G

After a few years of dating Leon, you would’ve thought you knew everything about the man that slept next to you every night, and, if you were being fair, you did, the issue actually was, you had no real notion of what Leon being a goverment agent actually entailed. The first real perk happened during what should have been a nightmare layover in Montana.

You two were supposed to catch a red eye to Billings, some urgent BSAA/DSO joint debrief, followed by a quiet weekend that both of you swore you would take off.

But the flight was overbooked, the gates were a chaos, and you had already begun nursing a headache while dragging your carry on behind Leon, who was completely unfazed by the swarm of exhausted travelers.

You were this close to snapping at the poor airline rep when Leon calmly produced a battered leather ID. The gate agent glanced at it, did a double take, then flicked her eyes to Leons face and physically straightened.

Leon murmured something you couldn’t hear, you did distinguish the tone he used tho, low, polite, but carrying a weight that made the woman nod immediately.

Next thing you knew, she ushered around the desk, your boarding pass upgraded. First class. Private seats. A smile that’s a little too stiff to be genuine.

You were still processing the situation as Leon steered you through the gate like nothing had happened.

“What did you just show her?”

He shrugged. “Travel credential.”

You squinted. “Which one? The normal one or the ‘I kill bioweapons for the president’ one?”

He didn’t even answer. He just tugged you by the wrist, pushed you down into the plush first class seat, and deadpanned “Try the champagne. It’s free.”

——

Already in Billings, it happened again.

The hotel was overbooked, conference season, of course! How lucky you were. diplomats everywhere, and the snobby front desk staff refusing to budge. “Sorry, miss, no rooms until tomorrow.”

You (tired and hungry) were already about to pick a fight, when Leon just sighed, grabbing your wrist softly to pull you back as he took out his phone, dialing a number you knew he hated using. He murmured something calm and clipped, and you only made out something along the words “Yes. Same as last time. Thank you.”

The manager appeared in under two minutes. He was practically running, apologizing six times. “We didn’t know you were coming, Agent Kennedy.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. Agent?

You were immediately upgraded to a corner suite, with a very comfortable looking king sized bed, two balconies overlooking the lake, a yummy fruit basket and a complementary bottle of French wine.

You tossed a grape at Leon’s head as he was unpacking his handgun by the window.

“Agent, huh?”

Leon caught the grape midair and then popped it into his mouth like it was nothing nothing. “Eat your fruit, sweetheart.”

——

Then, back at D.C you guys were finally having a real date, no mission, no weapons, no B.O.W.s waiting to crash dessert.

You picked the restaurant. Impossible to get into with a two months waitlist, all marble and soft jazz and impossibly pretentious staff who made you feel underdressed no matter what you wore.

You showed up fifteen minutes late because Leon insisted on driving, which meant you always ended up taking detours, cause “he knows better”

The host raised an eyebrow at your name, he flicked through the reservation book, and then looked up at you. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it appears your table was given away—”

Leon stepped forward before the man could even finish his sentence, smooth as sin, voice low enough only for you and the host to hear: “Any chance the White House liaison’s table is free tonight?”

Your eyes flicked to Leon’s face in nothing but confusion, the host’s eyes flick down to Leon’s hand were his phone was showing something you couldn’t quite see from your place, a picture? A document? A note? Whatever it was, recognition hit fast and hard in the hosts face, and all you could do at the moment was watch the smug click in the man’s posture and the way he suddenly couldn’t look Leon in the eye.

“Of course, sir, we’ll make room immediately.”

Leon shoot you a sidelong smirk as you were ushered to a window seat within sixty seconds.

You hissed as you sat down: “You hate pulling rank.”

He shrugged, opening the wine list like it was the weather report. “You wanted oysters.”

You scuffed amused before kicking him under the table.

He simply winked.

——

The op was going sideways in the most bureaucratic way possible. You were stuck at a heavily fortified private airstrip in Oregon, a sealed case of T-virus variants in your trunk. Your local BSAA contact had just been turned away at the gate by a stone faced private security team. The paperwork, apparently, was "insufficient."

You’d tried logic. You tried your credentials. You’d tried thinly veiled threats about global pandemics. The head of security, a man with the personality of a brick wall, remained unmoved. "No clearance, no entry." The samples were time sensitive, and the clock was ticking.

Swearing under your breath, you did the one thing you promised yourself you’d never do specially during a mission: you called him.

He answered on the first ring, the background noise suggesting he was on his bike. "Hey? You good?"

"Does 'good' include being held hostage by a cop with a god complex?" You hissed, turning your back to the security booth. "Your… idiot badge. The one that makes people soil themselves. Can you get me through a gate?"

A low grunt of amusement came through the line. "Location?"

You gave him the details. The name of the cop, and fifteen minutes later, the brick wall security chief’s radio crackled. He listened, his face gradually losing all its color. He looked at you, then back at his radio, his voice an octave higher when he spoke. "Ma'am, you are… cleared for entry. My deepest apologies."

You swept past him without a second glance, a wicked, triumphant grin on your face.

——

But the truth was, Leon never bragged about his connections, that wasn’t his style. The power of his badge was a tool, not a trophy. But he’d made a single, quiet call after he bought you the car, adding the Porsche’s plates to a very short, very privileged list. It was a small thing, an invisible shield. A way to give you one less headache in a world full of them.

So, it became a quiet, unshakable law of the universe, your Porsche never got tickets. Not in D.C., not in the labyrinth of government-heavy Virginia, not even when you were blatantly parked in the space of two cars for forty-five minutes.

You were convinced it was your own impeccable driving karma. “It’s about being respectful of the law, Kennedy,” you’d tease, sliding into the driver’s seat while he eyed a ‘No Parking’ sign you’d just ignored. “Something you wouldn’t understand.”

Leon would just grunt, buckling his passenger seatbelt.

The pinnacle of your delusion was parking. You were, by any objective measure, a terrible parker. The Porsche always ended up at a jaunty angle, two wheels dangerously close to the curb. One afternoon, after you’d squeezed the car into a spot clearly meant for a motorcycle, Leon finally spoke up.

“You know, one of these days, you’re actually going to have to learn how to park that thing.”

You shot him a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. “Learn? I literally have never gotten a parking ticket. Not one. My record is cleaner than your service record is redacted.”

He just looked at you, at the absolute, unshakable confidence in your face, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. You genuinely believed it. You thought you were the most law abiding citizen in the District.

He never told you. He never would. He’d you have this one thing. Let you believe, with all your heart, that it was your own brilliant skill that kept the traffic enforcement drones at bay. He’d just lean back in the passenger seat, watch your smug smile in the rearview mirror, and keep his secret.

It was, he thought, the best he could do.

Belpheghor's the one to alert the others.

He never screams, never has the raucous voice that some of his siblings do. So when he calls, it's urgent.

His inhumane hearing picked up on the tone, his baby brother's voice breaking off at the end, and Lucifer's breath caught in his throat as he set down his quill too harshly, departing for the garden.

The soil is wet under his shoes, clinging to the soles as Belpheghor stands in front of the flowerbeds, jaw clenched. "What is it?" Satan asks on one side, furrowing his brows, and the youngest moves to give a clear view.

There's a gasp heard from someone, and Lucifer crouches down to stare at the plant.

The black Poinsettias planted by you have shrivelled up and died.

The brothers are trying to not think about the implications.

"T-The soil's too damp!" Mammon blurts out from behind him, picking up the earth to inspect it, letting it brown his fingers and stain his rings with mud. Brown clings to gold. "Too wet! S'why its happenin—we outta talk to Barbatos to revive it—"

The flower has folded into itself, petals and leaves now a sickly color, reduced to half its height. He could have sworn it was lively the last time he saw it.

"......I'll see what can be done." Lucifer declares. "Everyone, back with your work."

He departs before the others can see his expression.

The plant survived a decade with you. Thrived and bloomed, its scent reminiscent of you. It isn't fair, it isn't fair, it isn't fair.

The demon is still clinging onto whatever parts of you he can still access. Your clothes, with your fading scent, your books with scribbles, your hair clip and your scrunchies.

The death of this flower feels like defeat, loss seeping into his life and colouring it grey.

Asmodeus asks about Barbatos's visit later at dinner. Lucifer lets the taste of deviled zebra steep on his tongue before it turns to disgust. "I've asked him to visit tomorrow, we'll see what can be done about the matter at hand."

Then his gaze falls at the empty spot, and his resolve hardens.

He feels as if he is dining with ghosts sometimes, two beings gone more lively in the silence in the grim life that the ones alive bring. Without you, everything is dull. That's why you should visit more often.

He has to make it mandatory for dinner to be had at the dining table, desired the added conundrum it would bring with the inconveniences. At least for one meal, he has to see them together, in front of him.

"Put the phone down when you're at the table," a chide, and Mammon groans. "Jeez, you're being more uptight than ever. It's not like we talk!"

Mammon's casualness irritates him.

"Then shall we discuss vital matters at this table? Especially your grades." The younger demon winces. "Minus C in Potions and Hexes." Lucifer announces, taking a bite of the food, then his eyes fall on another. "Belpheghor, no sleeping in your soup."

The next day, Barbatos arrives. Saturday, when there are no classes.

He inspects the wilted flower with a clothed finger, cradles it in his hand while Lucifer stands and watches, impassive. The air is heavy with humidity, makes the back of his neck feel sticky. The brown grocery bag is neatly folded on a bench, ah, the port market is open today.

"It cannot be revived. There is rot from within."

He dusts off the dirt and stands gracefully, not a wrinkle on his clothes despite the movement. Maybe he starches his garments, Lucifer thinks. Irons them thoroughly at night so that it is always crisp. "My apologies."

Of course, the words are softer. He's not apologising for the plant.

Lucifer hums quietly. Nods his head as he gawks at the sight with a straight face. Ignores the way his breath stutters halfway through his throat.

At night, he finds himself waiting near the entrance. Coat absent, tie loosened and hair a mess. His eyes dart every once in a while towards his watch. Two in the morning, and is this a time to arrive at home?! Must this occur every weekend?! He should impose a curfew, Lucifer thinks, pacing around. Make it so that repeated offenders are punished. Maybe hang them from the chandelier or prevent them from going out anymore.

Keep them on a tight leash so that no more mistakes can be committed, no lethal ones, no fatal ones, no more no more—

The door swings open, and his head darts towards the sound. The scent of perfume hits him first: Devildom rose and something fruity in its layering. Then he arrives, the reason for this act in the middle of the night, stumbling and giggling, hiding his face in his arms as he haphazardly removes his footwear.

Lucifer watches with narrowed eyes, a reprimand on the tip of his tongue. But Asmodeus does not let him say anything, shushes his mouth before he can open it to speak. "Luciferrrr" He slurs, and the alcohol on his breath hits him. "Were you waiting for me by the door? That's so sweet of you! Hic-were you worried for me?"

The eldest has a thousand reprimands on his tongue tonight. But he assesses the state the fifth-born is in and concludes that he won't even register the admonishment.

"Wash up and go to sleep." He steadies his brother, lets him grab onto his forearms as he sways. His jewellery catches the light. "I will scold you tomorrow."

There's glitter on his clothes now, evident in the light, and the demon dreads washing it. Glitter in the rest of the laundry, washing machine, shoes. Great.

"All you do is scold—" A manicured finger at his chest, nail polish glittering in the light—"and scold. Noooo fun. Loosen up." Asmodeus whines, and the eldest narrowly manages to avoid him from hitting his head on the nearby pillar. Helen would have been pleased. "Maybe I should call MC—they never failed to make you smile."

Yeah, he is drunk.

He straightens his posture. "Go to sleep, Asmodeus." His voice is flat now. Measured. Controlled. He manoeuvres the fifth-born towards the stairs. If he falls he falls. That would be a good lesson learnt. Do not get so wasted as to fall off from the stairs when you arrive sloshed at home despite having a curfew imposed.

His brother frowns and stumbles for his room.

Lucifer adjusts the footwear in the shoe rack, and sits down on the steps. Cradles his head and sighs in anticipation of the headache that will form in the next thirty minutes.

Ignisprofen.

And a glass of water.

It was decided that your belongings would never be tampered with.

Safely tucked away in your room with a spell to prevent the ravages of time from affecting it. The arrangement worked well for a century or two, then the house flooded with water one fine day because of Leviathan's anger, submerging the ground floor.

With the water drained and the wood restored, your room put back in its proper state, Lucifer assumed everything was saved.

But the tree in your room was rotting, the usually firm trunk now soft and soggy, leaves falling off discoloured on your bed. Air damp and bedsheets wet.

It's not like anyone is going to inhabit this room anytime soon.

They won't let anyone else.

You were theirs.

While searching for damage, your digital camera was found in a corner of your closet. Conspicuous, dust clinging to it, with those worn out stickers still on it. Dolphins and Blackjack, now smudged and half-torn. Mammon had stared at it before taking it along with him too; unwilling to part with it. Snatched it up and held it as if it were more precious than Goldie, fingers cradling the body, thumbing over the torn part of a sticker.

Lucifer picked it up from his brother's room when Mammon was away.

He had to see it.

Despite the heartache that would come with it.

So, after a week filled with meetings that seemed to go on for hours and hours, soothed by Barbatos's tea and sleep that came fitfully, he decided that it would be opened.

His memory fails him now. What pictures and videos were there in it? You had always been possessive of it, never letting one of his brothers even take a glance. The camera came with you on trips—aquariums, zoos, Siren beach— Lucifer does not know what he was expecting to see.

You would have wrenched it out of his hands by now, if you were here, that is.

He sees the first photo, has to jog his memory to remember. Oh, the underground maze, with Henry 1.0.—wait—did they sneak in there without informing anyone?! The demon's brows furrow, then a chuckle resounds in the room. At least its funny now. Then another photo, then another, another, another—

His vision blurs, the candlelight morphing into a yellow-orange halo. The man sits back in his chair and chokes on a sob.

A photo of him laughing at Cerberus’s antics, the moonlight catching on his cheekbones. Another with Mammon on his device, headphones in his ears. Leviathan in his bathtub, grin evident on his face. Satan petting a calico in an alleyway. Asmodeus in the club, with glitter on his body shining. Belpheghor cheering for Beelzebub in a Fangol match.

Countless others—all of them were of him and his brothers.

He tears his gloves off, throws them somewhere, just to grab and pull at his hair.

While they all had been holding onto you for centuries, you had been holding onto them when alive.

The soundproofed walls are his saving grace.

Lucifer's in the human world on behalf of Diavolo's business when he sees it.

In the middle of a crowded street, headphones and earphones and chatter that hurts his ears. Too chaotic. Something rushes by past him, and his attention comes to a hault.

That same shade of hair!

Recognition bubbles in his chest, and he's partly horrified by the fact that he didn't remember that color for the previous five decades. Being immortal does that to you.

But it isn't you.

He finds himself laughing at his brothers antics some weeks, watching Mammon peel onion with the hairclip that was yours, complains about Beel's underwear on the chandelier, Asmodeus's headache-inducing perfume and the fact that he can never put wet towels in the laundry. Belpheghor's tardiness and stubbornness, Satan's scheming and Leviathan's karaoke matches that shake the windows.

It doesn't make itself known.

But it shows up when he goes to make himself coffee late at night and finds his hands picking two cups. Or when shopping for groceries and purchases the flavour of ice-cream you loved. Still hasn't throw away the hellfire rose you gave him on a date. Keeps it pressed in his book. Cooks for you in remembrance. Takes care of himself because you would want him to.

And maybe, you will live on through him and his brothers. Because you were theirs and they were yours.