𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑.

Their kiss is like wildfire that spreads and spreads until heat licked at their flesh. Asher has felt something similar before in the safety of hell, flames always nipping and teasing bodies with death. That warmth reminded him of how alive he was and it’s among the warm, wetness of plush lips that Asher find that similar feeling. There’s a clatter as lips part, blues meeting angry red as he’s shoved back against the cupboard–but the same closeness is still there. Lazarus hadn’t even taken a step backwards after the kiss, only coming closer and closer to the demon he supposedly hated.

“Yeah, I hate you too.”

Words are breathily uttered, grin spreading as fangs peeked out from the demon’s mouth. His hand is still cupping that jaw, but his grip eased to something softer. Something meant for someone that was cared for and not an enemy. The prickle of iron in the air has Asher’s nose scrunching, gaze flickering away to the bloodied palm and the knife on the floor of the kitchen.

It’s kind of funny that in the midst of a kiss Lazarus tried to kill.

He acts without speaking in snatching up that bloodied palm, thumb pressing to the middle of the wound and slowly healing it. Blues glanced up as lips quirked, studying the hunter quietly. “Always ready to kill, aren’t you? You need a vacation, Laz’.” It takes only a few moments longer before Asher is releasing him crowding back into his space with a low hum.

“Try not to kill me again while I kiss you, alright?” A brief utterance of words spoken as fingers thread through pale hair and Asher locked their lips into another ferocious kiss.

Rising without a soul wasn’t without effects --- it’s difficult to feel, to experience. Sleeping is no longer necessary and therefore he doesn’t dream, doesn’t ever really turn off unless he’s been in a serious fight. There is a numbness in him that is hard to describe. An emptiness where his family used to be. He feels like a husk walking the Earth. Lost. Void. Things matter to him less and less, now. It’s all about the hunting and the killing and the collecting of souls. That’s all it needs to be, he thinks --- from now until the day the sun burns out. But Asher has a habit of ruining that. He has a habit of making Lazarus experience emotions that were meant to be buried and done with. During their kiss, he seethes. He hates how Asher’s grip lessens, how all the fight leaves the demon because the need to dote takes its place.  Teeth grit when his hand is taken up and healed. There’s so much tension in him; he’s a coil waiting to snap from pressure. It’s dangerous. He rips his hand back to himself and uses his thumb from his other hand to trace over where the wound had been. “Vacations are for the living.”

Asher knows what he’s walking into the moment he even speaks the words–words that have no heat, but it’s the reaction from Lazarus that holds all of that heat. It ends up with Asher’s throat grasped, barely a reaction pulled from the demon as blues stared empty at the hunter. He had faced other beings that were far scarier than Lazarus ever would be and the pressure on his throat isn’t going to cause fear. Asher had been alive too long harassing mortals and facing darker creatures that Lazarus could only dream of seeing.

He isn’t going to be blamed for another human’s choice. He never will.

Something like a snarl ripped from Asher’s throat, freehand snapping with just as much ferocity to clutch a jaw. Blues flashed, fangs extended, and claws barely pressed against that soft flesh in warning. He’s offended by so few things yet the notion that Norton Crawford’s death was snatched is a joke entirely,

“Norton Crawford offered his LIFE to protect you and you want to blame me? Fine. You can keep blaming me for what is so obviously your fault because you decided to be the one that died from the beginning.” There is a bite to his words, emotions crawling up his throat and threatening to pour out, “You can blame me for your poor choices, but I will not be blamed for his death. He sacrificed himself and demanded PROMISES of me that I intend to keep. A promise to revive you and protect you despite my own fucking nature, Lazarus.”

It’s a clap on a shoulder, a smile as words are spoken at crossroads. ‘Protect him. Save him. Don’t lose him.’ The last words spoken of Norton Crawford were simple yet they had caused Asher to have feeling for Lazarus.

They had caused Asher to love this shitty hunter.

There’s a sharp breath taken in, heart pounding away in the silence as his grip eases some and Asher is shifting–space snapping closed between them as lips pressed into a rough kiss.

A kiss that could’ve been predicted so obviously the night Norton Crawford appeared.

Asher’s hand ends up on him and Lazarus’ head fills with so much static it’s a wonder it doesn’t start leaking out his eyes and mouth. His free hand moves before he really even thinks; he almost can’t when he’s like this --- when auto-pilot takes over, The knife drawer opens noisily. His hand reaches and grabs the first thing it can and it’s by the blade, skin cutting. Blood spilling. It doesn’t hurt. Not nearly as much as the words that the demon speaks. Demons are like that. They always know what to say, always know where to strike to do the most damage. Bringing up Norton Crawford was an act of war between them. Other monsters would be dead. Other monsters wouldn’t get a chance to actually utter his full name. It’s like being gutted. Because he doesn’t understand why his grandfather did it. He doesn’t understand why Norton allowed himself to be bested by grief. His own threatens to swallow him, daily. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of trying to undo everything --- in making his own little wish at where roads intersected but he knows better. Deep down, he knows. Norton Crawford wants him alive. He wants him to experience the world, not hate it. He wants so much and Lazarus doesn’t know if he can do it --- if he can make him proud. Asher’s words hurt. They feed his anger, but they are true. He’s the one that fucked up. He’s the one that died, that got his head lopped off. He’s the one that fucking failed.  

When you own as many books as a Crawford, it sometimes helps to condense information into something a little easier to carry around. This is why he’s started copying things over into his own notebooks, cleverly disguised so that they do not end up in the wrong hands. Most of the books he owns are leather-bound. Years old.  Obviously important. But the notebook that he has been scribbling in is brightly colored and ... a little cute. It’s strange. Off-putting. Lazarus Crawford is a lot of things, certainly deadly, but there is no denying that there are things about him that are ... deceiving.  The pink hair and black nail polish is a start. But there are other things, as they start to spend time around each other, that start to make themselves known. He’s in the middle of copying a certain devil’s trap from memory when she seems to spot the lettering on the back of the journal, balanced with care on a knee while he goes over lines again and again with a ballpoint pen. This pen isn’t ordinary, either. It’s cute, like the book. When she asks, he stops drawing. Red eyes look up, and for a second it looks like he’s deciding if he trusts her with this information. He’s actually debating, internally, how much he wants to share. Sharing is difficult. It’s rare, with him. The book is closed and he shows her the front. Sure enough, there’s a cartoon cat on the cover and she’s ... familiar, somehow. Probably because it’s the same cat that his backpack is in the shape of.

“Not a chance.”

It’s dry and hoarsely spoken as Asher looked to the other lazily, easing the pack from his face as he took a tentative sniff from his nose. The skin is sore and he’s lucky he still isn’t bleeding despite the injury. Wendigos were known to be tricky, violent creatures that lashed out no matter who was around. If anything, Asher and Lazarus were lucky to still be breathing at this point. 

Though, he’s pretty sure Lazarus would be content with his death.

“You think you’ll still be alive next time you face one of them or possibly even worse? I’m sure you’d be fine with my own head cut off from my shoulders, but I’m only even here to make sure you stay alive because of HIM.” The name is unspoken as blues snapped up, brow furrowed in frustration.

“He’s the one who wants you protected.” It’s unspoken–the words that Asher wanted the same protection for the angry man before him, but Lazarus wouldn’t care for that…not now.

For a moment, he considers leaving the kitchen altogether --- to allow Asher to entertain himself. It’s likely that he won’t stay put and that he’ll follow the hunter from room to room but it would get him off the fucking counter, which is all Lazarus really wants. Until Asher opens his mouth. Until the demon does the one thing he should not do. Everything stops. Rage bubbles so fiercely in his chest that he loses the feeling in his hands. It skips red altogether and burns white hot, violent and potent enough that its amazing he doesn’t show signs of corrosion on the surface. Hands twitch. The static in his mind becomes so loud that he can’t hear anything else.

There was a time, once, when he was growing up --- a time when it was made very clear that hunting was their way of life but there needed to be time for other things, too. On more than one occasion, Norton would encourage him to go out and explore the city. He would make a point to celebrate holidays when they rolled up, especially after the death of his parents. They would pause their lives to watch the occasional western or one of the many films his grandmother had been so fond of. It was good for both of them, good to stop. But Lazarus almost never stops.  Stopping is for the living and he hasn’t considered himself that in a long time. Lucas acts as a tether to humanity a lot of the time. He baits Lazarus with things like comfort and affection.  Things he doesn’t deserve.

The tension in the room has always been palpable despite Asher’s very best attempts to diminish it. Thought, tonight it’s a little more at ease and maybe that’s in part to the cuts on Asher’s face or the blood drying from his nose. He’s got an ice pack pressed to his face, perched atop the kitchen counter as blues bore into the hunter across from him. Lazarus is barely scratched from the event–from the cryptid they’d hunted down and destroyed.

It’d taken days to track them down and only a few hours to really kill the creature.

“Remind me to never do that shit again. I really do hate getting the fuck beat out of me, Laz’.” There’s undoubtedly going to be some satisfaction from the hunter at his injuries given their history.

Sword back by the door, Lazarus’ shoulders remain tense --- even with Asher injured. It’s been difficult, getting used to the demon. Allowing it in to parade around the Crawford home. He’s still angry. There is a chance that he will never stop being angry and it’s better if Asher not test it. The fact of the matter is ... he works for demons, now. Done is the family business. Now he’s busy collecting souls while his own is gone. Crawfords are known for demon hunting, especially. He knows words that would make Asher’s eyes bleed but they stay looping in the static of his mind as he prepares for the next hunt. This one took too long. Asher slows him down. He’s a distraction. A problem.  Under his skin and he can’t scratch.