and something that he chooses not to consider. "I can turn you inside out, if I want to."
The thought makes some primal instinct inside of him lurch. Survive. Fight if you have to, but above all, survive.
“Okay—” He raises both hands up, and immediately falls onto his back. “Okay– fucking— fuck. My–my bad. It’ll get out, I’ll go.” No response, and his face screws. The hand around his ankle is burning.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I apologized, prick, it isn’t like I was going to land a hit. ” A blow to his ego, but whatever. His grin is sharp and shaky. “Let go and I’ll—”
Lucifer collapses on top of him.
Full body, full weight, which means Adam is affectively pinned to the ground, and not that Lucifers just too heavy, but he’s so damn lost that he just lays there, staring.
And then he shoves him off. “The hell is wrong with you?” He scrambles back, kicking Lucifers immobile body as far away from him as inhumanely possible. “Holy shit, you’re like, actually ill. You’re sick with something. Are you about to fucking die? ” He barks a laugh, tinging manic. “Oh-hohoho, that’s good. That’s fucking rich. Die a horrible, shitty death, you god-awful piece of–”
“Shut up. ” Lucifer hisses, and Adam’s mouth clicks. He drags himself up by his forearms, swaying into Adam. This time, his weight is unmistakable; it’s being done on purpose. He growls out a curse, but a hand curls up to his neck and squeezes.
“Shut up,” Lucifer breathes again. His nails drag down Adams pulse, eyes hooded, dark. “Shut up, shut up, shut up . You’re–” His head drops into the crook of Adams shoulder, and the sound he makes is obscene. “You need to–you need to go. You need to now.”
Adam scrambles back, but Lucifers nails are digging into his waist and he doesn’t make it far before he dragged forward again, suffocating under the smell of apples and something rusting.
“What the shit,” he croaks, “What the hell. Let go of me. Let go of me, and I’ll–”
A tongue licks up the underside of his jaw, and Adams mouth shut so suddenly his head throbs with it.
“You shouldn’t be here,” He groans again, and Adams trembles are minute. Lucifers eyes are black as sin, the tops of his cheeks flushed. His smile is sleazy and so much worse than whatever he’d been doing when kicking Adams ass all those weeks ago. “Bad–bad mistake Adam. Bad mistake. You taste,” he sighs, purrs, really. “You taste good, and—and Lilith isn’t here anymore. No one to share heats with, anymore.”
His spine goes stock straight.
“I’m not some–I’m not a faggot.” His voice is high, high and pitchy. He goes to kick back again but Lucifers grip has no give. His hips are moving in slow circles on Adams thigh. “I’m not going to fuck you, you dick. Do you–do you hear me? Fuck off!”
Lucifers teeth grazes his jaw, and shit, shit, shit. “I’ll do anything,” He sputters, maybe a bit too fast. Lucifer has given up pretense and grinding is down on to him. “Fucking just—I can’t–I can’t take demon dick, man.” His laughter reverberates in echoes, bouncing around the absolute nothingness of this room. Lucifers claws have torn through his tunic and are clinging to his waist, slipping further down.
“Anything?” He hums. The temperature raises just the smallest bit. Incrementals on incrementals.
“You won’t fucking let me leave,” Adam spits, but his blood is running too fast and he can’t fucking hear right . There’s something in the air that’s turning his brain into a soft, palatable mush, sliding around the din of his skull. Lucifer is doing something, but in the back of his head he knows it's something neither of them can stop, can control. The world tinges in hues of pinks and clementine, and something acrid rises up his throat.
Something in him burns. “Let me–let me live. Just fucking let me live.”
Lucifer laughs; crow like and breathy. It's crueler than when he had been mocking him, back during the extermination. It feels purposeful. It feels mean. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
His nails sink into the underside of Adams wrist, and nothing matters much at all, anymore.